vines that looked as if they’d seen better days. He stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. For some reason he felt
as though he was trespassing, as though the family who’d once lived here might emerge at any moment and discover him tiptoeing through their home.
He paused for a moment, to reassure himself that this was nonsense, that he was here on official business, and, anyway, he was looking for Babel and everything was fine. But still it was
undeniable that there was an atmosphere to the place – the girl had died here, of course, perhaps that was the reason for his uneasiness.
He walked through an open door, passing into a large dining room with a ceiling made entirely of glass through which the natural evening light illuminated the room. At any other time he would
have paused to examine the roof more closely because it was extraordinary, but at the far end an old man with a bushy white beard stood, head bowed, in front of one of the four large cast-iron
candelabras that protruded from the walls and which must have been installed to illuminate the room before the days of electricity. At the sound of Korolev’s step the old man turned, and
Korolev was surprised to see that the milky blue eyes beneath his thick white brows were wet with tears.
‘Are you all right, Comrade?’ he asked, walking towards him.
‘I’m fine,’ the man said, turning away to compose himself.
Which was a lie if Korolev had ever heard one. But it wasn’t his business to pry – not yet at least.
‘Is this where she died?’ he asked, surprised to hear his own voice.
‘Yes,’ the old man said, having turned back towards him. ‘The Lord help me, I was the one who found her.’
Korolev nodded his sympathy, surprised that the old man spoke the Lord’s name so freely. ‘Comrade Andreychuk, is it? The caretaker?’
‘That’s me. Efim Pavlovich Andreychuk. The unlucky Andreychuk. The poor soul who found the dead girl.’
‘My name is Korolev. Alexei Dmitrieyvich. I’m a friend of Babel, the writer. I was sorry to hear the news.’
‘The film people are out in the fields, if you’re looking for them. But they should be back soon.’ Andreychuk turned back towards the bracket. ‘She should have stayed in
Moscow, you see. This place never brought her anything but sadness.’
‘What do you mean?’ Korolev asked, thinking the words curious. The girl hadn’t spent that long on the film – surely not long enough to pack in so much sadness. Andreychuk
looked round at him as though he’d forgotten Korolev was there.
‘She’s dead, that’s what I mean,’ the caretaker said, frowning. ‘Nothing more than that.’
‘But you spoke as though she came from round here. I thought she came from Moscow.’
Andreychuk’s frown deepened, and his voice, when he spoke, was gruff. ‘She was from these parts a long time ago, or so she told me. She should have stayed in Moscow.’
Interesting that she’d been from the area – that information wasn’t in the file.
‘Was there something underneath?’ he asked, looking back at the wall bracket and wondering how she’d done it. ‘For her to stand on?’
Andreychuk glanced round at him, suspicious but also thinking.
‘A chair,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Someone must have moved it.’
Korolev looked at the wall fixture and tried to imagine the girl preparing the noose, tying the rope round one of the metal arms – they looked solid enough – and then kicking the
chair away.
‘A hard way to go,’ he said, stating the obvious – a skill he’d learnt early in his career as a policeman. ‘There are easier ways to kill yourself.’
‘I don’t know why she did it. All I know is I wish I hadn’t been the one to find her. Excuse me, Comrade, I’ve work to attend to.’
The caretaker turned and walked out of the room and Korolev tried to imagine how it must have been for him when he found her – the weight of the corpse swinging, her feet
as though he was trespassing, as though the family who’d once lived here might emerge at any moment and discover him tiptoeing through their home.
He paused for a moment, to reassure himself that this was nonsense, that he was here on official business, and, anyway, he was looking for Babel and everything was fine. But still it was
undeniable that there was an atmosphere to the place – the girl had died here, of course, perhaps that was the reason for his uneasiness.
He walked through an open door, passing into a large dining room with a ceiling made entirely of glass through which the natural evening light illuminated the room. At any other time he would
have paused to examine the roof more closely because it was extraordinary, but at the far end an old man with a bushy white beard stood, head bowed, in front of one of the four large cast-iron
candelabras that protruded from the walls and which must have been installed to illuminate the room before the days of electricity. At the sound of Korolev’s step the old man turned, and
Korolev was surprised to see that the milky blue eyes beneath his thick white brows were wet with tears.
‘Are you all right, Comrade?’ he asked, walking towards him.
‘I’m fine,’ the man said, turning away to compose himself.
Which was a lie if Korolev had ever heard one. But it wasn’t his business to pry – not yet at least.
‘Is this where she died?’ he asked, surprised to hear his own voice.
‘Yes,’ the old man said, having turned back towards him. ‘The Lord help me, I was the one who found her.’
Korolev nodded his sympathy, surprised that the old man spoke the Lord’s name so freely. ‘Comrade Andreychuk, is it? The caretaker?’
‘That’s me. Efim Pavlovich Andreychuk. The unlucky Andreychuk. The poor soul who found the dead girl.’
‘My name is Korolev. Alexei Dmitrieyvich. I’m a friend of Babel, the writer. I was sorry to hear the news.’
‘The film people are out in the fields, if you’re looking for them. But they should be back soon.’ Andreychuk turned back towards the bracket. ‘She should have stayed in
Moscow, you see. This place never brought her anything but sadness.’
‘What do you mean?’ Korolev asked, thinking the words curious. The girl hadn’t spent that long on the film – surely not long enough to pack in so much sadness. Andreychuk
looked round at him as though he’d forgotten Korolev was there.
‘She’s dead, that’s what I mean,’ the caretaker said, frowning. ‘Nothing more than that.’
‘But you spoke as though she came from round here. I thought she came from Moscow.’
Andreychuk’s frown deepened, and his voice, when he spoke, was gruff. ‘She was from these parts a long time ago, or so she told me. She should have stayed in Moscow.’
Interesting that she’d been from the area – that information wasn’t in the file.
‘Was there something underneath?’ he asked, looking back at the wall bracket and wondering how she’d done it. ‘For her to stand on?’
Andreychuk glanced round at him, suspicious but also thinking.
‘A chair,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Someone must have moved it.’
Korolev looked at the wall fixture and tried to imagine the girl preparing the noose, tying the rope round one of the metal arms – they looked solid enough – and then kicking the
chair away.
‘A hard way to go,’ he said, stating the obvious – a skill he’d learnt early in his career as a policeman. ‘There are easier ways to kill yourself.’
‘I don’t know why she did it. All I know is I wish I hadn’t been the one to find her. Excuse me, Comrade, I’ve work to attend to.’
The caretaker turned and walked out of the room and Korolev tried to imagine how it must have been for him when he found her – the weight of the corpse swinging, her feet
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