Snegurochka Judith Heneghan (most read book in the world .txt) 📖

beige Zhiguli’s suspension. The car smells quite new, yet it has the character of something already past its prime, with its sagging ceiling, its friable plastic fittings and creaking underbelly.

Rachel doesn’t care about the car. She can’t stop thinking about her missing book.

‘Re-stor-an,’ she whispers into Ivan’s soft ear. ‘Too-flee.’

‘Zoya,’ says Lucas, shifting in his seat. ‘I want you to do some research for a feature I’m working on. What do you know about Pavlo Polubotok? I need info on that legend about the Cossack leader’s gold.’

Zoya checks the rear-view mirror, as she does every fifteen seconds or so, actually moving her head in the way that Rachel’s driving instructor showed her before she took her test. Then she indicates and turns right. Only when the car is settled into its new course does she respond.

‘Hetman,’ she says. ‘The hetman’s gold. It is a fool’s dream. In this country there are many fools.’

Lucas nods, undeterred. ‘Well, okay, like I said, it’s a legend, but it stands for something, doesn’t it? I mean, it stems from some kind of historical fact. Polubotok was a real Ukrainian hetman, right? In 1723? And no one has managed to disprove the claim that he smuggled two barrels of gold across to London for safe keeping when he thought he was in trouble with the Tsar.’ He pauses, as if to let his words sink in. ‘So, what I’m interested in is the contemporary response. Polubotok promised that the gold would be returned to Kiev when Ukraine was finally free. I heard some nationalist poet took up the story and, after making a few calculations about compound interest on the back of an envelope, declared that it was now worth sixteen trillion pounds sterling and that this money belongs to all true Ukrainians.’

Rachel sees Zoya’s eyes narrow momentarily in the rear-view mirror. Zoya catches her looking and, embarrassed, Rachel lowers her head.

‘That madman has been discredited,’ Zoya says, braking for a red light.

‘Yes,’ says Lucas. ‘Obviously. But it’s the effect. It’s a metaphor for the state of the place, the way people are thinking. The dream of rightful ownership, denied for so long, a pot of gold, meddling from Moscow, reclaiming past glory, a nationalist resurgence . . .’

‘There is nothing new to report. Just some hot-heads when your Mrs Thatcher visited.’

‘All right.’ Now Lucas is getting annoyed. He puts an unlit cigarette in his mouth, then takes it out and tries again. ‘The point is there’s going to be a film – some young director at the Dovzhenko studios. I’ve been given exclusive access.’ He twists round and smiles deliberately at Rachel, looking for an ally, someone who will be as delighted as he is with the prospect of a scoop. ‘It could be big, this story, Rach – the revival of Kiev’s film industry, a national obsession, politics, propaganda – plenty of colour. I might even get one of the Sunday supplements interested, or syndicate it and start earning some proper money. Definitely a half hour feature for Radio Four.’ He hesitates. ‘We’ve got to be discreet, though, Zoya, okay? I don’t want to share.’

Zoya, however, is rolling her eyes. ‘Why do English people use this word story?’ she grumbles, turning the wheel and pulling into a space amongst some haphazardly parked trucks. ‘Stories are for children.’

‘Unbelievable,’ says Lucas. ‘I thought you wanted to be a journalist.’

‘Kee-nee-gee,’ Rachel mouths, still clutching their son.

* * *

The covered market hunches beside a noisy interchange at the southern end of Khreschatyk, downwind of Independence Square. When Rachel climbs out of the Zhiguli the cacophony of cars and trucks and trolleybuses takes her by surprise; this is her first proper trip downtown and she needs a moment to remember how she has pitched up here. Then she sees a dirty white building with a domed glass roof like a railway station and MINOLTA in large Latin letters above the entrance. There are people everywhere, hustling for business through the exhaust fumes: boys washing cars with filthy pieces of rag; aproned women in a line selling jars full of every shade of honey along with bunches of wilting herbs; two khaki-coated men sitting down to beg – except she sees that they’re not sitting, exactly. They don’t have any legs.

Lucas slings his rucksack over his shoulder and starts unfolding the buggy. ‘This is the Bessarabsky. It’s unregulated, pricey, but they bring in fresh produce from Kazakhstan and the Caucasus – so no contamination problems. Fruit, meat, eggs, cheese . . .’

‘Ree-nok,’ murmurs Rachel, not moving. Before she goes inside, she needs to find out about her book. Then, just as she begins to frame the question, her husband starts waving at someone.

‘Hey Lucas!’ calls a female voice, assured, Canadian. Vee is emerging from an archway with Teddy in tow. ‘And Rachel! How are you? Did the drugs help? Look at this little fella! Hello beautiful boy . . . It’s so nice to see you out and about! Now, Rachel, I’ve got to tell you, there’s an English woman living in the block next to you. Actually, I think she’s Scottish. Or should that be a Scot? You can be friends! I’ve got her number somewhere. Someone at the Finance Ministry passed it to me.’

‘What are you two doing here?’ asks Lucas.

‘Ah,’ says Teddy, smiling at Rachel and holding up a jar of lumpy soured cream. ‘Vee always hunts down the best smetana.’

* * *

Rachel stands inside the entrance waiting for Lucas. She is watching a man arranging apples. First he takes one from a crate and spits on it. Then he rubs it with a rag until it gleams. The glossiest fruit is placed at the front of a pyramid he is building, alternating green with deep red. She doesn’t want to watch him; she wants to knock his pyramid down because the red and green apples shouldn’t touch each other, but Ivan’s big grey eyes are staring from beneath his knitted balaclava. The fruit is keeping him quiet. Or maybe he’s listening to the croaky tirade