Dusk in Kalevia

by Emily Compton

  “Absent for lack of proper attire,” said Agent Chernyshev, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Demerits all around.”

  Valonen handed Kaija a guard uniform. She held up the jacket against her chest. It would fit well.

  “Get changed,” Valonen said. “And we can go find Vesa.”

  **

  This day is probably the worst yet, thought Vesa.

  Whenever he thought his life had hit its absolute nadir, the universe was just full of clever surprises. His low point hadn’t been, in fact, the day he’d been dragged from a bullet-riddled car and seen his driver’s bloodied corpse, nor when he’d been bound hand and foot and tossed in a hole in the ground. Vesa had assumed seeing the first girl he’d ever loved fleeing wounded into the woods to die was as bad as it could possibly get, but somehow, this was worse. This holiday was worse. It was as if his grim reality hadn’t actually settled upon him until faced with a country that expected him to be happy.

  Ever since his rescue, people had been handling him delicately--even his notoriously imperceptive father walked on eggshells, making solicitous inquiries into Vesa’s mental state, speaking carefully as though one wrong word would shatter his fragile son. Vesa found this behavior both mortifying and infuriating, and it was perhaps the main reason he had barely left his room for the past week. When the doctors had examined him for injury, the bearded Czechoslovakian psychologist had explained that he must be watched for signs of trauma.

  Even the Minister of State Security had visited Vesa, conferring with the psychologist in the hallway before entering his room.

  Vesa had wedged himself more firmly in the window ledge and stared at the ravens communing on the tiled roof of the mews below.

  “I thought you should know,” Kuoppala had said. “Your father signed the order this morning. Our agents will leave no stone unturned until they’re found--every last one of the traitors who did this to you. You’re safe now.”

  Vesa had politely asked the man to leave.

  Now it was Punaiset Day--the day of Red Celebration, the holiday that commemorated the victory of the Kalevian Communist forces during the civil war. Plenty of parallels had been drawn between Vesa’s rescue and the battle that had vanquished the Whites during the day’s endless, self-congratulatory patriotism. Look at Vesa, the youthful future of the country, the pride and joy of Socialism, snatched from the jaws of the western menace! Look at him, listlessly picking at his salad course, bored by the inane questions of the Estonian Trade Minister’s wife! Watch as he drags his feet to the car, his father trying to get him to wave to the newspaper photographer, glowing with youthful enthusiasm or the wretched cold as he files slowly into the Palace of Culture, its massive portico festooned with red and yellow banners he pointedly ignores!

  He knew he was supposed to be relieved about his rescue, or at least back to the stability he’d known before it, but it was all he could do to not run back to his room and draw the covers up over his head. He was cracking--he had to be.

  Perhaps Dr. Zahradnik was right, and his poor, traumatized brain was now in the habit of inventing delusions for him to enjoy. How else could he explain the fact that his bodyguard, whom his faulty memory swore had been shot to death, still lived and watched him like a hawk?

  Or how, that morning, for a split second he’d thought he’d seen Kaija standing in the doorway to his room, heard her low voice call his name? He’d run frantically into the hall only to find the ruins of a dessert tray on the floor and the stairwell door slamming shut in the wake of a clumsy housekeeper, scurrying off in shame to fetch cleaning supplies.

  As Vesa climbed the stone steps of the Palace of Culture behind his father, on their way for the man to deliver his traditional Punaiset speech, he fell deeper into despair. Yes, Vesa thought, passing through the entrance to the great building’s auditorium. By this point, I’m probably more than halfway crazy.

  His father was escorted to his proper place at the podium, and Vesa was mercifully left alone to take his seat. Uniformed guardsmen filed in and lined up against the wall. There was his bodyguard, Chernyshev, tall and graceful in his dress uniform. Vesa saw him go up to another guard and whisper to him, and they glanced in his direction.

  The evidence that he was being talked about rankled Vesa. He had enjoyed somehow avoiding Chernyshev’s baleful presence for the entire afternoon, his scarcity a welcome respite in this otherwise deplorable day. But now there he was, ready to resume his job as Vesa’s shadow, far too neat and commanding for a man murdered with a submachine gun.

  Vesa glared at them, and hoped that their commanding officer was watching. Get back in line, he thought.

  Another guard tugged at Chernyshev’s sleeve. That guy looks kind of like Mika, Vesa thought idly, although he’d thought the man had a different job these days. His eyes slid down the line...and he recoiled in freezing horror.

  The next man in uniform wore Kaija’s face.

  Vesa clamped a hand to his mouth to hold back the rush of acid and fled.

  **

  Toivo lined up against the wall with the others, stiff-shouldered, camouflage deployed in full. Mika and Kaija stood on either side of him, both of them preoccupied by moody, vague thoughts concerning the Chairman’s son.

  Beneath the holiday pomp and circumstance, a tension hung thick in the air. Toivo could feel the oncoming squall like a low-pressure front in his bones.

  When the Forest Clan had lost their war in the forest, Toivo had thought everything would change--since his entire persona had seemingly been crafted to avert the partisans’ defeat. But no, that storm had broken, and yet he and his opposite still lived.

  Which meant that the conflict that had spawned Demyan and himself wasn’t over. The true climax of the fight was yet to come, and come soon.

  They had spent the past week searching for answers--Demyan using the portal door from State Security to bring armloads of files for Toivo to sit on the couch and pore over, the two of them cohabiting Demyan’s apartment in a strange, stressful partnership. They found no clues as to why they continued to exist in Kalevia, the only release to be found in each other’s arms.

  One clear night following the blizzard, Demyan had suggested they try the stars. Hours before dawn, he had driven them far enough away to escape the orange haze of Vainola’s lights, pulled off on an access road, and trudged halfway out into a field to stare upward until he shivered with cold. Toivo had stayed in the car, keeping the engine running so it didn’t freeze; the stargazing invitation had sounded more inviting when whispered in the snug comfort of a bed. When Demyan had finally returned to the car to push Toivo down in the chilly velvet of the passenger seat and warm his hands against the skin of Toivo’s sides, he hadn’t said much, but even without the empathetic link, Toivo could tell he wasn’t happy with what the sky had said.

  Now, at least, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. Kaija had been found, Vesa was still here--Toivo saw him sitting forlornly in the front of the auditorium among middle-aged politicians--and their suspicions had been confirmed: Kuoppala had his hooks buried deep into a conspiracy. Whatever Kuoppala’s plot was, Toivo felt sure that it had been the initial impetus for his manifestation on earth...and in Kalevia.

  “Seen the Hawk yet?” Demyan suddenly stood before him, his dress uniform blending in with all the others, preceded by the small creep of cold that traveled up Toivo’s spine in the moment before his appearance.

  “No.” Toivo shook his head, dropping his voice to a whisper and using their pre-determined codenames. “Spruce is up front, though.”

  Demyan peered briefly over his shoulder, and frowned. Vesa had turned around in his seat and was staring at them with evident disgust. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much,” remarked Toivo.

  “You think?”

  “Is it me?” Mika asked. “Tell me, what if...” He trailed off, the anxiety radiating off his sturdy frame.

  “Quiet,” Kaija admonished. Mika shut
his mouth.

  Toivo could sense a degree of expected discomfort in her thoughts, but Kaija seemed calm. Although the sharp glimpses of memory she betrayed to Toivo were vivid enough to hurt, the stifling regret hanging over her at their last meeting had been swept away, replaced by a single-minded focus.

  She’s been at the edge, Toivo thought, just as I have. She’s looked into the darkness and come back.

  Kaija was looking past him, so Toivo followed her eyes. She stared at an unassuming man in a dark suit, his only remarkable feature a scar running across his upper face.

  Toivo gave a start. He knew that man. Toivo had last seen him in the forest, surrounded by other members of the Forest Clan.

  “Look.” Kaija jabbed her chin in the scarred man’s direction.

  “I’ve seen him before, at State Security.” Demyan glared.

  Toivo raised his eyebrows. “I think we’ve found our common factor.”

  At that moment, Vesa sprang from his seat.

  “Shit, there he goes.”

  “Don’t lose him,” Demyan growled. “We’ll deal with Hawk and Scar after.”

  It was too late, however. By the time they broke ranks and reached the echoing lobby, Vesa had already been absorbed by the black woolen mob still filtering through the auditorium doors.

  **

  Vesa finished throwing up in the lavatory. He stared into the mirror, contemplating how starkly his freckles stood out against the sallow skin, until he finally began to feel stable again.

  I should...get back to my seat. He was in the front row, and they’d be missing him soon; the speech was about to start.

  He washed his face in the marble sink, the cold shock of the water painfully bracing, and walked out into the carpeted hall, the plush eating his footfalls. He decided he could bear it. He’d probably stop seeing things eventually. Maybe. Or...

  As Vesa passed the door to the stage, he heard the orchestra strike the first rousing chord of the national anthem. He froze as hundreds of voices rose up as one:

  Long live Kalevia, our motherland

  Our crimson flag flying/Together we stand

  The land of the people/United through labor

  Lenin to guide us/Our shield and our saber

  Vesa had missed his window of opportunity--there was no way he could make it to his seat now. He pictured himself walking down the aisle toward the front row, heads surreptitiously turning toward him, the eyes of the multitudes burning the back of his neck. He would be forgiven, he reasoned as he opened the stage door, for electing to watch the proceedings from the wings. He picked his way through the half-lit backstage, slipping on pages of abandoned sheet music, until a nearby voice under the music suddenly startled him.

  “It’s done?”

  Vesa looked up to see Kuoppala, standing by an urn of fake flowers, glaring intensely at a man half-concealed by the fold of the curtain. Vesa immediately dropped to his knees behind a rack of folding chairs, hoping desperately that they hadn’t noticed him. Kuoppala ranked relatively low on the list of people he could deal with at the moment.

  “I planted it.” The other man seemed to glance around nervously, his face hidden by a swath of shadow. “Surely...”

  “Show me.”

  “We don’t have much time, we gotta...”

  “Listen. I said I want to see it.” Kuoppala reached out and grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt, hauling him into the rich blue-and-red cast of the stage lights, and Vesa had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out.

  Perhaps his mind had decided to continue its wanton cruelty, but there was no mistaking that face. That scar had been burned into his memory as one of the first things he’d seen as the sack was pulled from his head in the underground bunker. Vesa shuddered.

  The scarred double agent finally nodded and beckoned Kuoppala to follow. It only took a moment for Vesa’s curiosity to overwhelm his fear. Something was very wrong here.

  He slunk out the door and followed the path of the two men, flattening himself against the wall and hiding around corners until they disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs. Vesa stood in the hall for a moment, feeling his heart pulsing through his skin, and walked over to the door marked Tower Access. He could hear the faint applause from the theater following his father’s opening remarks, and the commencement of what would surely be described in the papers as a rousing ode to the nation.

  A voice called his name. Vesa turned with dismay to see his bodyguard sprinting down the hallway, followed by two other guards.

  They’d noticed him abandon the speech. Vesa was through the door and halfway up the stairs to Kuoppala before he had time to second-guess his choice.

  **

  They had checked all the lobbies, restrooms, and opera boxes, and Toivo was growing dismayed. Had they missed their one and vital chance? Was Vesa already...?

  “There!” Kaija pointed down the hallway. There Vesa stood, staring at a doorway with a conflicted expression on his face.

  Demyan arrested Mika’s flight by grabbing the arm of his jacket. “Go report to the guard,” Demyan ordered. “Tell them there’s a situation. Whatever happens, keep it quiet--last thing we need now is a panic.”

  Mika nodded brusquely. Toivo knew that despite his sober expression, his stomach was tying itself in knots at the idea of suddenly appearing among the ranks of men he’d been so recently exiled from.

  It’s okay, Toivo reassured him silently.

  They trusted him. They always had--his good-natured loyalty had earned him their respect back when they’d all been cadets together. They’d understand.

  “Say it’s a matter of State Security and that Chernyshev sent you. They’d better listen.” Demyan gave him a blistering stare. Mika obeyed, and Toivo and Demyan rushed to overtake Kaija as she barreled down the hall on a wounded leg.

  “Vesa!” Demyan shouted.

  Toivo wasn’t sure if it was because Vesa recognized them or because he didn’t, but in the split second after he turned to them, he flashed the sort of agitation usually reserved for vicious strays and vanished through the door.

  They hurried up the narrow switchbacks of the stairwell to follow. Toivo could hear the boy ahead of them, running sloppily and panicked--as the girl had done that morning.

  “Vesa, wait!” Demyan shouted up the remaining flight of stairs. A door slammed, and then silence.

  “Perkele. Don’t know why he...”

  “Shh.” Toivo grabbed the back of Demyan’s jacket as he became aware of the forces that resonated around them. It was only perceptible in the silence, like the rushing of blood in his ears.

  “Feel that?”

  It was a foolish question. It sank down through the stairwell--shock, terror, and disbelief, interlaced with the violent elation of a man who felt his fingers close around the throat of victory.

  “Kuoppala.” Toivo watched the muscles of Demyan’s jaw tighten as he looked upward toward the door.

  Kaija stared at them in confusion, but said nothing; she nodded when Toivo held a finger to his lips.

  “Get behind me,” Toivo told her. “We’re going in.”

  They took the last few stairs slowly, stifling their footsteps. Demyan drew his Makarov from the holster under his arm, Toivo gripped the Nagant seven-shot that Demyan had given him following his ersatz “enlistment” with the corps. Toivo found himself once again clutching an unfamiliar gun in his hand, but only now, at the pinnacle of this madness, did its possession give him any sort of security.

  Demyan signaled to Toivo with a sharp flick of his hand. He drew a breath, held it, and kicked in the door.

  The first thing Toivo saw was Vesa’s back--the boy stood frozen like a statue, palms raised in a gesture of mute surrender. Kuoppala was standing at the other side of the circular tower, backlit by the last dying rays of the afternoon.

  The gun in his hand was elongated by the round barrel of a silencer, and it was pointed straight at Vesa’s chest.

  “Chernyshev,” Kuop
pala said without surprise, his voice tinged with facetious regret. “Always the meddler.”

  “Drop the gun.” Demyan’s steady hands trained the gun on the Minister of State Security.

  “You’re not giving the orders today.”

  Demyan took a step forward, and Kuoppala laughed--a sickly, hollow bark that could barely fit the definition.

  “Stop right there, unless you want the kid to end up like him.”

  Toivo suddenly noticed the body of the turncoat rebel. Taisto was a limp bundle sprawled face-first on the floor near the wall; a thin trickle of blood wended its way across the uneven floorboards.

  “And you think you’re going to get away with this?” asked Demyan, shaking his head as mockery crept into his tone. He took another step. “The guard is on its way, just drop--”

  “Stop!”

  Kaija’s voice was sharp, and even Kuoppala froze, as though he had given no heed to the two guards flanking his enemy. She gestured abruptly. “He made that a bomb.”

  A large, domed electric lantern sat on a low pedestal in the middle of the floor. When the sun set, the symbolic beacon would come alive, burning with a voltaic flame above Vainola. In the long afternoon shadows, Toivo hadn’t seen the brown packet, bristling like a centipede with its loops of wire taped under the central well of the light.

  He felt as though all the air had gone from the room, Demyan’s shock echoing his own.

  From the floor below, a muffled roar of applause seeped through the high ceilings of the auditorium, up through the floor at their feet.

  “We’re not his target,” Kaija went on, her eyes darting downward. “They are.”

  Suddenly, Toivo could see it clearly; the ruined tower crashing down, tons of stone and steel caving in the auditorium ceiling as hundreds of horrified faces turned upward in the brief instant before oblivion.