Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  Kostya’s voice rasped. —Please put that down.

  — I said, get away from the door.

  Kostya heard footsteps on the stairs as a neighbour descended to the lobby, on his way to work. —You won’t use that.

  — No?

  — Go outside barefoot and bloodied? You’re not that stupid.

  Muscles in her forearm tensed.

  Shutting his eyes against pain, Kostya sat up and pressed his back against the door. Revolution, civil war, and flu, two famines, two sea voyages, and someone else’s civil war, all so I can get kneed in the balls and die at the end of a knife in my own flat?

  Cutlery clinked, and a drawer rumbled closed.

  He opened his eyes.

  Temerity stood behind the counter now, hands empty, arms crossed.

  Kostya stood up, limped to the fold-down table, and sat in one of the chairs. Breathing hard, he examined the key he’d taken from her. —Besides, this is the bathroom key. It won’t fit the main door. Different lock. Fucked in the mouth. Get me a cold compress.

  She kept still.

  — I won’t hurt you.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  — Please.

  At the stenka, Temerity selected a smaller towel, shook it out, and considered making it a garotte even as she admitted to herself that she’d not use it.

  As she folded the towel again, her hands shook. Steady the Buffs.

  Cold water ran in the kitchen as Kostya lowered himself to the floor beside the table and stretched out. Sitting on a chair had been a mistake. He considered how the neighbours might interpret this morning’s noise. None of them had seen him bring a woman home, but they may very well have heard a female voice. A body’s thud? Comrade Nikto of flat seven on floor six either beat his woman or fell down drunk. Neither would draw undue attention.

  Arm outstretched, Temerity offered him the compress, snatching her hand back as he touched and almost dropped the damp towel. Kostya unfastened his pants, applied the compress, winced and hissed.

  Temerity noticed his bitten nails.

  Kostya adjusted the compress. —You’re stronger than you look.

  She snorted.

  — Did you find his bicycle? That day in Spain, did you find his bicycle?

  Her eyed widened, for just a moment.

  — I wanted you to find it. I wanted many things that day.

  She stared at the wall, the white, white wall.

  He leant on his right elbow. —Have you not asked yourself how, or why, we’ve met, over and over? The chances. It’s ridiculous.

  She pushed her cuticles, refusing to look at him.

  — Or is someone who hates me using you to trap me? The beautiful woman, oldest trick we’ve got.

  — You think I’m a plant?

  — I don’t know what to think of you. Beyond purpose, I mean.

  Her attention remained on her fingernails. —What purpose?

  — Destiny. You’re here for a reason.

  — I’m here by accident.

  — Well, I don’t protect you by accident. You’re some test for me, some gift. For my redemption. If I save you—

  She glared at him. —Your redemption?

  Plucking the compress away from his scrotum, Kostya rose to his knees. His pants slid down. —I mean…

  The radio announcer, voice assured and self-important, if a little tired after the long manufacturing report, introduced a newscast.

  Kostya hauled himself to his feet and fastened his pants. —The time. I can’t be late. I’ll get the papers. Look, I need to talk to some people first, and I need to do that very carefully. Be patient. And if anyone knocks, do not go to the door. Simple, yes?

  She turned her back and strode away from him to stand before the front room window. Arms crossed, she tried to ignore the other building and focus on the sky.

  Behind her, fabric rustled and boots tapped as Kostya got ready to leave. Then the door, and its lock, clicked shut.

  At a urinal in Lubyanka, handling himself with some care, Kostya remembered that he’d not shaved. Second morning in a row. Fuck. He could, if reprimanded, plead shortage and ask a superior officer where he’d last found razor blades. And who will hassle me about stubble today: Tsar Pyotr Velikiy? The department head won’t even be awake yet.

  Evgenia’s greeting made him feel a bit sick. —Comrade Senior Lieutenant, there you are. Did you forget to shave? The new department head wants to see you.

  Kostya glanced toward the head’s office. The door hung open, and outside, pressed close to the wall next to the jamb, stood several boxes. The former head: arrested, drunk, dead?

  Evgenia poured zavarka, then added hot water. —The new head’s name is Kuznets. Captain Boris Aleksandrovich Kuznets.

  Of course it is.

  — And he said for you to report to him the moment you arrived.

  Distracted by the intricacy of the podstakannik filigree, its practicality and beauty, Kostya accepted the tea. —Should I bring this to him?

  — He’s got some. Piece of sugar?

  — No. I think I’d better have my mouth clear for this conversation.

  — With the Sound Man? You’ll not get a word in edgewise.

  Kostya sipped the hot tea to hide both his amusement and his fear. —Don’t let him hear you say that.

  Evgenia looked down at her paperwork.

  Considering where to leave his tea, deciding to balance it on a stacked cardboard box, Kostya knocked on the department head’s open door.

  Boris’s voice sounded mighty, yet detached, a man comfortable with his power and feeling no need to prove it: the theatricality of nonchalance. —Yes, comrade?

  Kostya stepped inside, saluted.

  Seeing Kostya, Boris stood up, and his voice sounded much kinder. —Konstantin Arkadievich, come in. No tea?

  — I left it outside, Comrade Captain.

  — Well, you can’t drink it if it’s outside. Fetch it, and then close the door behind you. Good. Sit down. Why do you limp?

  — I pulled a muscle, Comrade Captain.

  — As long as that office door is shut, you may call me Boris Aleksandrovich. And have you run out of razor blades?

  Kostya lied once more, the ease of deception surprising him. —Yes, Boris Aleksandrovich. I apologize.

  — My father spoke in proverbs. I would get so irritated with him, but now I find the proverbs useful. Look after your clothes when they’re new, and look after your honour when young. Your face, I mean. Your uniform is fine. A raven won’t peck out another raven’s eyes; I’ll overlook it this time.

  — Yes, Boris Aleksandrovich. Thank you.

  Boris described the location of the market stall where yesterday he’d found both sharpeners and fresh blades. Then he picked up his own tea from the crowded desk; condensation dripped down the glass. —Do you know that some departments use Western cups and saucers for tea? Here, in Lubyanka? I was astonished.

  Kostya raised his eyebrows in sympathetic dismay. How far might this hostility to teacups go? Would one’s loyalty be tested by tea? Could a man call himself Soviet if he preferred a cup and saucer? Samovar, zavarka, and podstakannik: signals of orthodoxy? In these difficult days, might a man’s choice of how to drink his tea become the rubric which parted innocence from guilt?

  It’s just tea, Kostya wanted to say.

  He knew better.

  — You like your tea, Konstantin Arkadievich?

  — I can take it or leave it, though I confess, Comrade Ismailovna makes it well.

  — It’s good to have women around. I can’t get started in the morning without it. Sometimes I get quite indulgent and take it with jam. Tea, I mean.

  Taking a deep breath to kill his chortle, Kostya smelled something floral in the tea, like roses, then honey. Then he smelled smoke.

  Boris patted one of the dossiers on his desk. —You’re an excellent shot, even by our standards.

  — Thank you.

  — Your wounds don’t interfe
re?

  — I’ve not done much target practice since I returned.

  — Get to it. You’ve practised at the Butovo poligon, the shooting range. And such a privilege you enjoyed one day, that visit to, ah, well, our former chief’s dacha.

  Fucked in the mouth, he means Yagoda.

  How to explain it, explain that beautiful spring afternoon in ’33, Arkady dizzy with the honour of an invitation to the chief’s dacha, Kostya tagging along in some dismay. He’d skipped his community work, broken a promise to the boys at Home of the Child of the Struggle Moscow Number Two Supplemental Number Three to visit and read stories that day, and he felt queasy, first with guilt over the boys, then with embarrassment as Arkady bragged about him to Yagoda. No, not my son, Arkady said, ready to explain, but Genrikh Yagoda cut him off and challenged Kostya to shoot as well as Arkady claimed he could — but with a new weapon, the just-released Tokarev 33 pistol. Yagoda pointed to a dry spot of earth and told Kostya to stand there. Kostya glanced at the targets, which stood anywhere from ten to seventy metres off, took the pistol, and looked it over. Shoot with this monstrosity? Then he looked up and caught the flicker of despair in Arkady’s eyes. If Kostya failed to live up to Arkady’s boasts, then Arkady would look a fool before the chief. Arkady knew it, and Genrikh Yagoda knew it.

  Five targets, eight rounds. Yagoda called out directions. Target four, left shoulder. Target one, base of the skull. Target three, heart. Target five, base of the skull…

  Five precise hits, three close.

  Yagoda announced luncheon, and the three NKVD officers ate and drank until sundown, when Yagoda ordered his driver to bring Arkady and Kostya back into Moscow. In the car, Arkady had murmured in Kostya’s ear. Well done, Little Tatar, well done.

  How to explain that afternoon with Yagoda without incriminating Arkady?

  Boris placed his tea on his desk. —I’m sure Yagoda hid his depravities well, Konstantin, but you did visit him, at his Butovo dacha?

  Admit it. Confess. No doubt it’s all in that dossier. —I did. Myself, and Arkady Dmitrievich.

  — Balakirev. He is so proud of you. So what did you think of the Tokarev? Many officers prefer it to the Nagant, eight rounds to seven, faster to load, lighter recoil, easier to shoot.

  Only if you’re an ape who uses his fists before his mind. —The first weapon I ever held was a Nagant. I’ll stay with it.

  — I prefer the Nagant, myself.

  Kostya nodded. How many more tests?

  Boris sipped his tea. —Tell me what you like about the Nagant.

  — Well, it’s easy to clean. It fits well in my hand, the curving lines. The heavy trigger pull leaves no doubt, and the recoil feels like a kiss for a job well done. The Nagant looks like a weapon. The Tokarev looks like a deck of cards glued to a piece of pipe and painted black.

  — I agree, with all my heart.

  Dizzy, Kostya exhaled gently, telling himself not to hold his breath like that. Then why, he wanted to ask Boris, did you call me in here? Why mention Yagoda? Why threaten me with my past?

  Why-why-why, Arkady had said, mocking him. Ever since you came back from Spain, you’ve acted the foolish pochemuchka, always asking questions.

  Boris sighed, rubbed his temples. —In times of emergency, the work becomes so strenuous. I have a problem, Konstantin Arkadievich, and it might snarl your day.

  — Please, tell me how I can help.

  — I need a man who can shoot.

  Yury Stepanov, early for his appointment with Boris Kuznets, meandered from Garage Number One to the basement shooting range. Boris expected a report on progress at Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two, and Yury, thanks to the slack discipline of Dr. Efim Scherba, had little to say. Angry with Efim, and dreading Boris, Yury wished he could drink. Instead, he decided to shoot.

  The racket of barrage pressed on his ears; other officers had the same idea. Sometimes gunfire interrupted an interrogation. When this happened, Boris liked to point out, the noise assisted.

  So loud. It never seems so loud to me when I fire my gun.

  Then again, Yury falsified his practice records.

  The officer closest to Yury stood before a target, cap off, face stubbled, head bowed, grip on his lowered Nagant slack.

  Him, like this?

  As Kostya brushed something from his face, Yury took a few steps back, staying out of his line of sight. Kostya lifted his arms and took aim, the Nagant not an extension of his body but his body an extension of the Nagant. Four holes already tore the practice target, a figure of man, his back to the shooter: three holes in the skull, one near the heart.

  Yury smirked. So tense, dear Kostya?

  Kostya fired the remaining three rounds, and Yury winced at the speed. The target, tattered now where the head met the neck, fell apart.

  Pale, Kostya strode to a little table holding a bowl of ammunition, a pencil, and a clipboard heavy with forms. He made a note, signed his name, reloaded, tucked the cardboard box of shells back together to keep it tidy, holstered his Nagant, and rubbed his left shoulder.

  Yury shook his head. Good with the paperwork, Nikto. So good that you signed in my car for me. Thrown together again, are we?

  In NKVD classes, Yury had struggled with grades, often a distant tenth or worse to top students Misha Minenkov and Kostya Nikto. Despite his assertions that they together made a perfect trio, Kostya and Misha would never drink or socialize with him. Misha would draw caricatures, clever and pointed, often cruel, of classmates and instructors and show them to Kostya, who’d then struggle to suppress a giggle. Several times Yury caught sight of some of these caricatures, caught sight by design, he now knew — himself, sketched in humiliating poses and captioned as Little Yurochka. After graduation, Yury found himself assigned to an undesirable rural outpost, hundreds of kilometres away from Moscow. It took him fifteen years and several backstabbings of colleagues to get back to the city, and he intended to stay. He’d not expected the unpleasant sight of Kostya Nikto already wearing a senior lieutenant’s insignia while Yury remained a sergeant. Even thinking of it now, Yury wanted to kick something. Everyone treated Kostya like an ascending angel, and life looked so easy for him. His languages, his memory, his shooting — how could one man have so many gifts?

  Oddly, no one spoke of Misha Minenkov. Yury decided he should discover why.

  Then he noticed Kostya staring at him. For a moment, just a shred of a moment, something new shone in Kostya’s big eyes. A plea. Help me.

  Yury took another step back and collided with a wall.

  Kostya blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes and temples. When he lowered his hands, his eyes seemed alert, even feral. Normal, Yury thought.

  Then Kostya noticed Yury and nodded to him as he strode for the stairs. —Stepanov.

  — Nikto.

  A charwoman, young and willowy, hair hidden beneath a scarf, retrieved the ruined practice target and hung up a new one. As she swept the floor, collecting the burnt scraps of paper into a hinged dustpan needing oil, scrapes and squeaks filled Yury’s ears. Irritated, he gave a little snort. The charwoman looked up then, noticed Yury’s stare, and flinched. He bowed in apology and sought the stairs that would guide him up out of the basement and to the office of Boris Kuznets.

  Even angels fall, Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto.

  Even angels fall.

  Six storeys up, no fire escape, and no balcony.

  Grateful for the fresh air, the slight twitch of the breeze, and the distant scent of a river, much like the Thames yet also very different, Temerity peered out the front room window. She noticed three other women in the facing blocks of flats also staring out windows or leaning on the rails of their balconies, regarding the world with anxious boredom. A thin voice called, reminding someone of work shifts and metro schedules. One by one, each woman turned away from her window or balcony and retreated inside.

  Temerity switched her attention to the metro station, Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. She reached out her h
and and pretended to touch it.

  So close.

  She turned away from the window walked to the kitchen. The floor creaked at every step of her bare feet.

  Find the shoes.

  Once more, she checked the locked door, the stenka, the bathroom, the kitchen, every cupboard, shelf, and drawer.

  A well-stocked flat; a well-stocked prison.

  She studied the knife she’d threatened Kostya with, snorted, put it back.

  Efim had locked his bedroom door: no access there.

  In Kostya’s bedroom, she wrenched open the stiff doors to the tiny closet, finding another pair of knee-high leather boots, lined for winter, and a pair of men’s black shoes. She stretched to reach the shelf, and she knocked a spare uniform cap and a furry winter hat to the floor. Her hand also brushed dust balls and what felt like a book, and she jumped, jumped again, got it: a 1936 Moscow telephone guide with the pragmatic if slightly intimidating title Directory for All Moscow. Telling herself the directory would be useful, Temerity placed it to one side and then examined the clothes hanging on the rod. Uniform pieces, light overcoat, a winter coat, each marked with insignia, two pairs of civilian trousers, and three white shirts. Far off to the left, in the shadows, hung a woollen winter coat, faded navy blue and too small for this Kostya Nikto, and one long black leather coat, too big.

  A piece of dull khaki peeked around one of the black leather lapels. Temerity lifted the hanger from the rod, and the leather coat slipped off, burying her feet and revealing something else on the hanger, a long khaki jacket with many pockets. It smelled of sweat and disinfectant, dust and blood.

  Swallow each and every one, or your cock will fall off.

  The left sleeve hung in tatters.

  On the radio, dreary music ended on a weak note, repeated four times as it faded, reminding Temerity of Rigoletto’s ‘Va, va, va, va’: complicity and defeat.

  A woman’s voice, warm yet firm, demanded attention. —Now is the time when good Soviet children settle themselves.

  Temerity thought of Mikko Toppinen raising his arms over his face: Leave me alone.

  — Children, are you ready to listen?

  Temerity picked up the coat and hung it again over the jacket. Then she shut the closet and returned to the front room, where she sat in the one soft chair, faced the radio, and closed her eyes. Stories, her father had often said, are keys to a culture. You can understand a national character, my girl, if you understand that nation’s stories. As a child, Temerity could not fathom what insight The Wind in the Willows might give a foreigner, though she later thought Kim might help. She always smiled when her father started to talk about stories and national character, because that meant he would then translate a Russian fairy story from her mother’s old book, and Temerity could strain for a memory, any memory, of her mother’s voice.