well . . . The second question is whether the witch is registered in this locality or not, and what her record is like . . .'

'We'll soon find out,' I said, taking out my mobile phone.

Five minutes later I had the answer. There was nothing in the Night Watch records about any witches in the area.

Ten minutes later I walked out of the garden, armed with instructions and advice from my wife – in her capacity as a potential Great Enchantress. On my way past the barn, I glanced in through the open doors – Kolya was hovering over the open bonnet of the car, and there were some parts lying on a newspaper spread out on the ground. Holy Moses . . . all I'd done was mention a knocking sound in the engine!

And Uncle Kolya was singing, crooning quietly to himself:

We're not stokers and not carpenters either,

But we're not bitter, we have no regrets!

Those were clearly the only lines he could remember. He kept repeating them as he rummaged around enthusiastically in the engine:

We're not stokers and not carpenters either,

But we're not bitter, we have no regrets!

When he spotted me, he called out happily:

'This is going to cost you more than half a litre, Antosha! Those Japs have completely lost it, the things they've done to the diesel engine, I can hardly bear to look!'

'They're not Japanese, they're Germans,' I corrected him.

'Germans?' Kolya said. 'Ah, right, it's a BMW, and I've only fixed Subarus before . . . I was wondering why everything was done different . . . Never mind, I'll put it right! Only my head's humming, the son of a bitch . . .'

'Look in on Sveta, she'll pour you a drop,' I said, accepting the inevitable.

'No.' Kolya shook his head. 'Not while I'm working, no way . . . Our first farm chairman taught me that – while you're messing with the metal, not a single drop! You go, go on. I've got enough here to keep me busy till evening.'

Mentally bidding farewell to the car, I walked out into the dusty, hot street.

Little Romka was absolutely delighted at my visit. I walked in just as Anna Viktorovna was about to suffer ignominious defeat in the battle of the afternoon nap. Romka, a skinny, suntanned little kid, was bouncing up and down on the springy bed and yelling ecstatically:

'I don't want to sleep by the wall! My knees get all bent!'

'What am I supposed to do with him?' asked Anna Viktorovna, glad to see me. 'Hello, Anton. Tell me, does your Nadienka behave like this?'

'No,' I lied.

Romka stopped jumping up and down and pricked up his ears.

'Why don't you take him and keep him?' Anna Viktorovna suggested craftily. 'What do I want with a silly dunce like him? You seem like a strict man, you'll teach him how to behave. He can look after Nadienka, wash her nappies, wash the floors for you, put the rubbish out . . .'

As she said all this Anna Viktorovna kept winking at me emphatically, as if I really might take her suggestion seriously and carry off little Romka as an underage slave.

'I'll think about it,' I said, to support her educational efforts. 'If he just won't do anything he's told, we'll take him for reeducation. We've had worse cases, and they turned out as meek as lambs!'

'No, you won't take me!' Romka said boldly, but he stopped bouncing, sat down on the bed and pulled the blanket up over his legs. 'What would he want with a silly dunce like me?'

'Then I'll put you in a boarding school,' Anna Viktorovna threatened.

'Only heartless people put children in boarding schools,' said Romka, clearly repeating a phrase he'd heard somewhere. 'But you're not heartless.'

'What am I supposed to do with him?' Anna Viktorovna repeated rhetorically. 'Can I offer you some cold kvass?'

'Me too, me too!' Romka squealed, but a stern glance from his mother shut him up.

'Thank you,' I said with a nod. 'Actually it was this silly dunce that I came to see you about . . .'

'What has he been up to?' asked Anna Viktorovna, taking a businesslike approach.

'It's just that Sveta told me about their adventures . . . about the wolf. I'm a hunter, and the thing is . . .'

A minute later I was sitting at the table with a glass of cold kvass, the centre of attention.

'Yes, I know what they say, but I'm a teacher,' Anna Viktorovna was saying. 'They say wolves