in the strings of a wind harp. There was no answer. Nothing moved behind the door, but the paluba sensed a listener in the dark.
‘Feiga-Ita Shaumian, open the door.’
Silence.
‘Feiga-Ita Shaumian. You know me. Let me in. I have a message. From him.’
Silence.
‘Feiga-Ita Shaumian!’
‘He’s dead.’
It was quieter than a whisper. The old woman was talking to herself, her words drained of energy by a fear so old and heavy it was like listening for the trickle of dust under stones. But the paluba heard.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He is alive.’
‘He is dead.’
‘No. He sent you letters, but you never replied.’
‘There were no letters.’
‘He is your daughter’s father.’
Silence.
‘Feiga-Ita Shaumian, open the door.’
Silence. No, not silence. Short, harsh breathing. The scraping of furniture across a wooden floor. Bumping against the other side of the door. Being piled up.
‘Feiga-Ita Shaumian, I have a message for you.’
‘There are trees in my room. Get them out of my room. Leave me alone.’
‘He needs you now. He needs his daughter. You must hear his message. Let me in.’
‘I am standing by the window. If you try to come in I’ll jump.’
The paluba heard the casement opening. Heard the faint sounds from the street become louder. Felt the stir of air from outside.
‘You could come with us. We will take you with us. Back to the woods.’
Silence. Quiet, ragged gulps of breath.
‘We will take you both, the daughter too, when what must be done is done.’
Silence.
The figure of air made a slight motion and the door blew inwards, splintering off its hinges, but the furniture piled behind it budged only a few inches. Inside, Maroussia’s mother moaned.
‘Please don’t make me jump,’ she said. ‘Make the trees go away. Please.’
‘The Pollandore must be opened, Feiga-Ita. The time has come. You or she must do it. There is no one else now. It needs to be done.’
Inside the room there was only breathing.
Silence.
The paluba laid her dry simulacrum of a hand against the door as if she were going to push it aside. But she didn’t.
‘Do this thing, Feiga-Ita Shaumian. Or tell the daughter. The daughter can do it. Will you tell her?’
Silence.
The paluba brought a small object out from under her garment. It was an intricate hollow knot of tiny twigs, feathers and twine, somewhat larger than a chicken’s egg, with a handful of dried reddish berries rattling around inside it. Globules of a yellowish waxy substance adhered to the outside. She put it to her mouth and breathed on it, then laid it on the floor in front of the broken door.
‘When you see your daughter, Feiga-Ita, give her this. It is a gift from him. It is the key to the world.’
She waited a moment longer, but there was only silence. The paluba turned away. Her time was ebbing. And so was hope. She and her companion descended the stairs.
Some time later – an hour – two hours – there came the sound of furniture scraping across the floor inside the room. Slowly. Hesitantly. Then nothing.
Then the broken door was pulled aside and Feiga-Ita Shaumian came out.
She saw the small object left for her on the landing, picked it up gingerly with her fingertips and slipped it into a small, flimsy bag. Holding the bag carefully in both hands she went slowly down the stairs and out into the street.
38
An hour later Lom arrived at the Shaumians’ apartment and found the door broken off its hinges and thrown to one side. He went in and looked around. Furniture was overturned and the window stood wide open: thin unlined curtains stirred in the cold breeze. He pulled open a drawer in the table. There was nothing inside but a few pieces of cheap and ill-matched cutlery. What had he expected?
‘You’ve missed them. They just left.’
The woman was standing behind him in the doorway. She was wearing slippers and a dressing gown belted loosely over some kind of undergarment. Her hair, bright orange, showed grey roots. She held out her hand to him with surprising grace.
‘Good morning sir. Avrilova. I am Avrilova.’
The way she said her name implied she thought it should mean something to him. He smelled the sweet perfume of mint and aquavit on her breath.
‘They went out and left it like this?’ he said.
‘I mean, you’ve missed the other police. Or were they militia? What is the difference? Could you tell me please?’
‘Madam…’
‘I told you, I am Avrilova. You must have heard me sing. Surely you did. I was at Mogen’s for many years.’