Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  Donath half-listened, playing with an unlit cigarette, speaking only once, to urge Zoltan to speed things up on a specific case. But, as usual, thought Zoltan, no encouragement, no words of praise.

  ‘Listen, tomorrow I want you to fetch me this kid.’ He flung a file over to him. Inside, there were three photographs – a man, woman and a boy by the name Barat. Tibor Barat. Fifteen years old, according to the date of birth.

  ‘I can’t arrest a kid.’

  ‘Who said anything about arresting. Take Fischer with you. Now, how are things going with the football match?’

  ‘Fine. As well as Bordas, the manager, we’ve got George Lorenc, the centre-forward and now the goalkeeper, Milan Ignotus.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Fact is, we’ve had a further communication from the Kremlin. They’re saying that it’s imperative Lokomotiv don’t lose this game on Sunday.’

  Zoltan peered up at the portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky. ‘We know that,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but before it came across as more of a request, a recommendation, if you like. But this, this is an order. Lokomotiv mustn’t lose. Bordas has sent me a list of all his players and their addresses. Take Fischer and get the rest. Best do it straightaway.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘We can’t afford to take any chances.’

  Zoltan scanned the list of names, the addresses spread across the length of the city. The prospect of attending Roza’s birthday party was already fading; another on his list of broken promises. ‘But, boss, they’re a crap team.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave anything to chance.’

  ‘But with Lorenc and the goalie out of the picture, they’re already as good as beaten, especially if Bordas employs tactics to ensure a stifled performance.’

  ‘Well, you know more about football than I do.’

  ‘Have you seen the names of the Lokomotiv players? They may be going through a lean patch but they’ll still wipe the floor against our bunch of second-raters.’

  Donath threw his hands into the air. ‘OK, OK, if you say so, I bow to your better judgement, Zoltan. But you better be right.’

  Zoltan nodded.

  ‘I said, comrade, you’d better be right.’

  Zoltan registered Donath’s switch to comrade, ‘Of course, boss, trust me, I know a bit about football.’

  *

  Outside, the city seemed smothered under a blanket of heat. Zoltan loosened his tie and swore. What if the team played beyond their means? He knew what people thought of the Russians – outwardly respectful, politically grateful, but inwardly seething. If someone saves your life, you say thank you but you don’t expect to have to say it day after day for years on end. The football team would love nothing more than beating the Ruskies.

  He lit a Red Star. He’d made a promise – to Petra, to Roza. He’d prepared a few tricks that would impress a bunch of three-year-old girls. Roza would be hyping her friends up. He could visualise them sitting cross-legged in a semi-circle on the floor, staring at the space where they expected him to step into at any moment; their faces eager with expectation. And sitting at the front – Roza, her excitement ebbing away as concern crept in. And when finally the children lose their patience, Roza will feel humiliated, and ashamed that she’d let everyone down. Roza wore her heart on her sleeve – she’d be fed up for days and her mother would scold Zoltan with every disdaining look.

  He’d hoped a bit of time outside would help him clear his mind but the heat simply made him feel more suffocated. He threw away the cigarette after only two puffs. He looked again at the names on Bordas’s list. What did he know about these players? Nowhere near as much as Donath thought he did. It’s a team effort and there’s some good players. Lorenc’s words came back to him. Was it pure modesty that’d made him say that, as Zoltan had suggested? Or was there an element of truth in it?

  What was worse – Petra’s contempt and Roza’s tearful disappointment or the risk of the team playing well, and earning Donath’s wrath and Fischer’s smug satisfaction? He kicked a stone across the street and swore loudly, startling a well-heeled woman passing by.

  Back in the office, Zoltan ordered Fischer to organise the ex-whore and her car to be ready in thirty minutes. It gave him enough time to walk to a toy shop he knew at the far end of Andrassy Street and buy the most expensive doll in the store.

  *

  Eleven o’clock. The end of a fifteen-hour day. He and Fischer had visited nine addresses but had only managed to speak to four players – all the others were out. The apartment was dark and empty. He saw the note on the kitchen table propped up against a vase of wilting flowers: You bastard.

  In the living room, a pile of new toys stacked neatly on the armchair – scraps of wrapping paper on the floor, a red bow, a strip of ribbon, a couple of balloons slightly deflated. At least he’d managed to buy the most expensive doll in the shop... but where was it, it wasn’t in his briefcase? Shit. Oh, shit. He’d left it in the whore’s car.

  Chapter 10: Eva

  ‘Don’t forget, tomorrow we’ll be discussing Berlin and why exactly the city is divided between the communists and the imperialists. Don’t be late.’ The school bell had rung, signalling the end of the morning’s last lesson before lunch. Outside the sun was shining and I looked forward to a sandwich in the park opposite the school. Unusually Tibor was getting ready to leave along with his classmates. As the children packed their satchels, I deliberated whether to call him over. The temptation was too much. ‘Tibor, could I have a word, please?’ He nodded, lit a cigarette, waving his classmates off as they dispersed, then came to see me.

  ‘I just wondered whether you’d heard how your parents were getting on?’

  ‘I don’t know; the authorities don’t send me progress reports.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Silly question. And erm, how’s life with your uncle?’

  ‘All right.’ He puffed on his cigarette. ‘Look, Miss, I’m running late. I want to get to the library before lunch.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to...’

  But before he had a chance to go, there was a knock on the glass of the classroom door and in came two men in long coats. ‘Miss Horvath?’ asked the taller of the two. I nodded. Tibor stepped back towards the classroom window. ‘Your headmaster told us you would be here. My name is Beke, Zoltan Beke, and this is my assistant, Fischer.’ I nodded to the shorter man, Fischer, but received no response. The one called Beke continued. ‘We’re looking for one of your students, a lad by the name of...’ He checked the piece of paper he was holding. ‘Tibor Barat.’

  ‘What?’ muttered Tibor.

  Beke turned to face him. ‘Tibor Barat? Is that you?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ said Tibor quietly. I noticed he was holding the cigarette behind his back.

  ‘Well, that saves us a lot of chasing round,’ said Beke to me with a chortle.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, mirroring his little laugh.

  Returning his attention to Tibor, Beke adopted a serious tone. ‘Tibor Barat, your parents have been formally arrested as propagandists for the imperialists, charged with the intention of undermining, wherever possible, the proletariat ethics of the Party.’

  ‘My parents have what?’

  ‘You, as their offspring, are, by default, also deemed an enemy of the people.’

  ‘A what? No.’ Standing in front of the window, the trail of smoke behind him was caught by the beams of sun giving the impression that Tibor was on fire.

  ‘You shall come...’ Beke seemed momentarily nonplussed by the ethereal vision of the boy. ‘You shall come with us, please, for further questioning under the Party’s constraining orders.’

  This young boy on the verge of manhood seemed to shrink in front of my eyes. How vulnerable he looked, reverting back to the boy he really was, the puzzled expression, the terrible realisation that he’d played an adult game and lost. He looked at me, imploring me to intervene.

  ‘You
’re not arresting him, are you?’ I asked, unable to disguise the tremble in my voice.

  ‘We said nothing about arrest, comrade, he is too young for arrest; we are merely putting him, at his uncle’s request, under constraint. What is all that smoke? Come on, son, let’s go.’ The AVO man gripped Tibor by his left elbow and shoved him towards the door, the second AVO taking his place on the boy’s right.

  As he was being led away, Tibor glanced at me over his shoulder. I had to try again, to save the poor boy. ‘If his uncle doesn’t want him, I...’

  ‘Yes, comrade?’

  ‘I’ll take him in.’

  The shorter AVO, Fischer, approached me at speed, a menacing look in his eye that immediately made me regret my rashness. ‘A word in private, if you will, comrade,’ he said, now taking me by the arm and impelling me to one side. ‘A quiet word of advice. I wouldn’t associate yourself if I were you. The whole family’s for the chop. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep well away.’

  ‘But what’s going to happen to him? He’s only fifteen.’

  ‘Orphanage.’

  ‘No...’

  ‘Yes. Now, leave it.’ He marched back to Tibor and, together with his colleague, led the frightened boy away. This time Tibor didn’t turn round. On the floor, near the window, half a cigarette still alight, the smoke dancing in the sunbeams.

  *

  ‘So, you’re a footballer?’

  ‘Yes, is it so strange?’

  Valentin and I were sitting on a shaded bench in City Park. ‘Perhaps not strange but certainly unusual – I don’t think I’ve ever met a football player before.’

  As if on cue, a boy of about eight kicked a ball towards us. Valentin hesitated for a moment and then rose from the bench and gently passed it back to him. The boy tried to kick it back but scuffed his pass and the ball ended up too far for Valentin to run after it without appearing overly keen. The mother called after him and the boy collected up his ball and ran back to her. Valentin sat down with a sheepish grin on his face.

  The previous day we’d spent a further half an hour in the café, listening to the old man with the walrus moustache as he talked about his life. A long, adventurous tale that ended with the café’s persistent refusal to serve him, as if this last indignity surpassed all the deprivation of the Imperialist War of ’14-’18, the Nazi occupation, and the Soviet bombs. Without pausing to ask our names, he talked and assumed, I think, that the Russian and I were a couple, if not husband and wife. Finally, he thanked Valentin for the tea and cake, poked his tongue out at the waitresses, and left.

  Watching the old man leave, the Russian laughed. ‘Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce myself,’ he said offering his hand across the table. ‘My name is Valentin.’

  ‘Eva.’

  I’d been right – he was a Russian. A Muscovite. He was spending only a few days in Budapest, ‘on business.’ Yes, it was his first time in Hungary, in fact his first time out of the Soviet Union, and what a beautiful city is Budapest, and how friendly are the Hungarians. At this last point, I pulled a face, knowing it to be false. He raised an eyebrow at me, acknowledging my scepticism. And yes, he said, the people in Moscow were equally as friendly. He told me that as a boy he saw a lot of his mother’s cousin who was half-Hungarian, hence his ability to speak the language reasonably well.

  I hadn’t expected him to ask to see me again. But I was desperate for a diversion – my husband had walked out on me, I’d seen Karolina taken away, and my star pupil had misguidedly denounced his parents. And in the midst of this dismal merry-go-round, Valentin had appeared with his Russian accent and his confident ways. And here we were, the following day, in the City Park, sheltering in the shade, the sky free of clouds. The park is beautiful at this time of year – the flowers in full bloom, the trees so regal, the green of the lawns so vibrant they almost look artificial.

  ‘Is that why you are here in Budapest – to play football?’

  ‘Yes. We’re playing against one of your local teams next week.’

  ‘Where do you play?’

  ‘Left midfield.’

  ‘No, I mean, where does the match take place?’

  He laughed. The team, he said, were playing in Budapest, then they had a couple of regional games, and then, after that, they were returning to the capital for two days of sightseeing.

  ‘And then you go back to Moscow?’

  ‘And then we go back to Moscow.’

  I swallowed my disappointment. That this gruffly spoken Russian, almost a stranger, had caused such a reaction caught me by surprise. Why should I feel disappointment, of course he had to return home; had I secretly hoped he’d say something different? I wondered what he’d be returning to. A girlfriend? A wife? I imagined a small, pretty Russian girl with blonde, plaited hair and painted nails, waiting for her footballer to come home. Why should he want to spend time with me, twenty-six but already so old? Neither of us spoke of our lives – our hopes, our triumphs, our struggles, but I felt he too had a story that lingered close to the surface, refusing to be buried in memory.

  ‘So, what’s life like in the Soviet Union?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, it’s like a ride on a bus – one man drives and the rest of us cling on for dear life.’

  An elderly couple ambled passed, arms linked, both wearing long overcoats despite the warmth of the day. The man tipped his hat at us; Valentin nodded back. Again, the assumption – a young couple sitting on a park bench, enjoying the sun. Did it matter that he was returning to Moscow, that I wouldn’t see him again? No, it didn’t. I was trying to suppress my chaotic existence with something else, something superficial. I resolved not to be so silly.

  ‘I think I should go now.’

  ‘Would you care you see me play?’

  ‘Play? Play what?’

  ‘Football, of course. I could get you a ticket for the game.’

  ‘Are you... are you inviting me to a football match?’ I’d assumed women weren’t allowed to attend.

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean hide and seek.’

  ‘At least I would understand the rules of hide and seek. Tiddlywinks even better.’

  ‘Tiddle-what?’

  ‘You’ve not heard of... it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He turned to face me and took my hand. ‘Seriously. I’d like you to come... please.’

  ‘OK, I’d like that very much.’

  We smiled at each other before remembering he was still holding lightly onto my hand. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if embarrassed by this sudden show of earnestness, and his hand slipped away.

  Chapter 11: George

  Despite the heat of the day, George’s father shivered. George had given him a paperback to read, a Western, the sort of story his father used to enjoy, but the book lay unopened on his lap, half hidden within the folds of a blanket.

  ‘You tired, Papa?’

  ‘A little bit. That bath’s knocked me out somewhat. Lovely though. You don’t realise how important the little things in life are until you don’t have them.’

  George nodded but at the same time he hoped it’d be a while before his father wanted another bath. Once the old man was ensconced in the tub, he was too weak to get out, and his mother certainly wasn’t strong enough to help him by herself. His father was sitting there, with the water drained, shivering and unable to summon the strength to haul himself out. With his eyes half closed, George placed a hand under his father’s wet armpit on one side and clasped his arm on the other. Behind him stood his mother with a towel at the ready. Between them, they managed it but the sight of that scrawny frame, and his skin, flaccid and grey, was too much for George.

  His mother came in with a cup of tea and a small plate with a couple of ginger biscuits on it. Placing the cup in her husband’s hands, she said, ‘It’s a training day today, isn’t it, George? Shouldn’t you have gone by now?’

  Ther
e was no point, thought George, if they were playing to lose. His earlier enthusiasm had already fizzled out. He wondered how many of the team knew, how many of them had been approached by Zoltan Beke and given their orders. Perhaps the whole team but no one would ever dare admit it. ‘No, I’m not going today.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not going? You can’t miss training; what about this match on Sunday?’

  ‘What match is that?’ asked his father, through a mouthful of ginger biscuit. George had purposely not told him.

  ‘They’re playing Moscow Lokomotiv, aren’t you, George?’

  ‘Lokomotiv, eh? Now, that’s something.’

  ‘And... go on, George, tell him the rest.’

  George told his father about his chat with the Mark Decsi, the talent scout, of how the national team manager would be there at the game.

  His father listened intently, his hands clasped round his cup. ‘That’s fantastic. But you don’t sound particularly excited about it. Is there something wrong?’

  No, thought George. He remembered, as a child, one Christmas, receiving a train from an uncle – a lovely wooden thing, painted dark colours with huge buffers and long funnels. He loved it. Within two or three days, one of the back wheels fell off, and however hard his father tried to fix it back on, it never properly worked again. It was that same feeling – the focus of excitement that quickly became a source of disappointment.

  ‘He’s been playing ever so well – tell your father about the hat-trick.’

  George obliged.

  ‘This is all wonderful.’ His father held out his hand. George took it and tried not to wince at the effusion of bones. ‘You’ve done well; I’m proud of you, my boy.’