‘Do you mind?’ I said, but Vassily was not listening.
I opened the window a crack and inhaled deeply the cool night air. As I pressed my forehead against the sharp wooden edge of the window frame I felt it bite into my flesh. I pictured Ghazis. The heat, the noise, the whirl of figures, the squeal of music from the loudspeakers they had erected by the Agitprop Brigade’s armoured personnel carrier.
‘The man we met in a dark corner of the market was one of Kirov’s informers, a dirty, repulsive-looking Tajik.’ Vassily ran a hand across his face. His voice was muffled, as if it came from a great distance. ‘The hair did not grow on one side of his scalp and his ear seemed to have melted off his head. He had been caught in one of our raids a couple of years before.’
Closing the window, I turned back to Vassily.
‘It is late,’ I forced myself to say. My voice was thin and shaky. I cleared my throat. ‘You’re tired. I will come back tomorrow.’ I attempted a smile.
The uneven flow of electricity caused the bulb in the standard lamp to flare up before it settled back down to a dim glow, barely illuminating a metre of the small room. Vassily looked up. His face was shrunken. His skin hung in dark folds. His eyes, which had once glowed with life, now gazed wearily into the distance. For a moment I thought he had not heard me.
‘Tomorrow I may be dead,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly…’
‘The tale must be told, comrade. Sit down. For too long I have kept this secret. For years I have hidden it deep in my heart. Buried it. But it has eaten me away from the inside.’ His hand clutched his belly, where the cancer had almost done its work. ‘It has devoured me. Let me finish my story.’
I lowered myself back down into the chair opposite him. By my arm, on a low table, was a bottle of vodka, untouched. Vassily was unable to do more than wet the inside of his mouth without suffering discomfort now, and out of respect for him I had not opened it, despite his urging. I longed for a drink. Longed for the oblivion it offered.
‘The Tajik led us down a dark passage to a door in a courtyard. It was quiet in the courtyard and we followed Kirov through. My hands were trembling. It was quite possible we were being lured into a trap, that the mujahidin were inside waiting for us. The doorway led on to some steep stairs. Kirov had climbed them and stood at the top. I could hear low voices. He turned and called for me to come up – it was for me, after all, that this had been arranged.
‘At the top of the stairs was a large room. It was barely furnished; you know what their rooms were like. Hashim was there, by the window, looking out across the market. The windows were open and the noise of the market drifted in. The air was thick with dust, the stench of sweat, oily smoke and diesel fumes.’
Vassily eased himself forwards in his chair, the blanket slipping off his knees on to the floor. For one moment his eyes glowed again, as they used to.
‘We sat on the carpet and Hashim took out some pieces, some stones – nothing significant. I began to think it had been a wasted journey; began, even, to fear that it was a trick after all. And then he took out a 8 leather pouch and came over to me. He took my hand and shook the bracelet out on to my palm.
‘Let me describe it to you, Antanas, comrade, as first I saw it, held it in my youthful hand. I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. The sun cut through the awnings, through the window of the room. The noise and the smell, the hustle and commotion, fell away. The jewel was of the most perfect, clear amber, and it glowed in the sunlight as if it were ablaze. It was oval, huge. Ah, but I’m holding back, I know.’
Vassily laughed. He was perspiring heavily and his hands shook as he held them before him, imagining perhaps the bracelet still in his hand.
‘I could describe the band, the intricate gold lacework that glittered as I drew it close to my eyes. Ha! I’m teasing you – myself – for the delight, what caught my breath, made me gasp, was inside the flaming oval of amber. The most beautiful specimens.
‘Hashim grinned as my mouth fell open, seeing them. He nodded as I turned the bracelet to examine them from the underside.’
He paused again and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He was looking at me but I could see that his gaze was elsewhere, back in that room in eastern Afghanistan almost ten years before. His hand clenched into a fist, as if he were gripping the jewel.
‘The most beautiful specimens. Two beetles, perfectly preserved. Caught as the resin oozed from the bark of that ancient pine, millions of years ago. Fucking. Yes, caught for eternity, enshrined in their fiery temple, in the act of love.
‘The gold work was stunning, no doubt about it, but that was of little interest to me. It was those beetles. The bracelet. I had heard of it, had read of it years before. Its history was not unknown to me. I could not believe what I held in my hands. You must understand this, Antanas, my comrade, you must understand the madness that possessed me when I saw it.’
He reached out and touched my knee. His gaze had returned to the present, but there was a haunted, almost tortured expression on his face.
‘It’s OK, my friend, it’s OK,’ I reassured him.
‘You don’t understand,’ Vassily said, dropping back into his chair, looking suddenly exhausted. ‘And how could you? We have not spoken about those days.’
‘It’s not important.‘
‘It is.’ Vassily’s face creased with anger. ‘I am a coward, and I have never been able to tell you. I loved you, you are my brother, I did not dare do anything that would…’
His voice trailed away. He reached for the glass and this time, as he took it, his hands shook so much the water spilt down the front of his shirt. I leant forward and steadied his hand.
‘When I returned home from Afghanistan,’ he continued, ‘Kolya and Kirov were both in prison.’ His eyes flicked up again, looking at me, full of remorse. ‘Everything had changed. Ghazis changed everything. I could not sell it after what had happened.’ He hesitated. ‘I had arranged to meet our contact, who sold the jewellery we smuggled from Afghanistan, here in Vilnius. We were to meet in Vingis Park, at a concert celebrating independence. I could not do it. I buried the bracelet instead; buried it along with the past. I took you from the hospital and tried to forget about it all, but it never went away. It stayed here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Ghazis… Everything.’
I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable, my hands trembling, longing for a drink. The vision of Ghazis clouded my mind, like the smoke that had drifted from the village, clogging my lungs. I wiped a bead of perspiration from my forehead.
‘I really should be going,’ I tried again. But Vassily ignored me.
He sank back against the pillows. His skin was grey and glistened with sweat. His breathing was rapid, shallow, painful. His hands trembled on the arms of the chair.
‘You must find Kolya,’ he said urgently. ‘He will tell you all about what happened. Take him to the bracelet and he will tell you all.’
‘I’m not interested, Vassily,’ I said.
I longed to get out. My chest felt tight, constricting my breathing. My head spun and I noticed that my own hands were shaking.
‘You must, comrade, my friend, you must. Promise me. I am a coward still, I know. I should tell you myself. The whole tale. Promise me you will find him?’
He looked into my eyes, beseechingly. I squirmed under his gaze.
‘But how am I supposed to find Kolya?’ I asked, irritated and bewildered by his demand. ‘Or take him to this bracelet?’
Vassily reached behind him and pulled out a crinkled envelope. He handed it to me carefully.
‘It came not long ago,’ he said. ‘It is a letter from Kolya.’ He pressed the envelope into my hand. ‘It seems he is back in Vilnius. He’s been in Kaliningrad for some years, from what I hear. When he was released from prison, he came to see me, demanding money. “His share,” as he put it. He was a total mess; prison had only made his problem with drugs worse. I gave him some money and he disappeared. For years
I heard nothing from him, then a few months ago I received this.’ He indicated the letter. ‘He’s back in Vilnius for medical treatment. He needs some money. I haven’t got anything to give him, but perhaps, after all, the bracelet can do some good.’
Reluctantly I took the envelope from him. I sighed, and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket.
‘The letter doesn’t have his home address on it,’ Vassily continued, ‘but there must be some clue here – the clinic perhaps. On the back of his letter I have written how the bracelet can be found. Promise me you will find him. He will tell you what I am not able to. The bracelet cost so much. The price was too great.’
The door creaked open and Tanya, his wife, slipped into the room. Seeing Vassily looking so pale, his hair slick with sweat, the blanket around his feet, she hurried over to him. Questioningly she looked at me, as she pulled the blanket up around his knees, and wiped his forehead.
Vassily gripped my hand.
‘We have been good friends, no? The years have been good ones? We have forgotten together. We have laughed together. You will not hate me, when you hear the story, tovarich – comrade, you will forgive your friend?’
I squeezed his hand. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course, my friend.’
‘I have stayed too long,’ I added partly to Tanya, partly to her husband, who still held on to my hand. ‘It is late. I must go and let you get some rest.’
In the dark passageway, as I opened the front door of their apartment, I paused. Tanya was close behind me. I touched her cheek gently. She trembled slightly, and when she held me I could feel how hard she struggled to hold back the tears.
‘He’s been on edge for the last few days,’ Tanya said. ‘He gets so angry and it’s draining the last of his strength.’
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 2003 Stephan Collishaw
Cover photograph © Lena Kaplevska
www.melynastigras.com
All Rights Reserved
The right of Stephan Collishaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2003 by Sceptre, an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
ISBN 978 1 910570 15 9
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
The Last Girl Page 26