Kolymsky Heights (14 page)

Tchersky, four kilometres south of the river port of Green Cape, was the administrative capital for the Kolymsky district of north-east Siberia. Though small (population under 10,000) it had a sizeable hospital, the only fully equipped one for, an area the size of Holland and Denmark combined. The isolation wing was in use mainly during the brief mosquito-ridden summer, and it was empty when Porter was admitted on 23 September.

The hospital’s doctors were all specialists. General physicians, rare anywhere in the Russian Federation, were unknown in Siberia, and their function was supplied by a corps of
feldshers
– experienced paramedics. The senior ones, graded as medical officers, were each responsible for a particular area; and Medical Officer Komarova, who brought Porter to Tchersky, was responsible for the lower Kolyma including Ambarchik and the coastal strip.

At the hospital she registered her patient as a suspected case of yellow fever and he was assigned to Dr P. M. Gavrilov, a young specialist from St Petersburg. Dr Gavrilov had not before encountered a case of yellow fever but was soon aware, from his observation of the symptoms, that this might be the rare Java variety. This excited him. Very little existed in the literature on this form and he instituted a series of careful tests, meticulously noting the results.

Porter knew nothing about any of this. As the only occupant of the wing he was left to be ill in peace. Drip-fed, bed-bathed, and sedated as necessary, he was aware of very little for the first two days. But waking from a sound sleep on the third he found a woman doctor examining him.

‘Do you speak Russian?’ she said.

Her face was vaguely familiar.

‘little Russian,’ he said. ‘Little.’

‘I have no Korean or Japanese.’

‘Little Russian.’

‘You are in hospital. I brought you. You understand?’

‘Yes. Hospital,’ he said.

She looked him over for a while. A face mask was hanging loose round the neck of her white hospital coat. She felt his head, and he was aware that his pigtail was now up in a bun on top of it.

‘How you feel?’ she said, smiling suddenly.

It took him a moment to realise she had said it in English.

‘Okay,’ he said, and closed his eyes at once.

He must have babbled. He had tried to train himself in advance not to do this. He wondered what he had babbled.

‘You ill. Maybe you little better now.’ Again English.

He decided to keep his eyes shut and presently she went away. He thought about the English, but soon drifted off.

A male doctor came to see him. This man he didn’t recollect at all. The man also spoke to him in English, quite fluently.

‘I am Dr Gavrilov. How do you feel now?’

‘I don’t know how I feel. What happen here?’

‘You were brought in with a fever. This is Tchersky hospital. You don’t remember anything?’

‘Just – sick. How long I’m here?’

‘Three days now. I think you have been ill maybe four days, perhaps a little more. We can talk of it later. Is it hard for you, speaking English?’

‘When I speak English?’

‘A few words, in delirium. I couldn’t understand the Korean,’ Dr Gavrilov said, smiling.

‘Where my ship?’

‘Don’t worry about it. You’re very weak. Rest now.’

Next day he was off the drips and on light food, and the woman doctor came again.

‘Good. You’re much better,’ she told him in Russian.

‘What fever I have, doctor?’

‘We thought yellow fever, but it isn’t. Some other kind of virus.’

‘I can go?’

‘When you’re stronger. You’ve been very ill.’

‘But they wait for me on ship!’

‘The ship went.’

‘It went? All my things there!’

‘No, they’re here. We have them.’

‘Well – what happen to me?’

It was a good question, and it was to exercise the hospital authorities all that day and the next. The seaman was the first
foreigner ever to be admitted as an in-patient to a hospital in the Kolymsky district. Normal patients, on recovery, went home. This one’s home was in Korea, some thousands of miles away. The Kolymsky district, which was anyway a restricted district, had no procedure for dealing with such a case. Presumably he could be flown to Vladivostok, or more likely Nakhodka which had a shipping service to Japan. Nakhodka would then have the problem of getting him home. But even getting him to Nakhodka was a problem.

Tchersky could not deal directly with Nakhodka, which was in another autonomous region. The matter would have to go through Yakutsk, the capital of Yakutia, which was Tchersky’s autonomous republic. Dealing with Yakutsk was a major headache at any time, but after a preliminary talk with the hospital’s director the medical officer was given to understand that an even bigger one was looming. In whisking the seaman off his ship, she had omitted to get a guarantee for his upkeep and future transportation. The matter had never arisen before. But Polar Aviation would want paying for taking him to Yakutsk, and Aeroflot for taking him to Nakhodka. At Nakhodka, they would want to know who was picking up the bill to Japan.

Obviously, the man’s employers were liable for all bills. But between liability and payment there was a hiatus; which Yakutsk would want closing before doing anything. This could take weeks. And meanwhile the man was causing the hospital grave problems. Although recovered he could not be moved out of the isolation wing. The area was banned to foreigners and it was impermissible for him to be placed in a general ward with other patients. He couldn’t be allowed the run of the hospital, and he couldn’t be allowed outside it.

In his frustration he was also creating considerable uproar himself. While ill his pigtail had been unpicked and disinfected. He wanted it regreased and replaited. He also wanted his moustache groomed. Above all he wanted to get
out. And since, in his fury, he had lost what meagre command he had of Russian and English he had taken to bawling loudly at the staff in Korean; and when they didn’t answer, even more loudly in Japanese. The hospital director tried to explain that everything possible was being done to get him out; but it still took time to make him understand that they were trying to get him out to Japan. At this he almost went out of his mind.

‘No Japan! Ship! Ship!’

‘The ship has gone.’

‘Job
on ship! Money. No Japan. Ship!’

‘But it isn’t here. The ship went.’

‘My job ship. Ship wait me.’

‘The ship didn’t wait for you. It went.’

‘Yes, went. Where he went?’

‘To Murmansk. It’s gone.’

‘Murmansk no gone! Wait. My job ship.’

Amid the gibberish the hospital director at last discerned the drift. the man seemed to think the ship would wait for him in Murmansk. But the ship had now been gone five days and would have left Murmansk. He didn’t bother explaining this. The medical officer, whose patient he was, seemed to have a better time with him so he thought she could explain it. But before informing her he checked on the ship himself. A call to Green Cape revealed that the Korean might not after all be out of his mind. The ship was a slow tramp whose upper speed would not have got it to Murmansk yet. A few minutes later the port called him back to say that the ship was still three days out of Murmansk.

He hung up with considerable elation. This put a new complexion on things. If the ship’s captain signed the bills, there was no need to worry about Yakutsk, Polar Aviation, Aeroflot or Nakhodka. And the captain would have to sign the bills, or he wouldn’t get out of Murmansk. A single call to the militia or the security service would fix everything. Then Komarova, who had signed the seaman in, could sign him out, the isolation wing could be closed down, the Korean would
stop shouting at everyone in Korean, and they would be rid of him.

And this the following day all came about. Komarova handed her patient and his belongings over to the militia. The militia put him on Polar Aviation’s flight for Yakutsk. At Yakutsk he was escorted to the Aeroflot flight for Irkutsk and Murmansk. And at Murmansk, late at night, he was conveyed to the International Seamen’s Hostel and signed in as a transit visitor awaiting ship. Here he was given a locker and a bed; and after the long day slept most soundly.

Transit visitors at the hostel were not allowed ‘shore rights’ but as most of them were foreigners with hard currency this was never a problem. Five dollars was the recognised contribution for taking a breath of air, and taxis were always available at the end of the street. Since all passports were retained by the hostel, and there could be no question of absconding anywhere, the system worked well enough. It was usual for discreet taxi-loads of three to take the air together, and the taxis took them to the red light district.

Porter made up a threesome at eight the following evening. His Norwegian companions couldn’t understand him so at the first place they amicably agreed to split. There was no shortage of taxis in the red light area either, and he took one to the airport, again using dollars and taking his change in roubles and kopeks. With the kopeks he made three telephone calls, at precisely twelve-minute intervals. He allowed each one to ring twice, and then cut off. Then he made a fourth, and let it ring twelve times, when it was answered.

He said in Russian. ‘I am here.’

Murmansk was a major naval base and the airport was thronged with uniformed sailors. He watched quietly from a seat in the concourse and saw the man arrive thirty minutes later. The man had a sea-faring look himself; a solid, chunky individual dressed, like Porter, in donkey jacket, muffler and
woolly hat. He carried a hefty grip. The plan, if no seat was available next to Porter, was to move elsewhere. But a seat was available, and the two men were soon in warm conversation. Then the new arrival asked Porter to watch his bag while he made a call and suggested that they meet in the Automat. Porter agreed and off the man went; and so presently did Porter, with the bag, following the arrow marked Toilets.

Familiar with the routine, since Otaru, he locked himself in and went swiftly to work. In the grip was a set of clothing, new documentation, a wallet and a toilet bag. He started with the toilet bag, taking out the towel and wrapping it round his neck, and then the scissors and the hand mirror. He cut off the pigtail at the roots, and dropped it in the bag, and then scissored away all over his head until it was down to the shortest fuzz he could manage. This too went from the towel into the bag. Then he lathered his scalp and his moustache with the liquid soap and started work with the razor.

He had been clean-shaven before but never totally bald, and the effect was startling. He wasted no time examining it but right away changed into his new clothing. This was handsome: winter-weight velvet cords, fine white woollen rolltop, a stylish fur-lined leather jacket, two-tone ankle boots, and a splendid bushy mink for his shaven head. Kolya (Nikolai) Khodyan was a snappy dresser. Dark snow glasses were in the top pocket of the jacket. He briefly tried the effect, and took them off again. Then he packed everything of Sung Won Choo’s in the bag, and went back with it to the concourse.

The seaman was in the Automat, by the samovars, at the busiest corner, as planned. Porter jostled his way through and got himself a glass, and they amicably exchanged a few words. Then the man picked up the bag, they nodded to each other in the scrum, and he was gone.

Porter remained a while, finishing his tea, and made his way to the left luggage office, fishing the receipt out of his new
wallet. The two pieces awaiting him were every bit as opulent as the rest of Khodyan’s effects; a fine large Scandinavian case and a soft antelope grip. He took them over to the check-in desk.

In his breast pocket he had the sheaf of open-flight tickets. It took almost thirty minutes to get the stages of the journey booked, a computer being out of action at one of them. Then he handed in the case, and went and bought himself another glass of tea. The place was still swarming, flights still being called to take the fleet sailors to distant parts of the country.

But he was smoking in the lounge when, at midnight, the first of his own flights was called. This was to Irkutsk. At Irkutsk he changed for Yakutsk. At Yakutsk, in a blizzard, he made Polar Aviation again for Tchersky.

Three days after leaving it he was back. This was the second of October, just over a month after his arrival at Narita airport in Japan, and ten weeks since he had first heard of inaccessible and forbidden Green Cape. He now took a taxi there, and fifteen minutes later let himself into the apartment.

He switched the light on, closed the door behind him and stood quite still, looking and listening.

He was in a living room, a warm and foetid one. A faint smell of rotting fruit. The place had been empty for four months; its last occupant hurrying out to catch a plane in June. He had left a mess behind – newspapers on the floor, a discarded grip, scattered work boots, half-open drawers. A toy panda sat on the sofa, cutely watching. It had lipstick on. He could see all the flat at once, all its doors open, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. A subdued noise of music and voices came from surrounding apartments.

He waited some moments longer, then moved to the window and closed the curtains. He saw that the port was not visible from here, or even the street. He was at the back of the building, second floor – a big block, 165 apartments. Directly opposite was its twin, five storeys of lighted windows. At the end of the stamped-snow courtyard the two blocks were joined by a glassed-in walkway. Through the panes of the walkway he could see, beyond, a supermarket, part of the same complex. A few lights glimmered in it but the place was shut. Almost nine o’clock. He sighed and took his mink hat off.

Apart from the night’s sleep at Murmansk he had barely stopped moving for three days. He took Khodyan’s jacket off too, and prowled the flat, sniffing, touching. The furniture looked new, Finnish, good quality. Bed left unmade; a huge kingsize; fine pillows, plump duvet: Swansdown, the label said in English. The slob who owned all this was a bachelor who liked his comforts. Wardrobe stuffed with winter clothing, all good.

The bathroom too – towels of fine quality, fluffy foreign ones; the tub and shower also far from standard, all extra, all paid for by this high earner. There was a lingering smell of used clothing. He looked around and saw heavy winter socks and underwear spilling out of a laundry basket. A bra and panties were mixed in with them.

In the kitchen further signs of hurried departure; rinsed breakfast things upside down on the drainer and, in a sink-tidy alongside, the source of the fruit smell; orange peel and pear cores. Not much food in the cupboards: tea, coffee, a few cans. He had a look in the fridge. Sausage, eggs, fuzzy cheese, all due for despatch. But not tonight.

Tonight sleep. But the sheet, on closer inspection, showed signs of use, so he changed it first. Piping hot from the linen cupboard, the new one was beautifully silky, the elasticated edges slipping neatly and smoothly under the mattress. He marvelled at it. He’d never had such stuff himself. They lived high, in the Arctic. Alexei Mikhailovich Ponomarenko had lived high.

‘Alexei! Are you back, Alexei?’

In his sleep he’d heard the ringing and thought himself again in the hospital. But now an accompanying rapping at the door brought him to, and he turned out. He turned out in Ponomarenkos’s fine woollen dressing gown. It was eight o’clock in the morning.

‘One minute, I’m coming!’ he called, as the rapping continued.

‘Alexei! It’s good to hear you again. Welcome back, Alyosha!’

‘Yes, but it’s not Alyosha,’ he said. He was smiling as he opened the door. Kolya Khodyan was a smiler; sometimes taciturn, always temperamental, mainly a smiler. He smiled at difficulties. All this had been worked out.

‘Oh.’ A little old lady in carpet slippers was gazing at him. Her face was lined and like a tabby’s, and it was now gazing
up in astonishment at the startling Siberian native with his shaven head. ‘Isn’t Alexei here?’

‘No, he’s still at the Black Sea. He lent me the place for a while. He can’t come just yet.’

‘Is he in trouble there?’

‘No trouble! He’s enjoying himself.’

‘Ah. A girl, is it?’

‘A beauty. Don’t worry about
him
.’

‘Again – that bad boy! But you – excuse me – you’re –?’

‘Khodyan. Nikolai Dmitrievich – call me Kolya,’ Porter said, and warmly shook her hand. He hadn’t stopped smiling. ‘You don’t know me, but I know you, Anna Antonovna. I know everything about you! He never stopped speaking about you down there.’

‘He did? At Batumi he spoke of me?’ The old lady was delighted.

‘All the time. He said you kept him like a prince here. He said you’d do the same for me. So here I am!’

The old lady did not have many teeth but all of them were now radiantly on display in her smile.

‘Well, well,’ she said, and nudged his arm. ‘But he could have dropped me a line at least. If only to say you were coming. I’ve got his mail here, I’ve been emptying his box, he left me the key.’ Over her arm he now saw she had a string bag stuffed with papers, magazines mainly, by the wrappers. ‘He didn’t have an address when he left. Does he want it sent on now?’

‘No, no. He knows it’s only his magazines. Keep them for him,’ Porter said. ‘And meanwhile keep
me
like a prince.’

The old lady was peering past him into the room. ‘Well, the usual mess, I see. I thought it was him banging about – I’m just next door. You want me to start now?’

‘No, I’ll take a shower first,’ Porter said. He hadn’t investigated Khodyan’s cases yet and wanted to do so without the old babushka’s scrutiny. There was a sharp look on the catlike face. He hadn’t been banging about. He had made no
noise at all. She most have spotted the light come on before he’d drawn the curtains last night.

She asked, ‘Have you anything to eat here?’

‘I brought something with me, enough for now. I won’t waste time. I want to run down to the port office.’

‘Ah, you’re on boats, too?’

‘Boats?’ Porter said. Some of the sunshine faded from his smile. Ponomarenko was supposed to be a truck driver.

‘The trucks. You’re not a driver?’

‘Ah, you know our slang!’ It was as well that he did himself now. The first example of the casual dangers. ‘Sure. On the boats. How are things shaping here this season?’

‘The usual mess at the beginning – they’re running in all directions. But the ice is nearly right. They’ll be glad of you. You’re not from these parts, then – Kolya, is it?’

‘Kolya. No – from Chukotka, the Magadan circuit. But I go anywhere – a boat’s a boat.’

‘Of course – you boys! Well, give me a knock, Kolya. You want the same arrangements to carry on: wash, clean, get in the shopping?’

‘Everything. Whatever you did before, old lady, do it again. You’ll tell me what you need and I’ll leave the money.’

‘And if I find anything?’ Her eyes were still roaming the little apartment. ‘Return it? Or?’

‘Let me take a shower, a mouthful of coffee,’ he pleaded, ‘and I’ll come and see you.’

But he was thoughtful as he closed the door behind her. It wasn’t till he was in the bathroom and his eyes fell again on the bra and the panties that it occurred to him what the ‘or’ meant. There would be a claimant for these goods.

That was another thing they hadn't told him.