Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  — Very good. I want you to sit here for a few moments while I confer with Comrade Ismailovna, and then I’ll walk you to Dzerzhinskaya. You will stay here until I come back.

  — Yes.

  And he did that, aware of Boris’s departure and return, aware of how his knees ached as he stood up from the chair, the same sort of chair Vadym had hurled, aware of how Evgenia Ismailovna and Matvei Katelnikov looked at him, aware, too, of the dozens of other men jostling him and Boris as they descended the stairs and emerged from Lubyanka.

  Boris took Kostya’s arm again and guided him away from the Special Clean crew. —I’ll telephone later to check on you.

  Kostya rode the metro past Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Annoyed, he told himself to pay attention. Then he noticed the train had returned to Dzerzhinskaya. Kostya changed his seat, hoping to keep himself more alert. The vodka served as a fine bulwark against any harder emotion, and he nodded as if to a friend beside him. He reminded himself of the number of stops now until the train returned to Vasilisa Prekrasnaya; he counted them on his fingers.

  After enduring another little chat with Yury Stepanov about the team making no progress on the newest poison, Efim told himself to expect arrest at any moment. A giddy peace descended on him then, and, in a mood of defiance, of one giant shrug, he left the lab to visit the department store in Red Square. As an ambulance siren howled, the vehicle heading for Lubyanka, he said a quick prayer for the ailing, something he’d not done for many years, and then he chose a pair of women’s shoes. He paid, wishing the clerk a good morning.

  On the metro, he recalled the day he leapt from the moving train.

  The tunnel walls seemed close enough to scrape the window glass.

  Sometimes, he decided, face impassive, no different from the faces of the other passengers, sometimes defiance looks like nothing at all.

  He did not, however, present the shoes to Nadezhda Ivanovna right away. He got distracted when he found her puffy in the face, dark around the eyes, and slouched in the one soft chair.

  — You’re home so early, Efim. Are you all right?

  — I’m fine. I feel better than I have in months.

  — What’s it like outside?

  — Hot.

  She sighed. —Hot in here, too.

  — Do you sleep well, Nadezhda Ivanovna?

  — No.

  — Bowels all right?

  — I need more exercise.

  — Here.

  She stared at the shoes.

  — Try them on. Doctor’s orders.

  — Efim Antonovich, please. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.

  He looked her in the eye. —How is it trouble for me that you need shoes? Must I kneel and put them on you?

  She stood up and slipped her feet into the shoes. Then she took a few steps. They’d chafe her heels without stockings, but they fit. —What do I owe you?

  Skin tingling, Efim turned his back. —Nothing.

  Then he walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

  That sound made Temerity glance down the little corridor to the main door.

  Efim had left his key in the lock.

  Temerity blinked a few times. Then she patted her blouse to check for her passport.

  A few quick steps, the soles of the shoes tapping against the floor, a quick turn of the key, and she stepped outside the flat.

  The air smelled less dusty than inside the flat, less close, yet hardly fresh. A draft from the lobby wafted up the stairs.

  Holding the rail, steps deliberate, Temerity descended the stairs.

  In the lobby, the watchwoman dozed in the rocking chair, her chin bent to her chest.

  Temerity opened the main door and strode out to the sidewalk. Scents of tar, diesel, rivers, and stones, and such bright light, overwhelmed her for a moment, and she stood still.

  A woman with her arms full of shopping bags made a point of offering a sarcastic apology as she veered aside.

  Temerity peered down the narrow street lined with what looked like old houses made over into flats, unlike the new building she’d just exited.

  A woman leaned out an upper window in the building across the street, scowling.

  Temerity felt herself tremble. I’m lost. Already.

  The shoes pinched and rubbed. The sun shone so bright.

  No, not lost. Here. He parked the car here the night he brought me. The deli. Find Babichev’s, then you can find Hotel Lux. God’s sake, no, that’s the last place to go. There’ll be a map in the metro station. Walk with confidence, girl. Walk like you’ve got every right to be in this city.

  As she entered Vasilisa Prekrasnaya and peeked down the stairs, the station’s beauty seized her: ceramic tiles in the walls and ceiling; marble pylons, marble repurposed, perhaps, from the 1931 destruction of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour; wrought iron sconces for electric lights; a colourful mosaic mural of Bilibin’s illustration of Vasilisa outside Baba Yaga’s hut, Vasilisa holding up her lamp of holy fire and a skull.

  She’s too small, Temerity had said, shoving the Russian fairy tale book from her father’s hand. She can’t win.

  Now Temerity wanted to touch the mosaic, touch Vasilisa, reach her mother…

  A sign interrupted her thoughts: Fare 30 kopeks. As Temerity considered how she might charm the fare guard into letting her pass, the sudden draft and a rumble of an arriving train distracted her.

  Squeaking and squealing, the train came to a perfect halt, and the doors released a dozen passengers, including a uniformed NKVD officer. The other commuters gave him space as he ascended the steps.

  Kostya stared at Temerity.

  She stared at him.

  Pale, he glanced down at her feet, looked back up. His eyes glittered. —How nice of you to meet me here, darling.

  She took a step back.

  Kostya offered his arm, and as various strangers passed them by, walking close to the walls to avoid the NKVD officer, she took it. She craned her head to get one last glimpse of the mosaic; columns and other people blocked her view. She and Kostya returned to the surface and walked the short distance to the block of flats, Kostya chatting about how much of a headache he felt coming on, how much he looked forward to a drink.

  In the lobby, the old watchwoman slept on.

  Temerity struggled to keep pace, slipping on the stairs. —Kostya, wait.

  He wrenched open the flat door, shoved her inside, slammed the door behind them. She scrabbled to get out of his reach.

  Efim, in his bedroom, gasped and flinched at the noise.

  Kostya’s eyes seemed to shrink. —You stupid bitch!

  — Kostya, please, lower your voice.

  — You’ve got no fucking papers!

  She stood up, backing towards the kitchen counter. —And whose fault is that?

  He backhanded her across the face. —Stay down!

  She fell against the counter.

  Efim ran to the kitchen. —Nikto, the neighbours.

  — Fuck the neighbours!

  A blow from the side of Temerity’s hand struck the right side of his neck, interrupting the carotid. Vision greying, he fell against the table and got himself into a chair. Then he hooked his ankle around hers and tripped her, and she fell, her full weight thumping against the floor.

  — Nikto, stop! I gave her the shoes.

  — What?

  As Temerity got herself beyond Kostya’s reach, Efim touched Kostya on his good shoulder. —I gave her the shoes. I don’t know who she is, or where she comes from, or why I had to get tangled up in this, and I don’t want to know. But I gave her the shoes.

  Temerity’s voice, words quiet and low, carried. —I can’t stay here.

  Kostya whirled round and punched a wall. Shaking plaster from his hand, he left the flat, and his shouted profanities echoed down the stairwell.

  Efim turned to Temerity. —Where did he hit you? Not your eyes? Good. Tilt your head so I can see.

  — He’s got no right!

&nb
sp; Efim wanted to hold her, protect her. —No right at all. Wait here. I’ll get a cold compress.

  As Efim ran water, Temerity tried to stand. Her legs refused.

  Efim knelt before her and eased the compress onto her cheek. His touch, so soft, made Temerity think of Cristobal Zapatero and his gentle movements as he rolled bandages. Then she remembered his rosary beads and how he’d dropped them in fear.

  Efim, his fingers damp now with Temerity’s tears, took her hand and guided it to the compress. As she held it in place, he sat on the floor beside her. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  Back stiffening, Temerity wanted to shake him off, shove him away like the illustration of Vasilisa the Beautiful. Instead, she leaned onto his chest and sobbed.

  After a moment, she pulled away and patted the compress over her eyes. She wondered how best to thank him, whether to call him Efim or the more formal Efim Antonovich, or whether to pretend nothing had happened, when a key clicked in the locked main door.

  Efim murmured about Kostya coming back to apologize and stood up.

  On a slow and heavy stride, Arkady Balakirev emerged from the little corridor leading to the door. His face looked both drawn and puffy, and his eyes seemed sunken and small. When he took his spectacles from his pouch and placed them just so on his nose, the lenses magnified his eyes to something huge and absurd. —Where is he?

  Efim now stood between Arkady and Temerity. —Who, Nikto? He left a few minutes ago. I don’t know how you missed him.

  — Did he tell you?

  — Tell me what?

  — Vadym Minenkov is dead.

  Temerity got to her feet. —The one who brought the mushrooms, Efim. I don’t think you met him.

  As Efim gestured for Temerity to stay behind him, he felt very small before Arkady. —My condolences, Comrade Major. Is this someone close to you and Nikto?

  — My oldest friend. Kostya called him uncle.

  — What happened?

  Arkady fixed his gaze on Temerity. —Hurled himself out a fucking window.

  Silence.

  Turning away, Arkady sniffed a few times. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse. —If you see Kostya before I do, look after him.

  — I look after him every day.

  Then Arkady faced them again, removed his spectacles, jostled Efim to one side and leaned in close to Temerity. —When he comes back, get him to telephone me. I don’t care what time it is. Understand me yet?

  She nodded.

  He peered at her injured face, drew the pads of his fingers over the mark. —A good start. I should like to finish it.

  Then he left.

  Efim let out a shaky breath. —I am sorry he said that to you.

  Struggling with more tears, she shook her head. —I’m fine.

  He glanced at her feet. Fluid had collected round her ankles. And, Efim now noticed, around her eyes, wrists and fingers. She seemed puffy all over. —Nadezhda Ivanovna, are you nauseous at all?

  She said nothing.

  — Any dizziness? Any change in your breasts?

  — How dare you ask me that?

  — I’m a doctor.

  She muttered something Efim did not catch.

  He opened his medical bag, took out a stethoscope. —Let me listen.

  After a moment, Temerity unbuttoned her blouse.

  A faint smell of perfume reached Efim as he noticed the freckles on his patient’s shoulders. The fabric of her blouse, save some staining in the armpits, seemed clean. She wore the same blouse almost every day. —Your heart rate’s a little fast, Nadezhda. Do you feel anxious?

  — Yes, I feel anxious! Kostya just beat me across the face, then that wretched old man threatened to beat me some more, and all I want is some fresh air…

  She looked into his eyes and held her hand over her lower abdomen, much as Olga might.

  Efim nodded.

  Temerity took her hand away. —I can’t do this. Not here. Not with him.

  Efim plucked the stethoscope buds from his ears. —You’re far from the first woman in this difficulty.

  — Screw for survival.

  He studied her. Arrest and interrogation might induce miscarriage, or Nadezhda and her fetus might prove resilient and robust. And when she showed? Could even a hardened Chekist kill a pregnant woman and thereby murder two at once? Of course he could. If Nadezhda was sent to Kolyma, she would starve faster than the others as the fetus sucked every calorie. And where would she give birth, in the barracks, in a mine? Incarcerated mothers brought young children with them. Perhaps the guards built nurseries in the women’s camps. Yes, they must.

  Efim shut his eyes and felt the constant rattling sway of the train in 1918. Then he remembered Olga’s farewell: Be a good doctor.

  — Nadezhda.

  — I can’t.

  — I know. Do you want my help?

  She stared at him.

  He nodded. —Twenty-five years, if we’re caught. Possibly death. I’ve got very little to offer you for pain, and we’d need to work fast. It will be unpleasant.

  — Yes.

  — Are you sure?

  She stood up and straightened her blouse. —Yes.

  Kostya had not spent so much money in cafes since the night before he left for Spain, out with Vadym, Arkady, and Misha. Nor had he gotten so drunk, worse even than the night of Arkady’s dessert party. He staggered out of the cafe, discovered daylight still blazed, and then, after urinating in an alley, caught sight of one of his street contacts. One of my own bezprizorniki. —Andrei!

  The boy turned to look over his shoulder. Then he nodded, signalling he’d heard, and hurried to Kostya.

  — Andrei, Andryushka, how are you?

  — Better than you.

  — There are corpses buried five deep at the poligons who are better than me today.

  — What?

  — I need some wine.

  — Wine’s been scarce.

  — Horseshit. I know you’ve got some in your little hideaway.

  Andrei frowned. Senior Lieutenant Nikto did know that. Andrei had shared that information when Kostya asked how Andrei and his group of street children managed in winter. Kostya had paid for that information with more wine. And cigarettes, many cigarettes.

  — It’s shared, Senior Lieutenant. We’re a collective. I can’t just take something from the others. It’s stealing.

  — Shall I send the other officers here to round you up, your little collective? Hey? A children’s home, is that what you want? Home of the Child of the Struggle Moscow Number Two Supplemental Number Three is not far from here, Andryushka.

  Andrei took a step back. He knew the rumours. Orphans entered the state homes; doctors injected them; orphans disappeared. Senior Lieutenant Nikto had confirmed some truth to these rumours, adding that orphan boys might also join the army and be sent who knows where, or they might take sick and die all on their own, simple bad luck. —I’ll give you the wine, Senior Lieutenant. Wait here.

  Kostya smoked two cigarettes, waiting.

  Glass clinked. Andrei ran to him, his jacket bulging.

  As he gave Andrei cash and cigarettes and took the two bottles of wine, Kostya knew he’d just destroyed an important friendship. The boy’s eyes confirmed it; Andrei would never trust him again.

  And in that moment, Kostya did not care.

  Besides, he’d discovered a much more pressing problem: his lack of a corkscrew.

  Andrei carries one. Next to his knife. —Hey!

  Andrei closed his eyes, sighed, and turned to face the drunk NKVD officer. The drunk, armed NKVD officer. —Yes, Comrade Senior Lieutenant?

  Kostya held the bottles out before him. —Open these.

  — Both at once?

  — Now!

  Andrei obeyed, struggling with his corkscrew as Kostya refused to let go of the bottles.

  Kostya gulped down a quarter of a bottle; some of it dribbled past the edges of his mouth. —Now Andrei, where can I drink this in
peace?

  — This way.

  He followed Andrei into an alley, one slimy with refuse and excrement. Leaning against a rough stone wall, he drank from the first bottle, vomited, waited a few moments for his head to clear, drank some more. Then he dropped the bottle. Green glass shattered; red wine spilled.

  — Fucked in the mouth!

  He’d still got the second bottle by the neck. And he knew, oh, he knew, just where to go and enjoy it. Not too far of a walk. Not far at all.

  Dampness seeped through Kostya’s clothes, into his skin, as he worked to recognize the voice saying his name. He stared up at the concerned face of Matvei Katelnikov. Even in civilian clothes, the young officer seemed very out of place here in Arkady’s flowerbed.

  Matvei’s voice sounded crisp. —Nikto?

  Kostya’s own voice sounded like a cooling sauce, clotted and thick. —Katelnikov.

  — Comrade Major Balakirev found you here.

  — Here in the irises, yes. Lovely night.

  — Can you stand up?

  — What time is it?

  — Just after eleven.

  — Oh. Lovely night.

  — So you said. Comrade Senior Lieutenant, please, I need you to stand up.

  — Arkady Dmitrievich is such a fussy old woman about his flowers. If I’ve broken any, I’ll never hear the end of it. Fuck, did I spill the wine over myself?

  — The wine, and some puke. You’re lucky you didn’t choke.

  — Laundry service will…Katelnikov? It’s Katelnikov, right?

  Sighing, Matvei extended a hand. —Yes, it’s me.

  — You look younger every day.

  — Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto, please. I need you to stand up now.

  — I don’t think so.

  — If you don’t stand up, then I shall have to call Comrade Major Balakirev down here.

  Kostya squinted at Matvei. —Wait, he called NKVD because of someone in his garden?

  — I was in the area. He shouldn’t try to lift you on his own. He also told me that if I must call him back down here, then I must arrest you for debauchery in a drunken state, in a garden, while in uniform.

  — The old man really said that? Is that even a charge?

  — Well, it might fall under anti-Soviet activities. And you are in uniform.

  Kostya giggled. —Then I’ll save you the paperwork, yes?