The Secret Speech

by Tom Rob Smith

  Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:

  —It can’t be true.

  How could it be? But it was here, with a State-stamped letter, containing information only the State would know, with sources, quotes, references. The conspiracy of silence, which Nikolai had presumed would last forever, was over. It was no trick.

  The speech was real.

  Nikolai stood up, leaving the papers scattered. He unlocked the door and entered his apartment, abandoning the papers to the communal hallway. It didn’t matter if he locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut, his home was no longer a sanctuary. There were no sanctuaries any longer. Soon everyone would know, every schoolchild and every factory worker would read the speech. Not only would they know, they’d be allowed to talk openly, encouraged to discuss.

  He pushed open the bedroom door, staring down at his wife, asleep, on her side, her hands under her head. She was beautiful. He adored her. They lived a perfect, privileged life. They had two wonderful, happy daughters. His wife had never known disgrace. She’d never known shame. She’d never known Nikolai in any other guise than that of a loving husband, a tender man who’d die for his family. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a finger along her pale arm. He couldn’t live with her knowing the truth, changing her opinion of him, pulling away, asking questions, or, worse still, remaining silent. Her silence would be unbearable. All her friends would ask questions. She’d be judged. How much did she know? Had she always known? Better that he should not live to see her shamed. Better that he should die now.

  Except his death would change nothing. She would still find out. She would wake to find his body and she would cry and grieve. Then she would read the speech. Although she’d attend his funeral she would wonder at the things he’d done. She would rethink the moments they spent together, when he’d touched her, when he’d made love to her. Had he murdered someone hours before? Had her home been bought with blood? Perhaps, eventually, she would even come to believe that he deserved to die and that taking his life had been the right thing to do, not just for him but also for their daughters.

  He picked up the pillow. His wife was strong and she would struggle, but even though he was out of shape, he was confident of his ability to overpower her. He positioned himself carefully and she moved accordingly, sensing his body, no doubt pleased he was home. She rolled onto her back, smiling. He couldn’t look at her face anymore. He had to act now before he lost his nerve. He lowered the pillow quickly, not wanting to catch sight of her opening her eyes. He pressed down as hard as he could. Quickly she grabbed at the pillow, at his wrists, scratching. It was no good, he wouldn’t let go—she couldn’t pull loose. Rather than trying to break his grip, she tried to wriggle out from underneath. He straddled her, locking his legs around her stomach, keeping her fixed in position and unable to move while he kept the pillow in place. She was pinned down, helpless, weakening. Her hands no longer scratched, they merely held his wrists until they went slack and fell by her side.

  He remained in the same position, on top of her, holding the pillow for some minutes after she stopped moving. Finally, he eased back, letting go, leaving the pillow across her face. He didn’t want to see her bloodshot eyes. He wanted to remember her expression as being full of love. He reached under the pillow so that he might shut her eyelids. His fingertip roamed her face, getting closer and closer until he touched her pupil—the faintly sticky surface. He carefully closed her eyelids and lifted the pillow, looking down at her. She was at peace. He lay beside her, his arms around her waist.

  Exhausted, Nikolai almost fell asleep. He shook himself awake. He was not finished yet. Standing up, neatening the bedsheets, he picked up the pillow and walked out into the living room, turning toward his daughters’ bedroom.

  SAME DAY

  ZOYA AND ELENA WERE ASLEEP: Leo could hear the rise and fall of their breathing. Adjusting to the darkness, he carefully shut the door behind him. He couldn’t fail at being a father. Let the homicide department close, let him be stripped of his apartment and privileges, there had to be some way of saving his family, nothing mattered more. And he was sure that this family, despite its problems, offered the best chance for all of them. He refused to imagine a future where they wouldn’t be together. It was true that both girls were far closer to Raisa than they were to him. Clearly the obstacle wasn’t the adoption but his past. He’d been naïve in thinking that his relationship with Elena and Zoya merely required time and that like a trick of perspective moving far enough away from the incident would make it appear smaller and less significant. Even now he used euphemisms—the incident—for the murder of her parents. Zoya’s anger was as vivid as the day her parents had been shot. Instead of denial, he had to confront her hatred directly.

  Zoya was sleeping on her side, facing the wall. Leo reached over and took hold of her shoulder, gently rolling her onto her back. The intention had been to ease her out of her sleep, but instead she sat up straight, her body tensing, pulling away from his touch. Without realizing exactly what he was doing he placed his other hand on her shoulder, stopping her from moving away. He did it for the best of reasons, for both of their sakes. He needed her to listen. Attempting to maintain a measured, reassuring tone, he whispered:

  —Zoya, we need to talk, the two of us. It can’t wait. If I wait till morning I’ll find some excuse and I’ll delay till tomorrow. I’ve already delayed for three years.

  She said nothing, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed on him. Although he’d spent at least an hour in the kitchen trying to work out exactly what to say, those carefully planned words disappeared:

  —You were in my bedroom. I found the knife.

  He’d opened on the wrong topic. He was here to talk about his failings, not to criticize her. He tried to turn the conversation around:

  —First, let me make clear, I’m a different person now. I’m not the officer that came to your parents’ farm. Also, remember, I tried to save your parents. I failed. I will live with that failure for the rest of my life. I can’t bring them back. But I can give you and your sister opportunities. That’s how I see this family. It’s an opportunity. It’s an opportunity for you and for Elena, but also for me.

  Leo stopped, remaining silent, waiting to see if she’d ridicule the notion. She didn’t move or speak. Her lips were clamped together: her body was rigid.

  —Can’t you… try?

  Her voice trembled, her first words:

  —Let go.

  —Zoya, don’t get upset: just tell me what you’re thinking. Be honest. Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what kind of person you want me to be.

  —Let go.

  —No, Zoya, please, you have to understand how important this is.

  —Let go.

  —Zoya…

  Her voice became higher, strained—desperate:

  —Let go!

  Stunned, he pulled back. She was whining like a wounded animal. How had this gone so wrong? In disbelief he watched as she recoiled from his affection. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was trying to express his love for her. She was throwing it back in his face. Zoya was ruining this, not just for him. She was ruining it for everyone. Elena wanted to be part of a family. He knew she did. She held his hand: she smiled, laughed. She wanted to be happy. Raisa wanted to be happy. They all just wanted to be happy. Except for Zoya, stubbornly refusing to recognize that he’d changed, childishly clinging on to her hatred as if it was her favorite doll.

  Leo noticed the smell. Touching the sheets he discovered they were damp. Even so, it took him a second or two to understand that Zoya had wet the bed. He stood up, stepped back, muttering:

  —That’s okay. I’ll clean up. Don’t worry. That’s my fault. I’m to blame.


  Zoya shook her head, saying nothing, scrunching her hands against her temples, clawing at the sides of her face. Leo became short of breath, perplexed that his love could create such misery:

  —Zoya, I’ll take the sheets.

  She shook her head, clutching the piss-stained sheets as if they were protecting her from him. By now Elena was awake and crying.

  Leo turned to the door and then turned back again, unable to leave her in such a state. How could he fix the problem when he was the problem?

  —I just want to love you, Zoya.

  Elena was looking from Zoya to Leo. Her being awake resulted in a change in Zoya. She regained her composure, calmly telling Leo:

  —I’m going to wash my sheets. I’m going to do it myself. I don’t need your help.

  Leo left the room, leaving the young girl he’d hoped to win over sitting in piss and tears.

  ENTERING THE KITCHEN, Leo paced the room, drunk on catastrophe. While he’d tidied away the files, the sheet of paper from Moskvin’s printing press was as he’d left it:

  Under torture, Eikhe

  An appropriate companion: a reminder of his former career, a career that was going to shadow him forever. Picturing Zoya’s reaction in the bedroom, Leo was forced to contemplate something he’d only minutes ago dismissed as unthinkable. The family might have to be broken apart.

  Had his desire to hold them together become a blind obsession? It was forcing Zoya to pick at a scab that would never heal, infecting her with hatred and bitterness. Of course, if she couldn’t live with him then neither could Elena. The sisters were inseparable. He’d have no choice but to find them a new home, one with no connection to the State, perhaps outside of Moscow in a smaller town where the apparatus of power was less visible. He and Raisa would need to search for suitable guardians, meeting prospective parents and wondering if they could do a better job, if they could bring the girls happiness, something Leo had so utterly failed to provide.

  Raisa appeared at the door:

  —What’s going on?

  She’d come from their bedroom. She didn’t know about the bedwetting, the conversation, referring instead to Nikolai, the phone call, the midnight meeting. Leo’s voice was cracked with emotion:

  —Nikolai was drunk. I told him we’d talk when he was sober.

  —That took all night?

  What was he waiting for? He should sit her down and explain.

  —Leo? What’s wrong?

  He’d promised there would be no more secrets. Yet he couldn’t admit that after three years of trying to be a father he had nothing but Zoya’s hatred to show for it. He couldn’t admit that he had woken her in the middle of the night, pathetically petitioning to be her father. He was afraid. The division of their family might make Raisa wonder which side of the divide she wanted to be on. Would she remain with the girls or with him? For the years he’d been an MGB officer she’d despised him and everything he represented. In contrast, she loved Elena and Zoya without qualification. Her love for him was complicated. Her love for them was simple. In making her decision she might choose to remember the man he was, the man he used to be. Part of him was convinced that his relationship with Raisa depended upon him proving himself as a father. For the first time in three years he lied to her:

  —Nothing is wrong. It was a shock seeing Nikolai again. That’s all.

  Raisa nodded. She looked down the hall.

  —Are the girls awake?

  —They woke up when I came back. I’m sorry. I said sorry to them.

  Raisa picked up the sheet of paper taken from the printing press.

  —You better move this before the girls sit down.

  Leo took the sheet, carrying it to their room. He perched on the bed, watching as Raisa left the kitchen to wake the girls. Nervous, nearly sick, he waited for Raisa to discover the truth. His lie had bought him a temporary reprieve and no more than that. She would listen as Zoya explained what had happened.

  He looked up, stunned to see Raisa casually emerge from the bedroom, returning to the kitchen without saying a word. Seconds later Zoya emerged, carrying her sheets to the bathroom where she deposited them in the bath, running the hot water. She hadn’t told Raisa. She didn’t want Raisa to know. The only thing she hated more than Leo was the idea that he’d been able to embarrass her in this way.

  Leo stood up, entering the kitchen and asking:

  —Zoya’s washing the sheets?

  Raisa nodded. Leo continued:

  —She doesn’t need to do that. I can arrange to have them cleaned.

  Raisa lowered her voice:

  —I think she had an accident. Just leave her, okay?

  Leo nodded:

  —Okay.

  Elena entered first, her shirt buttoned up incorrectly, taking her seat. She was silent. Leo smiled at her. She studied his smile as if it were something unknown and threatening. She did not smile back. He could hear Zoya’s footsteps. They stopped. She was standing out of sight, waiting in the hall.

  Zoya stepped into view. She faced Leo directly, looking at him from across the room. She glanced at Raisa, who was busy stirring the oats, then at her sister, who was eating. She understood that he hadn’t told them either. The knife was their secret. The bedwetting was their secret. They were accomplices, complicit in this false family. Zoya wasn’t ready to tear the family apart. Her love for Elena was stronger than her hatred of him.

  Gingerly, like an alley cat, Zoya moved toward her seat. She didn’t touch her breakfast. In turn, Leo ate nothing, churning the oats in the bowl, unable to look up. Raisa was unimpressed:

  —Neither of you are going to eat?

  Leo waited for Zoya to reply. She said nothing. Leo began to eat. As soon as he did, Zoya stood up, depositing her untouched bowl in the sink.

  —I feel sick.

  Raisa stood up, checking her temperature:

  —Are you well enough for school?

  —Yes.

  The girls left the table. Raisa moved close to Leo:

  —What is wrong with you today?

  Leo was sure, if he opened his mouth, he’d start to cry. He said nothing, his hands clenched under the table.

  Shaking her head, Raisa moved off to help the girls. There was bustle around the front door: final preparations to leave, coats being put on. The door was opened. Raisa returned to the kitchen, carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. She placed it on the table and walked out. The front door slammed shut.

  Leo didn’t move for several minutes. Then, slowly, he reached forward, pulling the parcel toward him. They lived inside a ministerial compound. Letters were normally left at the gate: this had been left on his doorstep. The parcel was about thirty centimeters long, twenty centimeters wide, and ten centimeters deep. There was no name, no address, just an ink drawing of a crucifix. Ripping the brown paper, he saw a box, the top of which was stamped:

  NOT FOR PRESS

  SAME DAY

  THE METRO CARRIAGE WASN’T CROWDED yet Elena took hold of Raisa’s hand, gripping it tightly, as if fearful they were about to be separated. Both girls were unusually quiet. Leo’s behavior this morning had unsettled them. Raisa couldn’t understand what had come over him. Normally so careful around the girls, he’d seemed to accept that they were about to sit down for breakfast and witness him preoccupied by that word: torture. When she’d asked him to take the sheet of paper away, his cue to pull himself together, he’d obeyed only to return to the kitchen in exactly the same disheveled state, staring at the girls and not saying a word. Bloodshot eyes, a haunted, ragged look: she hadn’t seen that expression for years, not since his returns from all-night assignments as a secret police officer, exhausted and yet unable to go to bed. He’d slump in the corner, in the dark, brooding, silent, as though the events of the previous night were playing over and over in his mind like a looped reel of film. During that period he’d never spoken about his work yet she’d known what he’d been doing, arresting indiscriminately, and she’d s
ecretly hated him for it.

  Those times were past. He’d changed—she was sure of it. He’d risked his life to break from a profession of midnight arrests and forced confessions. The State Security apparatus still existed, renamed the KGB, remaining a presence in everyone’s life, but Leo played no part in its operations, having declined the offer of a high-ranking position. Instead, taking a much greater risk, he’d opened his own investigative department. Every night he shared stories of his working day, partly because he sought her advice, partly to show how different his department was from the KGB, but mostly to prove there were no more secrets between them. Yet her approval wasn’t enough. Observing him around the girls, it struck Raisa that he behaved as if he were cursed, a character in a children’s fairy tale, and only the words—I love you— spoken by both girls, could break the dark magic of his past.

  Despite his frustrations, he’d never shown any jealousy of Raisa’s easy relationship with Elena and Zoya even when Zoya deliberately tormented him by being openly affectionate to her and cold to him. Over the past three years he’d withstood rejection and rudeness, never losing his temper, soaking up hostility as if he considered it nothing less than he deserved. In the face of this, he’d made the girls his only hope of redemption. Zoya knew it and reacted against it. The more he sought her affection, the more she hated him. Raisa couldn’t point out the contradiction, or tell him to relax. Once fanatical about Communism, he was now fanatical about his family. His vision of utopia had been made smaller, less abstract, and though it now encompassed only four people, rather than the entire world, it remained just as elusive.

  The train pulled into TsPkiO station, abbreviated from its full name, Tsentralnyl Park Kulturyi Otdykha Imeni Gorkovo. The first time the girls had heard it formally read out over the PA system they’d started to laugh. Caught unaware by this chance absurdity, Zoya had revealed a beautiful smile that, up until then, she’d kept locked out of sight. In that moment Raisa caught a glimpse of the child that had been lost—playful and irreverent. Within seconds Zoya’s smile had been wiped away. Raisa had felt an intense pain. She was no less emotionally involved. She and Leo had been unable to have children of their own: adoption was her only hope of motherhood. However, she was by far the better at concealing her thoughts, even if Leo had been trained by the secret police. She’d made a tactical decision, careful that the girls not be constantly aware of how important they were to her. She treated them without fuss or ceremony, establishing functional foundations—school, clothes, food, going out, homework. Though they both went about it in different ways, she shared Leo’s dream—the dream of creating a loving, happy family.