Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  He sat back up, tucked a cigarette between his lips, and permitted Arkady to light it for him.

  Arkady studied his lighter. —Has anyone at Lubyanka noticed you twitch like that?

  — No.

  — Keep it that way. Better?

  Kostya sucked in smoke. —Better.

  — Remember when you taught Misha to smoke, and he coughed til he made himself sick?

  — I don’t want to talk about Misha.

  Arkady recalled Vadym’s shaky voice: Misha is listed as missing. No one will tell me anything. —Then do you remember what I said to you both that night, when Misha was so embarrassed that he could not smoke while you could? He felt powerless next to you. What did I tell you both about power?

  Kostya could chant it; Arkady had said it many times, in many situations.

  He said it now. —The steppe surrenders in patches to forest, and the forest surrenders in patches to tundra, yet in places where you see no change, all the differences blend. Power works like that, Kostya. Deep intersections, almost invisible. Survival demands recognition of those intersections, and some fancy dance steps. You can’t always waltz your way out of trouble.

  Grinning, Kostya tapped out another cigarette and gave the answer he’d not dared voice when an adolescent. —Can I mazurka instead?

  — Nothing looks so good on a dance floor as a man’s shiny boots.

  — Arkady Dmitrievich, that makes no sense.

  Arkady gave a half-smile. When he spoke again, his voice made his words sound as ordinary as falling snow. —Whatever happened with Misha, I’m sorry.

  — Enough. Enough with the interrogation games. I’m not some prisoner.

  — Do you know where he is?

  Silence.

  — Kostya, what happened to Misha? Vadym loves him as he would love a son.

  — I know.

  — Not knowing is sometimes worse than—

  — I know! I know it hurts him, Arkady Dmitrievich. I know I can’t trust anyone. I know, I know, I know. How can I not know what I know?

  — You have orders to keep quiet?

  Kostya leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  Arkady placed a hand on Kostya’s bad shoulder, took it away. —You smoke too much.

  — I know that, too.

  — I should get back and finish the cleanup.

  Arkady waited a moment for Kostya to answer, to offer again to help, to tell him to fuck off, anything.

  Kostya exhaled smoke.

  Telling himself Kostya would find his own way home, Arkady walked away.

  Kostya counted Arkady’s footsteps and then the flowers in a nearby bed. Then he noticed how the light had changed, how ash defiled his boot, how his hands felt empty and cold.

  — Comrade Major Minenkov?

  Vadym looked up from the paperwork on his desk. —Comrade Captain Kuznets, good morning. How’s my soloist today?

  — You should not single me out at the expense of the others. A choir is greater and more important than an individual.

  Vadym blinked a few times, amused by this orthodoxy. —Yet sometimes one man possesses a gift. Sharing that gift becomes his duty, and you have carried out that duty with admirable grace.

  — Thank you.

  — But you’re not here to ask me about the choir. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Your body language, Kuznets. You might control your voice and every sound you make, but muscles twitch beneath blushing skin, just a gentle blush, yes? Muscles twitch and tell me a story.

  Boris looked sheepish. —I can’t hide much from you.

  — There no shame in it. I’ve done this work for a long time.

  — I wonder, Comrade Major, what you might hide from me.

  Vadym’s fingers stilled, pausing in their paper-push for just a moment, just a shred of a moment, but long enough, he knew, to betray anxiety. —Presumption always lands as a sour note.

  — I apologize. Comrade Major, I…this is irregular, even silly, but may I look out your window?

  — Of course.

  Boris peered down at the courtyard. —A perk of the senior Chekist. I hope to have a top-floor office myself one day. Right now, I feel like a piece of flotsam, up and down, back and forth. Comrade Kuznets, you’re assigned to this department, no wait, to that one, oh wait, we need you over here instead.

  Vadym made sympathetic noises.

  — May I close your door, Comrade Major? And may I call you Vadym Pavlovich?

  It sounded like the most reasonable request, a way to clear away the stuffiness of hierarchy and rank, just the sort of shift in tone that Vadym, as host of this little office, should have anticipated, indeed, already offered. —Yes.

  Boris eased the door shut, then sat in the chair facing Vadym’s desk. —I’ve also come to you as a courtesy, one officer to another. The level of corruption among the senior officers cannot continue.

  Vadym stared at him a moment, then snorted. —Courtesy? Is that what you call it, this folly tearing the force apart? You want my history? You’ll find my truth right here, on my desk: that beautiful photograph of the officers and Dzerzhinsky himself, all of us cheering, because that was the day we named the Cheka. That was the day we came into existence.

  — Vadym Pavlovich—

  — I know that because I was there. At Dzerzhinsky’s side. And you, Kuznets? Where were you that day? Getting your diaper changed?

  — History is not—

  — If you think you’ve got the slightest taint of corruption, or cronyism, or too many urinal visits on me, then expose your mistake so I might correct it.

  Boris stared down at the floor, as if Vadym’s voice and gaze had become too much to bear. —I apologize, Vadym Pavlovich. I’ve chosen poor words.

  — Words for another man, perhaps. Unless you’re singing, I am deaf to you.

  — Shall I sing of a party I attended last night? The host is a friend of yours: Comrade Major Balakirev. Perhaps not much of a friend if he didn’t invite you.

  Vadym signed a document. —Major Balakirev is a fine officer.

  — Yes. Quite a service record. I may be on the wrong trail.

  Vadym signed a second document.

  Boris felt his voice get tight. —Cronyism is just one of the thousands of forms corruption may take. Such a subtle and grotesque corruption, one officer in a position of privilege and power helping another.

  — Balakirev is quite discriminating about whom he invites to his parties. If you attended, then you knew what to expect, and, I have no doubt, you enjoyed yourself.

  Silence.

  Boris stood up. —You’ll come see me if you learn anything?

  — Let me get the door for you, Comrade Captain.

  Just as Vadym grasped the doorknob, Boris looked into his eyes. —I’m sorry about your nephew, Vadym Pavlovich. Not to know…

  Vadym said nothing.

  — Missing in the line of duty. It must be difficult for your brother, too. I could pull some strings, try to find out more.

  Vadym turned the doorknob, and noise from the hallway washed in.

  Boris saluted. —Thank you, Comrade Major Minenkov. I look forward to discussing this with you again.

  Monday 7 June

  Water ran, pots clanked, and music played. Temerity lay in bed, bones heavy, head sore, ready to rip into William Brownbury-Rees for making such a racket and, no doubt, such a mess. It’s a service flat, you fool. Send down for breakfast.

  Wait.

  Fresh white paint, dark green bottle: not her London flat.

  A male voice spoke Russian. —Are you done with the water in the kitchen? I want to get in the shower.

  The flow of water in the kitchen ceased. —Go ahead.

  Kostya’s voice got louder, then thinned out again as he walked past the bedroom to the bathroom. —Thank you. Let’s see if I can get any hot water. I’d settle for tepid.

  The shower ran.

  Temerity sat up. A clean sheet fell away from her, and the other side of the
bed looked untouched.

  As she drank the last of the Narzan, she listened to Kostya sing in the shower. He started on what Temerity would call ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen,’ cursed about the tune being stuck in his head, then took up a jaunty melody and sang about winning the heart of sweet Natasha, ah ha ha ha ha.

  Bathroom down the hall to the right, he said. The rest of the flat must be left. Go left.

  Efim sat at the tiny hinged table, eating buttered bread and a fried egg. —Miss Solovyova, good morning. You look better.

  — Thank you. I feel much better.

  — Some bread?

  She took in the small front room with its high ceiling, one soft armchair, and a stenka. The open kitchen, by far the largest room in the flat, with its massive stove and three sinks, reminded her of the communal kitchen at Hotel Lux. A short corridor, narrow and dim, led to the flat’s door. It had a two-key lock in the newer style: utilitarian, with long and slender keys. One could lock or unlock the door from the outside, and one could lock or unlock it from the inside with the same key. If one lacked the key, however, one could do nothing.

  She faced Efim. —Not yet, thank you. Pardon my appearance. You must think very little of me.

  I think you’re lost. —Please, sit down. Can I get you anything at all?

  — I’d love some tea.

  — Ah. Yes, so would I. However, we’ve got neither kettle nor samovar. Nor tea.

  — Oh.

  Efim thought she might cry. He considered how else to speak with her when Kostya, wrapped in a robe, wet hair stuck to his head, strode into the room. —There you are, Nadia. Good morning.

  He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. Stiff, she tilted her face to accept. Embarrassment, Efim thought.

  As Kostya completed the kiss, something metallic clanked against the wooden chair. Efim peered at the pocket in Kostya’s robe. It bulged.

  His service weapon?

  Efim stood up. —I’ll take a look at that shoulder before I go.

  As the two men retreated to Kostya’s bedroom, Temerity buttered a piece of bread and told herself to eavesdrop.

  A bedroom door clicked shut. Then it locked.

  The musical selection on the radio changed: Tchaikovsky’s ‘Waltz of the Flowers.’

  Voices loud and cheerful, Kostya and Efim emerged from the bedroom. Efim said he must fetch his suit jacket and hat, then get to the lab; Kostya mentioned his day shift and suggested he bring home something for supper from the deli. —It’s a Monday. A shashlyk vendor stands outside Babichev’s every Monday.

  Temerity stood up, got dizzy. Babichev’s deli? I’m not far. Get to the deli, puzzle out the wrong turn.

  Efim sounded doubtful. —Cold shashlyk?

  — No no, hot, though it would still be delicious cold. This old Georgian—

  — The one with the big curling moustache?

  — That’s him. He sets up his grill in front of the deli, and it smells so good. Whenever someone wants to buy his shashlyk, he says they must first pay inside. Once inside, of course, they’re at Babichev’s mercy for salad, bread, and cheese. Babichev and the Georgian split the profits.

  Efim hurried into the kitchen now, hat on his head, suit jacket over his arm. —Yes, I’ve seen him. You sure he’s Georgian? I thought he was a Tatar. Goodbye, Miss Solovyova.

  Kostya called out. —If I’m not home by six, give up on me.

  Efim smiled at that, not a happy smile, and Temerity watched him unlock the door with his long key. Outside, he locked the door again behind him.

  Kostya, almost in uniform, his gymnastyorka unfastened, strode over to the stenka and turned up the radio. Then he beckoned.

  Temerity kept still.

  Scowling, Kostya walked over to her, then spoke in her ear. —I’ll get your papers today.

  — You’ve not got them now?

  — No. That is why I must get them today.

  — I need those papers and passport.

  — Yes, I’d guessed that much.

  — Yesterday. You said you’d get them yesterday.

  Kostya strode away from her. —Do you like kasha? Of course you like kasha; everyone likes kasha.

  — I…what?

  Kostya measured water into a pot and set it to boil. —I’ve got some butter for it. No cinnamon though, so I can’t make my grandfather’s recipe for you, all butter and cinnamon and honey, or sugar. Honey’s better. My grandfather would add extra honey to mine, when my grandmother wasn’t looking.

  Temerity struggled to speak.

  Kostya took a sack of kasha from the pantry. Then he looked at Temerity, and emotion surfaced in his eyes, hid itself again: desire, perhaps, and mistrust.

  Fear.

  — Comrade Nikto—

  — Call me Kostya. Please.

  — Konstantin…

  — Look, that’s not my name. Well, it is, but no one uses it. No one who matters.

  — Kostya. I can’t stay here.

  — This will take a few minutes. The bathroom’s free. Use my soap, on the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the stenka.

  When Kostya turned his attention to the stove, Temerity sniffed her blouse. Play along. —Where shall I find a towel?

  — Stenka, third drawer on the left.

  Thin towels lay in perfect folds. —You’re very tidy with your linens.

  — Laundry service.

  Inside the bathroom, ceramic tiles of an odd shade of blue, like that atop an NKVD cap, shone on the walls. Grey splashes pocked the mirror, yellow spatters stained the base of the toilet, and beard bristles littered the faucet and sink. Pieces of newspaper, cut in squares with a precision she could only admire, lay in an ashtray. On a shelf over the toilet, within easy reach of the shower, lay razors and shaving brushes, toothbrushes, tooth powder, a bottle of Shipr cologne, a brush and two combs, a tin of hair pomade, and two soap dishes. The scraps of grey soap lay in congealed pools of their own melt. An improvement over Hotel Lux, she told herself. At least this bathroom afforded some privacy.

  And a key in the lock.

  Afraid of mirage, she touched it.

  Cool. Hard. Steel.

  Wrist quick, she locked the bathroom door. Then she took the soap and ran the water in the shower.

  When she returned to the fold-down table, the butter had disappeared, and the kitchen smelled of turned earth and toasted nuts with a depth of bitterness: agreeable, even enticing.

  Leaning against the counter near the stove, Kostya looked up from a section of Efim’s newspaper. —Did you get enough hot water?

  — It was fine, thank you.

  — The bottom two drawers in the stenka are mine. Take anything that might help.

  Temerity plucked her blouse away from a damp patch on her skin, then took up another section of the newspaper, Friday’s Izvestia. —Thank you.

  Bearing two bowls of kasha, he sat next to her, pulled his chair close. —I put lots of butter in here.

  She whispered. —Why? Why would you help me?

  He studied her face, found the freckles on her eyelids, and whispered back. —Still got that cigarette case?

  — Where are my shoes?

  Kostya said it aloud, making them both flinch. —Your shoes?

  — I left Hotel Lux fully dressed and carrying a handbag. This morning I own nothing more than a blouse and a skirt.

  — I got your shoes on your feet before we left.

  — Then where did you put them?

  He craned his neck to look at the dim corridor leading to the door, then got up and flicked on the light: his boots, but no women’s shoes. —I don’t know. Let me check my closet.

  As she ate, he opened and slammed the closet door in his bedroom, cursed.

  He returned with his cap. —I’m sorry there’s no honey.

  — It’s fine. I quite like it.

  He looked pleased. —Help yourself to anything else.

  — Wait. My shoes.

  — I’ve got to go to work.


  — Now?

  — Yes, now. I promise, I’ll get the papers, and then we’ll find your shoes. Just be patient.

  She took in a long breath, let it out. Then she rattled Izvestia. —I’ll cut this up when I’ve read it.

  — Thank you very much. Here, I’ll get you the scissors.

  As Kostya stepped behind the huge counter to open a drawer, Temerity bolted for the door.

  — Hey!

  She snatched the bathroom key from her skirt pocket, stumbling as Kostya grabbed first the collar of her blouse and then her arms. His furious whisper filled her head. —What the barrelling fuck do you think you’re you doing?

  — Get off me!

  Gentler, he thought, than he might be in a cell, Kostya wrenched her away from the door, turned her around, and shoved her against the wall. —You think you’ll get past the babushka in the lobby?

  — Who?

  He pried the key from her fist. —Even if you do, this is Moscow, not a collective farm. We have discovered shoes here in the barbaric land of Russia. Bare feet? Someone will ask you questions, and you’ve got no papers. You speak Russian well, I give you that, but you miss idioms, and in the cell, when you were tired, you started substituting words from other languages. Sometimes your speech sounds like translation; you still think in English. So, a barefoot woman who speaks imperfect Russian and can produce no papers? Not suspicious at all.

  — Let me go!

  He released her arms but continued to block the door. —Go where? Please, I know this must be difficult, but—

  Light exploded. A pulpy pain followed, and Kostya fell, seeing Temerity lower her knee. The wall felt cool and comforting against his scarred ear. On his first breath, he called on God. On his second, he called Temerity a bitch. On his third, he retched.

  She strode to the kitchen. A drawer rumbled, some cutlery clinked, and, as she returned to stand over him, her voice fell, certain, deep, cold. —Get away from the door.

  Electric light glinted on the blade of a meat knife.