Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  She never found it.

  The woman on the radio began the story of Dobrynya Nikitich defeating the dragon Zmei Gorynich. —And Dobrynya’s mother warned him, even as she made sure he wore his warm cloak, do not visit the Saracen mountains, do not step on baby dragons, do not rescue Russian captives, and do not bathe in the Puchai River. What do you think he did?

  Temerity closed her eyes and remembered the portrait of her mother at Kurseong House, a petite young woman with dark eyes and hair, curls escaping the chignon, three-year-old Felix standing beside her, sporting his first haircut and pair of breeches, and infant Temerity on her lap.

  The day she shoved the book from her father’s hands, Edward yelled at her, demanding she show more respect for her mother’s belongings, and Temerity stared at that portrait in repentance. It’s Vasilisa, not Mother. I’m not pushing Mother away. Vasilisa is too small. Then she’d turned and run back to her father’s lap. Edward held her and let her cry.

  The woman on the radio continued. —Do you think Dobrynya obeyed his loving mother? He did not, and soon he found himself facing the terrible dragon, Zmei Gorynich.

  Temerity knew this story. Soon after the book-pushing incident, Edward had bought Temerity English translations of Russian fairy tales, and she’d devoured them — though she’d still avoided Vasilisa. Dobrynya Nikitich fought Zmei Gorynich for three days, aided by a magic helmet and guiding voice, finally winning his own freedom and that of a captive woman called Zabava Putyatishna. How might the ending change to better suit these Soviet times? Would Zabava thank Dobrynya and then chair a Dragon Re-education Committee?

  The woman on the radio concluded the story. —Dobrynya Nikitich was a peasant, and this story happened long ago, so Dobrynya Nikitich gave Zabava Putyatishna to his noble-born friend and fellow bogatyr, Alyosha Popov.

  Temerity rubbed her temples. Gave her. Like a prize.

  Another voice took the mic. —Join us again this time tomorrow for Children’s Tales. Next, a selection of music by Tchaikovsky.

  Temerity stood up, straightened her clothes, and looked to Izvestia on the little hinged table. First, she checked the main door to see if perhaps the lock had slipped. Then she cut the newspaper into squares.

  Arkady heaved himself out of the overstuffed armchair. —Poligon duty? You?

  Kostya nodded.

  Scowling, Arkady lit two cigarettes, and passed one to Kostya. —Who did you piss off to get poligon duty?

  Kostya took a deep drag on the cigarette and stared out the window at the back yard, at the flower beds. —Special Squad is a man short tonight.

  — Oh, and you believed that?

  Comrade Senior Lieutenant Ippolitov cannot come to work today. —Well, I’m not about to ask precisely why they’re a man short.

  — Someone’s fucking with you. Special Squad is for apes, not star officers who speak six languages.

  — Seven.

  — I’ll go talk to your department head.

  Kostya shook his head. —No. I can handle it.

  — Vadym, he’ll put in a word. And Boris Kuznets. Between the three of us—

  — Kuznets is my new department head, and he gave me the order himself.

  After a moment, Arkady tapped his cigarette pack against the table. —Kuznets stuck you with poligon duty?

  — In his office. A few hours ago. Over tea.

  — Oh. He didn’t tell me he’d be taking over that department.

  Kostya studied the pile of ash. —He might have only found out himself this morning.

  Arkady smiled at the joke, recognizing its likely truth. —Your shoulder, Tatar. You’re not fit to shoot yet.

  — The hell I’m not.

  — Pardon me?

  Kostya took his revolver from its holster, placed it on the table. —Target practice.

  Watching Arkady pick up the Nagant, examine it, sniff it, Kostya felt like he waited for the throw of a switch. Approval, or punishment. Yes, or no. Life, or death.

  Arkady passed the revolver back, and his big hands descended to his portupeya. The gesture reminded Kostya of the first time he saw Arkady, the January day in Odessa. —Kostya, I can go over Kuznets’s head. Go around him, at least.

  — No.

  — Kostya—

  — I said, no. Leave it.

  — Then why did you come?

  To hear your voice. —To warn you.

  — Me?

  — It’s a test, and I refuse to give Kuznets any ammunition.

  — You’re still hung over, can’t think straight.

  — I saw how he looked at you at the party, just little flashes of it. He’d crush your skull beneath his right boot to get a better view of a game of bandy.

  Arkady patted his belly. —He’s kissed my arse so much that he’s chapped his lips. An invitation to one of my parties is not easy to obtain. Again and again he asks my opinion on how the departments should function.

  — How did he even know about your parties? Arkady Dmitrievich, please. He mentioned…

  Arkady kept still, hands in mid-air. He mouthed his response. —Mentioned what?

  Kostya deferred to Arkady’s fear and whispered. —The former chief.

  Arkady whispered back. —Yagoda?

  — Indirectly. Kuznets knows about the day we visited Yagoda at his dacha and I shot with the Tokarev. He told me he knows about that for a reason.

  Arkady’s face took on a matte and sickly cast, like cooled fat. —Boris Aleksandrovich Kuznets is nothing but a cockroach to cram down Trotsky’s throat, and he thinks he can wrench my balls? He…oh, Kostya.

  His voice wavered on the diminutive. He whispered it twice more, eyes shut.

  Kostya stared at him.

  Arkady beckoned Kostya closer, and his lips brushed Kostya’s ear. —Please. Say what you must, do what you must, to keep Kuznets happy.

  Both men leaned away; Kostya ground out his cigarette.

  Arkady got up and fussed in his kitchen, calling out he would fetch those pickles he mentioned, and the dark bread, and oh, he’d still got some butter.

  Smiling, Kostya shook his head. He and Misha had often joked about Arkady’s almost pathological hospitality. Argument? Arkady offered food. Bad news? Arkady offered food. Good news? Food. Visiting girlfriend? Some wariness, yes, but still, food. Roof falling in, wolves tearing at your throat? Arkady Dmitrievich would empty his cupboards and offer food — to the wolves, as well.

  Misha had teased Arkady about it once, and the tone of the gathering slipped from jovial to sour. Even Vadym frowned. Arkady fixed Misha with his cold stare. Should I then lock my door to you in times of famine? Is that what you want, boy?

  Kostya had thought Misha might cry.

  Misha…

  As Arkady clinked and clanked items onto a tray, Kostya stood up, stretched his back, and adjusted the tiny framed photographs on the mantel. Arkady’s parents. Arkady and Vadym in a posed studio shot in those long Cheka leather coats against a backdrop of painted mountains and meadows. Kostya at graduation. The charwomen always disturbed them. He turned and sat down again as Arkady’s voice and the familiarity of his words soothed him.

  — Eat, Little Tatar, eat.

  Kostya smiled. He is still Arkady Dmitrievich, and I am still Konstantin Arkadievich.

  Efim mopped sauce from his lips. —Delicious.

  Gnawing a piece of beef, Temerity nodded agreement. The shashlyk Kostya had bought as promised that morning was redolent with garlic, vinegar, and pepper. The accompanying salad of boiled potato chunks tossed in sour cream and dill gave contrast, filled her belly, and dulled her fears. She’d only eaten a piece of bread since the kasha that morning, and now she eyed the remaining shashlyk with greed. She even forgot the reason for the odd and suffocating quiet in the building: an electricity cut.

  Kostya sat back and gestured to the feast on the table. —Eat, eat. I’m sorry the shashlyk’s on brown paper. The Georgian wouldn’t let me take his skewers. Oh, Scherba, I need your help b
efore I go out.

  Temerity gave Kostya a sharp look, then tried to hide it. —Out?

  — I’ve got to work.

  She said nothing to that. Efim had accepted this announcement without comment; perhaps she should as well.

  Kostya poured vodka for the three of them and gave a long toast to the man who’d cooked the shashlyk. He knocked back his drink, poured another, and knocked that back, too. Then he pointed at a section of bare white wall. —Some people still keep beauty walls. Historical interest only, of course. No one prays to ikons anymore. Arkady Dmitrievich calls them fairy tales.

  Efim licked the last juices of his fingers. —Who is he to you? You never call him father.

  — He’s looked after me since I was twelve.

  Temerity thought of Spartan boys and their mentors.

  Kostya offered Temerity a cigarette. —Here, let me light it. My grandparents had a beauty wall with three copies of the Novgorod Gavriil, small, medium, and large.

  Exhaling smoke, Temerity thought of the ikon, a golden-toned medieval painting of the Angel Gabriel, as she called him, with plaited fair hair and huge brown eyes. Her father had kept a copy on a wall of his study at Kurseong House. Then she considered the stained-glass window her grandfather had paid for as a gift to the parish church: a blond and pale Christ not so much in agony on the cross as muscular repose, surrounded by panels of blue, yellow, and red.

  She’d decorated her London flat in shades of blue, yellow, and red similar to that window.

  And that other stained glass in the church, Judith on her knees, studying Holofernes’s throat. Is that all I believed in back then, pretty windows?

  She caught Efim staring at her; he looked away.

  Kostya crammed some more potato salad into his mouth, stood up, and adjusted his portupeya. —I have to go. I hope the electricity comes back soon.

  It did, at that moment, and the radio resumed its blare: another report on another trial.

  He smirked. —If only all my wishes came true. Nadezhda, I’ll bring you something nice. If I’m not too late.

  — Too late for what?

  He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he patted his holster. —Out too late, I mean. My day slipped out from beneath my feet. Scherba?

  The men retreated to Kostya’s bedroom.

  When Kostya returned, alone, his eyes seemed dull. He stroked Temerity’s face, then tangled his fingers in the curls of her hair. —Kiss me goodnight? Your mouth, this time, not your knee? On my face, I mean, not…

  She shoved his hand away.

  He took a few steps back and bowed to her. —Pleasant dreams, my sweet angel of Comintern.

  Smirking, he left and locked the door behind him.

  Efim returned with pen, ink, and paper. —Do you mind if I use the table, Miss Solovyova? I wish to write to my wife.

  Temerity stared at the corridor leading to the door for a moment, then faced Efim. —Please, call me Nadezhda Ivanovna.

  — Efim Antonovich.

  She pursed her lips, then nodded. —May I keep the radio on?

  — Yes, of course.

  As Temerity sat in the front room facing to the radio, Efim drew ink into his pen. You’d think mine are the first friendly words she’s heard in days. He glanced at her as she crossed her bare legs at the ankle. Why is she barefoot?

  The chugging lorry, cab covered in a tarpaulin, idled before Lubyanka. Dusk bent the light glaring off Lubyanka’s windows into beautiful pinks and gold. The lorry driver pitched the remains of his cigarette as he picked out the dark shape of an NKVD officer: the graceful lines of gymnastyorka, galife pants and peaked cap, and the confident walk, shoulders back, left arm perhaps a little stiff, right arm swinging while still covering the holster. As the officer emerged from the shadows, the colours of his insignia showed.

  The driver saluted. —Comrade Senior Lieutenant, good evening.

  Kostya nodded to the driver and, as a courtesy, showed his identification. He could have signed out a car and driven himself, perhaps even requested a driver. No, he’d decided, better to keep my head down.

  At Kostya’s feet, the ember of the driver’s discarded cigarette cooled from orange to red, the heat of it winking twice before a surrender to black. Kostya recalled one of his own discarded cigarettes, the embers fading on Spanish ground, where blood pooled.

  The driver read the identification, blinked, and gestured to the tarpaulin. —Full and ready, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

  Prisoners travelled to the poligons in such trucks. Under tarpaulin. Bound, sometimes gagged.

  This tarp rippled and bulged.

  Just the wind, Kostya told himself.

  A male voice escaped the tarp: tenor, his tone as clear and crisp, Vadym might say, as water about to freeze. —You can come and go at a country inn as in a fickle woman’s cunt…

  A drinking song. Kostya recognized it; characters sang a politer variant in the movie Lieutenant Kizhe. Soon five other voices joined in.

  The driver shook his head, in fondness. —Special Squad Number Three in there. Those guys can sing all night. Must be fun at a party.

  — Let’s go.

  As they pulled onto the street, the driver attempted small talk: the weather, the state of the roads, the sudden availability of lemons. He soon gave up and joined the song. The sky darkened as they crossed the eight-lane Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge, smooth asphalt and painted lines pointing to the Soviet promise of a radiant future.

  Kostya looked up. The sky looks bruised.

  The men sang and sang.

  They continued south, Kostya oblivious to their progress until the brakes squeaked and the engine stopped.

  As he hopped out of the lorry, the smells of the poligon reached him: diesel, sweat, earth, and dogs. Then he saw the wooden barracks, a separate stone cottage, and the range itself, gated and fenced like a courtyard with guard towers at each of the four corners. On each guard tower stood an electric searchlight. The dogs sounded agitated, even frightened, barking with an urgency that made Kostya frown. A tractor engine idled.

  Inside the barracks, in what looked like a dining hall made over into a maze of men and desks, Kostya presented himself to the man in charge, a master-sergeant, and wrinkled his nose at the reek of Troynoy cologne. The master-sergeant raised his eyebrows when he read Kostya’s insignia and identification card, then snarled at his colleagues to stand up and greet the senior lieutenant. A little chill passed between the poligon regulars as they obeyed. No doubt this senior lieutenant had come to inspect them, to review their efficiencies.

  To report.

  Kostya nodded his approval. —Thank you, comrades. Carry on.

  The photographer wrestled with his flash; his assistant attached a little wooden bracket stuck on the end of a thin steel rod to the back of a chair. A clerk knocked his overflowing in-tray to the floor; Kostya retrieved it. The dossiers, mostly tied shut, held their contents, no release here, and the clerk babbled his thanks. Then the clerk turned pale and backed away. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and he asked the master-sergeant to excuse him.

  The master-sergeant shook his head. —Not now, you fool.

  An odour of excrement wafted.

  Kostya stared at the clerk. Really?

  The master-sergeant struck the clerk upside the head, called him a pig, and dismissed him. The man walked backwards away from them, only turning when he reached a door. Then he ran.

  The master-sergeant ordered another man to replace the clerk, then muttered he’d see the first clerk shot. Eyes to the ground, his subordinates laughed. A joke, of course. Just a joke.

  As the rest of the men of Special Squad signed in, the master-sergeant picked up a piece of paper, a typewritten list. He read it, looked up at Kostya, read it again. —Your name is on the duty roster?

  Kostya nodded. —I could have avoided it, but then I’d never get the taste out of my mouth.

  More laughter, more downcast eyes.

  And a little tug at the master-se
rgeant’s own mouth. Senior Lieutenant Nikto must hover near disgrace. Sending such a man to the arse end of the city for poligon duty? An insult, surely. A whiff of demotion.

  Kostya read these thoughts in the master-sergeant’s eyes, sidled up to him, and spoke in a murmur. —I’m here because I’m an excellent shot, Comrade Master-Sergeant. What do you say: three rounds into the wall, one next to each of your ears and one just over the top of your head? Or between your legs, yes?

  The master-sergeant inclined his head just enough to signal a bow. —Not necessary, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

  The photographer called out. —Ready.

  From far within the barrack, prisoners queued, clothing rumpled, hair greasy, faces dirty and stubbled. One at a time, a prisoner proceeded to the first desk, sat down, and reviewed metriks with the clerk.

  Surname, first name, patronymic.

  Age.

  Address.

  Hair colour, eye colour, height and weight, ethnicity.

  The prisoner proceeded to the second desk, here confirming the correct duplication of his metriks on the execution warrant. Surname, first name, patronymic. Age. Address. Hair colour, eye colour, height and weight, ethnicity. This time the prisoner also signed on a large piece of paper so the clerk could compare the present signature with the recorded one.

  Third desk, to witness a third clerk stamp the warrant.

  To the chair before the camera.

  The assistant reviewed the stamped form and wrote the prisoner’s name on a little slate with chalk.

  — Place your head in the wooden bracket, comrade. Hold the slate up. A little higher. Good. Bright light. Turn to the side, please. Bright light. Thank you, comrade. Next.