…— Are those the old houses you're photographing? — someone's hoarse voice calls out.
— Is it old? — I ask automatically and turn around.
Three steps away, looking at me with curiosity, stands a girl of about ten or twelve. Round face, rosy cheeks, disheveled fair hair, a plain gray down jacket, in one hand a knitted blue hat, in the other a stick she's lazily tracing patterns in the snow with. "Coming from school," I decide with a smile — "on her way home. Stopped by the hill, probably." The day is sunny, frosty. Your eyes ache from the blue of the sky. On a hill right now, I think, would be just about perfect.
— Well, you'd better ask my mom about that. — The schoolgirl interrupts my thoughts. (Her voice is genuinely hoarse, the way children's voices often get after a few hours out in the cold.)
— Does your mom know? — I raise my eyebrows.
— Pfft… — she snorts. — It's her man's house.
I look over the small reddish house with three green nalichniki — from the boards, probably 1950s — and notice that one of the panes is broken, and besides cat tracks, there are no other footprints through the snowdrifts leading to it.
— So he doesn't live here? — I decide to clarify.
But my companion rolls her eyes and answers a question with a question.
— How would I know if he lives there or not? He just got out not long ago. From that… from prison. He stayed with us a bit, and then ended up here…
And falls quiet, absorbed in poking at the snowdrift with her stick.
— So what did he go to prison for… — I ask carefully.
But the girl shrugs — she doesn't know.
— They just picked him up for nothing, then? — a clumsy joke slips out, but for the girl it sets off peals of laughter, after which, barely wiping her eyes, she explains:
— He doesn't tell anyone; what if people won't want to hang out with him after. Maybe he killed someone.
— Seriously? — I say.
— You're funny! — she concludes unexpectedly, snorting. — Of course not. He only did two years. For murder you'd do more, — she seems to finish the thought, but a few seconds later uncertainly adds, — probably…
I walk toward the next house I'd spotted from a distance — a light blue one with plain nalichniki but interesting carved brackets under the roof slopes. The girl walks alongside me but at a distance, and from the side you'd hardly think we were talking. She says something more about her mom, but her words get swallowed in the roar of a logging truck passing behind us and only the end of the sentence reaches me:
— …And there was the police here!
I glance over at her, confirm she's talking about this blue house now, and ask:
— Not anymore?
— Not anymore. The police are over there now, in the new building… — she suddenly has a thought, — hey, you're not from here, are you?
— No, Moscow region… — I nod.
— And where are you going to put the photos after? — she asks with interest.
— In the nalichniki museum. There's one online, a virtual museum.
— Oh, I see. Cool… Just don't photograph me, okay?
I nod. I remember that for just such occasions I have a postcard in my pocket with several photographs and the website address.
— Here, by the way, — I say proudly and hold out the card. — nalichniki dot com. Welcome to the museum!
— Someday, five hundred years from now, I'll make it over there to you… — she says uncertainly, tucking the card into her jacket pocket.
— No, — I decide she didn't understand the museum is virtual and you don't have to go anywhere, and clarify. — It's a virtual museum. Online…
But she shakes her head regretfully:
— I don't have internet.
— Well, someday you will… — I wave my hand. — How come you don't?
— Just don't. — she spreads her hands. — I mean, we're kind of not like city kids… We're not allowed, like, all those phones and stuff…
— And there's no internet at home either?
— No phones at all, even.
In the sudden silence you can hear the birch tree creaking and swaying in the wind. Eee-eee… Eee-eee… Then a woodpecker, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta… And again… Right above us… I look up, but I can't find him…
— No phones even… — she repeats sadly…
— That sounds pretty gloomy… — I observe.
— Well, it is… I mean, we don't even have the time. We're busy with — she pauses, probably searching for the right word for the occasion, — livestock!
— Livestock?! — I splutter. — Like what?
— Well, sheep, chickens… And all that…
— I think you're pulling my leg… — such obvious bravado makes me want to switch to "you" informally — And don't you even have computer class at school?
— We do. — she nods. — But I don't actually do anything on the computer… I don't get any of it… I'm kind of dumb. And they explain it all… well… I just don't do anything there… I wiggle the mouse and pretend I'm working… Besides, it's not like you can't live without a computer.
"Strange," I think, "no computer and no internet." My own life is so tangled up in online communication that I can't even imagine it.
…— So when you come home from school, what do you do?
— Homework. And then I read books.
Something doesn't quite add up — "I'm kind of dumb" with daily book reading… And a moment later, with a giggle, my companion clears everything up:
— I'm actually a D-student. So nah, I don't read.
— Well, there you go, — I laugh, — I had the luck to meet a D-student. I'll write online later: "One hundred percent of the children I met in Kologriv are D-students, don't use phones, and have no internet."
— I don't even live in Kologriv! — she flares up. — I live out in the village, it's past Kologriv. — and she waves her hand off into the distance.
— You're walking home? — I don't follow.
— Yeah. — She looks at me blankly, like, what other option is there?
— How many kilometers is it? — I try to estimate the route in my head.
— I don't know. — she pokes the snowdrift with her stick again.
— Well, at least how long does it take? How early do you leave for school?
— About two hours. So I don't have to run.
— You walk two hours home from school? — I can't believe my ears.
She laughs again and shakes her head:
— No! You're so funny! Today is Saturday! I just went to the pharmacy!
