What the Light Reveals

by Mick McCoy

  Having climbed the steps from Oktyabrskaya Metro station, Conrad stood with his back to the eight lanes of Leninski Prospekt. The traffic was light so early in the morning, but still snarling as it slowed on approach to the intersection of Krimsky Val. He’d travelled the two stops from home because it was too cold to walk, regardless of the state of his lungs. The heavy mist obscured all four storeys of the State Institute of Engineering’s grey stone facade across the broad Kaluzhskaya Square. As Conrad crossed the paved expanse through the thick haze, which seemed to close in behind him with every step, the building slowly revealed itself, reminding him – as it always did – of the State Library in Swanston Street, back in Melbourne. The familiarity and pleasure he derived from the association was secret and guilty, since the only thing stopping him or any of the Murphys from walking through the State Library’s doors was his refusal to go back home. He stopped and drew one last time on his Salem, a long and hungry pull, eyes closed. With the smoke held deep inside him he was at peace and his family were happy. He opened his eyes. Beads of moisture had gathered on his lenses. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and removed his glasses. The small circles of skin either side of his nose, indented where the rims rested, tingled madly in their absence. He felt vulnerable without them, incomplete.

  He continued to the car park at the rear, where his car had been since the previous weekend. A single night parked at the back of the flat risked him finding it the next morning without bumper bars or wheels. He unlocked the door, sat behind the wheel and shivered. Despite his woollen gloves the steering wheel was as hard as a dead man’s finger and the vinyl seat sucked the heat from his backside straight through the fabric of his trousers. He turned the key in the ignition and prayed. He tried again. He checked the gearbox was in neutral, tried the key a couple more times, pumping the accelerator pedal, and sat pondering his options. The car was parked by the fence at the top of the lot. Valentin, the attendant, reserved the spot for Conrad so that on occasions like this the incline could be used to good effect. He released the handbrake and with his foot on the clutch allowed the Moskvich to roll between two rows of parked cars. Once it had gathered enough speed he disengaged the clutch, turned the ignition again and pressed hard on the accelerator pedal. The engine spluttered to life an instant before he was forced to brake hard to avoid ploughing into the row of vehicles parked at the bottom of the lot. The Moskvich skidded to a halt with less than a yard to spare. He glanced towards the attendant’s shed to see whether Valentin had witnessed his achievement, but saw no sign of him. He reversed across the yard towards the two ancient petrol pumps.

  Conrad had never liked the car – a pale grey, standard government-issue Moskvich 407 masquerading as a Fiat – and didn’t use it for daily travel. Two or three times a month he drove it to some far-flung engineering foundry or plant not serviced by train or bus. But apart from his sporadic expeditions for work, Alex’s driving lessons and annual trips to Odessa for holidays, the car had occupied roughly the same spot in the yard since the day it unexpectedly appeared.

  He couldn’t deny its benefits, though, the greatest being his introduction to Valentin. On the weekend following its surprise arrival – there were plenty of envious institute colleagues of longer tenure and more obvious need who remained carless – almost six years after Conrad began work, the whole family had caught the Metro to the institute to behold their windfall. No sooner had they reached the lot than they were interrupted by a voice at their backs. ‘Vy ishchete chto-to? You are looking for something?’

  ‘Nyet,’ said Conrad. Having seen pictures of Rasputin he thought the man standing in front of him resembled a well-fed version of Tsar Nicholas’s adviser. He was one of the few men he’d met in Russia taller than himself, but also much more robust; there was a self-assurance in the width of his stance and the looseness of his shoulders. His unbuttoned shirt showed an undershirt, yellowing at the neck. His unkempt black hair, streaked with grey, reached to his shoulders, and his eyes were an icy grey. But his most striking feature was his massive hands, grease etched into the lines of his palms and knuckles, and broad, short, murderous thumbs. Conrad felt an immediate ease with him.

  Conrad guessed he must be an attendant, or a mechanic. The shed over by the gate had double doors large enough to drive a car through and a pair of petrol bowsers out front. ‘I work here at the institute and on Tuesday they gave me use of this car. My family haven’t seen it until now.’

  The man’s suspicion was transparent but benign. ‘Is it empty of petrol?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t you drive it home?’

  ‘I could, I suppose.’ Conrad looked to Ruby as if it were reasonable to expect her to answer for him, but he could see that even she thought he sounded guilty of something. ‘I’ve haven’t driven it at all yet.’

  The attendant chuckled. ‘You have the key, if it’s your car?’

  ‘Right here.’ Conrad dug into his pocket and held it up, then offered his hand in greeting. ‘I’m Conrad Murphy and this is my wife, Ruby, and my sons, Alex and Peter.’

  The attendant shook Conrad’s hand firmly, before bending in a shallow bow to Ruby and the boys. ‘My name is Valentin Alexandrovich Zakrevsky and this is my yard.’

  They all smiled as Valentin swept an arm across the yard, with more pride than its modest dimensions deserved.

  ‘Don’t worry, I believe it is your car,’ Valentin said. ‘It would be impossible to fabricate the bewildered looks on your family’s faces.’ He nodded, as if convincing himself. ‘So, you’ll all get in and drive away now?’

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ Conrad said, ‘but I’m not ready to drive it yet.’

  Valentin shrugged as he walked back towards the shed. ‘I will be here when you need me,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘And believe me,’ he added, raising a finger, ‘once you drive your vehicle you will need me.’ He stopped and hitched up his beltless trousers which, once let go, slid immediately back down. He saluted the Murphys from across the bitumen before disappearing into the shed.

  Conrad’s bond with Valentin quickly developed to be closer than any he had outside his family. It was cemented with a confession. Soon after their original meeting, Valentin asked him in to the shed. Spare parts were scattered across the concrete floor: side mirrors, bumper bars, wheels, brake drums, carburettors, a cylinder block, cam shafts, timing belts. There were tools on a workbench, vices and jigs, tins and jars of lubricants and oils, a trolley jack pushed into a corner. A block-and-tackle pulley hoist was suspended from a roof joist surely too frail to lift anything of a weight that would require hoisting. It was very dimly lit, but being among the machinery soothed Conrad.

  ‘I am KGB,’ Valentin said. ‘I have been assigned to report on you.’

  Conrad stared out through the wide double doors. ‘I see.’

  ‘Please,’ Valentin said, calmly, reasonably, ‘take a seat and I will explain.’

  Expat friends, exiles from Canada and England mostly, but some Americans, some New Zealanders, had told Conrad and Ruby of their own experiences of being watched. They had all come to Russia by choice, often invited like Conrad, strong and true supporters of socialism. Nevertheless, every one of them had stories of KGB. A liaison from Inotdel – the Foreign Department – might appear at the door months or years after they’d first arrived, or a work colleague might suddenly take an interest in them, invite them out for drinks, although their paths never crossed either at work or outside it. And he’d heard before of a surveillant openly announcing himself, as Valentin had just done, but to threaten rather than relieve. But until that day Conrad had never experienced it. He’d never been suspicious of anyone he dealt with.

  ‘The first thing you must understand,’ Valentin said, pausing to let smoke escape from his mouth, ‘is the difference between enemies and traitors.’

  ‘Do you think I’m one of those?’

  ‘A foreigner, when they first arrive, is eith
er an enemy, at best, or a traitor. There are no other options.’ He continued before Conrad had a chance to voice his objection. ‘For six years you have been watched. Your wife also.’

  ‘But Valentin, I’m neither of those things.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, waving his large hands in a way he probably intended to be calming. ‘But the reason you have the car, as well as it being useful for your job, is for me to get close to you.’

  Conrad glanced out again through the open shed door, even though he had no intention of leaving. ‘Okay,’ he said, patting down his jacket for his cigarettes. ‘I was wondering how I was considered worthy of it.’

  Valentin produced a lighter, expensive-looking, surely beyond the reach of an ordinary mechanic.

  ‘Enemy or traitor, only two options to begin with. Okay? Enemies are right in front of you. You keep them in sight, you know them and all is clear. They are not a problem. But a traitor must be crushed.’

  Conrad coughed, holding his Salem at arm’s length.

  ‘You're neither. This has been known for many years, okay? But since we met I would say you are likely my friend.’ Valentin smiled at him.

  ‘Thank you. I’d hoped you’d be mine, as well.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But it’s Ruby. I need to tell you that. She is the reason for the interest now.’

  ‘Someone thinks she’s an enemy? Or a traitor?’

  Valentin gave the slightest of nods.

  Conrad’s brow creased. ‘Because of Novy Mir?’ The magazine was government-funded but had dissident views. They’d published Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich earlier that year, much to Ruby’s excitement.

  ‘She should not work there,’ he said. ‘She is an innocent, already I’m sure of it, but she is a foreigner and should not work there.’

  How could this man be sure of Ruby’s innocence? After one meeting in a car park? ‘So you want me to help you inform on my wife. Is that what you’re saying?’

  He didn’t deny it. ‘I will protect her. And you,’ he said, a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. ‘But we must convince her to quit that magazine. To stay only with Moscow News.’

  Conrad was in no doubt Valentin was who he said he was. How else could a mechanic know where his wife worked? And, despite having met him only weeks earlier, he trusted him. It might be misplaced, but he trusted him.

  ‘There are people Ruby works with at Moscow News who know about her new job and have reported about her adversely. That’s why I’ve been assigned to you. To both of you.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said. ‘You will invite me home for dinner and we will become more friendly. I will report and, if I am not wrong about you both, my reports will be benign.’

  ‘Valentin, I don’t know about this.’

  ‘It’s the best way I can protect you. It is the only way.’ Again he reached out and laid a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. They were close enough for Conrad to smell the cigarettes on Valentin’s breath. ‘I’m trusted.’

  ‘Why do you want to protect us?’ Conrad asked. ‘Why would you bother?’

  ‘We have talked these past weeks, not much, but enough. We have shared a smoke. I like you.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  Valentin shrugged. ‘It’s better for both of us. All of us.’

  Conrad sat quietly and watched Valentin’s grey eyes. If this was the price, he thought, it wasn’t so bad. ‘This Sunday for dinner, then?’

  Ruby had been openly puzzled when told by her reserved husband that he’d struck up a friendship with a mechanic and had invited him for dinner. Conrad’s only friends outside work were expats she’d introduced him to, but she was always on at him about being too solitary, so she wasn’t going to be difficult.

  ‘His workshop reminds me of Brendan’s back in Richmond,’ he said. ‘The smells and the feel of the air. You can close your eyes and name what’s on each bench.’ He smiled at her bemused grin. ‘It’s a bit like my father’s workshop at Roma Street, too. It makes me feel comfortable. He makes me feel comfortable.’

  The first Sunday was such a success it became a regular fortnightly event. Ruby was quite taken by Valentin, his size and flamboyant appearance and personality, and his gifts. He always came with a gift: Stuyvesant cigarettes for Ruby, which she hadn’t had since leaving Australia, and a range of things that were never seen on the shelves of local stores, like honey and washing detergent and French mustard. Her curiosity soon got the better of her.

  ‘How does a mechanic come by all this?’

  ‘Recycled car parts are among the most prized of commodities,’ he said. ‘I have built good contacts.’

  Ruby frowned doubtfully at Conrad, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He’d been waiting for this moment, dreading it.

  ‘I can stop if you like?’ Valentin said.

  ‘Oh, please no,’ she said, offering up a list of other items she’d like. Nylon pantyhose, tissues, steel wool, a can opener, a grater, paper bags, stock cubes, tinned fruit. A telephone.

  ‘Do you know anyone else with a telephone?’ he asked, and Conrad heard suspicion in his voice. ‘Who would you call?’

  ‘I work from home some days,’ she said. ‘It would be much easier with a phone.’ Ruby seemed oblivious to the leading nature of Valentin’s question. She was just excited at the prospect of a telephone. ‘There are lines running to the building and some kind of exchange box in the foyer. Others in the block must have one.’

  Conrad sat quietly, letting the conversation go, drenched in guilt.

  ‘Okay,’ Valentin said. ‘But it will take longer than a tin of pineapple.’

  As it happened, the telephone was connected before the tinned fruit appeared, and Conrad had no doubt the line would be tapped. As for Ruby, there was always something new on the list and Valentin almost always delivered. And as far as Conrad could tell, he was true to his word when it came to protecting them.

  It did come at a price, though, but Conrad had accepted that right from the start. From that first conversation in Valentin’s shed he decided it was best Ruby didn’t know the reason Valentin had befriended them. That wasn’t the only secret, either. While Valentin tried time and again, he never convinced Ruby to quit Novy Mir. Conrad didn’t want him to, either. The work she did there was the one thing that kept her off his back about going home. Conrad had initially intended to tell Ruby about Valentin one day, but because it was so important to him that she stay at Novy Mir, he knew he never could.

  Anyway, it was clear to Conrad how much he needed Valentin. For petrol and repairs, for advice on the best route to the Carpathian Mountains or Odessa for holidays, for gossip about the comings and goings and grumblings and grievances of his fellow workers at the State Institute of Engineering. For his wisdom on who he could confide in (only him), who was an informer (the list was long) and for practical comradeship and a quiet cigarette in the darkness and sweet smells of his shed in the evening. He wanted to trust Valentin.

  So on that cold November morning after Conrad had coerced the Moskvich’s engine into life, he smiled broadly as Valentin appeared from his shed and stood between the bowsers.

  ‘And here he is,’ he said, arms stretched wide as if addressing a great crowd, as Conrad climbed from the car. ‘The state’s newest patriot. Congratulations, my friend.’ He was referring to the Badge of Honour. He grabbed Conrad’s hand. ‘Of course, I can only guess at your love for the mother county. But of your terrible driving I can provide boundless verification.’

  Conrad knew better than to respond.

  ‘I’m sure you deserve your medal as much as you deserve this beautiful vehicle.’

  Conrad’s award was, the citation read, in recognition of his contribution to Soviet national life by way of his invaluable scientific endeavours. How translating engineering texts fulfilled those criteria Conrad wasn’t sure, but maybe in some factory in one of the many towns he’d travelled to, the work of the
state was greatly benefited because Conrad Murphy spent so much time bent over a desk in the Lenin Library painstakingly translating and interpreting engineering specifications. What was previously hidden or unintelligible became accessible and relevant and valuable, all to the good of the Soviet cause.

  ‘You should be proud,’ Valentin said. ‘They’ve given out no more than half a million badges in the twenty-five years since the end of the war, so you are in truly select company.’

  ‘What leaves you so full of the joys of life this morning?’

  ‘You, my learned patriot. May a few kopeks of your good fortune cross my palm.’

  ‘A few kopeks? Is that all? I tell you what, you fill my tank and you can keep the change from this.’ Conrad handed Valentin a five-rouble note, enough for a full tank of petrol with fifty kopeks to spare.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Valentin said. ‘In recognition of your great achievement I will fill your tank right to the top, even though you can afford to pay for only half.’ He paused. ‘And I will do it gladly.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you.’

  Valentin balanced his cigarette on the bowser and squeezed the pump handle to fill Conrad’s tank. ‘Are you off for a drive this weekend?’

  ‘I hope so. Maybe only to collect mushrooms, but even that would be something.’

  ‘If half a bucket should find its way back to this loyal servant,’ Valentin said, ‘it would do your future car maintenance schedule no harm.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Valentin withdrew the nozzle from the tank and screwed down the cap. As Conrad leaned against the Moskvich he was suddenly bent double by a bout of coughing. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth to catch the red-flecked spittle. When finally he’d won back control of his lungs, he wiped his lips and folded the evidence in on itself.

  ‘My friend,’ Valentin said, ‘while I have no time for doctors myself, you really ought to see one about that cough.’

  ‘I have. But there’s only so much they can do. The rest is up to me.’