Field of Mars

by Stephen Miller

  And then Vera broke through the ring of ‘jurors’, to lift the cat into her arms, hooking a finger under the loop of string they had scrounged to make the noose.

  ‘Bastards! Filthy bastards!’ Groans from some of them, thinking it had all been a set-up, part of one of Khulchaev’s elaborately choreographed dramas. A man sitting there reached up to take the cat away from her. For an awful moment Tika fell back, still knotted in the string, but Vera slapped at the man, knocked his ugly, thick hands away from her, grabbed the cat back up again and this time got the string untangled.

  ‘Hey, damn it!’ The man was trying to stand up now, drunk. Angry that a woman had come between him and his enjoyment.

  She reached out, found one of the empties and smashed the bottle down on the man’s head, breaking it off so that there was only the sharp neck in her hand. Turning now to Khulchaev who had managed to stagger to his feet, not laughing now.

  ‘Please, Dmitri, just give me an excuse,’ she said, poised to plunge the glass into his face. And then she was pushing her way through the crowd as the wave of protest and applause erupted, filling the club behind her.

  ‘A miracle! A miracle!’ someone was shouting behind her as she made it to the doors, moving fast so they wouldn’t see her tears, dropping the broken bottle-neck on the bar as she crashed outside.

  She was talking to the cat as she walked down the street, reprimanding it, giving it advice. Telling it to behave and whatever happened, to never, never go back there again. And then, at the end of the street, with nothing else to do, and no real plan in mind, she knelt and tossed the cat into an alley. Watched her skitter away, knowing Tika was just as big a fool as the people gathered at the club, and that no matter what miracles occurred, she would always find her way home.

  Ahead of her, at the intersection of Sadovaya Street, was a parade. Drums were crashing, music was playing and men and women were waving little flags of France and Russia. Everything was a sea of music and colour.

  There were women there at the edge of the crowd. For a moment she thought they were nuns. Their heads were covered in immaculate white kerchiefs, their aprons were spotless. Across their breasts had been stitched perfect red crosses.

  They were handing out leaflets to anyone who passed by.

  Vera walked closer and closer to the women. One of them smiled at her and said something, words that were drowned out by a blare of trumpets. There was a sharp crackle of hooves on cobbles as a shining regiment of hussars passed them. The girl looked up at her, reached out with a leaflet. She was young, with clear skin and dark eyes.

  Vera leaned closer so she could hear.

  They would be needing nurses, the girl shouted over the music. They would need plenty of nurses, to care for all the brave young men who would be wounded in the war.

  They would need lots of nurses, the girl said, and pressed the leaflet into her hand.

  It was something a woman could do.

  FORTY-NINE

  Once Vera had told him, it all made sense, made things suddenly urgent, made things turn upon themselves in accord with greater forces; the Sun, the Moon, the direction and force of the winds, the tides.

  He limped across the city while everyone enjoyed the summer evening. Peaceful. The sound of music, laughter, conversations floating from the windows. As he went, he worked out which tram to take across the Neva, seeking the most crowded stations where he would be most likely to avoid detection, the safest connections that would carry him all the way to the top of Krestovsky Island and the marina where Andrianov tied up his yacht.

  Finally, it was a single detail in one of the photographs that undid Andrianov, a detail he’d remembered from the annuals of the Imperial Yacht Club.

  The book was formal, expensively produced, distributed gratis to the members of the club; a chronicle of race results, noted speakers, statistics, and posed photographs of the officers and members. But amateur photography was very much in vogue among those who could afford it, and the final section of the book had been given over to casual photographs. He had been following Gulka’s rise, letting his eyes roam through the pictures, noting the décor in his old academy office—a posed photograph meant to depict the distinguished military academic. Gulka pretending to be looking at some papers, securely surrounded by his books, his maps, and—the ship models, their hulls intricately carved. And Ryzhkov remembering—because it had never quite fitted—the crossed oars of the rowing club, the nautical fascination, the strong attraction for the water, so unusual for an army man.

  And then he had seen Andrianov in another annual, with Gulka and Evdaev beside him, all of them posed on Andrianov’s new 6-metre Firebird. At the next stop there was confirmation: a woman was reading a newspaper as they rocked along the Prospekt, she turned her pages and he saw the announcement of tomorrow’s regatta to escort Poincaré and the France out of the city.

  By the time he got to the Krestovsky Gardens he was the last person on the tram, and when he got off the car he kept his head down, his elbow tight to his side to hide the gun, and tried not to limp.

  On some ordinary occasion it would be a pleasant walk through the little resort community that had grown up along the narrow arm of the river. He walked slowly and tried to loosen his ankle. Each step brought a sharp pain and a misstep nearly sent him to his knees. Vera, as usual, had been right. In a fight he would be hopeless, running away would be suicidal.

  So, he moved cautiously, sitting down, taking his time, thinking about how it would be. Meandering towards the river—the Nevka it was called, to distinguish it from its huge parent to the south. He had all night to get to the dock, and thinking that he would be more likely to meet a gendarme along the embankment, he cut through the unpaved streets, walked down the back lanes until he found a path that led more or less in the direction of the yacht club.

  There was a wide creek that cut across the island. You could row along there. It was a popular diversion for lovers, with dark little overhangs where one could tether the boat for an afternoon. The creek was too deep to cross without swimming and so he turned and kept to the bank, heading towards the river, until he came through the brambles and saw a footbridge that paralleled the road that led to the yacht club.

  It was a magical walk, like something a character would take in a fairy story, the white light streaking through the trees in rippling threads of silver. Each step down the path sent animals scurrying away from his approach, little rustlings in the flowers and shrubbery, skitterings in the canopy above him.

  It seemed entirely appropriate that animals would flee as he strolled along. Yes, run away, he said to himself. Run away fast, because here comes a man carrying death.

  He tried to think about exactly what he would do at the docks. How hard it would be to find Andrianov, if there was a guard or a watchman he might have to avoid, or if there was even a way to postpone it all and wait for a better chance. Or if he might have to track Andrianov across Europe and on to a liner for America. It all swirled through his mind, but somehow on the eve of this last fatal act he really couldn’t concentrate as he walked along the long swath cut out beneath the trees. There were puddles that reflected the silver light, a breeze stirred above him and made the leaves like mirrors. It was as if he were shedding a skin and with it his thoughts were sloughing away into the white night. Perhaps I died in Sarajevo, he thought. Perhaps this is another world.

  At the edge of the forest he paused, stood there and fanned himself with his hat, tried to look as much as possible like a birdwatcher who’d forgotten his binoculars, or an artist who had left his easel at home. He moved along the bank, towards the mouth of the river. The ground was wet there, and marshy. He moved into the bushes and waited out of sight. Loitering was dangerous and he thought he would only get one approach to Andrianov’s boat. He leaned back against the trees, checked the gun. In the white night everything was illuminated in a flat silvery glow. He waited there in the bushes until after midnight and then he stood and tested
his weight on the ankle before he started off towards the boathouses at the edge of the docks.

  Going off the paths was too painful, his foot would turn over in the mud, and it was implausible. The thing to do was to fit in. There would be a watchman, maybe more than one.

  He took off his jacket, and put it over his shoulder. He came to a shed and looked around until he found something that he could carry along the docks, to make it look like he had some purpose other than death. He found a canvas bag and a coil of rope, looped the rope over his shoulder and walked around the corner of the little building. He carried the bag along, both his arms wrapped around it, holding it up to his chest, trying to act like it was heavier than it was, stopping to adjust the rope, the jacket, looking around, always looking.

  When he saw it, the yacht looked just like the photographs he’d studied in the club annual for 1913; low-slung, fine lines, a modern design with an undercut transom. Small enough to be crewed solo, large enough to sleep four on an overnight excursion.

  Firebird.

  He stopped for a moment, put the bag down. Turned away and looked down the marshy river, the Nevka gleaming in the flat light, a long view all the way across to the point of Yelagin Island, and the Finnish coast beyond.

  He felt for the gun beneath his shirt, stood and took a short hard breath, turned and picked up his props, then continued down a gangway on to a narrow floating dock where the yacht was moored. He heard a noise, a kind of hissing and then saw a tendril of smoke coming from the galley chimney, took another few steps and then he could smell Andrianov making his breakfast.

  When he got to the yacht he set the bag down, as if it had been a gruelling task. Taking the time to look at all the other boats, most of which were smaller, perhaps with no facilities for sleeping aboard. He saw no more smoke, heard no other noises. Stood up, stretched and gave an exaggerated yawn and scratched his neck while he scanned the boathouse at the top of the pier. No one.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol and stepped on to the deck. ‘Excuse me?’ he called out in a stage whisper, at the entrance to the cabin. ‘Excuse me, excellency?’ sounding as much as he could like a man who was lost, a man who was worried, scared that there might be some irregularity, afraid to make a noise, a busy-body who perhaps had seen the smoke and worried if it was breakfast being cooked or was the immaculate Firebird actually on fire?

  He could feel him moving inside the boat, fiddling with the catch on the bottom of the hatch and pulling it open, starting to say, with a touch of anger, a touch of gruffness in the voice, ‘Yes, what is it?’ but instead, opening the hatch to see the dark little hole in the end of the pistol, the brusque enquiry stopping in his throat, the eyes travelling up to see who was holding the gun, the beginnings of a frown, and then the moment of recognition when he remembered the face on the handbills.

  ‘Ahh …’ was all Andrianov said, stepping back now, a spatula in his hand.

  Quickly, before he could slam the hatch, Ryzhkov stepped down into the cabin, sat at the top of the stairs on the narrow threshold, levelled the gun at Andrianov’s chest. He was still standing there with the spatula in his hand, looking empty.

  ‘You’d better do something with your eggs,’ Ryzhkov said. Andrianov blinked and looked towards the tiny stove. Reached out and turned the eggs over. Stared at them for a moment. The smell was making Ryzhkov hungry. There were two sausages on a plate.

  ‘Put those in too,’ he said, and Andrianov looked at him for a moment and then did it.

  ‘Is there anyone else here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, get dressed. Hurry up.’ Andrianov stood blankly for another moment and then put the spatula down on the edge of the skillet, turned and began to walk toward the narrow bow of the boat. There was a triangular bed built in there. Fine wood panelling, polished brass fittings, shelves tucked into every available space. Even a little ikon in the corner. Andrianov unlatched a cupboard and took his jacket off a hanger.

  ‘No, not that,’ Ryzhkov said. ‘Something else. Not so formal, something so you look like everybody else.’ Andrianov had to think about it for a moment. He closed the door and started towards Ryzhkov. Stopped, looked up at him with his eagle’s eyes, a little anger coming out of him, habitually not used to having someone standing in his way.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he finally said, and Ryzhkov stepped back to let him pass. Andrianov pulled out a set of raingear, thick canvas trousers and a jacket that had been treated with rubber, held it out.

  ‘That’s good enough. Give it to me, first.’ He took the clothes one at a time and went through the pockets looking for a knife. Handed them back. Andrianov paused for a moment and then opened his robe, turned slightly, letting Ryzhkov see his nakedness, the flat belly, the spray of fair hair across his chest and around his penis, shrunk now with fear and the morning chill.

  ‘You’d better turn that cooker off,’ Ryzhkov said, once Andrianov had put his jacket on.

  ‘I have money … if you want money. I can get you out. We can get out today, we can sail out and …’ Andrianov turned from the stove and looked at Ryzhkov, shrugged.

  ‘Money? How much?’ Ryzhkov said, wondering how far Andrianov would go, wondering if he would bargain for his life or just cough everything up at once. Watched his eyes flick towards the drawers behind the chart table.

  ‘There’s maybe ten thousand roubles here, on board—’ and thinking that it wasn’t enough to buy his life back, Andrianov blurted, ‘—but we could get more! We could go to a bank.’ As if Ryzhkov had never heard of that peculiar institution.

  ‘I thought you’d sold everything. I thought you were running away?’ he said, and when Andrianov stood there, saying nothing— ‘All right get it then,’ he said, and watched while Andrianov got down on his hands and knees and reached up under the galley sink. ‘Slowly …’ Ryzhkov said, pushing the muzzle down so that it was inches from Andrianov’s face.

  ‘Yes … here. Take it. I can easily get more, if you—’ Then stopped when Ryzhkov shook his head.

  ‘Do you have a fork?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Andrianov pushed himself back up and got him a fork.

  He took the money, reached over into the pan and started eating the sausages. ‘Finish with your boots, we’re leaving,’ he said between bites, and pointed with the gun towards the hatch.

  They walked along the dock, Andrianov in front and Ryzhkov quietly steering him towards the boathouses. It was bright now, the gulls were swooping above them. They walked along a muddy path that led out toward the marshes at the end of Krestovsky.

  ‘You can’t escape, you know. Everyone has your photograph, at the border, at the stations. You should listen to reason,’ he heard Andrianov say to him over his shoulder. And a few moments later, ‘You should be practical.’

  A few metres later he tried again, ‘I have people, later they’re meeting me, they’ll see I’ve gone missing.’ His voice floated back to Ryzhkov. It seemed like Andrianov

  was walking faster, trying to get some space between them, thinking about making a break for it. Ryzhkov, right behind him, could see him looking from side to side. Maybe he thought a magic door would appear that he could walk through.

  ‘No, you don’t. You don’t have people, you don’t have anyone,’ he said and they walked along a little further.

  There was a low buzzing sound, the sound of an engine growing louder and they both turned to watch an aeroplane with floats attached to its landing gear, take off from the river. Speeding along with its pontoons slapping on the water, lifting into the sky just opposite them, the fragile wings carrying it steadily higher, banking in a long gradual turn that would take it over Kronstadt.

  ‘That’s Sikorsky,’ Andrianov said and looked back and smiled. ‘Now there’s a real hero, eh?’ His eyes were full of admiration.

  ‘Keep going,’ Ryzhkov said and pushed him on the shoulder with hi
s free hand.

  ‘You think you know everything,’ Andrianov said after a few paces. His voice was sullen. The anger was starting to well up; any minute now he’d run, Ryzhkov thought.

  ‘I know enough.’

  Andrianov laughed at that, shook his head. ‘You know nothing. People like you. Pansies like Fauré, people that think they’re patriots. People that believe that because they’ve become vegetarians they have ideals.’

  ‘I know that you’ve started a war. I know you did it to get rich.’

  ‘You think that’s it?’ Andrianov lifted his hands like a criminal who had been arrested for breaking a shop window. ‘Everything I’ve done has been for Russia, but of course you’re so caught up in your own notions of what it means to love your country—’

  ‘You’re saying you did it for Russia?’

  ‘Of course. Look at us, limping along into the twentieth century with a Tsar like Nicholas? He thinks he’s an autocrat? He’d choke if he ever met an autocrat. Don’t make me laugh. People like you can’t see the future … Money? I’m insulted.’ He turned around so that he was walking backwards. Andrianov’s face was clear, handsome and perfect, his chin held high, a slight smile. ‘What are you going to do, shoot me?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Because of a little girl, a little girl named Katya. That’s enough of a reason, isn’t it?’

  Andrianov’s expression suddenly changed, he looked at him blankly, the beginnings of a frown. ‘What?’ he said. His voice was weak, lost.

  ‘Just a little girl. A little vertika. Ekatarina was her name. Say it.’

  ‘I … don’t know what you’re talking about—’

  ‘Say it,’ Ryzhkov said. He was getting angry now, coldly furious and he tried to tamp it down, tried to regain control. They hadn’t got far enough out on to the marsh yet. ‘Say her name …’ he growled raising the pistol so that it pointed to the bridge of Andrianov’s aristocratic nose.

  ‘Ekat-Ekatarina … Look here, I don’t understand—’ ‘Just someone you used and threw away, just a little angel that fell to earth one night, remember?’