— Open your eyes now, comrade.
Four pairs of legs blocked the light.
Boris watched Efim’s blood pool. Then he spoke with vigour so all could hear. —We told you to stop, comrade. And you ran. Only traitors run.
Efim stared at the muzzle of the Nagant.
As Boris aimed at Efim’s forehead, the other three offices understood something dire: the hassle of cleaning leather. They hurried to step clear.
Blood spattered their boots.
[ ]
WRINKLED ICARUS
Sunday 1 August–Wednesday 4 August
In a shadowed corner of Arkady’s hospital room, Kostya imagined his body fusing with the slats of the wooden chair. His eyelids, heavy and hot, refused to part, and his shoulder, despite the doctors here injecting him with morphine every twelve hours, burned, burned, burned. He wondered what sort of tree had fallen for his comfort. Spruce? Pine? Birch? Vadym’s chair, what had that been?
Then he thought of Nadia and her story of Daphne.
Bernini got it right in his sculpture. Apollo is stronger and faster, and he chooses to rape her. To prevent that, to try to save her, Daphne’s father chooses to transform her into a tree. She’s not changing; she’s being changed. Where is the chance or design for Daphne?
In the hospital bed beside the chair, Arkady took the shallow breaths of the dying, stubborn function of the brain stem, oxygen moot.
Kidney failure, the doctors said, silent disease, many years’ ambush, mental and now physical functions impaired by accumulated toxins. Perhaps Comrade Nikto had noticed some mood swings, some paranoia? —We’ll keep him comfortable.
Arkady had glared at the hospital room ceiling. —My father died the same way. Don’t waste your tears on me.
Kostya wiped his face. —I’m not.
— You stink of tobacco, Little Tatar. You smoke too much.
Not long after that, Arkady slipped into his strange sleep.
Footsteps approached the private room.
A nurse, Kostya thought, eyes still closed.
A wash of light as the door opened, closed, and a man’s soft yet heavy tread.
He stood there a moment, waiting. Then he scraped another wooden chair across the floor, sat down, and grasped Arkady’s hand.
Kostya kept still. He knows I’m here. He must.
When Boris spoke, he kept his voice quiet. —Arkady Dmitrievich, can you hear me? I never wanted it to end like this. I swear it. A game. You played me, even as I thought I had you by the balls, telling myself every morning as I shaved that you’d do the same to me. And you just lie there like Scherba, sacrifice meaningless. You knew. You knew how sick you are. You had to know.
Sacrifice? Kostya allowed one eye to crack open; the shadows of the day had changed and now obscured him in the corner. Perhaps Boris had not yet noticed him.
— Your Kostya’s not left your side these three days.
Then he thinks I’m asleep.
Boris whispered now. —I once said we’ve not got time for vigils. I regret that. I do. Yury Stepanov asked me why your Kostya’s not arrested yet, why I’ve told the others to hold off and wait. I had to explain vigil, Arkady Dmitrievich, explain it, to a grown man. You’re right: Stepanov’s a stunted little weed. And when this purge is done, he’ll be the best of what remains.
Arkady’s breath rasped, stalled, rasped again.
— You did get your revenge. I had to fight off the British Embassy. Fucking diplomats. I still don’t know who the hell she is. We should have taken her straight to Lubyanka, but I was worried she’d die before she could tell us anything. See where mercy gets me?
Arkady’s lips sputtered.
Boris sighed, then grinned. —Here’s the best part. She had two passports, two different names. Both British. The travel papers only matched one.
Kostya’s eyes flew open.
Just in time to greet another wash of light as a nurse opened the door and peered in to see this NKVD captain bidding goodbye to his dear friend. Boris kissed Arkady’s hand and took up a song as though he’d just paused long enough for a few tears. His voice, so quiet, yet so rich, the best of those coached by choir leader Vadym Minenkov: the perfection of performance. Kostya almost laughed.
Ay-da, da, ay-da,
Ay-da, da, ay-da,
Now we fell the stout birch tree!
Touched, the nurse left, and the door swished the light and the dark.
Boris let go of Arkady’s hand; it flopped to the bed. —How did he hide her? How did you help him?
The vibrations, the pressure of Boris’s voice and question, his breath, touched Kostya’s cheek like a feather. This moment, right here, right now: likely his last chance for silence. He struggled not to speak.
— Scherba is dead.
Kostya gave a little grunt, as of a man stirring in his sleep.
Boris smirked. —Nice try, Nikto. You had me, for a moment.
Kostya opened his eyes. —Scherba? Was that necessary?
— Yes. Shot him myself. She might be dead by now, too. I don’t know. The last I saw, she lay strapped to a stretcher on a train to Leningrad.
Leningrad. Steamer back to England?
Boris leaned over Arkady and smoothed his hair. —Shall I tell you both what gushed down the pipe yesterday and splattered at our feet? Order four hundred forty-seven. We must now make special renewed efforts against foreigners and spies and other anti-Soviet elements, and we must speed up interrogation and trial. Vigour, vigour, vigour. Beat the horses to the bone. How much faster can we go?
Arkady seemed to sigh.
Boris patted Arkady’s hand. —When I came here, I wanted to say something else. I rehearsed it in the back of car number forty-two; my driver is waiting outside. Here it is. You are finished. So am I. You get the easy way out, Arkady Dmitrievich. And you, Konstantin Arkadievich, this is your portrait, the flower and roots, you and him. This deathbed is how I shall always remember you.
Another wash of light: Boris departed.
Early the next morning, Arkady died. Kostya signed some paperwork consenting to cremation of Arkady’s body and acknowledging the state’s seizure of Arkady’s house, received a morphine injection, and worked to understand his orders. No funeral for Balakirev, the message read, just the cremation already arranged, and for Kostya himself, informal medical and bereavement leave. Do not report to the department, the message concluded, but still consider yourself on call.
On the way back to his flat, aware of the weight of his service weapon, Kostya took a guess why.
They want me to shoot myself, save them the trouble.
So he sat in the soft armchair in the front room, turned on the radio, and practised his aim. Temple? Over the ear? Roof of the mouth? Quick, he reminded himself, quick and easy. How many times have you squeezed a trigger?
His wrist ached.
He dropped the Nagant, caught it in his lap, tucked it back into the holster. Then he stood up and returned to his bedroom, where he removed each piece of his uniform and hung it up with precision and care, placing the amber worry beads on his bedside table and his underclothes in the hamper. Naked, he got into bed and dozed, sleeping and waking, for almost eighteen hours, missing his evening injection appointment. He woke up with his nose blocked, his face and pillow wet.
He sat up in bed. Any moment now, his colleagues would come arrest him. Any moment.
The paint on the walls rippled and danced like amber beads between his fingers.
No one came.
The fifth day after Temerity shot herself, Kostya reported to the hospital and received another morphine injection. He also received a stern medical lecture for missing his previous evening appointment.
Kostya fastened his gymnastyorka. —How much longer must I come here?
The doctor, a slender young man with dark circles beneath his eyes, waved a form. —As long as the paperwork holds.
Kostya returned to his flat, where he’d left the radio on, changed fr
om his uniform to civilian clothes, and cooked and ate some kasha. Then he slept some more, waking up every hour when the radio announcer gave a time check, except for six and seven o’clock. Once again, he missed his evening injection. Once again, he sat up all night. His skin twitched. His shoulder hurt; his thoughts raced; his fingers numbed as he stroked the amber beads. The paint on the walls, at least, kept still.
And once again, NKVD did not come.
The doctor plucked the needle from Kostya’s arm. —I reviewed your new X-rays. That’s a lot of shrapnel. You’re lucky you kept that arm, let alone got use of it back. Do you know that?
Kostya tugged his gymastyorka straight. —I exercise the hand with worry beads. Here.
The doctor accepted the amber beads and held them to the light. —Beautiful.
— Are we done?
The doctor handed back the beads. —How’s your appetite? Are you eating?
— Kasha now and then.
— Washed down with vodka and wine?
— What of it?
— Any patient who uses morphine for a long time is at risk of narkomania. The risk grows if the patient is also addicted to alcohol. That you’re standing up after the dose I just gave you makes me think you’ve developed a dangerous tolerance.
Kostya tugged his cap onto his head. —I drink no more than any other officer.
— That does not reassure me, Comrade Nikto.
Kostya considered how the doctor had just insulted the entire NKVD. Such an easy arrest, this one, a clear example of an anti-Soviet activity. He sighed. —You’re just out of med school, yes? Twenty-five?
— Twenty-four.
— Married?
— Engaged.
— Live at home?
— With my mother. My father’s dead, but—
— But you’ve not reported that to all the right places because you and your mother want to keep the flat, what little space you’ve got?
The doctor raised his clipboard as if to shield himself. —She can come live with me once I am married, once my wife and I find a larger flat of our own.
— And your comment about drunken NKVD officers?
The doctor stared at him.
— I’ve got you on two different offences: propiska fraud, and abuse of an officer of state security. Let’s throw in some anti-Soviet activities. Perhaps your mother—
— Wait!
Kostya shook his head. —Kolyma gets cold, so cold that sound and light warp and your heartbeat feels like a scream. The commandants sometimes keep doctors out of the mines so they can do the amputations. Frostbite, you see: fingers, noses, toes. Cocks. Perhaps your own. So unless you want ten to twenty-five years to find out, do not say you presume every NKVD officer to be a drunkard. Understand me yet?
The doctor’s voice shook. —By my silence, I give consent.
Kosyta laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. —Shove your heroics up your arse and shit them out in the morning. If not for yourself, then for your mother and your fiancée, yes? Promise me that, and I’ll keep quiet.
After a long moment, the doctor picked up the ampoule of morphine and rocked it back and forth. —And in return? What do you want?
— Nothing you can give me.
In Gorky Park, grass and sky shimmered, and so did the light.
Here, Kostya decided. I’ll sit here.
I told the old man we should visit the parks more often, or even go on holiday. Told him and told him…
Kostya leaned back on the bench, arms outstretched, amber beads in the fingers of his left hand, and stared at the sky. As someone squealed in delight at the parachute tower, the sunlight got too bright, and Kostya closed his eyes.
For a moment, and for a moment within a moment, he allowed himself to believe he lay in the sun near the water, on holiday with Arkady, in Yalta, or in Sochi. And for a moment within that moment, he believed he lay on his back in an Odessa park, that grassy bit by the oaks, as his grandparents fussed with the picnic basket and called each other, even in their mutual exasperation, fond names.
Misha never understood sunbathing. I can’t just lie about and get burnt.
Kostya shoved back his cap. The sun’s heat felt like a fond caress on his face, and his fingers reached for a cloisonné cigarette case.
Just a memory. Is the sun so bright in England?
When he opened his eyes, dapples and smears hovered a moment, to remind him that they existed.
Gavriil? No.
His visions of the angel had long deserted him.
As Kostya straightened his cap and took cigarettes and matches from his pouch, his sight cleared some more. Footsteps approached the bench: adult and child. The boy, maybe four years old, slowed his stride to admire Kostya’s uniform.
— Mama, the cap!
The mother turned to see, and fear rippled through her face. —Don’t bother him.
— I want a cap.
A click, then several clicks: a twitch had run through Kostya’s hand, and he dropped the beads. They fell beneath the bench.
— I get them!
The boy ran to the bench and bent to retrieve the beads, motions graceful. He held them out for Kostya.
Smoke curled around Kostya’s face as he took the beads. What would we have named the child? —Thank you.
The boy returned to his mother, narrating his just-completed quest. —I helped, Mama! I found the man’s beads. I found them, and I gave them back. I helped.
His voice thinned out as his mother, the breeze stirring her brown curls, hurried him along.
Kostya took a deep drag on his cigarette and stood up. —Stop.
The woman froze; the boy looked to her for guidance and copied her posture.
Kostya strode up to them. —Comrade, have I not seen you in this park before? Jumping from the parachute tower?
— Very likely. I often visit this park.
— Mama?
Kostya stroked the boy’s hair. —It’s all right.
The woman spoke with forced cheer. —Yes, it’s all right. We visit the park. We jump from towers. After all, our business is rejoicing. Am I free to go, Comrade Officer?
He nodded. —Take care of your son.
At ten to three in the morning, as Kostya sat at the little fold-down table wearing civilian trousers and an undershirt and finishing a bowl of kasha, men murmured outside the flat. They had yet to knock, so Kostya stood up, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
A team of two: Yury Stepanov, wearing a junior lieutenant’s insignia, fist raised to pound on the door, and just behind him, Matvei Katelnikov.
Kostya spoke as though greeting expected friends. —Come in, come in.
Yury looked disappointed. —Ah…thank you.
Matvei, red in the face, followed Yury into the flat and then closed the door behind them.
Yury stood by the kitchen, looking around. When he spoke, he sounded spiteful. —All this space to yourself?
Gesturing to the front room, Kostya made his way to the soft chair. —I’ll sit here while you work. You’ll want to collect some evidence. Bedrooms are that way. So is the telephone, right next to the bathroom door.
Matvei raised his eyebrows. —By the bathroom?
— Moscow flats, what can you do? Don’t get me started on the light switches.
Matvei chuckled.
Snorting, Yury pointed at Matvei, then at Kostya. —Keep him there while I look around.
As Yury opened drawers in the stenka and tossed items about, Kostya closed his eyes and told himself to remember how this chair felt. He’d be sitting in hard wooden chairs soon, perhaps bound there, hard wooden chairs before desks while struggling with consciousness and pain as fellow officers beat him. But right here, right now: the give of the cushions, the curve of the arms…
Yury strode to the bedrooms; Kostya took the beads from his pocket.
Click. Officer, or prisoner? Click. Criminal, or innocent? Click. Lover, or murderer?
His shoulder wounds
burned.
Then he understood what Temerity had done. A shot in the upper arm or shoulder would cause enough of an injury to need a hospital, and from there she’d try to contact the British Embassy. The risk: if Boris Kuznets had not called an ambulance? If Efim Scherba had not been there? If Kuznets had ordered her straight to Lubyanka? A shot as risk, as defiance, even optimism?
Her duty.
He wept. I knocked her off balance, and the bullet hit her head.
Svyatogor’s wife drowned in a river while locked in a box. Vasilisa the Beautiful crafted a lamp from a skull and holy fire. Marya Morevna fought Koshchei the Deathless.
Matvei passed Kostya a handkerchief; Kostya dropped it on the floor.
Yury returned, carrying an old newsprint photo of the battleship Dobryna Nikitich docked in Odessa, a menu from Babichev’s, and the bottle of Shalimar. He passed the items to Matvei, who held them in his cupped hands. Then Yury’s face filled Kostya’s vision: snub nose, squinty eyes, three kinked hairs sprouting from the top curve of his left ear. —You’re done, Nikto, you’re fucking done. I will harness you to a chair and break your arms doing it. I will hammer your gut until you puke blood, and I will crush your cock until you can’t even piss yourself. Beg. Beg me now, because in the cells you’ll be so deaf with blood in your ears that you won’t hear your own voice. And all this from Little Yurochka.
Kostya clicked another bead. I never had her courage.
— Fucking look at me when I speak to you, Nikto. Nikto!
Kostya met Yury’s gaze. —My name is Berendei.
— What?
Matvei shut his eyes in dread. —Oh, fuck. The paperwork.
Is courage ever enough? A final bead clicked. —I am Konstantin Semyonovich Berendei, and I love her.
1957
PODMOSKOVNYE VECHERA
Moscow
Sunday 4 August
Muscles tense and defined, faces determined, arms pointing, no doubt, to that elusive radiant future, young Soviet women had balanced on angled boards attached to moving motorcycles. Considering it now, and how the image would likely haunt her, Temerity shook her head in some awe. The parade, part of the opening of the World Festival of Youth and Students, intended as spectacle, to be sure, most carefully planned theatre, artificial despite the truths of athleticism — how long had those women trained? — had somehow also presented itself as a study in defiance.
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