Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  As Pierre and Joie left, and more people took their table, Temerity faced Kostya. —You said your surname is Berendei?

  He smiled again, though not the happy smile he’d just given Pierre. —It caused a snarl with my paperwork. The arrest forms were in the name of Nikto, and I told them my name was Berendei. No one would believe me, of course. How many prisoners screamed we had the wrong man? But Matvei Katelnikov, this younger officer I was training, he took my Nikto identification, and it never made it to Lubyanka. People knew I was Nikto, but no one could prove it. The paperwork had to be accurate, and they couldn’t just let me go, so they had to charge me with something. Twenty-five years for anti-Soviet activities for Berendei, Konstantin Semyonovich. I saw Katelnikov again about a year later, in the camp. He didn’t last long. He told me about my Nikto identification, said he buried it. Then he told me he loved me. A few weeks later, someone found out he was former NKVD, and, well, I hadn’t expected to dig a grave for Matvei Katelnikov. Perhaps I should have. At least it was summer, and we could break the ground. Cigarette?

  The flame of the match danced between them. Then they each took a deep drag, Temerity coughing.

  — Too strong for you, Marya Morevna?

  — Out of practice. I gave it up during the war.

  — Let me see your eyes.

  — No.

  — Please, Nadia.

  — You’re supposed to be dead. All of what happened here is supposed to be dead. Another country.

  He reached across the table and clasped her hand.

  She clasped back. —You’re awfully warm for a ghost.

  He squeezed, hard. —I’ve dreamt and dreamt about seeing you, and now I don’t know what to do.

  — First, let go of my hand before we draw an audience.

  He did this.

  Underarms slick with sweat, she took a deep breath. —I think I can get you out.

  A sudden rise of laugher from the crowd obscured her voice; startled, Kostya looked towards a whoop of joy.

  She tried again. —Kostya, listen to me. I, uh…I own a language school.

  His eyes brightened, dulled. —Where? Newfoundland?

  Despite it all, she laughed, then leaned closer to his ear. —England, you fool. Maybe two hours by rail from London.

  He shook his head. —Shut up.

  Temerity waited a moment before continuing. —Kostya, you once told me you felt great forces you couldn’t understand influenced your life. Do you remember that?

  He nodded.

  — And you told me you surrendered to that idea. I submit, you said. Finding me here today, does this feel like an accident to you? Do you not feel you should submit to it? Because I do.

  Mouth twitching, he stared at her.

  Whoops and cries as another circle dance began, two steps left, one step right.

  After a long moment, Kostya stroked the table near her hand again. —Did you ever tell your service about me?

  — I said you were very kind.

  He considered that.

  Temerity’s hand tensed. —Are you married?

  — No. There’s no one.

  — Plainclothes again, ten o’clock.

  Kostya sipped some tea, then spotted the two men. In their late twenties, they each wore ill-fitting grey suits. Their faces looked stern, yet their eyes looked fearful. Back in ’37, he’d have called them puppies.

  Longing for the delicate and defiant joy of the violins, Temerity craned her neck. She could not see the violinists. They could be half a mile on by now.

  Kostya coughed, long, wheezy, and wet. —I harmed you.

  — What?

  — When I tried to help you…This is difficult. Let me finish. I don’t know how I thought I could fix it. I couldn’t just leave you at that party. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to say that for years. I’ve rehearsed saying it, and I made these bargains with myself that if I ever saw you again, just seeing you would be enough. Just to know you’re alive would be enough.

  He took a deep breath, and his right shoulder relaxed. His left shoulder seemed paralyzed.

  Temerity swirled the tea glass in her glass. —Enough? Like hell it is.

  — What?

  — Kostya, let me help you. I think I can get you out.

  For a moment, and a moment within that moment, he admitted to himself that he might, just might, understand what she meant. Get out of the USSR? And how, precisely? Behave like a traitor and change sides?

  — Kostya, you were going to come with me in ’37. To the embassy.

  Blushing, he shut his eyes and twisted his body away from her. —Nadia, I lost everything, fucking everything, because I loved you.

  Temerity took a deep breath, said nothing.

  Tracing a finger over the podstakannik, Kostya felt the old skills return, the desire and the ability to wound with language. —Efim died a few days afterwards. Or had you forgotten him?

  Glancing at her sidelong, Kostya noticed her frown. The Nikto touch. He still had it.

  Temerity sipped tea. —I hadn’t forgotten. How did he die?

  He tucked his matches back into a pocket as if preparing to leave. —I’ll tell you another time.

  — What? No, no, no, you don’t pull that stunt on me, Kostya.

  He felt startled and worked to hide it. —Too many people.

  — You said, tell me another time. You want to see me again?

  He gave her an exasperated look.

  Temerity dropped the handkerchief on the ground, hoping Kostya had enough sense to bend over with her and help her retrieve it.

  He did.

  She murmured near his ear. —I need a clear answer. Do you want to get out?

  — Shut up.

  Temerity knocked the handkerchief farther under the table. —Paperwork in Voronezh too enticing? Kostya, listen to me. I can help. I need a Russian teacher at my school.

  Kostya snatched the handkerchief from the ground and sat back up. His eyes, huge now, shone with tears. —I’m too small. I don’t matter. And I’d never get the papers.

  — We both matter. We—

  A man in his thirties passed by and gave them a glance. He approached the table and spoke Russian to Temerity. —Is this man bothering you?

  — Not at all.

  — You’re weeping.

  Temerity dabbed at her face again with Kostya’s handkerchief. —Tears of joy for the celebration in the streets, comrade.

  The man glared at Kostya, then looked back at Temerity. —If you’re sure.

  — Quite sure, thank you.

  He left.

  Kostya tapped his cigarette package and discovered it was empty. —My handler. He’ll expect me to file a report on you.

  Temerity felt cold. Bloody hell. Move fast. —Can you get more cigarettes? I mean, are there shortages?

  — We don’t discuss shortages with foreigners. This is a land of plenty.

  Temerity could not tell if he might be joking. —Be here this time tomorrow evening. If you want to be left alone, keep your cigarettes hidden in your pocket. If you want to come teach, put the pack on the table. I can’t be here, but someone else will notice.

  Kostya refused to look at her. Then, seeking clarity, he shut his eyes. —Nadia, I’m not sure I’d be a very good teacher.

  He got no answer.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw her empty chair.

  He got to his feet, almost knocking over the table. Dozens and dozens of happy people penned him in. He wanted to climb on his chair for a better view, but that would draw too much attention. Instead he stood on his toes, scanning the crowd for a woman in a head scarf.

  Several such women moved in all directions.

  He turned back to the table, then brushed his palm over the seat of the chair opposite his.

  Warm.

  Oh, I exist.

  Voices chattered; dusk thickened; nightingales sang.

  A deputy head of SIS’s Moscow Station stared at the middle-aged nuisance of a woman
before him. —You really shouldn’t be here, Miss West, except for the gravest of emergencies. What if you were followed?

  — So you would prefer to explain to London how you declined to lift a defector who’s former NKVD and currently attached to the KGB? No use at all, is he?

  — How the bloody hell do you even know him? We had no briefing.

  — Signal for Neville Freeman. He knows this file.

  — Freeman? He’s about to retire.

  Temerity suppressed a sigh. —Well, he’s not dead yet, is he? Please signal London.

  He stood up. —On your say-so?

  — On my recommendation. Request, if you like.

  — Miss West, this is most irregular. We need to plan these things. It can take months. And we can’t embarrass the Soviets with a lift during the festival. The damage to Khrushchev’s credibility—

  — John, isn’t it? I expect your mother called you Johnny.

  — What? Don’t change the subject.

  Adjusting her glasses, Temerity released her memsahib voice. —Now listen to me, Johnny. Back in ’37—

  — You were here in ’37? Why?

  — Need-to-know, that, and you don’t. Back in ’37, he helped me. He protected me. He risked everything to do so.

  John blinked a few times. —You feel you owe him?

  — How many times must I say it? He’s not only tangled up with the secret police, but he’s also a former political prisoner. He’s only in Moscow by accident, and any moment now he’ll be sent back to Voronezh. Surely he’s got something to offer us.

  Nodding, John considered that. —How long was he in the camps?

  — Eighteen years.

  John winced. —So much of his knowledge of the secret police is out of date.

  — His knowledge of the camps is fresh though, isn’t it? And how much can KGB have changed? God’s sake, Johnny. Is this really your decision to make?

  — Well, it’s not yours.

  Temerity decided to remove her dark glasses. What had Neville Freeman said after they’d interrogated an Abwehr agent together? You do look fearsome. It’s all about the theatre, you know. Squeeze them dry with theatre. She stared directly at John, letting him take in the blinded eye and the scars. —This Russian saved my bloody life one night. He was willing to leave with me then, and I think he’s willing to leave now, except he’s too frightened to say so. And every defector we can take evens the score, just a little.

  Neither of them had to mention the shame of the defections to USSR of British SIS agents Burgess and Maclean, and the ongoing fear of a yet undiscovered mole.

  John could not hold Temerity’s gaze, and his speech collapsed into a mumble. —If this blows up in our faces, I’ll make sure it’s you who gets the blame.

  — Coward.

  He sighed. —No, I understand pragmatics. Welcoming an enemy into the fold? Miss West, you have no idea what you’ve just opened yourself up to.

  She put her glasses back on. —Then shouldn’t you signal London and get some guidance, like I asked?

  Heathrow Airport

  Thursday 8 August

  Only when they emerged from customs did Temerity address her two students about their recall and rapid return to London. —I’m sorry. This should not have affected you. You’ll need to be debriefed. For God’s sake, tell them everything you might know. Don’t give them any reason to think you’re hiding something. Don’t even think about trying to protect me, not in any way. Clear?

  Her pale and jet-lagged students only stared at her.

  Then she spotted three men waiting in a row, each standing about a yard from the other. The men wore suits and doffed their hats when they saw the women. One of them was Neville Freeman.

  Temerity gave a wan smile. —Right. One for each of us. Off you go.

  Each man escorted each woman into a car with a waiting driver. Neville joined Temerity in the back seat of hers.

  Nausea and fatigue kept her in a sickly doze as they drove to what looked like a military base. Armed men wearing battle fatigues guarded a gate and opened it only after conferring with someone else via walkie-talkie.

  Temerity sighed. —Freeman, the students know nothing. Let them go.

  Eyes on the road ahead, Neville kept quiet.

  Temerity glanced over her shoulder at the closing gate, and she said nothing else until inside a long and low building that might once have served as barracks. Inside a dim room, grey paint peeling from the walls, she followed Neville’s gestures and sat before a desk. He sat opposite.

  — Miss West—

  — Freeman, the students—

  — Why have you proposed this defection?

  — Freeman, please. Let them go.

  — Out of my hands. Abundance of caution, and all that, and we can’t just swan about Moscow cherry-picking Soviet citizens to lift. We help Soviets who have first helped us with useful intelligence. What makes him so special? I know he tried to helped you once, but is that it?

  Is that not enough? —Might I have a cigarette? I seem to have run out.

  — No. I’ve asked for a few hours alone with you before I report to my superiors, and if I can’t convince them, then they will come to question you. They may do so regardless. You’ve not just tainted yourself and your students with suspicion in this enterprise but me as well, and you’re still young enough to send to prison. Now please, I need to know anything and everything that could compromise you here.

  — I am not compromised!

  — Then why have you not told me everything?

  For a long moment, she kept silent. The ticking of her wristwatch seemed to get louder, louder.

  Neville did not move.

  She took off her glasses so she might see better in the dim light and gently placed them on the desk. —Right. He had gonorrhea and a bad toe.

  1958

  THE BEZPRIZORNIK

  Woking, England

  Monday 7 October

  Shipr cologne. Temerity often smelled it in her dreams, the resinous and sharp scent worn by Kostya in 1937. Except what those two young men leaning against a lamppost wore as cologne — carried on the mist, it seemed — was unlikely to be Russian. The young men gave no sign they noticed her as she passed. Then the heels of their boots clacked against the street as they detached themselves from the lamppost and hurried to catch up with her, one on either side. She saw now they might be sixteen or seventeen, boys, really, yet no less a threat. One of them asked for a cigarette as the other tried to snatch her newspaper and handbag.

  A tall bobby rounded the corner, recognizing the boys, and he ran towards them. —Oi!

  The boys turned to look. Temerity seized the distraction, sweeping one boy’s ankles with a kick and sending him to the ground, and striking the second in the sternum with her elbow. The boys writhed at her feet.

  The bobby reached out to touch Temerity on the shoulder, then thought better of it. —You all right, Madam?

  — Fine, thank you.

  One of the boys got his breath back. —Bitch!

  Swift and graceful, the bobby reached down and hauled up the two boys by their collars. —No way to speak to a lady. Right, lads, off to the nick. You know the way. Madam, you follow me.

  Adjusting her glasses and head scarf, Temerity noticed the bobby’s preoccupation with handling the boys and decided to ignore his instructions. Instead, she continued to the address she’d been given in a crisp telephone summons. The boys’ cologne and behaviour had stirred deeper memories of Moscow, memories already polluting her dreams and thieving sleep. One dream recurred. The beginning varied and over time became grotesque in its absurdities of just how Temerity found herself back in Moscow and compelled to find Kostya. She might glimpse him in a crowd, hear his voice, catch a whiff of Shipr. After long and complex quests, sometimes interrupted by another recurring dream of Gernika fires, the dreams ended the same way, with Temerity running to a train platform and arriving too late. She knew, knew as much as she knew that she
existed, that Kostya had just been forced aboard.

  She’d not seen Kostya after the 1957 evening at the Moscow café, and she knew nothing of his possible defection. After her friendly debriefing, as it got called, with Neville Freeman and then his superiors, she’d lost her security clearance. Just temporary, Neville had said, his cheer brittle and forced, just until we get a few things sorted.

  She knew better than to ask about her former students and thereby further compromise them. Still, she ached to know, ached to apologize.

  So Temerity had concentrated on her West Language School. Administration, recruitment, and scholarships, on top of teaching, filled her days, yet she felt empty, adrift. This limbo, this shadow existence of imperfect loyalties and exclusion, left her more lonely than she’d thought possible. Neither love nor duty drove her life. Purpose had fled.

  Sometimes she wondered if she’d seen Kostya in ’57 at all, wondered why she’d bothered with hope. So much risked…

  Yet now, obeying a strange phone call, she stood in the worsening drizzle outside a dingy tea shop in Woking. The window bore spatters of mud and the remains of children’s sneezes round the smudges of nose prints. Inside the window stood a display of bright cakes and sweets — dusty cardboard, Temerity discovered inside as she passed the tables nearest the window for one closer to the kitchen.

  She sat with her back to the wall and facing the door, glanced around for other exits, and took a compact from her handbag to check her lipstick. Then she ordered tea for one with a slice of Battenberg cake. Stale and dry, the cake crumbled to a parching mess in her mouth, and the tea tasted muddy and weak. Milk only made it worse. She sighed. Lowest grade Ceylon, none of the sparkle and bite of Simla or Darjeeling. She unfolded her newspaper and turned to an obituary she’d read twice on the train. She now read it a third time, waiting for the thrill of schadenfreude. William Brownbury-Rees, who’d disgraced himself during the war and endured imprisonment as a fascist, had died after a long struggle with cancer. His attempts to return to politics in the early 1950s had failed. His estate, mortgaged in 1939 to support the British Union of Fascists, would go to the National Trust. Of Brownbury-Rees’s now penniless widow, the obituary said nothing.