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and on the street outside their wooden homes. The collective sound of their con-
stant babbling resonated through the still, sultry air. Dogs sniffed about in piles
of half-burnt rubbish, barking now and then at nothing in particular. Villages like
Zvyozdni were purpose-built to house the labourers who had worked on the
BAM
.
The mish-mash of apartment blocks and wooden houses differed from most vil-
lages we had passed through.
Midway along the main street, I noticed a middle-aged couple in the process of
a fitful domestic argument. The woman's face was etched with so many lines that
not a smooth patch of skin remained. There were only two relatively flat surfaces,
and they were covered in thick, red lipstick.
As we passed, she screeched and insulted her partner as he fossicked away in
the boot of a Lada. In her rage the woman began slamming the car boot down on
the man's back. I was astonished to see that apart from the odd flinch, he carried
on with his business as if it was a regular occurrence. We kept moving, glad not to
be acquainted with such crazies.
We continued on, trying to find the home of our hosts for the night. Suddenly
a car pulled up alongside us. 'Where have you been? Come on, our house is down
this way!' someone screeched from the passenger seat. I looked closer. It was the
wrinkly faced woman. It was her after all who had invited us to stay in Zvyozdni.
And so begins our time with the woman who beat her husband with the car boot, I
thought. It would surely be a perfectly fitting end to the day.
After rolling the bikes into a garage we followed the couple up a dingy stairwell
to their apartment. The husband was a short man with thick glasses and a clean blue
shirt. His name was Alexsei. Like his wife he had very few patches of wrinkle-free
skin. Under his eyes were deeply set semi-circles that looked as if they had been
painted grey.
Although Alexsei was quieter than his wife, he had a drab, unchanging tone of
voice that was only broken by a sniggering laugh.
Unfortunately, dinner was served with two bottles of homemade
samagonka
.
Alexsei's eyes lit up and he sniggered before coughing and spluttering on his own
cigarette smoke. We were bullied into having two shots. It was considered bad
karma to open a bottle and not finish off its contents.
More than anything, I wanted sleep. The vodka, however, had brought Alexsei
to life, which was most noticeable by the sudden rise in the number of obscenities
per sentence. They weren't just soft, playful expressions, but a barrage of filth. The
more he drank, the more his wife scolded him, and on more than one occasion she
