‘Yes?’ the blonde woman repeated, and her tone was unfriendly, as if she had just been disturbed in the middle of something important.
‘My friend’s hurt herself, she fell over and grazed her knees, we’d like to use your bathroom for a moment, if …’
Mariam’s voice was frighteningly calm. She asked the question in Georgian. Kitty’s legs were clad in dark woollen tights; the woman, who glanced only briefly at Kitty’s knees, couldn’t see anything. She seemed to consider for a moment. Her face tightened a little. Perhaps she had recognised one of them, or both. She must have done, Kitty thought. It was madness, really, to assume that someone like her, at the top of her game, would simply let them into her house, right into the mouth of the dragon.
But she did. She gave a brief nod, and just added curtly, in Russian, before opening the door wider and letting them both slip inside, ‘Hurry up, though, please, I don’t have much time!’
Kitty could feel her whole body trembling. Mechanically, she followed Mariam, who was following the blonde woman, who was showing them to the bathroom. She couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be happening. Not like this, not now. Surely it couldn’t be this easy.
It was a high-ceilinged, airy house, cool and shady. It smelled of fresh coffee beans. She led them through the dark hallway into a tiled bathroom with a bidet and a porcelain washbasin. Kitty closed the door behind her and started hyperventilating.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, suppressing a scream.
Mariam smiled, which disturbed Kitty even more; she was just looking at the door and smiling. Kitty turned on the tap.
‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? We’re here. At last we’re here.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t live alone. And anyway, what are you intending to do? If she takes a closer look at us, we’re done for. Let’s get out of here, fast.’ Kitty was stuttering with anxiety.
‘No. Everything is as it should be. She didn’t recognise us, she didn’t even look at you — not even you, Kitty. But she will remember us, I promise you that!’
And before Kitty could say anything else, Mariam stormed out of the bathroom.
Kitty felt nothing but horror: overwhelming, paralysing, all-consuming. She stood there, petrified, listened to the running water, tried to calm her breathing.
Suddenly, she heard something fall to the ground, followed by screams, but she couldn’t work out whose. She tugged at the door handle and peered cautiously into the corridor, which was still in darkness.
Slowly, she left the bathroom and followed the sounds, which had come from the depths of the house. She reached the end of the corridor and entered the kitchen. Heavy, dark cupboards on the walls, a wide dining table, a fruit basket filled with oranges. Two unwashed plates beside the sink. A faded landscape painting on the wall. Then a small portrait of the Generalissimus, then another photo, of the blonde woman with an older man, his arm around her shoulders.
‘Mariam?’
Kitty’s voice seemed to be swallowed up. It was eerily quiet in the house, as if she were completely alone. Suddenly, there was a laugh; it came from her right, where a door led out of the kitchen. Kitty opened it and stepped into the living room. In the middle of the room stood a tapestry sofa; in front of the sofa was a glass table with fashion magazines on it. She was sitting on the sofa in her slip, chest heaving, eyes wide and clear as glass. She was laughing in Mariam’s face, laughing so grotesquely that one might have thought she found the situation hysterically funny. A rough, almost vulgar laugh that didn’t seem to fit her sophisticated manner at all.
Mariam stood in front of her, and it was only now that Kitty realised she was holding a large kitchen knife; she must have had it in her bag all along. Her hand wasn’t shaking; her grip was firm, as if she’d been practising this for a long time. But her face was contorted; she clearly didn’t know how to deal with this laughter. When she turned to Kitty, her eyes were clouded, swamp-like.
‘Mariam … what are you doing?’
Kitty took a tentative step towards her friend.
‘I want you to look at her. Well? Do you remember now?’ Mariam turned to the blonde woman. On the ground beside the sofa lay a shattered vase; it must have got knocked over when Mariam forced her to sit down.
‘Stop laughing, stop laughing!’ screamed Mariam suddenly. Kitty felt as if she were about to faint.
‘Mariam, please, don’t make a mistake here!’ Kitty reached out her hand to her friend.
‘What? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all these years? Didn’t you want it? Huh? Now you’ve got it. Here, go ahead, enjoy it!’
The blonde woman suddenly sat up, picked up a cigarette case from the glass table, took out a pink cigarette, and lit it. A couple of rollers had fallen out of her hair, and thick, wavy strands were dangling in front of her face. Not even now, not even in this dreadful situation, could she manage to look ugly.
‘You’re creating some really big problems for yourselves right now, my darlings. Really big. So I suggest you put that silly knife down right away, say what you have to say to me, and then get out. I’m not angry yet, which means you’ve been lucky so far, but you won’t be for very much longer.’
‘She doesn’t understand — what a shame! We’ll just have to make it clearer for her. Come here, Kitty, come here!’
Mariam waved Kitty over.
Hesitantly, Kitty put one foot in front of another, as if fear had made her forget how to walk. Mariam grabbed her wrist, pulled her towards her, tugged at her skirt, and lifted it to reveal her belly. Rigid with shock, Kitty resisted, reeling backwards, but Mariam held on tightly to the hem of her skirt and lifted it up again. Alla shrugged, and watched with complete indifference as Kitty was exposed.
Kitty felt nausea rising in her chest again.
She was faking — of course she had recognised them both by now, it was impossible that she hadn’t — she’s just faking, thought Kitty. That ostentatious body, on display, that supercilious smirk around her garish red lips, that cold face: this was all part of her game. Perhaps it even amused her; perhaps it even gave her a bizarre pleasure.
Kitty felt herself seized by unexpected revulsion. A revulsion that tipped over into hatred. A hatred that deadened all other feelings, even puncturing her fear: suddenly, all that was left was this one, single emotion.
‘Do you remember now? Is it starting to come back to you?’ shouted Mariam. But the woman didn’t stir. Her expression remained unchanged.
‘You’re very confused about something here, darling!’ she said, in Russian, and tapped her cigarette ash onto the floor.
‘But we remember — we remember you! Bloody well, in fact, don’t we? And if you hadn’t got your harlot’s hands on Kostya, too, perhaps we wouldn’t even be here.’
Mariam was raving.
At the mention of Kostya’s name, the thin, painted eyebrows shot up. The woman opened her mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring. The smirk vanished; she appeared to be thinking. Apparently Kostya’s name didn’t fit into her game.
Kitty looked at her red-faced, sweating friend, who looked so lost, so weak, compared to this angel of death; she looked at the stockings that had fallen down and were sagging around her ankles, at her shaking hands; she felt the sweat on her forehead, felt how powerless she was, how ridiculous and hopeless, and knew that she had made a mistake. And if you hadn’t got your harlot’s hands on Kostya, too, perhaps we wouldn’t even be here.
She should never have told Mariam about this woman. Mariam, who apparently still believed that the woman sitting smoking in front of them had stolen her man — the man who had promised her a happiness that tasted of the great wide world. She didn’t realise her mistake. She didn’t realise that this woman was just a proxy, one of the many Kostya lusted after. And Kitty herself, standing here with her scars exposed, in this surrea
l tableau of intimidation, this ludicrous attempt to achieve justice, had been no less mistaken. It had been a disastrous mistake to believe that anything would change, that the acknowledgement of an unspeakable guilt could provide any kind of reparation.
This woman’s crystalline blue eyes told Kitty that she would never receive any kind of reparation from her; that no matter how many knives she was threatened with, she did not and would not acknowledge her guilt. She believed in her life, in the man she served; she believed in the state she was helping to shape, and neither Mariam nor Kitty, nor the scars on display, nor the knife were going to change that in any way. Someone who was capable of feeling remorse, someone with compassion, someone who was able to put the truth of a human being above the truth of a state would not have driven to the village school, would not have converted a classroom into an operating theatre, would not have made a nurse into a murderer and a heavily pregnant girl into a childless mother.
Kitty realised that no matter what the outcome of this afternoon would be, she would always feel her dead child’s body under the earth, all the time, every day. She realised that her scars would always reveal traces of Hell whenever she ran her hand over them. She realised that whatever happened she would remain powerless, a victim. This was how it had been, and how it would always remain, because the days she had spent in the village school had branded themselves onto her. This realisation was so abhorrent to her, so sickening, so repulsive, that she turned her face away, shrank back, and vomited in the corner.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ said the blonde woman angrily, jumping to her feet. Mariam thrust the knife towards her; the tip was just a hair’s breadth away from touching the fine silk slip. The woman sat down again.
‘So what’s it like, then? What’s it like with him? Do you run after him like a bitch on heat? Do you enjoy it?’
Mariam was still chasing her desire for personal retribution.
‘What do you mean?’ Alla’s face darkened. ‘I don’t know you; I don’t know either of you. This has gone too far. I’m starting to lose my patience, and believe me, darling, once that happens you will know about it.’
‘We mean nothing to you, the classroom means nothing to you, the syringe means nothing to you, all that blood means nothing to you, the dead baby means nothing to you …? Look at these hands: they cut out this woman’s womb. Does that mean nothing to you either? But Kostya’s dick means something to you — how wonderful!’
Kitty was astonished at Mariam’s choice of words, at the way she was reviving the memories.
‘Please, Mariam, stop, there’s no point … Please. Let’s go. I feel sick.’
Kitty wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her jersey.
‘You feel sick now, do you, Kitty? And how did you feel then, when she asked me to kill your son? Didn’t you feel sick then? So sick that you wanted to die? We’re not going anywhere until this whore —’
‘That’s enough. Get out of my house!’
How composed she is, despite everything, thought Kitty. How well she has mastered her game.
*
Outside, night was drawing in. The room was dissolving in the twilight. Features grew increasingly blurred. Memories, like first snow, slowly settled on this woman’s beautiful, half-painted eyelids; they settled there so softly, they were almost transparent, and Kitty would have liked to gather her hatred into a single lump, to take that lump of hatred in her hand and hurl it with all her might at the woman’s face. The hatred would hit her and smash her beautiful face to pieces, disfigure her forever; it would rain down onto her shoulders, force her to her knees, she would have to cut open her ribcage, maybe Mariam would help her, a clean, thin cut, and it would disappear inside, that heavy, bloody lump, then Kitty’s blood would run through her veins, would mingle there with her blood and turn to poison, in seconds her blonde hair would turn white —
‘Kitty!’
Mariam’s voice shook her out of her reverie. The woman had stood up and was approaching Mariam.
‘Put that damned knife down, you don’t know what you’re doing or who you’re dealing with; put it down and then get out of my house. I’m giving you one last chance. I’ve had enough, you crazy, feeble-minded little monsters!’
She kept moving slowly towards Mariam, who took a step back, still gripping the knife.
Despite the quickly gathering darkness, Kitty could make out the tears on her friend’s face. Would they always have to keep losing, again and again, in this senseless battle?
‘Kitty, do something. Why don’t you help me, damn it?’ Mariam began to moan.
‘You’re finished — this is the end for both of you! I should never have let you live, I should have finished you both off back then, you ungrateful little monsters, you scum!’ Alla’s voice was clear and piercingly high.
At these words, Kitty froze, and, for a fraction of a second, Mariam loosened her hold on the knife. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the earth stopped turning, thoughts tumbled thick and fast. The woman from Hell was acknowledging that this hell had really existed. She admitted to being its ruler. But, at the same time, her brutal admission made Kitty feel more helpless than ever.
Naked fury was now written on Alla’s face. She was glaring at them both, full of hatred. Kitty took a step over to Mariam, who was backing towards her.
‘What do you think is going to happen here, you little monsters? You come into my house just like that, threaten me with this ridiculous thing, and expect me to be moved, to burst into tears? Do you have any idea what punishment is? Do you have any idea what pain means? Not enough, apparently; it looks like it’s time you learned.’ Her eyes glittered unhealthily in the dim evening light. For the first time, her beautiful face was twisted and ugly. She was very close to Mariam now.
‘Don’t come any closer, don’t you dare — stop there!’ Mariam screamed, and Kitty sensed her friend’s fear.
They had gone too far. They could no longer just walk out of this room; however often and however much she had to vomit, they would have to stick it out.
The blonde was standing right in front of them now; they could smell her cloying scent, her lipstick.
It was as if they had switched roles, and Mariam was now the observer. She stepped to one side and switched on a little table lamp. Just at that moment, Kitty’s ribcage expanded and a scream came out. It came from the very centre of her body; she let herself be carried along by it, followed the sound, and threw herself at the woman. The blonde seemed startled; she didn’t defend herself, fell — and suddenly there was blood. Her bare body had fallen on the shards of the vase and she had cut herself. She groaned, but even in her pain she kept her composure.
Kitty was breathing heavily. Alla sat up and examined the cuts on her knee, her wrists, her elbows.
There was a moment’s silence. Then she stood, put her hands around Kitty’s neck, and her manicured, white, bloodstained fingers began to squeeze.
‘You pieces of shit, you’re finished, you’re —’
Kitty clutched at the hands and tried to pull them away from her neck. She couldn’t breathe.
Mariam threw herself between them, knocking over the lamp as she did so, and they were plunged back into darkness. She yanked at Alla’s blonde hair, dragging her off Kitty, who crawled aside, coughing.
‘I shouldn’t have taken pity on you. People like you must be exterminated, you never learn anything, you’re not worthy of our society,’ the woman yelped, hugging her knees, which were now bleeding heavily. ‘I need a bandage, I have to … I have to go to the bathroom,’ she added, almost pleading.
‘You’re not going anywhere. She bled for long enough, too, back then.’
The knife was clearly visible in Mariam’s hand.
‘What do you want from me? What do you wretched bastards want?’
For the first time, there was something like d
esperation in her voice.
‘She still doesn’t understand. Well, Kitty, what do you think, shall we clarify it for her? Shall we do her that favour? Yes, come on, we don’t want to keep such a nice surprise from her!’ Mariam seemed to feel secure again, back in control of the situation. ‘This is his sister. She’s Kostya’s sister. Do you get it now? Whose baby and womb you ordered me to remove. The sister of the man you’re running after like a bitch on heat, the man you put these curlers in your hair for, who you can’t wait to have mount you!’
‘Stop, stop, stop, please, please, stop!’ begged Kitty, her hands over her ears. The blonde woman’s face slowly twisted into a grimace; in the darkness, it was hard to tell if it was of disgust or fear.
*
Just as Alla was slowly beginning to understand how all the elements of this macabre spectacle fitted together, Stasia was sitting down on an old rocking chair in a corner of her sister’s garden and lighting herself an unfiltered cigarette. What she saw before her made her mouth fall open in astonishment; the glowing cigarette dropped out and she leaned against the back of the chair so hard that she tipped over backwards.
At the little wooden table where Christine and Kostya liked to sit, where she herself had so often sat drinking cherry liqueur with her sister as the daylight faded — there, now, sat Thekla and Sopio, playing cards. Thekla wrapped in a pink peignoir adorned with a feather boa; Sopio in a dinner jacket. There they sat, absolutely tangible, absolutely real, absolutely alive, playing cards! Stasia blinked several times and looked again, in the hope that it might just be a silly daydream, but the two of them had by no means disappeared: they were still sitting at the table, playing placidly and with total concentration. Stasia’s throat tightened.
*
Alla had lost control. Her fear was palpable now. In a single movement she had reached out to grab Mariam’s sleeve and struck her in the face. It was pitch dark in the room; Kitty heard noises, a piece of furniture falling over, cries. She couldn’t see clearly who was hitting whom, but Alla now had hold of Mariam. Kitty flung herself on the blonde woman, clasped her body with both arms, clenched her fist, and punched her in the back with all her strength.
The Eighth Life Page 37