Dream Land by Lily Hyde Page B

yourself!” said a woman who had emerged from behind the fountain. She wore an old flowered housecoat, and she smelt distinctly goaty herself. “More Tatars, are you, come back to see your former homes?”
    “Our homes,” Grandpa corrected her.
    “Well, I know what you’re looking for,” the woman said slyly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That’s right, don’t let on.” The woman tapped her nose significantly. “Good luck with it.” She disappeared again behind the fountain, but as they walked on Safi saw she was following them, although she pretended to be picking up firewood or kicking stones out of the road.
    “Did your mother ever say anything about her?” Safi asked. The woman wasn’t old enough to have lived here fifty years ago, but she seemed exactly like one of the old witches or misery guts or halfwits that, according to Refat’s mother, had filled this village.
    “Oh no, there were no Russians living here then…”
    Anyone who didn’t know him might think Refat was scary-looking, he was so big and black-haired, with round black eyes like a real Mongol Tatar, his ancestors from long, long ago. But Safi did know him, and she knew he was feeling sad. Like herself with Adym-Chokrak, Refat had grown up with stories about Kermenchik. The place was still lovely, folded snugly into the steep green valley, but it was falling down: a half-wild, crumbling tangle of a village. The long one- and two-storey Tatar houses, washed white or blue, looked as if no one had done any repairs on them for years. Dingy curtains hung in the windows; the muddy yards were full of abandoned furniture and tools and dogs and weeds. In one house a boy opened the door to watch them as they passed, and closed it again with a bang. The schoolhouse was full of goats; they stuck their heads out of the glassless windows, waggling their ears inquisitively. A man carrying a bucket stopped and stared, before scuttling away without even saying hello.
    “Anife Batalova, the schoolmaster, Hamzi Shustov… They’ve all gone.” Refat looked as if he was trying to wake from a bad dream. “They’re all strangers here now.”
    “Is this what Adym-Chokrak looked like?” Safi said softly to Grandpa. She could see that the houses had once been pretty, with their wooden balconies and red pantiled roofs. They were approaching an especially nice one, with wooden pillars, painted sky blue, holding up the porch.
    “Imagine it when people cared about it, and yes, this is what Adym-Chokrak looked like.”
    “This is Mother’s house,” Refat said.
    They all stared at the rotting, peeling pillars, the sagging roof patched with rusty iron where the tiles had slipped. A child’s plastic chair stood on the doorstep, and the balcony windows were full of red and pink geraniums flowering riotously behind the glass.
    “Mother hates geraniums.” Refat took a deep breath, strode up to the door and knocked on it loudly.
    Silence.
    “That woman’s still following us,” Safi whispered to Grandpa.
    “Look, there’s someone in the house,” he whispered back.
    Behind the dirty glass and the geraniums a pale face was looking out. As Refat knocked again another face appeared, and then ducked out of sight. No one answered.
    Refat rattled the door handle. It was locked. Safi suddenly wondered how she’d feel if someone as huge and scary-looking as Refat came knocking on her door, if she knew she was living in a house that had been taken away from someone else. Perhaps she wouldn’t answer either, not right away.
    “Open up!” Refat bellowed. He turned aside and sat on the plastic chair. It was very small, so that when he sat his knees were near his ears. Carefully he put down next to him the pile of letters, with all their detailed descriptions of this beloved house where his mother had grown up. And then he began to cry.
    Safi felt tears prickle her own eyes as the sobs rattled painfully through Refat’s big body.