— Knees? Then you won’t need sulpha pills.
— What? No, no, she fell. Her knees are skinned and bloody.
Efim dug around in his medical bag. —Any more patients for me? Stashed in the pantry, perhaps?
— Just check her knees.
— After I check you.
Kostya leaned away from Efim’s touch. —I’m fine.
— No, you’re not. You keep your bad arm limp and close to your side. You skipped yesterday’s morning dose, and look how miserable you got by the evening. Then, after treatment, you ran off.
— The morphine will only wear off in a few hours and leave me where I started. I don’t want it. Listen to me!
Efim assembled needle and syringe. —I can hear you just fine. And I have clear instructions to keep you fit to work, something you know perfectly well, so stay still, and we’ll see if we can find better veins than last night. I am quite imprisoned enough here without adding a stray whore to the mix.
— She is not a stray anything. You will speak of her with respect.
Efim stared him down. —Should I get the police?
— What?
— Strange woman in the flat. You’re in distress. She frightens you.
— Frightens me?
— Clearly.
— What can she do: vomit on me?
Efim whispered it. —Who is she?
Kostya scowled. I will not submit to interrogation from you. —I notice you’re wearing a wedding band.
Wincing, Efim almost shook his head in admiration. —My wife is alive and well back in Leningrad. I’m seconded to Moscow for research.
— How many children?
The water pressure weakened. Efim turned off the tap, and the speed of his answer betrayed his sorrow and relief. —None.
Kostya sat down in a kitchen chair, his posture that of an interrogator’s, confidence and ease, just a small matter to straighten out, comrade. —Seconded, you said. Army?
— I was working at a hospital. A Red Army group forced me onto an armoured train. The White Army seized the train for a while, then the Reds took it back. Two winters, 1918 and ’19.
Unbuttoning his shirt, Kostya softened his voice. —Did you ever visit Odessa?
Efim recalled what he’d told himself when he declined a chance to escape the train. Escape where? I don’t know where I am. —I’ve no idea. All I saw was people, sick and injured people.
Kostya held out his left arm; Efim gave the injection.
Not sure how this NKVD officer had just pried him open, Efim took great care organizing his doctor’s bag. —Sit still a moment, while I check your mistress’s knees.
Kostya’s voice rose, fell. —She’s not my mistress. Look, if you think so little of her, then why do you pick up your bag? Why help her?
The doctor stared at the secret policeman.
Kostya looked away first.
In the bedroom, Efim asked Temerity about her injury. —Did you fall?
She tugged up her skirt. —Pushed, I think.
Efim tweezed small stones and fibres from her wounds and then dabbed some disinfectant. —My name’s Dr. Efim Antonovich Scherba. Yours?
Kostya stood in the doorway, face drawn, voice sharp. —Her name’s Nadezhda. She’ll be with us for a while.
Efim kept his gaze on Temerity. —Nadezhda…what?
Temerity grasped at a sheet to stop the spin of the room. It didn’t help. —Nadezhda Ivanovna Solovyova.
Impressed, Kostya almost smiled. Name number three. Or are we up to four? Recalling the touch of the cigarette case, he used the fond diminutive. —More water, Nadia?
— Piss off.
— Pardon me?
Efim lost his smirk as gently pinched the skin on the back of Temerity’s right hand, near the puncture wound, and released it. The skin did not flatten right away. —You’re quite dehydrated, Miss Solovyova. I know, it should be comrade, not miss, but I am old-fashioned. Drink in tiny sips, just not too much. That tap water’s not fit for a stray dog. Nikto, get her some mineral water at the deli, Narzan, no other brand. And some bread, for later, once you’re sure she can keep the water down. I’ll sit with her while you’re gone.
— It’s a sixth day. The shops are closed.
— Babichev always opens in the morning of a sixth day, seven till noon. Now go. Doctor’s orders.
Temerity glanced at her right hand, where Efim had pinched her. She stroked the spot, then looked up and caught Kostya staring at her.
Efim closed his medical bag and stood up. —If she’s not better by suppertime, she may need intravenous fluids at the hospital.
— She’ll be fine.
— Nikto, she choked on her own vomited bile.
— Then how fortunate you heard the retch, yes?
Efim gave Kostya a long look. —Please hurry. I’m due at the lab.
— On a sixth day?
Efim stifled a sigh as he struggled in his mind, once again, with the new Soviet calendar. —The world doesn’t stop spinning just because you get to enjoy a rest. I need to finish a report. At least today I’ll get some peace and quiet.
— I don’t get sixth days off, as a rule. I had a shift change, and…oh, forget it. Narzan it is.
As Kostya left, Temerity held the glass of tap water away from her mouth. —It tastes terrible. What did you put in it?
Efim took the glass.
Too tired to ask anything else, Temerity shut her eyes.
When Temerity woke again, she found Kostya sitting asleep in a kitchen chair propped against the wall, his feet on the end of the bed. Eyes shut, he breathed with a slight snore, expelling noise and wine fumes. He held something small in one hand: a string of amber beads. Next to him, on a tiny bedside table, stood a green bottle of mineral water and a tea glass supported by a filigree podstakannik.
Temerity took the podstakannik by the handle, then by its body. A nickel alloy, perhaps, the colour of dull brass. The pattern of vines and leaves pressed her fingertips as she tightened her grip.
Hand out for the bottle, Temerity hesitated.
The paper seal on the bottle seemed intact.
Kostya woke to the stuttering clink of glass. —Let me.
She watched him tuck the beads into a pocket and then pour water. She accepted the drink and wrapped her hands around the podstakannik to hide the tremble. The filigree dug in. —It’s good.
He smiled, then looked stern again.
Birdsong and fresh air floated through an open window. Someone in a neighbouring flat practised scales on a piano. Temerity made a quick study of the room as the water settled in her stomach: the small closet, the little bedside table, and the kitchen chair. —Where are we?
— My bedroom.
— In your flat?
— Well, I haven’t got a bedroom in Lubyanka.
She sipped.
Kostya poured himself a glass. —We’re told the tap water is safe. I don’t believe it. The well for this block lies near a recent cemetery. A gas explosion, twenty-odd people died the same day, and what pieces could be found were buried quickly in a small public garden with a memorial stone. It’s why the water tastes so sweet. A toast, then. To the dead.
She raised her glass to match his, then watched him drink.
Mumbling, he gestured to the walls. —I’ll go turn on the radio. We don’t need the neighbours hearing every word we say.
— What about tapping a pencil, to break up the sound waves?
He snorted. —It doesn’t work. Stay there. You’re not well.
In the front room, as he reached for the radio knobs, his right hand shook.
He made it a fist. Remember who you are.
Then he relaxed his hand: stillness and strength.
As the radio clicked on, a deadweight thudded to his bedroom floor. Exasperated, he rolled his eyes, then turned up the volume like any good Soviet citizen who wished to hear about the latest tally of new galoshes from the State Rubber Industry Trust, a glorious surpl
us which may now bring the shortage within measurable distance of its end, and strode back to the bedroom, where he crouched down to help Temerity up off the floor. —See? This is why I told you to stay in bed.
Once he had her settled, he shut the bedroom window, then sat back down in the chair. His closeness left her little room to leave the bed on that side; her weakness left her little chance to leave the bed on the other side.
She took a breath to speak, looked away.
Kostya smiled, the way a boy caught playing a prank might, and held out his cigarettes. Temerity declined; he lit only one.
Smoke hid his face. —I was not my best self last night.
— Who are you today?
After a moment, he retrieved a red leather wallet from his trouser pocket and held it out to her on the palm of his hand.
She took it, recognized it: a Soviet citizen’s identification. Unfolding the wallet, she found a photograph and a much-initialled, much-stamped official form reading Nikto, Konstantin Arkadievich, Senior Lieutenant of State Security.
She peered at him. —Your name is really Nikto?
As he took the identification back, he sounded tired. —Many people changed their names after the Revolution. Look, I was twelve. I’d lost all my papers, and I didn’t want the orphan’s surname, Neizvestny. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s not important. At least it’s not a common name, like yours. What? What’s funny?
— I never asked to be called Nadezhda.
He whispered. —Well, what was I supposed to do? Tell the good doctor that you’re not a narkomaniac prostitute but a British spy?
— I’m no spy.
— Silly me. A tourist, then, just like in Spain.
Temerity rubbed her temples. —Wait, wait. You share the flat with that doctor?
— Yes.
— He thinks I’m a…what did you say?
Kostya mimed injection. —Narkomaniac. A drug addict.
— No, no, wait, he injected me.
— Scherba?
— No! The fat slob with the moustache, the one running the party.
— Ah, him, yes. He’s no slob. He’s an old Chekist who saved my life, once upon a time, and you will speak of him with respect.
— Respect? What did he do to me?
Kostya wanted to brush the curls from her forehead. —Just something to make you calm.
— I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything from last night. I left the hotel. Then it’s blank.
Kostya said nothing.
Temerity drank the last of the water in her glass. —So when will you bring me in? Could we get it over with?
Kostya’s stern expression fell away, revealing worry and fatigue. —I’m not arresting you.
— Then you’ll shoot me here?
— No! I’m trying to help you.
— Help me? You held a gun to my head!
— You remember that just fine.
Her voice squeaked. —How the hell am I supposed to forget it?
— And do you also remember I let you go? Hey? Because here you are, in my flat, in my bed, alive, intact, and one hundred per cent not shot.
— Oh, yes, pardon me for overreacting. Clearly, everything’s fine so long as I’m not shot.
— I spared you. This means nothing?
— I don’t understand it. This entire mess. You. How can a situation mean something when I don’t understand it?
Kostya took a breath to snap back an answer. Another thought interrupted him. —Fucked in the mouth, the car!
— What car?
He wrenched open the closet doors, shook uniform pieces off hangers onto the bed, and unfastened his trousers. —Even here, it must be the British way or no way at all, yes? A problem, a country, a people do not even exist unless a Britisher builds an empire around them, exploits them, and then says, ‘Oh, dear me, I do not understand them.’
She kept her eyes closed as he dressed. —The British have not built an empire around the USSR.
— Then what are you doing in India?
— What? You’ve got the biggest land mass in the world. What are you Russians so afraid of?
— Invasion. Aren’t you, on your little island? Open your eyes.
He stood over her, an NKVD officer once more, flawed only by a wrinkled collar and a missing cap. Then he touched her shoulder. —Look, I want to help you. I’ll get your papers, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you. But stay here until I get back. The bathroom’s just down the hall to your right, and the mineral water’s there on the bedside table. Promise me you won’t leave. Please. It’s much too dangerous to go outside without papers. I’ll get them, I swear to you. Just stay here.
— I—
— Please!
She studied him. —Open the window? Just for air?
He did this. —Stay in bed, out of sight of the window, yes?
She nodded.
He tugged on his cap. —I won’t be long.
A long day in the garden always soothed Arkady. He wore his ragged gardening clothes, and he’d not bothered to shave. Bringing shrubs back to life after winter, planting annuals, tending perennials: it all earned him some ribbing from his colleagues. Arkady only nodded when teased, and he relished the satisfaction of dirty hands, dirty with life.
His garden also allowed for disposal of anything awkward left behind at a party. He’d buried clothing in the larger garden behind the house, many pieces over the years, near a specific hedge. The bones of one accident lay buried beneath an iris bed. Other accidents had gone to the morgue. Only three in total over all those years, good odds, really. The bones beneath the irises belonged to a young woman he’d picked up for an autumn dessert party, many years ago. He got her to the house before any other guests arrived. She fought back, refused a drink, ran to a window and beat on the glass, and then, worst of all, said she recognized Arkady from a visit to her uncle’s office at Lubyanka.
Arkady struck her head with the butt of his Nagant — too hard, he’d discovered an hour later, when he unlocked the little closet in the basement to check on her. He considered faking a crime scene in an alley, a common tactic, but he respected his colleagues too much to waste their time. So after the party that night, in the small hours, cursing the girl’s uncle and his callous disregard for her innocence — letting a girl see the inside of Lubyanka like that, really — Arkady buried the body in a wild patch of his back garden. The following day, he planted iris bulbs there. Each spring these perennials bloomed anew, fragrant and beautiful.
Arkady suffered recurring dreams in which he must explain flowers strewn on his Lubyanka desk as Kostya stood in the office doorway, hesitant, amber worry beads dangling from his hand. Sometimes Misha stood behind him, grinning.
Refusing to consider the iris bed, Arkady reminded himself that Kostya, at least, had not attended that particular party, being too young and sent to spend the night at Vadym’s. These days, Arkady pretended to be irritated when Kostya missed a party, and he would remind Kostya of all his adolescent pleas to be invited. In truth, Arkady felt relieved when Kostya declined. I’ve tainted him enough.
Arkady had scheduled last night’s party knowing Kostya had to work early the next day and so would not come.
Then, schedules changed.
Captain Boris Aleksandrovich Kuznets, new to Moscow and still finding his way around, had asked Major Arkady Dmitrievich Balakirev about his rumoured parties. Arkady had long decided on the best way to deflect any implied threat from another officer, a threat to report these parties: an invitation. Arkady would then observe the new man’s reactions at the party and decide from there whether to invite him again or blackmail him into silence. —Yes, Comrade Captain, a very selective list of guests.
— How might one get added to such a list?
— I put you there. Consider it done.
— Thank you, thank you, that’s very kind. Call me Boris Alek-sandrovich, and forgive my asking, Arkady Dmitrievich, but what do you do a
bout noise?
Arkady almost wrinkled his nose at the presumption. As the older man and senior officer, Arkady should be the one to set the level of formality, not Boris. —All taken care of, Boris Aleksandrovich. A private house and, for the excitable girls, supplements.
— Sometimes the noise is the best part.
— Too much noise, and the neighbours might call the police, and what a pretty fix that would be.
Both men had laughed. Then Boris explained that his protégé, Yury Stepanov, could obtain supplements, good ones, to ensure not just compliance but amnesia. Arkady remembered Yury from Kostya’s adolescence and time in NKVD school, how Yury had trailed Kostya and Misha with something like murder in his eyes, something like love.
Ah yes, such fine supplements Yury had fetched. Party guests had complained that the pastries kept falling asleep. Arkady interrupted Yury in his abuse of a frizzy-haired blonde to ask the little sycophant if he’d perhaps supplied a general anaesthetic? Tugging up his galife pants, Yury spat on the unresponsive woman and murmured about the experimental and therefore perhaps unpredictable nature of the medications at Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two.
Arkady almost struck him. —Do you even know what they’re doing at Special Two?
— Indeed I do, Comrade Major. Because I supervise. While also making time to assist at Lubyanka.
Finding Boris with another blonde one who bore a great resemblance to the woman Yury had spat on, sisters perhaps, Arkady almost complained, almost spewed his fury with Yury’s incompetence, almost said that Misha and Kostya had been correct to treat Yury like a worm.
Instead, he asked Boris to take his pastry’s pulse.
— She’s fine. Just dozy.
— Finish up. We need to get rid of them.
Boris and Arkady rallied the men, bundled the women into the cars, and instructed the younger men to drop the women close to where they’d found them. Or in a park, whatever worked, just not too many together. Clumps of unconscious young women would alarm passersby.
Arkady had still not decided precisely what to do about the British woman.
Then Yury complained that the car he’d signed out for the evening, and its key, had gone missing.
Arkady checked with the other officers in each car, asking if anyone had Stepanov’s key and vehicle by mistake. Doing so, he discovered two things. Not only had NKVD car number forty-two disappeared, but so had Kostya and the British woman with the injured knees.
Constant Nobody Page 12
