daughter, an ugly woman who mistreated him, and he eventually lost his mind and died. Zoya said that recent study had positively identified the skeleton in the grave as his from scoliosis of the spine, a lame leg, and the iron ring on his finger. Many Decembrists when finally released from their shackles had finger rings made from the links of their chains, she said; later, Decembrist shackle rings and bracelets became highly fashionable accessories in salons in St. Petersburg.
We walked around the village, took photographs, picnicked on a bluff over the river. Then we visited Barguzin’s museum and historical society, an old building consisting mainly of one big gallery with tall, curtain-draped windows and pictures made of fur on the walls. The museum’s curators, a couple named Lizaveta and Vladimir, showed us around. Lizaveta wore her hair up, nineteenth-century-style, above a long dress of dark red velvet with white lace at the hem and collar. Vladimir, a sturdy manwith blue eyes and a forward-thrusting, chestnut-colored beard, had made the pictures, mostly landscapes, which he had assembled by cutting and stitching various Siberian animals’ pelts. Some of the pelts he had obtained himself in the wild. Lizaveta led us around the gallery from picture to picture and explained how different kinds of fur represented different landscape shades; the deep blue-gray of the fur of the Baikal seal, for example, duplicated the color of Lake Baikal in a storm.
I had brought along my fishing rod, and Sasha had arranged for Vladimir and me to fish together in the river. After more admiring of the pictures, we drove by Vladimir’s house so he could get his stuff. He went in and in a few minutes came out; he wore hip boots, jeans, a white shirt with blousy sleeves such as one might wear in America to portray a pirate in a school play, a white mesh cap with a blue insignia, and a big hunting knife in a handsome cedar scabbard he had carved himself. I wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt, bathing trunks (which I’d had on under my trousers), and sneakers. My fishing rod was a light four-piece graphite travel model to which I had attached a little open-face Shakespeare spinning reel. Vladimir looked at my rig and said, “Looks like American weapon.” His rod and reel looked like a Russian one, or maybe Czech—a telescoping metal pole as thick as a broomstick, a flat reel that called to mind an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, and thick, milky-colored monofilament line. I showed him the lures I’d brought, mostly copper spinners shaped like poplar leaves, and treble-hooked steel spoons painted red and white or inset with fake garnets for eyes. He showed me his spoons, some of which were actual soup spoons with a hole drilled at the end for the line and a large single hook welded where the handle used to be.
Everyone in Barguzin apparently had gone to the river that day. Little brush and few trees grew along the river’s banks, so you could see the people along it both near and far. Some people swam, some washed pots, some did laundry. Suds from the laundering trailed on the brown water far downstream. Other fishermen had distributed themselves along the banks. One group brought their equipment and refreshments in a two-wheel cart with automobile tires drawn by a shaggy pony. Vladimir put me at what he said was a good spot, but I was afraid I might hook the young men swimming in their undershorts nearby, and so I waded far out, mud squishing up into my sneakers and the lukewarm muddy waterrising to my armpits. I cast and cast, using a spinner called an Abu-Reflex Shyster, which has brought me luck all over the United States and Canada, and eventually I caught a pike about sixteen inches long. I held it up and shouted to Vladimir, who looked back at me and smiled. Soon after that I saw him lift out of the water a pike longer than his arm. In the next half hour he caught another of about the same size.
Back at his house, he expertly
We walked around the village, took photographs, picnicked on a bluff over the river. Then we visited Barguzin’s museum and historical society, an old building consisting mainly of one big gallery with tall, curtain-draped windows and pictures made of fur on the walls. The museum’s curators, a couple named Lizaveta and Vladimir, showed us around. Lizaveta wore her hair up, nineteenth-century-style, above a long dress of dark red velvet with white lace at the hem and collar. Vladimir, a sturdy manwith blue eyes and a forward-thrusting, chestnut-colored beard, had made the pictures, mostly landscapes, which he had assembled by cutting and stitching various Siberian animals’ pelts. Some of the pelts he had obtained himself in the wild. Lizaveta led us around the gallery from picture to picture and explained how different kinds of fur represented different landscape shades; the deep blue-gray of the fur of the Baikal seal, for example, duplicated the color of Lake Baikal in a storm.
I had brought along my fishing rod, and Sasha had arranged for Vladimir and me to fish together in the river. After more admiring of the pictures, we drove by Vladimir’s house so he could get his stuff. He went in and in a few minutes came out; he wore hip boots, jeans, a white shirt with blousy sleeves such as one might wear in America to portray a pirate in a school play, a white mesh cap with a blue insignia, and a big hunting knife in a handsome cedar scabbard he had carved himself. I wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt, bathing trunks (which I’d had on under my trousers), and sneakers. My fishing rod was a light four-piece graphite travel model to which I had attached a little open-face Shakespeare spinning reel. Vladimir looked at my rig and said, “Looks like American weapon.” His rod and reel looked like a Russian one, or maybe Czech—a telescoping metal pole as thick as a broomstick, a flat reel that called to mind an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, and thick, milky-colored monofilament line. I showed him the lures I’d brought, mostly copper spinners shaped like poplar leaves, and treble-hooked steel spoons painted red and white or inset with fake garnets for eyes. He showed me his spoons, some of which were actual soup spoons with a hole drilled at the end for the line and a large single hook welded where the handle used to be.
Everyone in Barguzin apparently had gone to the river that day. Little brush and few trees grew along the river’s banks, so you could see the people along it both near and far. Some people swam, some washed pots, some did laundry. Suds from the laundering trailed on the brown water far downstream. Other fishermen had distributed themselves along the banks. One group brought their equipment and refreshments in a two-wheel cart with automobile tires drawn by a shaggy pony. Vladimir put me at what he said was a good spot, but I was afraid I might hook the young men swimming in their undershorts nearby, and so I waded far out, mud squishing up into my sneakers and the lukewarm muddy waterrising to my armpits. I cast and cast, using a spinner called an Abu-Reflex Shyster, which has brought me luck all over the United States and Canada, and eventually I caught a pike about sixteen inches long. I held it up and shouted to Vladimir, who looked back at me and smiled. Soon after that I saw him lift out of the water a pike longer than his arm. In the next half hour he caught another of about the same size.
Back at his house, he expertly
Similar Books
