The crowns of the trees let little light through, it was already twilight, and the shadows grew longer with every step that Malinkow and Bowmore took. It was silent and eerie; the birds had stopped singing, it was too late too burst out in song; too late for anybody but Vitia. He casually whistled or hummed Russian tunes as they strode through the walls of bark. It made Alistair nervous; there were no sounds to drown out his companion, and so it gave their position away.
A crow screeched.
Alistair picked up his pace a bit to walk level with Malinkow. "How long will it take us?" He asked. Luckily for him he was still quite fit, otherwise he'd have had a diffecult time keeping up with the Russian who was a good fifteen years younger than himself.
"It'll be another two-and-a-half hours or so I think." The handsome man answered cheerily. "And it'll be a lot longer; or shorter, if we get caught."
"What are our odds?" Alistair asked.
"Probably five-to-one that we get caught. There are lots of patroiullers, but they usually don't come this way. If they do, however, we have absolutly no chance of getting away."
"How many times have you done this?" Alistair asked.
"Eight times. I was never caught. It should be fine. And if it isn't, well, then it isn't." Another crow screeched. Vitia Malinkow picked up the tune he'd been humming.
The forrest was beautiful, somehow. Large intimidating trees, the floor covered with leaves and needles, an occasional portruding rock covered with the glint of frost. They saw no animals except for a lonely crow every now and then. Alistair felt lost. He wished for Vitia to start receiting poems, or doing something other than just whistling and striding along. He wanted conversation, a distraction from the white russian woods.
Vitia stopped abruptly. Alistair almost crashed into him, but managed to catch himself just in time. He rocked back and forth on his heels for a second until he steadied himself. Why had his comrade stopped? Did he see something? Was there somebody up ahead? Or a large animal - maybe a bear? They'd decided not to take any weapons except for a knife each; the less armed you were the more likely the border patrol would leave you to live. But confronted by potential danger, Alistair wished they'd have taken more weapons.
"Do you know, my american comrade, that everybody is a poet?"
"What?" Alistair cried out rather loudly. "What!" He'd expected the man to warn him, whisper a horrible truth, or point out a dangerous animal, but here he was, spitting a random thought into the cold winter. Vitia's breath left a little cloud hanging in the air, right in front of his mouth. A breath of poetry, maybe.
"What is it?" Vitia asked, as bewildered by Alistairs reaction as the latter had been about his friends question.
"I just didn't expect that, I expected you to tell me we're in trouble."
"Oh heavans no!" Vitia said and burst out laughing. "If we were I'd have pushed you to the ground or to the side. Don't worry! All is well! But really now," and he grew dead-serious, "everybody is a poet."
"I'm not." Alistair said tiredly. "I read poetry for a bit a ways back, but I stopped eventually. Was never my thing."
"Well yes, written poetry can be boring to read, or it can be very interesting. It depends. Poems are like chocolate. You enjoy it more after just one piece a day. Too much is not good."
"Are you a poet, Vitia?" Alistair asked. They started to trudge onwards; towards the dirt road where they'd be picked up by Vitia's friends.
"I just said everybody is a poet." He replied with a chuckle.
"So, tell me one of your poems?"
"I'll make one up for you right here and now." Malinkow responded with a grin.
"Oh my Russian Winter! Beautiful snow fails grain onto my coat! The cold blanket won't cover me when I freeze to death, your arms won't hold me, and your wind won't rock me to sleep. But you will whisper into my ear, caress the curves on my frozen hands and the lines on my stricken face; and you will tell me your secret. Alas! I will die before I can hear the end, and my soul will be left forever roaming."
Vitia's enthusiasm and rhythm and the beat of his warm heart against his stiff winter coat gave the poem just as much life as the words themselves did. Alistair watched Vitia casually toss the verses towards the trees, captivated by the Russians elegant charm.
"And?" Vitia asked with a grin returning to his cheery and friendly self. "How did you like my poem? My brief moment of Russian suffering?"
"I liked it very much actually..." Alistair murmured. But, although he'd enjoyed the act he was left very unsettled. The poem had been spoken in pain; almost as if it were an outcry. He'd suspected that Vitia wasn't the 'cheerful songbird' he'd claimed to be, but he was definitely a man built to sing, and his voice was beautiful even though tainted by great pain. "Let's continue..?"
"Of course." And Vitia marched alongside him, whistling once more.
***
It happened without warning; Vitia neither said they were close or pointed out the car that was waiting for them. He simply slipped past Alistair, jumped over a smallish stream and crossed a treeline, striding out onto the street. He held out his hand and the car, which had been rolling down the street halted. "Come quickly!" He called to Alistair. "We should get in before anyone sees."
Alistair hurridly followed him across the dirt road to the car. Vitia opened the passenger door but waited, offering Alistair the seat. Then, once the American had crawled over to the other side Vitia sat down and closed the door behind him. The car immediatly pulled off and continued down the street at a fast pace.
Vitia lit a cigarette and smiled at Alistair. "So far so good, Mister Bowmore."