A Hero's Daughter

by Andrei Makine

  At one o’clock in the afternoon Ivan walked into this courtroom escorted by two militiamen: three hours later he was carried out from it, dead.

  The window in the courtroom was half open but no coolness could be felt. The sun shone, hot and un-moving. Swaying gently, the fluffy seeds from the poplar trees floated in through the windows.

  During those three hours facts had been produced apparently connected with the trial but at the same time infinitely remote from it. There were a lot of people. Everyone wanted to know all the details. The air in the courtroom was heavy and stifling. Some people fanned themselves with newspapers; others, going through clumsy contortions, took off their jackets, causing the chairs to creak. Two women in the back row talked the whole time, listening neither to Ivan’s replies nor to the judge, nor to the witnesses. It was hard to understand why they had come there to waste their time in a Turkish bath like that.

  The voices rang out dully, as if muffled by the lightly fluttering poplar down. One of the women assessors was allergic to these fluffy flakes. She was constantly blowing her nose, blinking her red eyes and thinking only one thing: let it end as quickly as possible! All her colleagues thought the same. The sun made people sleepy. Most of them were already getting ready to go on vacation, gleefully counting the days: just another week and then….

  The judge, also a woman, had done too much sunbathing at her dacha the previous Sunday, and beneath her severe suit she now felt a stinging pain on her shoulders. She, too, wanted to make an end of these proceedings, pronounce sentence — a year’s suspended sentence, she thought — and, as soon as possible, on her return home, anoint her shoulders with soothing cream. That was the advice of the assessor who was suffering from the poplar down. “Perhaps it’s not an allergy but flu,” the judge thought. “You sometimes get it in summer.”

  No one could quite remember at what moment the accused, Demidov, instead of the brief reply he was asked for, began talking very loudly, stammering, almost shouting. The judge tried to interrupt him, tapping on the desk with a pencil and saying in a deliberately formal voice: “That has no relevance to your case.” Then she thought it was better to let the veteran get it all off his chest — all the more so because she had received a telephone call from on high advising her to bring the matter to a quiet conclusion, not to be too zealous.

  Ivan talked about the war, about Stalin, about the Victory He stuttered a little, alarmed by the silence that arose between his words, trying to break through the dense sleepiness of the afternoon. For no good reason he mentioned the Bolshoi, Afghanistan (here the judge began tapping on the desk with her pencil again), and the one-legged Semyonov. People pricked up their ears at first, then relapsed into uncomprehending indifference. Gorbachev had already allowed all this to be discussed in the newspapers. The women looked at their watches and the men, anticipating the suspension of the hearing, fiddled with their cigarettes. The ones in the back row, as before, paid no attention to anyone and were whispering. The judge said something in the ear of the assessor next to her. The prosecutor, picking at his sleeves, was removing little pieces of fluff from them.

  At length Ivan fell abruptly silent. He embraced the courtroom with a slightly mad look and, addressing no one in particular, cried out with an old man’s hiss: “You have turned my daughter into a prostitute!”

  At that moment he caught Olya’s eye. He no longer heard the hubbub arising from the public nor the judge’s voice announcing that the hearing was suspended. He grasped that what had just occurred was something utterly monstrous, compared with which his drunkenness and the brawl at the Beriozka were but trifles. His daughter’s face was hidden from him by someone getting up to go. He turned his gaze toward the windows and was astonished to see that the win-dowsill was gleaming in the sunlight with a strange iridescent glow. Then this light swelled, became dazzling and painful and suddenly the sill turned black. Ivan sat down heavily and his head fell onto the wooden handrail, marked with old dates and unknown names.

  It was with some difficulty that the van pulled clear of Moscow in mid-festival, picked up speed, as if in relief, and plunged onto the freeway to Riazan. The driver and his colleague came from Riazan themselves. They did not know Moscow well and were apprehensive of running into the traffic police, who were in evidence at every crossroads on account of the festival. But everything passed off all right.

  Olya was seated in the dark interior of the van. With her lightly shod foot she steadied the coffin draped in red cloth as it slithered about at each bend in the road. The van was open at the back and above the tailgate there was a bright rectangle of light. As they drove through Moscow there were glimpses, sometimes of a street Olya knew well, sometimes of a group of tourists in garish clothes. Coaches bearing the emblems of the festival scurried up and down the streets and here and there one could often make out the white jackets and blue pants of the interpreters. All this reminded Olya of the Olympic Games and that summer, now so long ago. Then open fields began to slip past in the rectangle of light, the gray freeway, the first villages.

  Miraculously, after two days of fruitless searching, Olya had found this vehicle and succeeded in persuading the driver to take her. He had agreed simply because they were going in the same direction. Olya had given him almost all the money she had left.

  Halfway there the driver turned off into a side road and stopped. The van doors slammed and his colleague’s head appeared at the back above the tailgate.

  “Not too shaken? We’ll be there in an hour. Wait a while; we’re just going to call in at a store. Everywhere’s dry in Moscow, you know, especially now that the festival’s on …”

  Olya heard the footsteps moving off. In the sunny rectangle could be seen part of an izba, a fence, a garden in which an old woman was stooping down to pull something out of the ground. It was hot. Little rays of sunlight filtered in through the cracks. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked lazily

  Olya was convinced that at Borissov, once they learned of her arrival, everyone would rally around to arrange the funeral and find the musicians. She even imagined a procession of local dignitaries in their grotesque dark suits, the tinny grinding of the band, the condolences to which she would have to respond with meaningless set phrases.

  But it all turned out differently. The driver and his colleague, sweating and panting in an exaggerated manner, let the coffin drop on the table and made off, after extracting another ten rubles from her on account of it being on the third floor. Olya was left all alone facing this long red box, fearsome in its silence.

  In the morning she went to the motor pool where her father had worked. She was received by the new boss in jeans that were baggy at the knees. Once he had grasped what this was about, he began talking rapidly, without letting her get a word in edgewise. All the vehicles were requisitioned for summer work at the kolkhoz, the only two remaining ones lacked wheels, and half the personnel were away on holiday. And, in self-justification, he showed her the deserted yard, spotted with black patches of oil, and a truck, into whose engine a disheveled lad was plunged up to the waist. “And in any case,” added the boss, “we’re operating a self-financing regime now.”

  “But I’ll pay,” Olya hastened to say, to calm him down. “Just give me a vehicle and some men.”

  “But I’ve just told you, I can’t,” groaned the boss, spreading out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

  At the Military Committee the officer on duty asked her to fill in a form, then went off in search of orders on the far side of a padded door, covered in glittering studs. On his return he opened the safe, took out the Hero’s certificate, and handed it to Olya.

  “Now we’re all square with you. As for the funeral, you’ll have to apply to the Veterans’ Council. It’s not our responsibility.”

  Olya took out the photo of her father on the certificate and examined it with astonishment. It was a young lad with a round, shaven head, almost an adolescent, looking out at her. “He wasn’t yet twenty,”
she thought in sheer amazement. The courtyard at the Military Committee was empty and silent. There was just one lanky soldier sweeping an asphalt path. The dust arose in a light cloud and settled back in the same place.

  At the Veterans’ Council there was no one. A sheet of cardboard bearing faded red lettering dangled on the notice board: “Veterans’ Day Parade to mark the fortieth anniversary of the Victory will take place on May 9 at 10:00 A.M. Assemble in Lenin Square. The participation of all members of the Council is strictly compulsory.”

  “It’s the summer,” said the caretaker dreamily. “In summer it’s only by chance that anyone shows up around here.”

  The Party’s District Committee also seemed to be deserted.

  “He’s gone off at the head of a commission inspecting the region,” said the female secretary. “He won’t be back tomorrow, either. In any case it’s nothing to do with the District Committee. You need to apply to his former place of work.”

  The next day Olya went around the circuit again. She demanded, implored, tried to telephone Moscow. That evening she dreaded going home. It was already the fourth day of her ordeal with the red coffin. Coming into the room where it had been set down, she was afraid to breathe, afraid of detecting a smell and losing her sanity. At night the coffin appeared to her in a dream, not long and red, as it was, but small, luxurious, varnished, and painted like a lacquered box from Palekh. She kept trying to put it into a bag storage locker. But sometimes she forgot to dial the code, sometimes she was prevented by passersby. In the end, unable to bear it any longer, she decided to retrieve the contents and throw it away. She tried to open it, to separate its two halves, as one pries apart the two halves of a shellfish. And indeed the coffin suddenly resembled a finely modeled black shell, covered in mucous varnish. When she finally managed to open this bivalve, breaking her nails in the process, what she found inside was the celluloid doll she had had as a child, staring at her with strangely alive and moist eyes, like those of a human being.

  The following morning Olya went to the cemetery. There, in a tiny shack, behind the dilapidated church invaded by wild plants, sat three men, with dried fish and bread laid out on a sheet of newspaper. They were drinking.

  They listened to her request and shook their heads in unison: “No, no, not a chance! Coming here out of the blue like this. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We finish an hour early today. So, what do you think we are? Slaves? You might as well come on Sunday while you’re at it. No, no! It’s not possible!”

  Olya did not go away. She understood that they were going through this routine so as to be paid more. The men went back to talking among themselves, casting oblique glances in her direction from time to time, and extracting fish bones stuck between their teeth. Finally one of them, as if taking pity, said to her: “All right, my beauty. You give us a hundred rubles now and fifty rubles after and we’ll do you a first-class burial.”

  “How much?” asked Olya, dumbfounded, thinking she must have misheard.

  “A hundred and fifty,” the man repeated. “So what did you think? We’re not going to do the job for the sake of your pretty blue eyes. Least of all on a Saturday! There are three of us. And we have to give something to the boss. And the driver. Suit yourself! But I’m making this offer out of the kindness of my heart.”

  And with a sharp crunch he bit into a huge onion.

  Olya had only ten rubles left. The men sat there taking their ease, interrupting one another, swapping remarks about the funeral of a local notable. The whole shed was cluttered up with frayed old wreaths, tombstones, and iron bars for railings. Olya had an impulse to say to these men in a low voice: “For heaven’s sake have pity on me, you bastards!”

  “If I bring the money tomorrow morning,” she asked, “Is that all right for you?”

  The men nodded their approval. “Sure, that’ll be fine. We’ll start digging in the morning, before it gets hot.”

  When she got to Moscow Olya began telephoning all the people she knew but reaching someone in summer and especially on a Friday evening was very difficult. The only one who responded to her call was a vague acquaintance, a dealer Ninka had introduced her to.

  “Olya,” he exclaimed into the receiver almost joyfully, “I’ve been completely cleaned out. Yes, the cops caught me near the Beriozka with hot currency. And they emptied the apartment as well. I’m broke. Otherwise, you know, I’d be very happy to help you but I haven’t got a cent. Hang on. I’ll give you the address of a buddy of mine. He can change your currency What? You haven’t got any? Well then, odds and ends of gold. Write this down. He’s called Alik. Yes he’s from Azerbaijan, a regular guy. A bit unpredictable, that’s all

  She arrived at Alik’s place late in the evening. When she showed him the emerald bracelet and two rings he began to laugh.

  “And you waste my time for that? No, young lady, I work seriously. Do you think I’d risk ending up cutting wood in the north for five grams?”

  And he was already hustling her toward the exit along the dark corridor. Suddenly, as if remembering something, she opened her bag and took out the Gold Star.

  “And that?”

  “Have you got the certificate?”

  Olya held it out to him.

  “With the certificate I’ll give you a hundred rubles.”

  “I need a hundred and fifty,” said Olya in a weary voice.

  “Well, come back another day,” Alik said flatly, opening the door.

  Outside Olya went into a telephone booth. There was an immediate reply.

  “Alyosha,” she whispered, almost without believing it.

  “What a surprise!” a soft voice at the end of the line replied with quiet astonishment. “Where have you been hiding? Well, you’re right, it’s my fault. I’m living between Moscow and Paris now. Our diplomatic wagging tongues have spread the word that you’ve been having some problems. Well, I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out in the end. Do forgive me, I can’t give you much time. I’ve got a meeting here with people responsible for the festival. Yes, the French are here as well. It’s a shame you can’t come over. You’d be a charming flower at our all-male gathering. It’ll all sort itself out in the end. Forgive me, I must get back to my guests now. Don’t forget me. Give me a ring some time. And bonne nuit!”

  Olya hung up. “Diplomat!” she thought. Then took her lipstick and powder compact out of her bag.

  When he opened the door Alik remarked to her carelessly: “Ah! You’ve had second thoughts. And you were right to do so. A hundred rubles is a fair price. I’ll have that Star on my hands for several months. There are not many collectors up for such a risk.”

  “I need a hundred and fifty,” repeated Olya.

  And she looked him in the eye for a long time. Alik took her by the elbow and in utterly changed tones observed: “Didn’t anyone ever tell you you’ve got the eyes of a mountain deer?”

  “Where must I go?” she asked in a weary voice.

  * * *

  The burial took place very quickly. The men worked swiftly and neatly. As they filled in the grave, Olya noticed that dazzling dandelion flowers, cut by the spades, were falling into it along with the earth, and this caused her a stab of pain.

  By the afternoon she was sitting in the kitchen of her parents’ apartment. She stared at the walls which, before leaving for Moscow, her father had started to paint pale blue. On the gas stove the great old kettle that was familiar to her from childhood was hissing in a soothing manner. It seemed to her that everything was still possible; you just had to learn to stop thinking, to stop remembering.

  At that moment a strident woman’s voice rang out beneath the windows. “Petrovna, they say there’s butter at the Gastronom! Let’s go there! We might get some.”

  “So, how many packs does everyone get?” shouted Petrovna from her window.

  But their voices were drowned by a man’s bass voice: “Don’t be in a hurry, my little ladies. I’ve just been there. It’s not butter. It’s only good-quality ma
rgarine. And there’s none left anyway.”

  Olya closed her eyes and for the first time in all these days she wept. She left for Moscow the same evening.

  * * *

  She spent much longer in the hospital than she had expected. After the abortion there were complications, then septicemia developed. What saved her was a huge silvery poplar tree outside the window. Its leaves made a great rushing sound and filled the whole ward with their shimmering light, redolent of the sunny south.

  The new client Olya was due to work with arrived at the beginning of October. Vincent Desnoyers, twenty-seven, deputy commercial director of an aeronautics firm. When he landed in Moscow a gray and rainy fall was already beginning. The end of September, on the other hand, had been mild and serene, with morning frosts and warm, sunny afternoons.

  During her first days out of the hospital Olya took greedy breaths, unable to get her fill of the airy blue of the streets and the slightly bitter scent of the leaves. Close to the walls of buildings warmed in the sun, the air was mellow and light, rippling densely in the purple shadows of the cool evenings.

  The Center continued with its customary busy life. The bronze rooster was still regularly leaping about on its perch. The black wrought-iron figure of the naked Mercury on his pedestal was still running somewhere in the direction of the Moskva, brandishing his gilded wand. It seemed that all the trials and tribulations of the spring were left behind in the past. Few people at the Center had noticed her absence. “Did you have a good rest? Where were you? In the Crimea? In the Caucasus?” some people asked.

  One day one of Olya’s acquaintances caught up with her on the staircase, Salifou, a Guiñean businessman. He had come to Moscow six years before and had concluded a contract to supply parrots to Soviet circuses and zoos. Since then, as it happened, he had long been handling major business deals but when they greeted him people never failed to remind him of this first contract.