Snegurochka by Judith Heneghan (best ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📕

She isn’t remotely credible, standing here with a baby, feigning competence and importance in her snow boots. This man, this Mykola will see right through her and send her straight back out on to the street. ‘My husband works for the BBC,’ she adds, knowing before the words come out of her mouth that this sounds even more ridiculous.

Mykola takes her seriously, even so.

‘Ah,’ he says, nodding. ‘BBC. World Service. Very good. Good to have you here in Ukraina. And the United Nations. Also very good. Kiev, London, New York. You respect us and we respect you – joint enterprise, START treaty – this is how it is now. But a survey . . .’ He reaches out and takes the file from Rachel’s hand. ‘A survey is a special thing. Prices are a delicate matter. With inflation, with our kouponi – as a wife, as a mother you know how it is. Viktoria!’

With a flick of her hair the young woman returns. Mykola hands her the survey and nods, murmuring something in Russian.

‘She will make a copy. One for you, and one for me. Okay?’

Rachel stares helplessly as the woman retreats behind the door. She hears a beep, then a wheezing sound as a machine warms up.

‘So,’ he says. ‘In a few minutes we can talk about this survey. First, some coffee? No? I can see you are interested in appliances. You are new here. You have apartment, a baby. You need things! What do you like? Bosch? You like German I think?’

Rachel tries to concentrate on what the man is saying, but now she is aware of another difficulty. A sweetish smell, cloying and rancid, rises up from her son. Ivan is filling his nappy. The odour is spreading fast and because he has nappy rash he will soon start to scream. She will have to get him out of here. She must find somewhere she can change him, though there’s nowhere but the snow.

‘The survey . . .’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go – my son . . .’

Mykola’s dark eyes look concerned, sympathetic.

‘Your son needs some attention, I think. Please, there is no need for you to leave. Viktoria will help you. Here.’ He doesn’t touch her; instead he guides her towards the door behind which Viktoria disappeared and pushes it open. ‘Take your time.’

Rachel sees a new-looking photocopier. The survey whirs through its innards. Viktoria, holding the empty ring-binder, glances at the man and there’s only the faintest flicker of disgust before she steps aside. There’s a desk on which sits the grey bulk of a computer, but the beige carpeted floor is clean and Rachel is grateful, absurdly grateful as she kneels down, lays Ivan on the floor and unzips his snowsuit. Viktoria retreats, and the man speaks to her softly. They both stay in the shop, which is just as well, because Ivan’s bottom is as ghastly as Rachel fears. Pale faeces are already leaking out of the soaked nappy, caking his skin and soiling his clothes. When she lifts away his vest, the stench fills the airless room. She finds some baby wipes and a spare nappy in her bag, but the sores are like craters, glistening and inflamed. Ivan whimpers as she cleans him; he twists his head and arcs his back. Quickly she secures the straps of the new nappy, removes the stained vest and returns him to his clothes. If she was back in the apartment she’d feed him now, but she can’t do that here so instead she licks her little finger and inserts it into his mouth for him to suck. He accepts it greedily, his grey eyes fixed on hers.

‘I will take that.’

‘Oh . . .’ Rachel looks up. Mykola has picked up the soiled nappy. She should have hidden it straight away. Now he has touched it and she feels dizzy with panic, even though he is smiling. He opens a plastic bag and the nappy disappears. She struggles to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

Mykola watches her for a moment. His dark eyes are like a weight upon her, but he has Ivan’s dirty things in his hands and she cannot hold his gaze.

‘A mother with a baby should never apologise,’ he says. ‘Nevertheless, you are worried. This survey – the UN are paying you well, I hope, because I think you do not have a washing machine.’

Rachel is startled.

‘How do you know that?’ she asks.

Mykola points to her right hand – the one that is supporting Ivan.

‘Your hands are rough. Your son’s vest has many stains. This is bad and it must change. I want to give you something.’

Rachel covers her right hand with her left. The room is very quiet. She realises that the soft hum and shush from the photocopier has ceased. The newly duplicated survey sits silently in the tray. What was it Teddy had told her? Something about imports and the mafia.

‘I must go,’ she says.

‘Yes, you must go. First, however, I want you to have something every mother needs. A gift. Not one of these,’ he waves towards the shop, ‘but good, nevertheless. I have machines that are a little older, maybe a dent or two, guarantees expired. I cannot sell them – my customers want everything to be perfect; it is natural. You see, I can help you with this.’

‘I have no money,’ says Rachel, slowly. Her head is spinning again. She knows she ought to take the survey, both copies, and leave, but the sense of unreality overwhelms her.

‘I do not ask for money,’ continues Mykola. ‘Journalists – they are never paid enough! I know these things. Your little boy – so sweet. Let us agree it is a gift for him.’

‘I couldn’t possibly . . .’ murmurs Rachel.

‘Tell me where you live,’ says Mykola.

Rachel stares blankly for a moment.

‘For the delivery! I will send someone to install it.’

‘Oh,’ she says, again. And then, even though something is ringing, a kind of warning tinnitus, the words come tripping out. ‘Staronavodnitska Street. Building Four.’

Mykola