The Gulliver Fortune

by Peter Corris

  "This address, comrade, can you direct me?"

  The man recoiled from the discordant foreign accent wrapped around the quick, colloquial Russian sentence. He glanced at the speaker, then at the paper, and pointed. "It's three blocks that way. Go right before the bridge, and it's two, no, three streets down on your left."

  "Thank you, comrade."

  The man nodded and walked on more quickly. He had registered almost nothing apart from an uneasy oddness about the old man in the greasy overcoat, but Carl had taken in every detail about him—the shoes made of thin, flexible leather, the soft-collared shirt and the large, loose tie knot, the generous sweep of the lapels of his suit jacket—much had changed in twenty years. People smelled different, as if they used different soap and ate different food.

  Carl, the ex-bureaucrat, pondered these questions as he plodded through the streets absorbing the sights and sounds—noisily contending traffic, the rounded shapes of the motor cars, the light clothes worn by the younger women, many hatless, tieless young men, cigarette butts littering the pavement and dry gutters. He fancied the children were taller.

  His eyes were still keen; he did not need glasses to read the street signs, and although he was thin and small he was strong: he carried the bulging suitcase in his right hand the whole way without apparent effort. When he was satisfied that he was in the right street, he put the suitcase down and sat on it. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and smoothed his hair. He took off his gloves and checked that his fingernails were clean. His boots were cracked and one sole flapped; he could do nothing about that. He unbuttoned his overcoat.

  "You smell like a horse," he said. He spoke in English, a habit that had gained a hold on him lately. Three children playing with a ball against a tin fence giggled at the old man making such odd sounds. He picked up his suitcase and entered the lobby of a grey concrete block of flats. Work on the building had been interrupted and the seventh storey was just a frame of steel and concrete. There were thirty-six mailboxes but most of the slots had two or three names written beside them, indicating that the flats were shared. An elevator stood open, its doors held apart by a chair. Carl looked at his piece of paper, sighed and began to climb the stairs. At the third level he stopped outside a door, put down his case and went through the ritual of smoothing his hair and straightening his clothes again. His heart was racing, but not from the effort of climbing the stairs. He was accustomed to exerting himself much harder than that, and for hours on end.

  Carl almost left at that point. He realised that he was more afraid than ever before in his life—more than at the Somme when the sky above was full of death and the ground was shaking from the bombardment; more than when he'd faced the cold-eyed men of the tribunals; more than when he'd first seen the icy wastes stretching off into the far distance. Close to twenty years of suffering and hope were concentrated in this single moment. If he'd been able to pray, this would have been the consummation of tens of thousands of prayers. He knocked at the door and was angered at how puny the sound was. He turned his bunched fist and hammered with his calloused knuckles. He heard noises behind the door, footsteps.

  The woman who opened the door was almost middle-aged and almost stout. Her hair was tied back and covered with a bright red headcloth. Her olive skin was smooth, but faint white lines sprang into life around her shocked eyes and mouth as she looked at the man in the doorway.

  "Vitalia!" Carl's lips trembled. His mind was flooded with English and French and German. He struggled to find words in Russian.

  The woman stood as if she was frozen to the spot. Her dress was blue with small yellow flowers on it. He felt like a child; his tongue was slow and awkward in his dry mouth.

  "Vitalia. What a beautiful dress."

  She did not answer and for one ghastly second he thought he had made a mistake—that his deepest dread, the darkest nightmare he had been able to conjure, had come true. Then he felt rather than saw her move towards him. His heart pounded in his chest and his vision clouded. Years of pain and anguish seemed to be erased as he felt her fingers on his face.

  "Carl," she said. "Oh, darling. Oh, my love. Oh, Carl."

  21

  Carl and Vitalia did not leave her room for three days. They scarcely slept. When Carl removed his coat, Vitalia held her nose. She put him in a bath and washed him thoroughly. She touched every inch of his skin and his body seemed to come to life under her touch. They talked and she led him to her bed where they made love for the first time. The final spasm shook him and produced a deep, searing cough. Vitalia held him in her strong arms like a child.

  "Oh, God," she said. "What is that?"

  "My lungs. I think they are damaged."

  "You must see a doctor."

  "Yes." He smiled in the semi-darkness, and she felt the movement of his face.

  "What?"

  "It was wonderful. I dreamed it ten thousand times, but it was better. I'm sorry if I was clumsy."

  She clutched him. "You weren't clumsy. You are so thin, it's exciting. Rudi . . ."

  Carl freed himself from her arms and pulled her close so that her head was on his shoulder. He stroked her thick brown hair. "You have had other lovers, I know that. I even know the names of two of them. It doesn't matter as long as you are mine again now."

  "I am. But how could you possibly know?"

  "The gypsies told me. The gypsies who travel to . . . that place. I can speak their language a little. I talked to them. I helped them with some of their problems and they helped me. They found you for me, they told me what you were doing. Not everything, just some things. I always knew you were alive, that was the main thing. Sometimes I would hear nothing for two years."

  She had stiffened. "You could have got a message to me. I thought you were dead."

  "I was dead. I didn't want you to wait for me. I wanted you to be happy. I was jealous when I heard of your lovers, but I was happy for you."

  "Carl, darling . . ."

  "I'm not a saint, Vitalia. I thought of it often, but it would have been madness to send you a message. If it had been intercepted you would have been in trouble. You could have been sent to the same sort of . . . place."

  They were silent under the blankets for a while. She kissed him gently and stroked him. He responded, and they made love again, and Carl did not cough. Vitalia brought tea back to the bed; Carl rested and watched her plait her hair. She wound the thick braids around her head.

  "They cut it off," she said.

  Carl kissed her large soft breasts. She dabbled her finger in the sugary dregs of her tea and wet her nipples. He sucked them and they kissed and cried a little.

  "It was four years before the gypsies found you," Carl said.

  "Tell me what happened."

  The anti-Jewish, anti-Trotskyite purge that had swept Carl up had also touched Vitalia. As the illegitimate daughter of a displaced Jewess of doubtful political background, Vitalia was vulnerable to the paranoic wave that swept through the Soviet bureaucracies in the 1930s. Administrators vied with each other in hunting out individuals whose backgrounds seemed not to fit the Stalin-approved model of the loyal, suffering Russian. Vitalia's interest in 'foreign literature' was suspect; her university career appeared to be frivolous; she was not a diligent student; she was not deserving of a scholarship.

  Her double misfortune was the association with General Udanov. The hero of Odessa had fornicated in the same bed as White Russian officers; he had protected a Jewish whore and constantly failed to suppress black marketeering and smuggling in the districts he had controlled. He had pardoned young deserters, approved pensions to malingerers and arranged uncomfortable postings for officers whose zeal in the pursuit of the goals of General Secretary of the Communist Party Joseph Stalin exceeded his own. Fat, contented, easygoing General Udanov fell rapidly when the time was right for his enemies to denounce him, and in falling he took Vitalia with him.

  "It was nothing to do with you, darling," Vitalia said. "Nothing to do with yo
ur teaching."

  "I had scarcely started," Carl said. "How many classes had we? Three, four?"

  Vitalia smiled. "I don't remember a thing about them. Only that we were in love."

  Carl massaged the place at the side of his hand where the finger was missing. It hurt him sometimes. "I've done some teaching since. I'm not a bad teacher. But what did you do after you left the university? You said they cut your hair. Were you in prison?"

  She nodded. "Just for a few months. That was when I lost my hair. I think they feared to keep us in gaol. There were so many, as if half the university population was imprisoned. We had some wonderful talks."

  Carl nodded. "Yes, I know. We . . . yes, something like that."

  "General Udanov was shot. His wife too, I think. But they let me go. I was not allowed to go on with my studies. I was sick for some time. I could not find out anything about you. They wiped the slate."

  Carl nodded. "They would. A foreigner, a Jew . . ."

  Vitalia's eyes opened. Carl nodded. "My mother. I knew nothing about it until I was an adult. My mother died when I was young. She was small and fair." He looked at the dark-eyed, dark-haired woman beside him in the bed. He smiled. "Jews are as different as horses, apparently. Go on, my love."

  "When I got better, everything had changed. I had nowhere to live, no work, no money. I had some bits and pieces of my mother's jewellery and I sold them. That kept me alive for a while. Then I got a job at the university library."

  Carl looked surprised.

  "Cleaning," Vitalia said. "Just cleaning. I was useful because I knew how a library worked. I could tell the difference between the books the students brought in to the library and forgot and the ones that belonged there. I knew what was scrap paper and what was important. I could put books back where they belonged, and after a while I stopped cleaning and did other jobs, like repairing and rearranging shelves and sections."

  Carl nestled against her as she spoke. He realised that he was warm, truly warm in body and mind for the first time in many years.

  Vitalia's usefulness had acted as a counter to the disfavour that attended her. She graduated to classifying books and eventually to accessioning them, and then into other branches of library work. She was paid the minimum possible, which meant that she was often hungry.

  "During the war was the worst. The university closed several times and there was no work."

  "What did you do?"

  She shrugged. "Starved, sometimes. People were kind. We shared, we stole. We went with the soldiers in return for food. We didn't care. We thought the Germans would come and kill us all. What did it matter?"

  After the war, Vitalia returned to the library and the same work. She had no qualifications, and all avenues to get them were closed to her. She had her wages and no security.

  "But I was able to read, Carl. Anything I wanted. I read all the authors you had mentioned in our classes—Dickens, Balzac, Scott, Conrad, all of them."

  Carl smiled. "I know. The gypsies called you 'the lady with the books'. They told me that you were never without a book. I was glad of that."

  Vitalia eased herself down in the bed and pressed against him. "You looked so frightened when I opened the door."

  "The last report I had was ten months ago. I didn't know that you would still be here."

  "What else did the gypsies tell you about me?"

  About the men—I mentioned that. Do you remember an old woman coming to see you when you were ill one winter? I think it was 1951."

  "Yes. She cured me."

  "A gypsy woman. It was arranged."

  Vitalia kissed him. "So you were watching over me. I knew you were a wonderful man the first time I saw you. Do you remember, darling? In the courtyard?"

  "Yes."

  "That is enough about me," Vitalia whispered. "You must tell me about yourself, my poor wonderful man."

  But Carl was asleep.

  Four months later Carl received an official letter noting his request to be repatriated to Great Britain along with his wife, Vitalia Kylenka. The letter said that the matter was under consideration and would receive attention in due course.

  "It could take years," Vitalia said.

  Carl shrugged. "A few more. After so many, what difference does it make?"

  They were living in Vitalia's room, which had given her slightly less than the official housing space allowance of nine square metres per person, and they were happy. For Carl the physical freedom was a luxury. Money was short, since Vitalia's wages had to feed both of them. She ate less but more healthily as she tried to build up her husband's strength. They went for long walks through the city, often for pleasure, sometimes in search of shorter queues for better food. Vitalia lost weight and looked more beautiful.

  They both read, sometimes went to the cinema and continued to make love every night. Carl was disturbed at his dependence on Vitalia, but his political record would have made it difficult for him to work, even if suitable work had been available. His health was uncertain. He applied to the State Publishing House for a position as translator and received no reply. He considered writing to England or Australia for assistance.

  "To whom?" Vitalia asked.

  "I had a rich uncle in England, I think. I had a sister and two, no, three brothers."

  Vitalia was knitting. Her hands stopped as she looked at him. "You are not sure how many brothers you had?"

  He told her the story of the voyage on the Southern Maid. His memory was excellent. He could recall the face and kindness of Dr Anderson. "He would be dead by now. They might all be dead."

  "Idiot! The baby brother would be only a few years older than me."

  "I don't even know his name," Carl said.

  Vitalia resumed her knitting. "It would be no good anyway. Your letters would never leave Russia."

  Carl smiled. "Oh, I could get letters out."

  "How?"

  "The gypsies. They can do marvellous things. And they'll be here soon. You can meet them. There'll certainly be a party."

  The gypsies came at Christmas. It was the safest and best time for them in the city. Food was in better supply and people were willing to buy the trinkets and craft goods the gypsies had to sell. Around Christmas the militia and other authorities were most lenient and people generally were more tolerant than usual. A note was handed to Carl one day when he was buying bread. A note and a few quick, whispered Romany words, that was all.

  That night Carl showed Vitalia the note.

  "It means nothing to me," she said. "What language is that?" She pointed to a collection of pencilled marks on the paper.

  "It's not a language at all. This is a map. Look, this means bridge, these marks indicate distances and turnings to left and right. Only a gypsy or someone who has been taught by them can understand it. It would mean nothing to the police or the KGB."

  "Don't be too sure," Vitalia said. "The KGB have people everywhere. I am sure they are in the library."

  In a few short years the Komitet Gosudarestennoi Bezopasnosti had become a known and feared element in Russian life. Carl shook his head. "Not the gypsies," he said.

  Mere mention of the secret police sobered them for the rest of the evening, but the next day Carl was making plans. "We'll have to dress warmly and take blankets."

  "How long will the party last?"

  Carl inspected the note. "Two nights."

  "I can get money for that," Vitalia said. She knew of at least three sets of young lovers who would pay for the use of her room.

  "I know," Carl said. "And with the money we can get the only thing well need to take to the party."

  Vitalia raised her eyebrows.

  "Brandy," Carl said. "Two bottles."

  The party was held in an abandoned warehouse on the western edge of the city. The area was marked for redevelopment and the authorities tolerated the temporary presence of the gypsies, who would burn a lot of crumbling, splintered wood, clear away and stack rubbish and leave the area cleaner than the
y found it. On Christmas Eve Carl and Vitalia travelled by train and then walked for nearly a mile, burdened by the blankets, some food and the bottles that had been carefully wrapped to prevent clinking. A couple walking at night through this part of the city with clinking bottles would not be safe.

  The warehouse was a huge burned-out shell. They skirted around it and saw more than fifty wagons arranged in a wide semicircle around several large fires. The wagons were hung with lanterns. They could hear music—strange warbling notes from a fiddle and quick, surging phrases from a button accordion. The night was still and cold with a promise of snow.

  "Smell the food," Vitalia said. "They're roasting meat. How do they get it?"

  Carl smiled. "They steal it. It's the perfect crime. You steal and then you eat the evidence. The dogs eat the bones."

  As he spoke a pack of thin dogs came yapping towards them. Carl uttered a couple of quick sibilant words and the dogs were silent. A tall man loomed up out of the shadows.

  "Hello, brother," the man said. "I've been watching for you."

  Vitalia watched in surprise as Carl, who rarely showed emotion except at intimate moments with her, reached out both arms towards the man. The two embraced; Carl's head fitted under the man's chin.

  "Isadore," Carl said. "It's good to see you." He hugged the man hard and then stepped back. "Isadore, this is my wife. I think you know her."

  Vitalia looked at the huge man; his beard grew almost to his eyes and bristled out above his scarf and coat collar. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I . . ."

  "Isadore Laza, Madame Bystryi." The giant extended his hand. "I am happy to have been of service." He gripped Vitalia's hand with his right and lifted the bag free of her shoulder with his left. He shook the bag. "As I thought, brother, as I told you—books."