Love in Revolution

by B. R. Collins

  I leant forward and rested my cheek against her shoulder blade, feeling the rhythm of her breathing. I wanted to stay like that for ever.

  Finally I felt her sigh, and the buzz of her voice in her skin as she said, ‘Esteya? Did you bring a towel?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ I got up. The air was cold on my wet cheek. I picked up the towel, and when she stood up I wrapped her up in it, the way Mama used to do with me. She screwed up her face and grinned when I scrubbed her hair. I said, ‘Are you warmer now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m stupid,’ I said, ‘I should’ve brought you some clean clothes.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Esteya, don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ But she was laughing as she said it.

  ‘You could have my school uniform –’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said, and stepped out of the bath. ‘Shut up shut up shut up.’

  She put her arms round me, so that we were both inside the damp towel, and kissed me.

  And it was the same as it always was – my hands recognising her body, knowing her, following the lines of her as if I knew her by heart – but it was different too. There was something new in the way she moved, a kind of need, as if for the first time I really mattered to her. She undressed me, fumbling with my buttons, breathing hard. Her wet hair clung to my cheek and mouth; I could taste soap and roses.

  And then she kissed my eyes and my nose and my neck and my collarbone, working her way down my body, until I felt her lips brush my stomach. I put my hands on her hair, pushing my fingers into the tangles, as she went on kissing me.

  We stayed there, wrapped in the blankets, for a long time. By the time I rolled over and sat up the fire had almost died. The light had faded, and there was a deeper chill in the air; I realised, with a shock, that it was late afternoon and Mama would be home.

  Skizi yawned and stretched. She said, ‘I’m starving. Did you bring me anything sweet?’

  I stood up, passed her the jar of honey and started to get dressed. When I glanced round she was eating the crystals with her fingers. She looked up.

  I said, ‘What – what did happen to your parents?’

  ‘They got taken away,’ she said, as if she was talking about the weather. ‘By the police. A long time ago. They’re probably dead.’ She sucked one finger, and then scooped more honey out of the jar.

  I nodded.

  ‘We were . . . Back then, there were five families. We all travelled together. But people never liked us.’ She shrugged. ‘There was one day, my dad got drunk in the town and started a fight. That night the police came and burnt our camp and took everyone away.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘Yes, except me.’ She stared into the bottom of the honey jar, but her eyes were blank, as if she was seeing something else. ‘I ran away. I didn’t want to get caught.’

  I moved towards her, but she looked up and flinched before I could touch her. Her eyes were narrow and fierce.

  ‘I survive,’ she said, almost spitting the words at me. ‘That’s all I want. Nothing else matters, as long as I survive. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure I did.

  ‘If I need to run, I run. If I need to steal, I steal. Whatever I have to do . . .’ There was a hard, intent look on her face. ‘I don’t care what I do, as long as I can walk out the other side. All right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I mean . . . of course. That’s only sensible.’ But I couldn’t help feeling that I was missing something, that we were talking at cross purposes.

  She stared at me for a moment longer, and then laughed and looked away. There was silence; I could hear the little moist sounds of her tongue as she licked the last of the honey off her fingernail.

  ‘I should go home,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodbye then,’ I said. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. If only she’d look up, say something or smile . . .

  Nothing. I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, gave her a last look and went out into the field. The sky was dark grey, and the cold took my breath away. The smell of snow was in the air. I picked my way across the frozen ruts, moving through a mist of my own breath.

  ‘Esteya!’

  I turned round. Skizi was standing at the corner of the hut, still wrapped only in a blanket, her feet bare.

  I paused. ‘Yes?’

  She took a few stumbling steps. I could see her shivering. ‘Esteya –’

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ I said. ‘Get back into the warm.’

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ she said, rushing the words so it took me a second to register what she’d said.

  ‘Wh–?’ I stared at her, and then took a deep breath. The air burnt my oesophagus, like acid. ‘All right. I love you.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes, of course I – yes, I mean it.’

  ‘Whatever happens?’

  ‘Yes, of course, whatev–’

  ‘No – think about it! Really, whatever happens?’ She held my gaze.

  I thought about it. I looked past Skizi, at the smoke trickling from the roof of the hut, at the skeleton of the olive tree, at the sky hanging low and heavy above it. I felt so helpless, so small, that I could have cried.

  I said, ‘Yes, whatever happens.’

  There was silence again. I noticed a fleck of snow spin and settle on my sleeve, and when I looked up I could see the snow beginning in earnest, undulating and folding in on itself like a curtain.

  ‘Thank you,’ Skizi said. Her voice was very low.

  I laughed. I was so tired that everything was starting to disappear into a kind of haze of absurdity. I said, ‘You’re welcome. Now can I go home?’

  She nodded, turned away and ran into the hut without looking back.

  I made my way down the hill, wondering vaguely what Mama would say when she saw how much food was missing, and what on earth I was going to answer.

  Spring

  Eleven

  I sat on my bed, staring at the wall. I’d pinned up a couple of Leon’s leaflets – the one with Angel on it, and one about the Great New Nation, and one about farming. I wasn’t interested in farming, but it had a picture of women laughing, leaning on their hoes, their hair blowing out from under their hats. The sun was shining, and there was an overflowing basket of food sitting beside them. Now the paper had gone a funny jaundiced colour and was curling at the corners. The plaster behind it had cracked.

  There was a knock on my door. I didn’t say anything, but Martin came in anyway. He glanced at me, and went over to the window. There was water dripping from the eaves, and the breeze was blowing it against the pane. He opened the window and I felt the air swirl round me. It was – well, not warm, but only cool, not icy. I drew my legs up and rested my chin on my knees.

  Martin sat down on the end of my bed, tried to flatten out the corner of the farming leaflet with his finger, and gave up.

  ‘What do you want, Martin?’

  ‘Just . . . bit of good news for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘There was a – the Party has . . .’ He stopped and took a deep breath. Then he said, ‘Esteya . . . are you all right?’

  I looked at him, and then away, because I didn’t want to see the sympathy in his eyes. I said, ‘Oh yes, I’m having the time of my life, locked in my own house, not allowed to go out even, not allowed to –’ I heard my voice thicken, and swallowed. If only I could have got word to Skizi . . . What if she thought I . . . ?

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t stolen all that –’ Martin took another breath and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Honestly, Esteya . . .’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  He sighed. ‘I wish I knew what was wrong with you. Ever since – well, since the summer . . . And now . . .’

  ‘Leave me alone, Martin.’

  And then, in spite of myself, I started to cry. It wasn’t him. It was the thought of Skizi, waiting for me – or worse, not waiting for me. It was two weeks since I’d c
ome back from her hut, to find Mama waiting for me, furious; two weeks since I’d refused to say what I’d done with the food. I’d never seen Mama so angry – or Papa either. It frightened me.

  But I couldn’t have told them about Skizi. In a way, it made it easier, not to have the choice: like a high wall, blocking me in, telling me where to go. I kept my mind on that wall, and kept my mouth shut.

  And now I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. And if Skizi was waiting, and waiting . . . Her voice went round in my head: Tell me you love me.

  Martin shifted his weight, so the bed creaked, and I felt his fingers digging into my shoulder. ‘Est . . . come on, Est . . .’

  I fought to stop crying, and after a while it worked. I stared at the leaflets – those laughing women in the sun – and blinked the last tears out of my eyes. I said, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Course you are,’ Martin said, his voice resigned.

  ‘So what was your good news?’ I said. ‘School opening again? No more food rationing? Another parcel from Leon?’

  ‘Better than that.’ Martin grinned. ‘Remember Angel Corazon?’

  ‘Of course I remember –’ I said, before I realised he was joking.

  ‘Well, he’s coming to play here. The Party wanted to – well, Leon said they were sorry about what happened at your school, and they wanted to do something to make up for it, you know, a sort of celebration, and to mark the beginning of the pello season, and –’

  ‘Propaganda,’ I said.

  ‘Well. Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘Nuns getting killed by guards isn’t good for the Party image. So they want to get everyone back on their side.’

  Martin winced. I clenched my teeth and refused to look at him. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I suppose that’s it.’

  There was a pause. I said, ‘In any case, Mama and Papa won’t let me go to a – a celebration. I’m in disgrace, remember?’

  ‘Yes, they will. Everyone has to go. I mean . . . it’s not exactly compulsory, but . . .’ He trailed off. He scratched at the plaster, flaking it away from the wall with his thumb.

  I caught Martin’s eye. ‘Oh. Not compulsory but,’ I said. ‘I see.’

  ‘Leon at his megalomaniac best. Aren’t you proud of him?’ Martin said, and laughed.

  A gust of cool air blew across my face, smelling of moisture and wet pavements. I felt my heart lift, a little. I took a deep breath. The winter had been hard, but now it was almost over, and then . . .

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Martin said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Are you in love with Angel Corazon?’ He was leaning forward, so earnest . . . I snorted, and then started to giggle. It was the first time I’d laughed for weeks, and it felt good. He smiled reluctantly, and said, ‘Are you, though?’

  ‘Martin, you’re priceless. I’ve never even met Angel Corazon.’

  ‘But you . . .’ Martin gazed at me, and turned away. He stood up again, and pressed his hands into the plaster as if he wanted to knock the wall down. ‘Ever since we saw him play, against the Bull . . . you’ve been so strange. And after the King’s Cup final, when you ran away, and you said you were looking for Leon but I don’t believe you, and . . .’ He tailed off, and stared at the leaflets pinned above my head. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but –’

  ‘Martin . . .’ It wasn’t fair to laugh at him. He was right, in a way – although he was hopelessly wrong too.

  ‘Tell me. Please. Esteya . . .’ His voice was quiet, almost blown away in the soft, cool air from the window.

  I leant back against the wall. It took me a second to realise I was shaking my head, rolling it from side to side in a slow, automatic refusal. Of course I couldn’t tell Martin. It was the brick wall again, rising straight up in front of me. Of course I couldn’t tell him. It was mad even to think about it.

  I wished I could, though. If anyone would understand, it would be Martin.

  I opened my mouth, not knowing what I was about to say. My heart was beating fast all of a sudden.

  But I’d left it too long; Martin stood up, shrugging his shoulders. ‘All right, not to worry,’ he said. He grinned at me, just slightly too widely. ‘Forget about it. You’re such a sweet, innocent little girl that you couldn’t possibly get up to anything anyway . . .’

  ‘Little? I’m five minutes older than you,’ I said. I could feel the same expression on my face: a grin, or almost.

  ‘Better go and help with lunch. Make yourself useful. That way Mama and Papa might forgive you sooner.’ Martin reached over and prodded me. I moved away, but he prodded me again. I pushed at his hand impatiently, but he kept on, and then we were struggling – scrapping, like we used to do – and I couldn’t stop giggling and neither could Martin.

  And afterwards, when I’d finally managed to kick him off the bed, and he was sitting against the wall, still laughing, I stood up, and went downstairs; and even though Mama was still coldly polite to me, I felt better than I had for a long time.

  The day of the pello event, a week later, was spring. When I woke that morning, I was hot under my blankets and the room was bright and warm from the sun. It was already nine o’clock. I sat up, and for the first time in ages I felt pleased to be awake. Today I was going to go out; today I was going to watch Angel play pello; and today, if I could – if I was lucky – I’d see Skizi. It felt like the first day of the holidays – not the school-cancelled-until-further-notice holidays we’d been having, which left a sour taste in the mouth, but real, how-they-used-to-be, glorious summer holidays, like last year, when I’d spent months in the sunshine, running wild with Skizi . . . I felt my heart lift.

  I dressed carefully. A year ago I would have worn my blue dress, my favourite, but it was too bourgeois now. I put on some old trousers of Martin’s, and a shirt and waistcoat, and tied my hair up in a red handkerchief. When I looked at my reflection, I looked perfect: a daughter of the people, ready to shoulder arms at a moment’s notice, androgynous and glamorous at the same time. It made me think of Elena, the girl who’d been shot in the street that day – and then, when I pushed that thought away, of Ana Himyana. I wrinkled my nose at myself. Like a film star pretending to be a Communist.

  I went downstairs. Mama was in the study – I caught a glimpse of her through the open door, writing one of her endless letters to my great-aunt in America – and Martin was alone at the kitchen table, staring at his hands. When I came in he looked up, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Revolutionary chic,’ he said, grinning. ‘You look like a propaganda poster.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, smiling back. ‘You look like a peasant.’ His clothes were practically identical to mine, as if we were wearing uniform.

  ‘Thank you very much . . . Comrade,’ he added, and we giggled. It was funny, how it still felt like a joke, like a game, even after everything. As if Martin and I were safe; as if all the things we’d seen were . . . not unimportant, but just not . . . about us.

  ‘So,’ Martin said. ‘Angel Corazon, and that new player from Irunja, what’s his name?’

  I shrugged. I wanted to see Angel Corazon play, that was all; and then I wanted to find Skizi.

  ‘I only care about Angel,’ I said, and it sounded true. ‘I’m not sure about pello any more. I just care about Angel.’ Maybe it was true. If only I could have mentioned Skizi.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Huh. Girls.’ Then he grinned. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Come on. You don’t want to wait for Mama, do you?’

  I didn’t, but it seemed amazing – a kind of miracle – that we could just walk out of the front door, into the street. I stood in the doorway, feeling a strange relief, as if I’d really been in prison. The street smelt of melted snow, and there was still water dripping off the eaves. It made a kind of tapping noise all around me, as if every stone had a heartbeat.

  Martin looked over his shoulder and then walked down the street without waiting for me to follow. I took a last deep breath, and went after him.
>
  We didn’t see anyone until we got to the square in front of the church. Then there were hundreds of people, spilling out from the side streets, all with scarlet scarves or handkerchiefs or wide red belts. It was like a festival – people were eating and drinking, someone was selling pies – but no one was laughing, or dancing, or playing music. People were smiling, but with forced, cheerless smiles that faded when they looked around, scanning the crowd for guards or Party officials. Only the kids, running around and screaming, seemed normal. When we walked past the pie stall I heard someone say, ‘Bread-and-garlic pies? Sacred Heart, when did meat get that hard to come by?’

  Martin put his hand on my arm and didn’t let go. I started to shrug it off, and then I was glad it was there.

  They had put seating up around the square in front of the church, and there was a little group of men sitting outside the tavern, with their feet up on chairs, smoking. I saw, with a strange twist in my stomach, that one of them was Angel, looking heavier and older than I remembered him, and Leon was there too. Automatically I started to walk towards them, but Martin’s hand on my arm held me back. When I looked at him, he shook his head. I rolled my eyes at him and sighed, but I didn’t go any further. Martin was right: there was a sort of tension in the air, and their conversation was a staccato mix of pauses and raised voices. I saw Karl as well, drinking pastis out of a tiny cup and watching Leon in silence. Angel looked thoroughly miserable.

  ‘Come on,’ Martin said. ‘I’ll buy you a cone of sweets, if they haven’t sold out already.’

  The sweets were greasy and not very sweet, but they passed the time until the bell started to ring, summoning us to the beginning of the warm-up match. Everyone obeyed, but the enthusiasm was oddly muted, mixed with a kind of grimness like pupils having to go inside at the end of break. I kept hold of Martin’s hand, not caring if it was babyish, and looked round for Skizi. Surely she’d be here, somewhere. But I couldn’t see her. I lagged behind, ignoring Martin’s tugging at my hand.

  ‘Esteya, come on –’

  I frowned and kept looking; then, when Martin shoved me forward and I found myself sitting on the bench beside him, I saw why he’d been trying to get me to walk faster. There were guards on both sides of us, eating pies full of strong-smelling garlic pap and laughing at their own jokes. They were the only people who were. The one closest to me pushed his leg against mine and gave me a wink. I gritted my teeth and looked straight ahead. But I couldn’t keep it up; my eyes started to rake the stands again, searching for Skizi’s face.