The Last Man in Russia: The Struggle to Save a Dying Nation Read Online Free Page B

slope
    intothevillage,wherehousesringed
    anartificialpond.Mostofthehouses
    lacked glass in their windows; some
    ofthemlackedroofs.Theplacewas
    all but abandoned and it was clear
    Galya was not the only person to
    haveleftPupkovo.
    ‘There used to be a club there,’
    saidGalya,pointingatonebuilding,
    whichhadbeenpartofthecollective
    farm.Nowshewasnotsmiling.‘But
    there’s no one left to dance any
    more.’
    We
    could
    hear
    laughter,
    however, and skirted the pond to a
    little cabin that had been built out
    overitssurface.AshinyGermancar
    stood outside. A glistening fat man
    in tight shorts and nothing else
    waved us in, welcomed Galya by
    name and passed his bottle of beer
    into his left hand so that I could
    approach him and shake his right.
    He did not stand up or otherwise
    move. His was the expensive car
    parked on the lane. That and the
    large gold cross on a gold chain
    aroundhisneckshowedhimtobea
    man of means. Galya explained my
    mission.The man turned to his two
    companions and to a child who was
    turningkebabsonthebarbecue.
    ‘Dudko? Who the fuck was
    Dudko?Wasn’t he from the Kaluga
    region?’
    The men simpered. The child
    stared.
    ‘HewasfromtheKalugaregion.
    Come on, we’ll hire a forester’s
    truck. Get some fucking beer, and
    somemeatandhaveabarbecue.It’s
    not fucking far through the forest,’
    he said with a grin, and a lunge
    towardsGalya.
    Galya’s face was set. She
    declinedwithoutgivingmeachance
    to come up with a plausible excuse.
    Wehadpeopletomeet,shesaid,and
    tookmebythehandoncemore.
    ‘Galya, why aren’t you wearing
    a
    fucking
    cross? Aren’t
    you
    Russian? Where are you going?
    Haveafuckingbeer.’
    She towed me out of the cabin
    and back on to the path. Her good
    mood,alreadysouredbythesightof
    herhomevillage,wasgone.
    ‘See that,’ she said. ‘Some
    exampletohisson.Thatwashisson
    there, the one who said nothing.
    He’s got a pregnant daughter at
    home with no husband, and he’s
    sitting here drinking beer. No
    education. It was people like him
    who burned down my house, and
    lookathimtherewithhiscross.Oh,
    Russia,Russia.’
    Weturnedleft,herleading,onto
    a path across the fields, or what had
    once been fields. They butted on to
    the village houses but grew only
    rankgrass.
    ‘Everything used to grow here,’
    shesaid.Hervoicewastightandher
    stepsfast.‘Seethere:potatoes.Over
    there: tomatoes. Here was beetroot.
    And now, nothing. It’s just ruined,
    likethiswholecountry,andthatman
    is there with his money and his
    beer.’
    The sandy soil was exposed
    along the path, but otherwise this
    farmlandhadturnedintowilderness.
    Therewasnohumanmarkleft.
    ‘No one will even harvest this
    hay.Whybother?There’snothingto
    eatit.’
    Thepathdippeddownintosome
    trees,whereasmallchapelsatinthe
    shade. It was built of softwood
    planks and roofed with clear plastic.
    Inside was a well, made of circular
    concrete segments and choked with
    foul green slime. It was an evil-
    lookingplacetoholdbaptisms.
    ‘He built it,’ said Galya, with a
    jerk of her head back towards the
    pond.‘He’sinthecementbusiness.’
    She paused to make sure I had
    understood.‘Business,’sherepeated
    with invisible inverted commas
    aroundit.
    A man was clearing weeds from
    apaththatapproachedthefarsideof
    the well. Galya greeted him as
    Vasilyevich – son of Vasily – and
    explained my goal. He shrugged at
    the name Dudko. No Dudkos here,
    he said, but he had some papers on
    local history at his house if I was
    interested.
    Itwasthefirstleadallday,andI
    accepted with enthusiasm. So, we
    walked back past the pond, the fat
    man, his car and his gang, whose
    hails Galya ignored. News of
    Galya’s visit spread quickly, and as
    we waited for Vasilyevich to bring
    out the papers, four or five women
    gathered: all of them were old
    friends of hers. There was no one
    elseinthevillage.Noneofthemhad
    heardoftheDudkos.Iwasfeelinga
    bit light-headed in the burning