Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  — I only know what I was told, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

  — You’ll go far. Wait, you had night duty. Go home.

  Matvei looked at the floor and whispered. —She’s still unconscious.

  Elena Petrovna. Kostya offered him a cigarette. —So you’ve not left Lubyanka at all?

  Matvei struggled to light the match. —I sat with her.

  Kostya studied him a moment. —You’re no doctor. Now go home and rest. That’s an order.

  Underground, Kostya navigated the maze. The corridors, designed to confuse and contain anyone who might escape confinement, could also baffle the most experienced officer. Kostya, who found these corridors easier than the Odessa catacombs, took note of scarce numbers, chipped paint, and leak stains: trail marks. Go I know not whither, he thought, and fetch I know not what. Why can’t I stop thinking about stories?

  The laughter of Vasily Blokhin floated on the air, spontaneous this time, joyful. Then a gun fired.

  Kostya flinched, resumed walking. Fucking Tokarevs.

  Noise faded as Kostya walked to the farthest cells. Not certain he had the right spot, for the unguarded cell door hung open a few centimetres, Kostya knocked and called out. —Comrade Major, you sent for me?

  The heavy door opened a little further and Kostya stepped inside, just managing to avoid the large puddle on the floor. The puddle reflected back the image of the usual desk and two chairs, one for chief interrogator, one for prisoner, and the terrible brightness of one caged light bulb.

  Arkady pulled the heavy door almost shut, then wedged a tiny opening with a ruler. —Is she still there?

  — What?

  — Your whore. I tried to send her on her way.

  — Arkady Dmitrievich—

  — The stool’s behind you. Get up there.

  Kostya looked around again, found no prisoner perched on the high stool. Arkady’s voice unsettled him, too. He’d not spoken to Kostya quite like that, in tones of disappointment and contempt, for many years.

  Arkady backhanded Kostya across the face. —I said, get on the stool.

  Stunned by the violence, suspended in that cold moment of accepting the blow and yet believing no pain would come, not this time, Kostya obeyed. Steel touched his haunches, and his struck face blazed. —What the hell was that for?

  Arkady backhanded him again, same cheek. —Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. And lower your voice, unless you want to get us both fucking killed right here, right now.

  Tears clouding his vision, Kostya slowed his breathing and calmed his voice. —How shall I explain this bruise?

  — I don’t give a goat’s rancid fuck what you explain to others when first you must explain something to me.

  Kostya slipped down from the stool. —I am not some adolescent you may beat when annoyed. I’m—

  He staggered backwards until he hit the wall, and he wanted nothing more than to slide down to the floor.

  Because Arkady had punched him in the belly.

  Arkady rubbed at his knuckles. —Annoyed? I beat you because sometimes the only way to reach you is to pound the truth though that thick skull. You will get back up on that stool and perch there until I instruct you otherwise.

  Spitting, Kostya obeyed. —Arkady Dmitrievich, please…

  — Please what? What? Shall I not hit you? Shall I not worry about you? Shall I not wake up in a cold sweat from dreams of you packed in some shit-filled cattle car for a fucking month as it inches towards Kolyma? Look at me when I speak to you. Look at me!

  Tears running down his face, Kostya looked.

  Arkady cradled Kostya’s face in his hands, and his voice dropped to a whisper. —What have you done to yourself? Intersections of power, Kostya. The steppe gives up in patches to forest, and the forest gives up in patches to tundra, yet in places where you see no change, all the differences blend. Survive. I taught you that.

  Kostya said nothing.

  Arkady caught some of Kostya’s tears on his fingers. —You took her home from my party.

  Voice quiet: —Yes.

  — In the car Stepanov had signed out.

  — Yes.

  — And that’s why Kuznets wanted to see the garage logs. Fuck. Kostya, you need to come up with a reason why you took a car signed out in another officer’s name and then returned it in your name. A good reason.

  — Stepanov was too drunk to walk straight, let alone drive. I did him a favour by bringing it back.

  — Not bad, not bad.

  Kostya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and struggled to think. —Are you under investigation?

  Arkady spat on the floor. —Do you know who sits in his own shit just a few cells away?

  Kostya knew. He waited for Arkady to tell him, because Arkady needed to say it.

  Somehow.

  Arkady mouthed the name. —Yagoda. And do you know who’s going to shoot him?

  Kostya nodded. Vasily Blokhin.

  — So no, I am not under investigation, not officially, yet I am. And so are you. NKVD purges the country, and it purges itself. You know this. So do not give Boris Kuznets, or that stunted little weed Yury Stepanov, any more reasons to come after you.

  — Kuznets? He gave me a gift. The perfume.

  — Kinder to give you a kulich bomb. Come on, Little Tatar, did you really think that was a gift? It was a warning. Here, take my kerchief.

  Kostya looked to the floor as he dried his face. —Warning me of what?

  — Warning me, Kostya. Warning me that he knows you took Stepanov’s car and is willing to press the issue.

  — What the barrelling fuck has perfume got to do with the car?

  — That woman! I know what she is, and I am trying to protect you!

  — By beating me?

  — When necessary, yes!

  Kostya shook his head. —And if I told you I love her?

  Fast and hard: the blows, the fall off the stool, the water in his nose and mouth, the kick to his back. Kostya curled up tight, and the shame of this treatment magnified the pain. He couldn’t fight back. Not Arkady. Even as the pain paralyzed him, devoured him, he told himself he had a theoretical choice but could not, ever, fight back against Arkady.

  Puddle water splashed.

  The blows ceased. Kostya had no idea why. Perhaps the old man got tired. Or perhaps Kostya’s squealed plea embarrassed them both.

  — Steal me, steal me, steal me.

  Arkady dragged Kostya away from the puddle and propped him against the desk. Then Arkady leaned next to him, and they both gasped, wheezed, grunted.

  Wept.

  Arkady shifted his weight, then put his arm around Kostya’s shoulders. Flinching, Kostya wrenched his thoughts from the chaos of fury and pain as a drowning man might launch his face at the surface of the water: a sliver of a moment, desperation. Anything. Anything to breathe.

  He smelled Arkady’s vodka flask beneath his nose, took several good swallows. Then, as on the train to Moscow in 1918, he snuggled into Arkady’s side.

  Arkady almost whimpered. The memory of that long journey and its clear purpose felt so distant now. Time grinds me down. Please, keep this moment still.

  Then Arkady recalled the wounds in Kostya’s left shoulder and eased the pressure of his arm there. —Get rid of her. Your duty—

  Kostya spat the word. —Duty.

  — That alone could get you twenty fucking years. Yes, duty, if to nothing else, then to your own safety. How many times, over and over…Should I have left you in Odessa? Left you for the Germans who cleaned the streets? I saved you, Little Tatar. I fed you. I made sure you had a warm bed, and I got you new identity papers and an education. I navigated the intersecting planes of power with you, for you. Konstantin Arkadievich Nikto, bright star in NKVD, and you’ll piss all over it?

  — Invasion of the psyche.

  — What?

  — Bekhterev. The neurologist.

  — Bekhterev, the unperson. Don’t say his name so loud. />
  Kostya whispered. —He taught us a few classes when I was a cadet. At least, I think it was him. Physical energy forces blood to the brain and affects not just thought but autonomic behaviour. We can manipulate that by diverting the energy to other parts of the body, along the nervous systems. Induce pain and suffering in the body and you deplete the energies in the brain. That makes the brain vulnerable to suggestion, and then suggestion changes behaviour.

  — Old knowledge.

  — Bekhterev proved the science of it.

  Arkady rubbed his forehead. —Yes, yes, we do this every day, but we do it here in the cells, not in our homes and to our own whores.

  — She’s not a whore.

  — She’s—

  — She is not a whore, Arkady Dmitrievich. Understand me yet?

  Arkady scowled.

  So did Kostya. —You say I’m conducting an experiment on her. If you’re arrested first, you tell them that’s what I told you.

  — No one’s going to believe that!

  — It doesn’t matter what we believe. It’s about stalling for time.

  — Stalling death.

  — Arkady Dmitrievich, please, I don’t want you harmed by this.

  — A little late.

  — She remembers you and your house. She’d speak of that right away under interrogation.

  Arkady waved a hand. —Kuznets attended that party. He’d cover it up.

  — Are you sure?

  Arkady said nothing.

  Kostya’s sigh shook.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Arkady tried to smile. Tell him I know he was looking for the papers. Tell him. —Tatar, I need to tell you something. I’ve got to leave Moscow for a bit.

  Kostya stared at him. —What?

  — Temporary transfer. My expertise is needed in a rural station, just outside Sverdlovsk. Yes, I snorted, too. Still, I’ve always wanted to see the Urals.

  — What the barrelling fuck? We’ve got agents in Sverdlovsk. It will take you two or three days just to get there.

  — And Kuznets wants to borrow my house while I’m gone.

  Shit. —Kuznets is just a captain. He’s banishing you. How does a captain banish a major?

  — Maybe someone higher’s involved. Maybe it’s a test. And he did promise to look after the cats.

  Her papers. Ask about her papers. —Those brutal old toms? I’ve seen them bring down crows. Look, I can give the damned cats their herring. I’ll take care of the house.

  — Kuznets wants to throw some parties. He owes some favours, he said. He’s not getting along with his wife, and his children want to use his dacha.

  Kostya shut his eyes. Chilled now, he felt his teeth rattle.

  Arkady kissed the top of his head. —I’ll keep you safe.

  — From Sverdlovsk?

  Arkady said nothing.

  Ask about the papers. —Arkady Dmitrievich…

  — What?

  Kostya found he could not speak.

  Careful not to jostle Kostya, Arkady stood up. —Get yourself together. Say you slipped on the stairs.

  He left the cell door ajar.

  In his head, Kostya called Arkady back, called his name over and over. His mouth did not move.

  He staggered up and grabbed the desk for balance. The pain told him stories of deep bruises and ugly welts and how they would need many days to heal.

  A long time since he last beat me. Long time.

  Adapting his walk, he found his way to the wire-caged stairs. Other officers, busy with their tasks, did not notice him.

  And if the old man disappears on his way to Sverdlovsk? In Sverdlovsk?

  Kostya pretended to stumble and slip and forced himself not to protect his face as he fell. The stairs bashed his right cheekbone. His performance, while awkward, convinced those who heard it and now ran towards him. The other officers blamed the poor lighting on the stairs, then reminded him to fill out the correct accident report forms, because the paperwork had changed. Again. Nodding, Kostya insisted he’d be fine.

  — Kostya, we’ve got a problem.

  He kept his back to Temerity for the moment as he finished locking the flat door. —Oh?

  — Please, listen to — what happened to your face?

  — Nothing.

  She followed him into the bedroom. —Nothing?

  — I fell on the stairs. Narrow stairs, all covered in with cage wire, poorly lit. Easy to slip. If you’re so worried about it, get me a cold compress.

  Resenting his tone of command while yet wishing to help, she scowled at him, then complied.

  He added a word. —Please.

  After a moment, he joined her in the bathroom, wearing only his galife pants and undershirt.

  Temerity reminded herself of just how many steps separated the bathroom from the bedroom. Get the revolver, girl. You know how to use it.

  Then what?

  Movements stiff, Kostya blocked the bathroom doorway and took off his undershirt. She stepped closer to the shower to make room, fascinated, appalled, by the welts on his back and face.

  The water ran.

  — Kostya, this is far more than a fall. Who did this?

  Closing his eyes, he almost escaped the memory of how Arkady had asked him the same question in 1918. He accepted a cold cloth from her and held it to a bruise on his side. —You don’t understand.

  — What is there to understand? Someone beat you.

  He leaned on the edge of the sink. —It’s nothing.

  — Was it Balakirev?

  — What?

  — Well, that’s who came to visit me yesterday, and he was full of foul threats then. You’re aware he knows I’m not Russian?

  Kostya shut his eyes. —Yes.

  She pressed a cold cloth to his bruised face, wincing as he flinched. —You’re afraid of him.

  — Like hell I am.

  — Then walk away.

  Kostya stared at her, eyes huge. —Walk away? Think, woman. Arkady Dmitrievich taught me how to survive. To learn that, I needed to learn obedience. Because I had the good luck to meet him and the good sense to obey him, I survived a revolution, civil war, and two famines. Yes, I fear him. I fear him for my own good. And so I obey, for my own good.

  Temerity refreshed the compress and once more pressed it to Kostya’s face. —Obedience without thought?

  — Yes, without thought. Defiance only causes trouble.

  — First thinking about one’s obedience is not defiance.

  — It can be. At best, it is false obedience.

  — Kostya—

  — True obedience works faster. Or does the weight of duty mean nothing to you?

  She almost dropped the compress. —Don’t you dare lecture me on duty. I choose to follow my duty, just as I choose everything else in my life.

  He laughed. —Choose? You hauled your sweet little privileged British arse all the way to Spain and then Russia, because you chose it?

  — Yes.

  — Right. The dragon, Zmei Gorynich.

  — Don’t change the subject.

  — I change nothing, Nadia. I merely show you what else exists to darken the argument. Now, Zmei Gorynich is a fat old beast, yet still very fierce. So you’re sent into battle against him, and you’re told, over and over, do not cut off his head. You’re not told why. Then Zmei Gorynich roars at you, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to cut off his head. So you defy your orders and cut off his head. What happens? Two heads grow back where there was one.

  — Ah.

  — Ah, what?

  Temerity leaned back on the wall, crossing her arms. —The Hydra. Greek mythology. It’s the basis for all civilization, all our stories.

  — Zmei Gorynich is ancient. Slavic.

  — Yes, I know. And it comes from the Greek myths.

  — No, it doesn’t.

  — Heracles and the hydra, cut off one head and two more grow back. Greek mythology is where it all begins, Kostya.

  He rolled his eyes.
—The story is Russian. Just because Britain thinks civilization began with the ancient Greeks, no one else’s history matters?

  — That’s not what I said.

  Each turned from the other, frowning.

  Then Temerity ran more cold water and this time pressed the compress to a welt on his back. —Zmei Gorynich, indeed. Well, you’ll never take Saint Dzhordzh from me.

  — Nadia, the old coat of arms for the city of Moscow was Drzhordzh and his shield fighting the dragon, yes? You have no claim. Oh, save me, Saint Dzhordzh, save me from my captivity!

  He found this quite amusing, and, despite the pain in his back and face, he laughed.

  Listening to Kostya’s laughter, Temerity considered the sound of names. Dzhordzh in English: George, a beautiful name, steady, certain, oak and stone. A variant of the same name in Russian, Yury, made her think of a dragon’s tail coiling. The sound of the name Kostya: soothing. Oh, not as reliable as George, to be sure, but the very meaning, the roots of it: constancy. She laughed, too, as the absurdity of her own name pricked her. Temerity Tempest West, because my Russian mother liked the sound of it. God’s sake, who am I?

  — Nadia, Nadia.

  Kostya ran his fingers through her hair, invading the curls.

  Temerity let him. Even his calloused trigger finger felt pleasant against her scalp.

  — Nadia, how did this happen?

  A curl caught on his fingers.

  — Ow. Kostya…

  — Sorry. I wish…

  His pause felt deliberate, some snare of language and time, something an interrogator might try. Yet it also felt genuine. Desperate.

  — I wish we could just stay like this.

  Temerity untangled the curl. —Not quite like this, surely. We’d have to get out of the bathroom at some point.

  — A language school. If I could be anything else, I’d become a teacher. We could open a language school, and teach everyone how to communicate, yes? Pretend we’ve got a map of the world on this wall, here to here. I’ve got my finger on Moscow. Now, I’ll close my eyes and point at another spot, and that’s where we’ll set up our language school.

  His finger landed far west-southwest.

  Recalling Neville Freeman’s isochronic map, Temerity smiled. —The British Empire.

  — The sun never sets.