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unspoiled by tourists. And maybe the forest was unspoiled because it was only thirty miles long by thirty miles
wide? But there were all sorts of small forest wildlife here, like squirrels, hares, and foxes. Only, of course, there
weren't any wolves at all-no real ones, that is, who weren't werewolves. Fine-we could get along without wolves.
But there was plenty of free food around-once I stopped by some wild raspberry bushes and spent ten minutes
picking the slightly withered, sweet berries. Then I came across an entire colony of white porcini mushrooms.
More than a settlement-it was a genuine mushroom megalopolis! Huge white mushrooms, not worm-eaten, no
rubbishy little ones or different kinds. I'd had no idea there was treasure like that to be found only a couple of
miles from the village.
I hesitated for a while. If I picked all those white mushrooms, I could bring them home and dump them on the
table, to my mother-in-law's amazement and Svetlana's delight! And how Nadka would squeal in ecstasy and
boast to the neighbors' kids about her clever dad.
Then I thought that I couldn't sneak a haul like that back to the house without being seen and the whole village
would go dashing off, hunting for mushrooms. Including the local drunks, who would be happy to sell the
mushrooms on the side of the highway and buy vodka. And the grannies, who mostly supported themselves by
gathering wild food. And all the local kids.
But somewhere in this forest there were werewolves on the prowl. . .
"They'll never believe me..." I said miserably, looking at the mushroom patch.
I felt a craving for fried white mushrooms. I swallowed hard and carried on following the track.
And literally five minutes later I came out at a small log-built house.
Everything was just as the children had described it. A little house, tiny windows, no fence, no outbuildings, no
vegetable patches. Nobody ever builds houses like that in the forest. Even the dingiest little watchman's hut has
to have a lean-to shed for firewood.
"Hey, anybody home?" I shouted. "Hello!"
Nobody answered.
"Little hut, little hut," I muttered, citing the fairytale. "Turn your back to the forest and your front to me ..."
The hut didn't move. But then, it was already facing me anyway. I suddenly felt about as clever as the Soviet spy
Stirlitz in the old jokes.
Okay, it was time to stop playing stupid games. I'd go in and wait for the mistress of the house if she wasn't
home . . .
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I walked up to the door and touched the rusty iron handle- and at that very moment, as if someone had been
waiting for that movement, the door opened.
"Good day," said a woman about thirty years old.
A very beautiful woman . . .
Somehow, from what Roma and Ksyusha had told me, I'd expected her to be older. They hadn't really said
anything about her appearance, and in my mind I'd pictured some average image of "just a woman." That was
stupid of me ... of course, for children as young as them, "beautiful" meant "in a bright-colored dress." In another
year or two, Ksyusha would probably have said with delight and admiration in her voice "The lady was so
beautiful!" and compared her with the latest young girl's idol.
But she was wearing jeans and one of those checkered shirts that men and women can both wear.
Tall-but not so tall as to make a man of average height feel insecure. Slim-but not skinny at all. Legs so long and
straight I felt like shouting, "Why the hell did you put jeans on, you fool, get into a miniskirt!" Breasts-well, no
doubt some men prefer to see two huge silicone melons, and some take delight in chests as flat as a boy's. But
in this particular matter any normal man should go for the golden medium. Hands ... well, I don't know exactly
how hands can be erotic. But hers certainly were. Somehow they made you think that just one touch from those
slim fingers and . . .
With a figure like that, having a beautiful face is an optional luxury. But she was lovely. Hair as black as pitch,
large eyes that smiled and enticed. All her features were regular, with just some tiny deviation from the perfection
that was invisible to the eye, but allowed you to see her as a living woman and not a work of art.
"Er . . . h-hello," I whispered.
What was wrong with me? Anyone would think I'd been raised on an uninhabited island and never seen a women
before.
The woman beamed at me. "You're Roman's dad, are you?"
"What?" I asked, confused.
The woman was slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry. The other day a little boy got lost in the forest. I showed him
the way out to the village. He stammered too ... a little bit. So I thought..."
That was it-put out the lights.
"I don't usually stammer," I mumbled. "I'm usually always spouting all sorts of nonsense. But I wasn't expecting
to meet such a beautiful woman in the forest, so I choked up."
The "beautiful woman" laughed. "Oh, and are those words nonsense too? Or the truth?"
"The truth," I confessed.
"Won't you come in?" She stepped back into the house. "Thank you very much. Around here compliments are
hard to come by..."
"Well, you won't meet people here very often," I observed, walking into the house and looking around.
Not a trace of magic. A rather strange interior for a house in a forest, but you come across all sorts of things.
True, there was a bookcase with old volumes in it . . . But there were no indications that my hostess was an
Other.
"There are two villages near here," the woman explained. "The one I took the children back to and another, a bit
larger. I go there to buy groceries. The shop's always open. But it's still not a good place for compliments."
She smiled again. "My name's Arina. Not Irina, but Arina."
"Anton," I replied. And then I showed off my first-grade literary erudition. "Arina, like Pushkin's nanny?"
"Precisely. I was named after her," the woman said, still smiling. "My father was Alexander Sergeevich, like
Pushkin, and naturally my mother was crazy about the poet. You could say she was a fanatic. So that's where I
got the name ..."
"But why not Anna, after Anna Kern? Or Natalya, after Natalya Goncharova?"
Arina shook her head. "Oh, that wouldn't do... My mother believed all those women played a disastrous role in
Pushkin's life. Yes, of course, they served as a source of inspiration, but he suffered greatly as a man ... But the
nanny, she made no claims on her Sasha. She loved him devotedly ..."
"Are you a literary specialist?" I asked, putting out a feeler.
"What would a literary specialist be doing here?" Arina laughed. "Have a seat, I'll make some tea, it's really good,
with herbs. Everyone's gone crazy just recently about mate and rooi-bos and those other foreign teas. But let me
tell you, we Russians don't need all those exotic brews. We have enough herbs of our own. Or just ordinary tea,
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black. We're not Chinese-why should we drink green water? Or forest herbs. Here, try this ..."
"You're a botanist," I said dejectedly.
"Correct!" Arina laughed. "Listen, are you sure you're not Roman's dad?"
"No I'm ..." I hesitated for a moment, and then said the most convenient thing that came to mind: "I'm a friend of
his mother's. Thank you very much for saving the children." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]