PRAISE for CONSTANT NOBODY
With vivid characters and indelible images that transmit the cruel bleakness of Stalin’s Russia and ruthless gentility of Chamberlain’s England, Butler Hallett conjures a morally complex world of high-stakes international espionage where nothing is as it seems — except that the human heart wants what it wants.
In Constant Nobody, Michelle Butler Hallett gives us a spy thriller that does more than entertain. It asks us to meditate on the fundamental questions of existence: who can we trust, and what should we believe?
— CHRISTINE FISCHER GUY, author of The Umbrella Mender
Constant Nobody is a suspenseful work of historical fiction, populated with nesting dolls of intrigue, identity, and revelation. Set on the murky borders of war and political unrest, Constant Nobody is a powerful reminder of the importance of connection, one person to another, no matter the cost.
— AMI McKAY, author of Half Spent Was the Night
Constant Nobody is a remarkably accomplished novel. It takes readers deep into the brutal hearts of darkness of both civil war Spain and Soviet Russia during Stalin’s purges. In those hellish places, men and women struggle with duty and survival while tormenting their victims and being tormented in turn. In the nightmarish world of violence, a man and a woman must grapple with their complicated relationship while trying to save themselves from destruction.
— ANTANAS SILEIKA, author of Provisionally Yours
Also by Michelle Butler Hallett:
This Marlowe
deluded your sailors
Sky Waves
Double-blind
The shadow side of grace
Copyright © 2021 by Michelle Butler Hallett.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). To contact Access Copyright, visit accesscopyright.ca or call 1-800-893-5777.
Edited by Bethany Gibson.
Cover and page design by Julie Scriver.
Cover image: Magritte, René (1898-1967), The Lovers (detail). France, 1928. oil on canvas, 54 x 73.4 cm. Gift of Richard S. Zeisler. The Museum of Modern Art, New York, NY, U.S.A. © Estate of René Magritte / SOCAN (2020). Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA / Art Resource, NY.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Constant nobody / Michelle Butler Hallett.
Names: Butler Hallett, Michelle, 1971- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200310739 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200310836 | ISBN 9781773101576 (softcover) | ISBN 9781773101583 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781773101590 (Kindle)
Classification: LCC PS8603.U86 C66 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Goose Lane Editions acknowledges the generous support of the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Government of New Brunswick.
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For David, Oliver, and Kendall.
A confidential prisoner, he has no shape! Tie him down!
— Yury Nikolaevich Tynyanov, screenplay for Lieutenant Kizhe
Contents
1937
1957
1958
Acknowledgements
About the Author
1937
PYROGENS
International Red Aid Clinic, not far from Gerrikaitz, Spain
Friday 23 April–Saturday 24 April
— Swallow each and every one, or your cock will fall off.
— Wait, what?
She rattled the bottle. —You have gonorrhea. These sulpha pills will shoot back up your throat and taste like bile. Unpleasant, I know, but you must take one every eight hours until they’re gone.
He squinted at her. —Nurses don’t wear trousers.
— I do. Now, for the crabs. This ointment will smother them, and it will soothe the kerosene rash, too. Please don’t use kerosene again. Stand too close to a fire and you might become a lamp.
He took the ointment. —Petroleum jelly?
— I’ll fetch you a nit comb. What’s your name, comrade?
Kostya fastened his trousers. Despite weeks of drill, he still spoke Spanish with a Russian accent. His friend Misha spoke much better Spanish and never lost a chance to remind Kostya of the fact. Then Kostya considered the common rumours — rumours he knew to be true — of the heavy presence in Spain of NKVD, the Soviet secret police. NKVD agents hunted, tortured, and killed members of POUM, an anti-Stalinist communist faction that ignored and defied orders from Moscow. Disobedience caused disunity, and so POUM must be purged. Even as NKVD destroyed POUM one bullet at a time, Moscow sent arms and food for the republican side of the Spanish Civil War, the side on which the communists all fought.
Kostya decided this nurse hardly needed to know he worked for NKVD, not yet. So he lied. —Tikhon. I’m a journalist.
— Just Tikhon?
— Just Tikhon.
Considering how her nurse’s uniform had never materialized — just another of the administrative cock-ups plaguing the cash-strapped British Secret Intelligence Service — Temerity also lied. —Well, Comrade Just Tikhon, you may call me Mildred Ferngate.
Kostya studied her. Brown eyes, curly brown hair, petite: not his type. Quick, confident, almost serene: irritating. —You’re British.
Ignoring how her patient adjusted his holster, Temerity focused instead on his jacket, khaki canvas boasting many useful pockets, and then on his dark hair and beard. Both needed a trim. His skin, while burnt by wind and sun, still looked soft, and his strong cheekbones, she thought, gave him away as Russian as much as any accent. That, her handler Neville Freeman would say, and his apparent inability to smile. You can always spot a Russian. Not got much to smile about, what? Temerity had asked her father about that. Nonsense, Temmy. Your mother smiled all the time. Your smile is very like hers.
She considered smiling now, if only to test this Tikhon’s belief in her nurse cover story. Instead, she decided to remain brisk. —English, to be precise. Here, take this.
Kostya studied the comb’s long metal teeth. His mouth twitched, as if he wished to frown, or laugh. Then he tucked the comb in a pocket. —Where’s the doctor?
— He’ll be back later. Now, let’s see that bad toe. Are your boots the right size?
Kostya pried off his right boot and exposed the foul portyanki wrapped around his foot, the cloth stained yellow and green around the big toe. Blushing, he plucked away the cloth. Gonorrhea and pubic lice he considered inevitable. An abscessed toe? Well, that came down to poor hygiene. —My boots fit fine. I’ve walked most of the way from Madrid.
The odour of long-unwashed feet, the abscess of an ingrown toenail, some of that nail pried loose from its bed: Temerity almost gagged. Her medical knowledge consisted of Girl Guides’ first aid and whatever she’d crammed into her head on the voyage from London. The clinic’s doctor, Cristobal Zapatero, had, for reasons of his own, accepted the Nurse Mildred Ferngate story. He did say that he hoped they’d never have to perform surgery in the clinic, adding that he worried as Franco’s fascists gained ground. Hell marches north, Comrade Ferngate. Temerity had nodded, hiding her recognition that, in a medical crisis, she’d be almost useless, if not dangerous.
An ingrown toenail, however, she could handle. And the Russian attached to it. Surely.
Thinking about how this Tikhon had limped from a lorry, which then drove on, Temerity decided to shake lo
ose some information. —Madrid? That’s quite a walk.
— Most of the way, as I said.
— Oh, so the man who brought you here in the lorry picked you up between here and Madrid? When is he due back from Gernika?
Kostya neither flinched nor blinked. —Gernika?
— That’s the direction he drove in.
— He won’t be long.
Temerity nodded, then turned to a shelf of medical supplies. Her orders while in Spain: observe and report on Dr. Cristobal Zapatero and any other POUM members, and observe and report on any possible NKVD activity. The arrival of an armed Russian — perhaps two, counting the fair man who drove the lorry — not long after Cristobal left on a bicycle trip to Gernika? With Tikhon’s colleague in likely pursuit? Well, one must observe. And hope to report. NKVD rarely left witnesses.
Releasing the catch on a leather case, she expected to find a set of lances. Instead, dilatation rods and a speculum glinted in the light. She stared at these instruments a moment, imagined their touch, shut them away.
Then she opened the correct case. —I need to boil this lance. Wait here.
Ignoring the instruction, Kostya followed her from the main room, crowded with cots, shelves, and medical gear, to the clinic’s tiny kitchen. He discovered a kerosene camp stove, a sink equipped with a hand pump, piles of coiled rope, a spade, a hammer, and a five-litre can labelled with an O and a minus sign. He crouched before the stove, a German model called a Lichtträger ringed with a narrow cooking surface marked in German, Spanish, Russian, French, and English. The stove could, with some strategy, cook food for three or four adults, but boil enough water for an influx of wounded? Unlikely. The inventory of bandages, ointment, medicines, and gear, and the smell of disinfectant, created a layer of legitimacy. Yes, Kostya told himself, this place could function as a clinic, but the chaotic storage in the kitchen might signal a hurried setup. He considered the clinic’s distance from Gernika: far enough to make a walk or bicycle ride long and tedious but not impossible, not if one needed the Gernika telegraph. So, a clinic, and also a communications corridor for POUM, those communications sent and received by his target, Dr. Cristobal Zapatero.
Temerity touched his arm. —Tikhon, are you all right?
He shook her off. —Dizzy spells. I really need to see the doctor. When will he be here?
How to answer? Lie and say Cristobal might be days yet, in the hope this Russian might give up and leave? A journalist might not waste time. An NKVD agent, however, would wait. Tell the truth and risk giving useful information, say she expected Cristobal tomorrow morning on his bicycle, again in the hope the Russian might get tired and leave? No. A journalist with dizzy spells and a sore foot would not want to leave, knowing the doctor would return soon, and neither would an NKVD agent. Back to lying. Yet if she lied, and Tikhon was NKVD and then discovered the deceit…
Blasted blasted bloody hell. —I expect him back tomorrow morning.
Kostya pointed to a bare cot in the far corner. —Fine. I’ll wait. I can sleep here tonight, yes?
Temerity’s pulse seemed to thud in her ears: run now, run now, run now. Run where? She moved to the sink. —I’ll get you a blanket once we’re done with your toe. I’ll need some water.
Metal squeaked. One sink, one pump, one small woman to work it: Kostya almost laughed. Instead, his voice rapped out a command. —Step aside.
She stared at him.
He slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, exposing wiry muscles. —So I may pump the water, Comrade Ferngate.
— I am quite capable, thank you.
— Yes, I’d guessed that much. I can also guess the pump is difficult. So I will do it.
Unsure why, she took a few steps back and acquiesced. —Thank you.
Kostya leaned into the pumping. —I’m lucky I found you. This clinic, I mean. It’s in a strange spot.
Temerity heard her father’s voice, how he would calm her when she was frightened: Steady the Buffs. —I believe it was a storehouse. No one uses tinned blood anymore. Some of those gauze bandages are from before the Great War, I expect, and Cortez himself surely sent back those pots and pans.
Wincing, Kostya pumped harder. She must have arms like iron bands. —Nothing so grand as the British imperial cull.
— I beg your pardon?
Kostya hid his smirk. —The Elgin Marbles? The Koh-i-Noor?
She stood very straight, shoulders back. —Those treasures represent pinnacles of human achievement and civilization, and they belong where such pinnacles can be recognized and celebrated.
— In Britain, the greatest pinnacle of them all?
She just stopped herself from snapping Of course as she lit the stove. Then she asked herself why Tikhon was teasing her. —In a museum. Where everyone may see them. Well, not the Koh-i-Noor, that’s locked away. But we’ve got the marbles on display, as you must in Russia with the treasures liberated from the tsar.
He looked up from the pump in surprise. —What?
— The Amber Room? The Orlov diamond? No? Give me about a cup of the water so I can boil the lance, and you take the rest in that bowl outside. The light’s better. Wait, pour in these Epsom salts, but don’t soak your foot just yet. I’ll join you in a moment.
Outside, sitting in the dust and propped against a clinic wall, Kostya relished the heat of the sun on his face. He sighed, avoided looking at his foot, then gave himself permission to doze.
— Tikhon?
Sunlight glinted off the metal bowl, blinding Kostya a moment, and he cursed himself for letting this woman sneak up on him.
Pinching a lance between finger and thumb, Temerity knelt before him. —Now, let me see that abscess.
He studied her trousers, how they flowed off her waist yet clung to her thighs. A small object bulged in her right pocket: a folding knife, perhaps. To his surprise, he felt at once proud and protective of her. She could look after herself, it seemed, yet she was so small.
Reminding himself this woman was his enemy, he looked to the lance. —Will it hurt?
— Only if you laugh.
Hand near her shoulder, she held the lance as though hoisting a tiny harpoon, and hesitated.
Smirking, Kostya spoke in English. —An indecisive Britisher? Don’t look so surprised. I speak seven languages.
— English is not your strongest, then.
He resumed speaking Spanish. —Apparently not.
— I could cut that accent with a knife and fork.
— English is an ugly language, hardly worth the effort.
— Nonsense. A poet can make English sing. Listen:
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou…
Well, you get the point.
— No, please, finish it.
Temerity almost smiled. Perhaps Tikhon hadn’t lied. Perhaps he really was a journalist and not an enemy. —Very well.
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
The silence between them felt suffocating.
Then Temerity sounded brisk again. —Shakespeare, sonnet forty. Now lie back. I’ll get beside you and lean over your legs, so you don’t kick me.
Unsure what else to do, Kostya lay on the ground. The press of belly and breasts on his legs startled him. —Is t
his really the best way?
— Little pinch.
— Fucked in the mouth!
She knelt up and wiped away wad after wad of bloodied pus. —You Russians have the best profanity.
— You speak Russian?
Had to show off, didn’t I? She continued in Spanish. —I hardly need to speak the language to understand that you just said something foul, but yes, I’ve picked up a few words. Hold still.
She manipulated the abscess, squeezing out the last of the visible pus; Kostya hissed and winced.
— All right, Tikhon, I’ve got about as much of the corruption as I can manage. Epsom salts will draw out the rest. Then we can see about rooting out that nail. For now, I want you to sit up, lean against the wall there — yes, well done — and soak your foot.
Confused, pained, charmed, he could say nothing.
Temerity looked up, frowned.
Jaw clenched, Kostya followed her gaze.
Temerity shook her head. —I thought I heard planes. It’s just sky.
Reaching into his jacket, Kostya nudged a book and retrieved cigarettes and matches.
Temerity noticed. —I’ll have one.
Face stern, Kostya switched to Russian. —Stunts the growth, little one.
She heard the challenge, polyglot to polyglot, and, as Kostya lit two cigarettes at once, she answered in Russian. —Very funny. Thank you. Next time, don’t stick my cigarette in your mouth first. Germs, you know. Oh, wait here.
— Where else might I go?
On her feet again, she smiled down at him.
Delighted by the sudden imperfection of her crooked teeth, he smiled back.
The sun shone so bright.
She returned, offering some blur of colour, swirls of green, white, red, and blue playing against a light bronze: a cloisonné cigarette case.
Kostya stroked the case with the pads of his fingers, then turned it over and read the Cyrillic engraving on the back: Viktoria Ivanovna Solovyova. —It’s lovely.
— Empty, I’m afraid. My mother’s, before she got married.
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