Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  He gulped vodka, and the alcohol soon collided with the morphine. He felt calmer.

  Arkady embraced a friend and colleague, and then he called Kostya over. Others heard this, and the older men joined in to welcome Kostya home, to offer congratulations on the promotion, show curiosity about his wounds, and then congratulate Arkady on raising such a fine man. Kostya, silent in deference as Arkady thanked everyone for their compliments, took in the scents of cologne, sweat, tobacco, and wine. Then, at a nod from Arkady, Kostya remembered his role as assistant host, excused himself, and ensured other guests had something to drink. He swayed a little. No one noticed.

  Some of the men sang now, something from a movie they’d all seen a dozen times or more because Stalin liked it. Kostya, grateful for the darkness in cinemas, had yawned his way through the tiresome love story. Sunburnt collective-farm workers, the men all clean-shaven, no hairy kulaks here, and the women all young and slim, broke into frequent song and dance involving rakes, scythes, and combine harvesters. No conflict, not even the smallest problem of a balky tractor engine, threatened the finally consummated celebration of harvest and collective. Teeth, Kostya had noticed, all the actors possessed strong teeth — so many smiles. Years before, watching Battleship Potemkin with Arkady, Kostya got dizzy with a sense of exile. Eisenstein’s weirdly lit Odessa split Kostya’s present, rubbing his face in the fact he was no Muscovite, no matter how much he might consider Moscow home. Kostya from Odessa? Another lifetime, another Kostya. At the movie’s sequence on the steps, as the untended pram bounced away and the baby imprisoned within cried, Arkady had whispered in his ear: That’s you. Kostya pretended not to hear. He much preferred movies set on the moon, or Mars, or in the safety of the past, like Lieutenant Kizhe. Of this, he said nothing.

  Satisfied everyone had a drink, Kostya leaned in a corner by the kitchen, a spot where he used to sit and daydream. When he glanced up, he noticed Arkady striding toward him.

  Arkady murmured in his ear. —You’re in pain.

  — I’m fine.

  — You can’t hide it from me, Little Tatar. I know you too well.

  A bump and a crash: something fell over in the study.

  Kostya stepped out of the corner. —I’ll check that.

  — Just let them out.

  Kostya followed Arkady into the parlour and sidled over to the study door. Arkady cleared his throat and clapped his hands, begging his comrades’ kind attention; the men looked only too happy to grant it. Some of the younger officers smirked and nudged one another.

  At a nod from Arkady, Kostya unlocked and opened the wooden study door. He gave it too hard a swing, using the strength needed to heave open a cell. The study door smacked off the wall, and Kostya looked to the floor, wondering if the morphine had affected him more than he thought. The contents of the study, however, distracted the guests from his gaffe.

  Twelve naked women stood there. Some had crossed their arms over their chests; others waited with their arms and faces slack. All of them stared into some middle distance. Kostya knew why. On arrival, the women had been offered drinks laced with calmatives, and those who declined the drinks received an injection. Arkady took deep offence at refusals of his hospitality and resented the need for injections.

  For many years, Arkady had barred Kostya from these parties. His attendance, finally permitted after he completed his NKVD courses, came with an understanding that no one spoke of these parties, which did, from time to time, get out of hand. With luck, and with the female guests showing a bit of common sense, Arkady’s parties could end well for the men. Work hard, play hard.

  Two of the women hugged each other, twin sisters, their blond and frizzy hair fringed across the forehead and bobbed at the jawline in a style that Kostya disliked.

  A man laughed in Kostya’s ear: Boris Kuznets. —My first time here, and I am not disappointed.

  Nodding, Kostya recalled Boris’s nickname at Lubyanka: the Sound Man. Comrade Captain Kuznets so loved his work that he would take time away from his desk to assist in interrogations. Later he might attend a concert, or an opera. The subtleties of sound delighted him, and he explained this via comparisons. Fist to face versus book to face. Boots to ribs versus chair to ribs. Penis to vagina versus truncheon to vagina.

  Boris laughed and pointed to the study. —Look at that gooseflesh. We should warm them up.

  Kostya noticed the pile of women’s clothing on his old bed, a terrible mess of linen and cotton and lisle, hems and stockings and frills. The shoes and boots lay in a different pile on the floor, up against the wall, and Kostya suppressed a sigh. The shoes made him feel sad, even lonely, and he could not explain to himself why. Then, remembering his role, he bowed to the women, wished them all a good evening, disciplined himself to look only at their feet, and invited them to join the men.

  As the women passed before him, Kostya recalled an old fairy story, one his grandfather liked to tell: ‘The Twelve Dancing Princesses.’ He leaned against a wall, noticing how quiet, how still the women seemed.

  Numbed. Distant.

  What the hell did the old man use tonight?

  Then he wondered at his own stillness. At previous dessert parties he’d get hard as soon as he saw a female face. Tonight, he hung limp.

  As the other men made noises of enticement and approval, as they broke into smaller groups, bartered with one another, and prepared to choose, Kostya closed his eyes and breathed in deep. The pain in his shoulder grew tentacles, and the tentacles spread down his arm in stinging jolts. He took a last look in the study to make sure he’d missed no one, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

  The women’s voices stayed quiet, placid, resigned. Some of the women responded to guidance and suggestion and played with the men’s lapels, stroked the men’s faces. Others walked in circles until chosen, until touched, and then complied. Couples disappeared to shadowed corners or to other rooms. Arkady offered Kostya a cup of wine, a sweet Georgian red now in vogue, which he declined. Vodka meant a milder headache in the morning.

  Then he saw her.

  His first thought was to wonder what had happened to her knees. Even as he thought this, he denied what he saw, denied the recognition, and almost laughed.

  Hair dark and curly, eyes hooded and sleepy: that Britisher, Margaret Bush, Mildred Ferngate, or whatever the hell her real name might be, here, in Arkady Dmitrievich’s parlour.

  Kostya changed his mind about the wine and poured himself a big cup of it. Gulped it. Poured a second.

  Abducted off the street, of course, picked up like any of the other young women, a pretty piece of pastry for the old man’s dessert party.

  Kostya dabbed wine from his lips with the backs of his fingers and strode towards her. Some of the men now discussed sharing, fifteen to twelve, after all, while others finished conversations about office life. One small and slender man, the only one in uniform, touched the tablecloth as if evaluating the quality, then flicked at a stray flower and answered another man’s small talk. —I did not claw my way back to Moscow from rural outposts to remain a sergeant.

  Stepanov, Kostya remembered, Yury Grigorievich Stepanov. Yury had been a cadet with Kostya and Misha and tried to force his friendship on them. Kostya and Misha had, with some cruelty, declined the offer.

  Yury glanced at the petite woman with the injured knees and stepped toward her. So did Kostya.

  Then Boris called Yury over, asking if he liked little blondes with curly hair.

  Temerity looked at Kostya: no recognition or compliance in her eyes, just despair. Then her eyes dulled again as she crossed her arms over her breasts and resumed walking in a circle.

  Kostya placed his right arm around her shoulders and guided her to the study. None of the other men saw this, he felt sure, for they all had their own distractions. Arkady might later demand to know why Kostya had presumed to use the study and then lecture him on not abusing the privilege of keys. Such folly from the old man could wait.

  He locked
the study door behind them. So much might happen at these parties, did happen.

  — Enough.

  His own voice. Kostya recalled nothing of the thought, of the choice to say Enough.

  Yet he said it.

  Hands quick, he plucked the small Persian rug folded over the back of the desk chair. The rug, soft and light, and much too precious to leave on the floor, had kept Kostya warm as he’d studied far into many cold nights. He wrapped it around Temerity.

  She spoke English, confident and loud. —Ready, aye, ready. Though I don’t know where I turned.

  He crammed his hand over her mouth and shoved her against the wall, and the fumes of wine and vodka from his breath wafted round them both as he murmured in her ear. —Not a sound, unless I ask you a question, and then you whisper. In Russian. Understand?

  Her nod felt weak against his hand.

  — I’ll take my hand away, and you will sit down in that chair.

  She nodded again, sat down.

  — What’s your name? Not Margaret Bush. I’ve guessed that much.

  She shook her head, over and over.

  — You will tell me your name.

  Anger rose in her eyes; confusion dulled it.

  Kostya took her right hand, spotted the needle mark. —Get your clothes.

  Limp and still, she spoke French. —Blouse.

  — Russian. Only Russian. I’ll get your blouse. Is this it?

  Temerity sneered. —That sack?

  Kostya picked through pieces of fabric until he thought he recognized something. He held the blouse by the collar. —How in hell would I know? This one?

  She took the blouse, hesitated as though trying to remember something, crumpled the fabric, patted it, and slipped the blouse on. Then she just sat there, eyes vacant.

  Kostya shook his head. —Stand up, come on. Arms out, wait, fine, fine, button it yourself. Which skirt? This one?

  — Stockings. No, knees. Brassiere, brassiere.

  — Fuck the underwear! You want to live through this night, yes? Then obey me. Where are your shoes? These? No, too big. These? Right. Now wait and keep quiet.

  Kostya swaggered out of the study, adjusted his fly, discovered the morphine had not killed response, only delayed it, and eased the door shut behind him. Discarded male clothing, ties and jackets and trousers, littered the chairs and floor. The owners had retreated with their prey to other rooms or unlit corners. Grunts, slaps, and muffled female cries filled Kostya’s ears as he took a portupeya and pouch hanging from the back of a chair. He groped in the pouch, past papers and something sticky, until he found metal. He plucked it out: a car key, engraved with the number forty-two. Tucking the key into a pocket, Kostya returned to the study and offered Temerity his arm. She leaned on him, and they emerged into the front yard, just some drunken couple leaving a party for home.

  As Kostya drove, the streets widened into valleys, and the streetlights changed into ancient fires on sticks. Telling himself to remember these morphine-bent perceptions, wondering why the woman next to him cried out about him driving all over the road, Kostya sought Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Only then could he be sure of home.

  He parked near his block of flats, confident no one would ask the driver of an NKVD car to move. He offered Temerity his arm again, and they staggered into the lobby. The watchwoman, slumped in her rocking chair, snored.

  Kostya smirked.

  As they climbed the stairs, Temerity stumbled, fell against him.

  Eyes heavy, Kostya kissed the top of Temerity’s head. A night for fairy tales. First, he’d witnessed the parade of the twelve dancing princesses. Then he’d sneaked past the sleeping dragon Zmei Gorynich with a prize. What next, Marya Morevna’s defeat of Koshchei the Deathless?

  The clink of metal on the wood from his dropped keys seemed to slice into his ears, and he winced. As he bent over, the awakened watchwoman called up from the lobby. —Goodnight, comrade.

  — Goodnight, Grandmother.

  Temerity tried to stand up straight, then leaned against him again.

  He unlocked his flat door. —It’s no better to be safe than sorry. After you, Marya Morevna.

  She mumbled. —That’s not my name.

  [ ]

  NARZAN, WITH BERRIES IN’T

  Sunday 6 June

  — Nikto.

  Go away.

  — Nikto!

  Kostya dreamt that bones fell from the metro tunnel’s mud and shattered the windows of the train. The Spanish boys screamed; the bones exploded; clouds of powder and ash fouled the air. New bones whistled like falling bombs, and as Kostya gagged and sought the boys, he found only cardboard name tags.

  Thirsty.

  Hung over.

  The bed rocked and squeaked, a rhythm to it.

  The neighbours are fucking. No, it’s my bed.

  Someone yelled. To his right.

  — Nikto, help me! She’s choking.

  The room had developed a terrible spin, as if impaled on a spike and then given a smack to set it in motion.

  The bed slowed; a sharp and ugly odour rose.

  Scherba?

  Kostya sat up fast, and the light sliced into his eyes. That British woman sat in bed next to him, retching over his sheets. He jerked away hard enough to fall from the bed. As he staggered upright, hand over his crotch to cover himself, the fabric of his trousers rasped his skin, surprising him. He was still dressed in last night’s civilian clothes when he usually slept naked this time of year, and he had no memory of bringing a woman home.

  Certainly not this woman.

  Dust motes fell across the beam of light separating him from Temerity. She still wore her blouse and skirt. Dark bags swelled beneath her closed eyes, and freckles stood out on her face like tiny stains.

  Efim frowned as he held Temerity’s shoulders. —Afraid of a little bile, Nikto?

  — How the hell did she get here?

  — Puff of smoke? What did she drink last night? When I got in here, she — easy, easy, let it come — she was choking on her vomit. Good thing you left the bedroom door open.

  Kostya rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his fingers. —I did? I need some water.

  — Throw it in your face and wake up!

  Catching himself against door jamb and walls, Kostya stumbled to the bathroom. He glared at the telephone. It stayed silent. Cold water ran into his cupped hands, and it smelled of soil and wood and something sweet yet unclean. Three handfuls down his throat, one handful on his face, as the good doctor said.

  A decision. He’d made a decision. Enough, he’d said, surrounded by drugged women and sweaty men. He’d said it in Bilbao, navigating crowds of refugees, and he’d said it again on the docks struggling to write the boys’ names in Russian. He’d thought it when he’d disobeyed orders and left a witness simply because he found her attractive — a dire dereliction of duty — and now the witness lay in his bed. Under interrogation, she’d soon enough mention Kostya and how he’d shot wide in Spain and then let her go from Lubyanka. All good reasons to say Enough and get her out of that party, keep her from arrest, yet something else drove him: the knowledge that she’d suffer and die for no good reason.

  Her, and how many others?

  Enough. He said it to his reflection in the shaving mirror, except the idea writhed, and a different word split his lips. —Impossible.

  Impossible he’d brought her home. Impossible he’d spared her in the first place. Impossible she’d turned up in Moscow.

  Promising himself never to drink that wretched sweet wine again, he lurched back to the bedroom.

  Oh, it’s possible. And sick in my bed.

  Fucked in the mouth.

  Eyes still clenched shut, she spat, gasped in air. —Get me some water.

  Efim nodded his approval, and Kostya found himself filling a glass before he questioned why he’d obeyed her. He decided to ignore how she’d said Get me some water in English. Hadn’t she? Yes, Kostya told himself, Scherba must have missed it, if it h
ad happened at all. Surely. He made no reaction to hearing a foreign language from a strange woman in his own flat. He had simply, in his medical concern, picked up on the general idea that someone hungover would need water.

  Efim took the water and passed it to Temerity, then lifted her other wrist. —It’s all right. I’m a doctor. Your speech is slurred. I want to take your pulse. Sip, just sip, or else you’ll retch again.

  She spoke Russian. —What day is this?

  Efim peered at her, then placed his palm on her forehead. —Sunday morning, the sixth of June. When did you eat last?

  — Friday. Sometime on Friday.

  — It’s not very wise to drink on an empty stomach.

  She took a breath to speak, as if angry. Instead, she sipped the water.

  Then she looked up and saw Kostya.

  As Efim dodged her flinch and steadied the glass, he noticed the mark on the back of her hand: a puncture wound. He sighed. His flat-mate, not as clever as a man his age should be, needed some advice.

  Efim bundled up the soiled sheet. —Don’t lie down. Nikto, prop her up with pillows, then come see me in the kitchen. I’ll drop the sheets at the laundry service on my way to work.

  At the kitchen sink, Efim ran water and hoped it would cover the sound of speech. —A narkomaniac streetwalker? Gonorrhea will be the least of it. Get rid of her.

  Nerve pain zapped, and Kostya rubbed at his left arm, unaware he did so. —No, she’s…I met her at a party. Can you look at her knees before you go?