Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  — So your mother taught you Russian.

  Temerity tugged at her trousers. —I don’t remember the sound of her voice. She died in 1918. Flu.

  — Did you have it, too?

  — Yes. Terrible fevers.

  — Savage.

  They sat in silence, smoking. Kostya offered Temerity a second cigarette.

  She nodded. —Thank you. I’m sorry I teased you about your accent when you spoke English. I can only imagine what mine sounds like in Russian.

  — I could listen to you speak my language all day. All night, too.

  The flirtation’s frisson sharp, Temerity almost complimented Tikhon on his technique. Then she chided herself for giving away so much, her mother’s name for God’s sake, while gleaning so little.

  The water in the bowl splashed as Kostya shifted his weight. —So how did you learn Russian?

  — I always wanted to, I suppose. My father would translate fairy tales for me out of one of my mother’s books, and I loved the Cyrillic alphabet.

  — Which fairy tales?

  — Oh, so many of them. It’s been a long time. Narodyne russkie skazki, that was the book.

  Kostya felt tension leave his neck and shoulders. This woman smelled delicious, honeyed musk and peppery sweat. And she spoke Russian. —I like ‘The Maiden Tsar,’ the hero saying he does things by his own free will yet twice as much by compulsion.

  — I remember that. And ‘The Frog Princess.’

  —‘Go I Know Not Whither and Fetch I Know Not What.’ And ‘Vasilisa the Beautiful.’

  Temerity looked to the ground. —I remember the illustration.

  — You’re blushing.

  — I shoved the book away. My father was partway through the story, the bit where Vasilisa’s stepmother gives her the impossible task, and I just shoved the book away. Knocked it to the floor.

  Kostya lit another cigarette. —Willful child.

  — No. I was scared.

  Temerity surprised herself, saying that.

  Kostya gave her a long look. —Of what?

  — The task. Vasilisa was too small. She couldn’t win.

  — Go back and finish the story. She finds Baba Yaga, or is it Baba Yaga finds her? Anyway, Baba Yaga gives Vasilisa her blessing and some holy fire. Then Vasilisa finds all the bones in Baba Yaga’s yard, chooses a skull, and turns it into a lamp for the holy fire. Off she goes, completes her quest, happy ending.

  — She gets out of the boneyard?

  Kostya nodded. Then he wondered why he’d earlier thought this woman irritating.

  Almost unaware, Temerity switched to English. —Holy fire. My father’s got a print of the Novgorod Gabriel in his study.

  Kostya followed her to English. —My grandparents had three copies of that ikon on their beauty wall. I stared and stared at it. The angel’s eyes were so big. But you must use his correct name: Gavriil.

  She studied him, that serious face, those green eyes, and laughed. Then she returned to Russian. —Gavriil it is. All the archangels are Russian, I suppose?

  Kostya refrained from laughing, though he did smirk. —As Russian as Baba Yaga and Koshchei the Deathless, and just as ridiculous. You know Koshchei, right?

  She wanted to hear the story in his voice, how he’d tell it. —No.

  — Koshchei is a terrible old man, a tyrant, and he’s managed to hide his soul away, so if anyone should strike a killing blow, he will not die, because his soul is still intact. He rapes, he kills, he steals what he wants, and no one can fight him, only serve him. One day, Ivan, who’s only heard stories of Koshchei and doubts the old brute even exists, sets out on a quest. He bumbles through the woods for a summer and a winter and comes out of it starved and chilled and bloodless from fly bites. He meets a woman, Marya Morevna, who’s looking for something. She’s a warrior. She takes a liking to Ivan. Maybe she pities him. They fall in love, get married, have a big party, and then a messenger brings Marya Morevna some news. Marya tells Ivan she must go, but he’ll be safe in her castle. She and her knights gather weapons and food, put on their armour, saddle their horses, and instead of telling Ivan she loves him, as he expects, Marya warns him not to go into the cellar. Ivan asks why. Marya begs him to trust her, then kisses him goodbye. Soon he hears someone cry out from the cellar. It’s a dry old voice begging for water. Ivan is not heartless. He immediately brings water to the cellar, and he finds this old, old man, starved and foul, chained to a wall. Ivan is angry with Marya for her cruelty, and he helps the old man drink until he drains twelve barrels of water. Then the old man stands up, breaks his chains, knocks Ivan over, and runs up the steps. He’s gone, and the servants tell Ivan it was Koshchei the Deathless. Marya Morevna had captured him and then starved him to keep him weak while she looked for his soul. How’s my toenail? Soaked long enough?

  Temerity peeked in the bowl. —Almost.

  — Ivan sets out to find Marya and her knights and warn them, maybe even help them. He finds all the knights dead except one, who says on his last breath that Koshchei has taken Marya. Ivan buries the knights, then sits down in despair. He has no idea what to do. Baba Yaga finds him, tells him what a fool he is, and then, because she likes Marya Morevna, gives Ivan a magic horse which will take him to the island where Koshchei has hidden his soul. Baba Yaga says Ivan will recognize the spot when he sees it, because every child knows where Koshchei keeps his soul: under the oak tree and inside a locked chest. And in that chest waits a rabbit, and within the rabbit waits a duck, and within the duck waits an egg, and within the yolk of the egg lies a needle, and in the eye of the needle rests the soul of Koshchei the Deathless. This is a very long story. Are you sure you don’t remember it?

  Nodding, she moved a little closer to him, close enough to feel his body heat, not quite enough to touch.

  Kostya noticed a line of ash on the ground next to him; he’d not smoked much of his last cigarette. —I’ll make this quick. The horse gets Ivan to the island, and Ivan finds the tree, digs up the trunk, so on and so on, gets the needle, and rides back to where Koshchei keeps Marya. Koshchei is a giant now. The wizards are already fighting him with lightning, and the steppe shakes and burns. Oh, I forgot: Ivan died before he found Baba Yaga, when he tried to attack Koshchei on his own. The wizards brought him back to life. I can’t remember why. Anyway, the wizards are losing, but Ivan holds Koshchei’s soul. First he finds and frees Marya Morevna, and then he shows her the needle. She recognizes it, and she takes it, and she breaks the eye. Koshchei falls to the earth, and the wounded wizards blast him with lightning, all together, and with one long scream, Koshchei the Deathless dies. Ivan and Marya return to her castle and have many children and live a long and happy life. For all her days, Marya wears the two broken pieces of the needle around her neck. When she dies, one piece of the needle is buried with her, while the other is taken far out to sea and thrown at a wave. To this day no one knows where Marya’s bones lie, or where that other piece of the needle sank. Another cigarette?

  — Yes, please.

  This time he gave her the cigarette first, then lit a match and held the flame to her face.

  Inhaling, Temerity leaned back. —You stare at me like I’ve got three heads.

  — You have freckles on your eyelids. It’s beautiful.

  She hurried to stand up. —Keep your foot in the water for another ten minutes.

  — No, no, please. I didn’t mean—

  Brushing dust off her trousers, she refused to look at him. —I’ll come back and check on you shortly.

  — Wait.

  The clinic door clicked shut.

  The cloisonné case, left on the ground, seemed to stroke his fingertips.

  Kostya shifted on his haunches and drew harder on his cigarette. Still touching the cloisonné with his left hand, he patted his jacket with his right till he found the weight of the book: a copy of Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons with certain passages underlined to use as code. When Kostya sent his superiors a message that read As Turgene
v notes, first we’ve got to clear the ground, it meant Target found. When he sent the message As Turgenev notes, even nightingales can’t live by song alone, it meant Target liquidated.

  He considered the British woman, her languages and nerve, her Russian mother’s surname.

  Solovyova meant nightingale.

  He flicked his cigarette butt to the ground next to the bowl of water and scowled.

  They passed a tense night, both vigilant, and Kostya also sore from using the nit comb. He’d almost convinced himself the British woman might truly be a nurse, despite the business with the lance, and Temerity had almost convinced herself this Tikhon just might be a war correspondent. Not enemies, then, but two people meeting in events neither could control. Such fictions would make the day easier.

  After a meagre breakfast of rice and beans, the clinic’s food rations low, and after a long and tumbling conversation about languages and fairy tales, Kostya walked a short way south to bathe in the river. Temerity took a sketchbook and box of pencils from beneath the pillow on her cot and sat at the table. She glanced at her portrait of Cristobal, then turned to a fresh page. The sound of her pencil marking the paper soothed her.

  An engine approached from the northwest, all rumble, rattle, and squeak. Tikhon’s colleague? Temerity closed her sketchbook, patted her pocket to check for her folding knife, and then stepped outside, where she rounded the corner to the north wall. She found a lorry parked there, the same lorry as yesterday. Sunlight glinted off the windshield; a tarp rippled over the back.

  Bloody hell, where’s the driver?

  Right behind her. Pressing the muzzle of a gun in her ribs.

  A male voice spoke in accented Spanish, his breath hot on the back of Temerity’s neck. —Where’s Zapatero?

  She answered first in English, then Spanish. —What? What?

  He grasped her arm, wrenched her around to face him. —By the wall. Now.

  She walked backwards, palms raised. —This is an International Red Aid clinic. Everyone is welcome here.

  The breeze stirred the second Russian’s fair hair, blowing it in to his eyes, then out again. He stood about the same height at Kostya, and his face wore the same stern expression. —Where’s Zapatero?

  The outside wall of the clinic met her back. —Gernika. I expect him back any moment. Oh, is that him over there?

  He looked away, and she struck the side of his neck with the edge of her hand, interrupting blood flow to his brain. As he staggered, she rammed her elbow into his sternum. The gun clattered to the ground. So did he. Temerity whirled round to find Kostya running towards them. She ran into the clinic, latched the door, and pressed her ear to the hinges to listen.

  The second Russian stirred, groaned. —She said Zapatero was over there.

  Kostya sounded disgusted. —You fell for that?

  — And then she hit me. Hard! Listen, Zapatero left Gernika early this morning. On a bicycle. Can that nurse speak Russian?

  — Fuck, no. Zapatero is here? You sure?

  — Those trees, over by the river. You look terrible.

  — The nurse gave me sulpha pills. I fucking belch brimstone.

  — Take more care where you stick your cock next time. See that, the shirt in the trees?

  — It’s him. Go. Go.

  They ran off.

  Temerity ran from the door and wrenched open the haversack she kept near her cot. She took her passport and tucked it into her brassiere, then flinched as a fist beat on the door. The plea came in Spanish. —Let me in!

  She unlatched and opened the door, stumbling as a man wheeling a bicycle shoved her aside. —Cristobal?

  Eyes wide and dark with fear and fatigue, Cristobal stared straight ahead as he dropped the bicycle, grabbed Temerity’s arm, and hauled her to the little kitchen. He wore no shirt beneath his jacket, and he clutched something in his left hand as he whispered in rapid Spanish. Then he pointed back at the unlatched door.

  She whispered back. —Wait, wait, I don’t understand. The latch—

  The door slammed open.

  She had no idea what the two Russians yelled. It didn’t matter. Only the guns mattered.

  The object fell from Cristobal’s hand and clattered at Temerity’s feet: rosary beads.

  Kostya aimed at Temerity. —Misha, get Zapatero outside.

  Misha grabbed Cristobal by his right arm, marched him off.

  Temerity stared at Kostya, recalling how he’d told Misha she could not speak Russian. She spoke in Spanish. —Let me bring him the beads.

  — Pick them up. Then give them to me. Slow.

  She did so.

  Outside, Misha shouted at Cristobal, who shouted back.

  Kostya rubbed a bead between forefinger and thumb, then dropped the beads into a pocket. —Into the kitchen. Stand by the Lichtträger and face the wall.

  — Tikhon, please.

  — Move!

  As they passed the table, Kostya picked up the sketchbook. Pages flipped. Then he shoved the book over Temerity’s shoulder and held it before her face, open to the newest drawing. His voice sounded younger, less certain. —Me?

  Mouth dry, she nodded.

  Fascinated by the portrait, he just stood there, right hand aiming his gun at the British woman’s back, left hand holding a sketch of himself.

  Outside, Misha’s voice rose as he demanded something. Then he fired, and Cristobal screamed. Temerity clenched her jaws and stifled her own cry.

  Kostya shouted over his shoulder. —What the barrelling fuck? Did you miss?

  — You should get out here, Nikto.

  — Yes, I’d guessed that much.

  Staring at the Lichtträger and the tin of O-negative blood, Temerity mouthed the name to herself. Nikto? It means nobody.

  Misha sounded flippant, even cheerful. —Thigh. He lunged at me. Anyway, he can’t run now.

  Kostya shoved the sketchbook into a pocket. —Can’t fucking walk, either.

  — Then he’ll be ready to talk to us.

  Kostya’s left hand clamped on Temerity’s shoulder; the gun muzzle touched the back of her head. —Kneel.

  The floor scraped her knees.

  His boots squeaked as he took a few steps back. Then he fired.

  Wide.

  The concussion of the shot, so close to her ears, left Temerity deaf, and blood sprayed from the can labelled O-negative. Kostya kicked Temerity with the side of his boot, just hard enough to knock her off balance. As she fell and rolled onto her back, she saw spatter stains on both the walls and Kostya’s clothes, and an expression on his face she could not read. He gestured with his free hand, and his mouth worked, English: —Stay down. Stay down.

  Then he snatched several rolls of bandage and ran.

  Noise filtered past the ringing in her ears: rapid Russian conversation, Cristobal’s pleas to pack the wound, the slam of lorry doors. The engine roared, stalled, roared again, and faded toward Gerrikaitz.

  Dizzy, Temerity sat and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing tinned blood across her face. The clinic door, left open and stirred by the breeze, rapped against the wall.

  She hadn’t screamed. Wondering why, she recalled her Aunt Min’s advice a few years before, on their long trip through India. Steamer trunk, Temmy, my dear. Organize your mind like your steamer trunk, all those layers of clothes and little drawers and the false bottom, and finish the task at hand. There’ll be time for tears and laughter later. Remember Nelson’s signal and you’ll be fine. Say it with me: England expects that every man will do his duty.

  Temerity spoke aloud. —England expects that every man will do his duty. Right.

  She stood up, brushed dirt from her trousers, kept still for a moment, then ran outside, knelt in the dirt, and vomited. Quick, efficient, she strode back inside, hoisted the haversack on her shoulders, picked up the dropped bicycle, and wheeled it outside.

  — Lovely day for a ride.

  She gripped the handlebars hard to stop the shaking in her han
ds and mounted. The bicycle frame too big for her, she faltered and slipped off the seat.

  — Oh, God. Oh, my God. Right, Nelson’s signal, you’ll be fine. Just get to Gernika and the telegraph. No cringing. Off we go, then.

  She found her balance, pedalled.

  The bicycle squeaked.

  [ ]

  Kostya glared at Misha over the top of Cristobal’s head. —I don’t see why you get to drive.

  — I found the lorry, didn’t I?

  — You’ve also found every single bump in the road.

  — He’s slipping. Move closer. Keep him propped up between us.

  Kostya peeked at the dressings on Cristobal’s wound; they’d gone almost purple with blood. —Why in hell didn’t you kill him?

  — Because I want you to hear him talk.

  Kostya sighed. —We don’t need an interrogation. Look, he’s suffering.

  — Since when has that bothered you?

  Kostya nodded, acknowledging the point. —It’s messy. Follow orders next time. Bullet to the head, done, walk away.

  — Like the nurse?

  — Yes.

  Between them, Cristobal shook.

  Eyes intent on the road, Misha steered around a rock. —Is he convulsing?

  — Crying.

  Misha switched to Spanish. —Not long now.

  Cristobal looked at Kostya and his blood-spattered clothes, then shut his eyes.

  Bilbao Docks

  Monday 10 May

  Temerity noticed his sling first, then the tattered khaki sleeve and the bright wounds on his left ear and neck. She told herself to ignore him. A chance resemblance, nothing more.

  Besides, she had a task. She needed to blackmail her prime minister. At least, it felt like blackmail, this succinct yet emotional report on conditions in Bilbao she’d written for Leah Manning, the British politician struggling with Consul Ralph Stevenson to evacuate Basque children. Manning and Stevenson worked in the thick stink of the crisis, Manning, like Temerity, even caught in the Gernika bombardment. Temerity relished her work for the evacuation, as much as it tired her. The work, she acknowledged to herself, hardly lay in her purview as an agent; she considered it more within her moral duty as a human being. Britain’s government had relented and agreed to accept Basque child refugees but only to age twelve, and with the caveats that the children be privately sponsored and Francoists must also be evacuated. Temerity and the others had recognized an immediate problem: the girls. The age cut-off left adolescent Basque girls vulnerable to invading soldiers, whose presence now was only a matter of time.