Constant Nobody

by Michelle Butler Hallett

  No schadenfreude, Temerity told herself, only sadness.

  On her third cup of tea, now cool, Temerity asked the waitress for the location of the ladies’ room. She could not risk missing the rendezvous for something as silly as a full bladder, yet whomever she was expected to meet was almost an hour late.

  The waitress offered Temerity another pot of tea, stressing the word another in a voice loud enough for a music hall performance. —Or are you just about to leave?

  Temerity’s memsahib voice, much quieter, seemed the stronger. —Another pot would be lovely, thank you. And do your best to scald the pot first this time.

  Temerity smiled to herself as the waitress departed. She’ll probably do her best to spit in the pot, after that.

  As she stood up to visit the ladies’ room, cold and damp air swirled around her ankles. An elderly man stepped inside the teashop, tall and slim, elegant, using a silver-topped cane. She’d last seen him before Christmas, by chance, at a London performance of Shostakovich’s Symphony No 5. They’d not spoken. Now, as he removed his hat, strands of his fine white hair stuck to the fabric, then fell, and his bright blue eyes looked sad. Spotting Temerity, he made for her table. The waitress noticed him, too, and she almost tripped over herself, addressing him as sir and asking if he’d like some of the reserved Keemun today. He agreed, his accent as crisp and aristocratic as Temerity’s own. As the waitress left, he commented to Temerity on the dreadful rain. Perhaps aiming for non-rhoticity, perhaps overcompensating, he seemed to swallow his Rs.

  Temerity nodded to him. —Count Ostrovsky.

  — Mister will do. It is pleasant to see you again, Miss West.

  — It’s been a long time. I’m surprised you recognized me.

  — I knew about the injury. A pity about the scars. You had such a pretty face. I would worry about you when I was your Russian tutor, because your other tutor, Freeman…well, I did not approve of how he looked at you. And then I did not approve of how later he handled you.

  Temerity gave a polite smile. Ilya had just as good as told her that he worked for one of the services, mostly likely in domestic counterespionage for MI5. Five, whose agents had tailed her openly since she’d lost her clearance. —Do you come here often?

  Ilya frowned at the Battenberg crumbs on Temerity’s plate. —Yes. Why?

  — They must like you here. Keemun’s not on the menu. The last time I drank any Keemun was well before the war.

  — Your family preferred Indian tea.

  As Temerity considered Ilya’s rebuke, the reminder of empire, the waitress arrived with a large pot and fresh cups. —There you are, sir. I know the lady’s had quite a lot of tea already, but no doubt you want to share.

  Ilya waved the waitress away with a flick of his hand. Temerity, forgetting her own imperious manner earlier, wanted to apologize for him.

  Neither of them spoke as the tea steeped.

  After checking his watch, Ilya poured, first for Temerity, then for himself. —You require a Russian teacher for your school?

  For just a moment, Temerity thought Ilya meant himself. —I’m sorry, Mr. Ostrovsky, you’ve caught me off guard.

  Ilya stirred sugar into his tea. —When he told us about the day he struck you on the face, I almost struck him myself.

  Pulse quickening, Temerity inhaled the scent of the tea. Struck my face? Brownbury-Rees?

  Oh my God. Kostya?

  Face neutral, Ilya studied her. —Please think hard before you answer me, Miss West. Do you need a Russian teacher?

  — I could certainly use one.

  Ilya took two good swallows of tea. —That will warm my bones. Do you want a Russian teacher?

  — I just said—

  — Do you want him? Not just to see him over tea and cakes, but at your school. In your life. After everything he’s done.

  She felt chilled. Everything he’s done. By his own free will, yet twice as much by compulsion? —Where is he?

  — Answer my question.

  — You’ve got him. You’ve got him locked away. Taking your revenge for history, are you? He had nothing to do with you leaving Russia in 1917.

  Ilya’s eyes shone with anger. —I shall be honest with you. I said I wished to strike him. Then I wanted to shoot him. In the thigh first. Then the testicles, then the gut, and finally in the face.

  Temerity felt grateful for the cup, for something to hold. —He served eighteen years in the Gulag. Eighteen bloody years. Tell me, Mr. Ostrovsky, when will he be punished enough?

  Ilya kept his voice soft. —Answer my question. Do you still want him?

  — Yes, I want him. Where—

  — Why have you taken such risks for one man?

  Adjusting her glasses, Temerity let out a long breath. —Duty.

  — To what?

  She didn’t answer right away. —To love. Or at least to the idea of it. Not that you’d know it.

  Ilya turned pale. —I’ve never told you what the Cheka did to my children in 1917. I had a daughter your age. And it was not very long ago. Not for me. Do not presume to lecture me on love.

  Cups clinked against saucers.

  Ilya picked up the teapot and poured more for them both. —This has been a difficult case. He’s cleared.

  — What?

  — We needed to confirm his claims. He’s cleared now. So are you. He’s free to go with you, if you will have him.

  — Wait, I’ll be reinstated?

  — So long as this Russian is in your life, you look compromised. At least one of my colleagues still thinks he might be a double agent, or that you are.

  — But Freeman—

  — Has retired. Quietly. In some disgrace. You must not forget, Miss West, that we’ve had traitors who hid their activities in the thirties, and you omitted a great deal about 1937.

  Temerity studied the fork she’d used to eat the Battenberg and imagined stabbing it into Ilya’s neck. We. Who is this we? —How did you get involved?

  — Language. I’m an interpreter, and his English is appalling.

  Questions tumbled in her mind, yet she could not speak.

  Ilya tapped his right temple. —He’s damaged. We were hard on him. We had to be. The debriefing might have been too much, after everything else.

  Hearing the sound of running water from the kitchen, Temerity watched a stray piece of tea leaf sink to the bottom of her cup. —When can I see him?

  — Whenever you wish.

  — Now.

  Ilya laid coins on the table to pay for the tea. —Come with me.

  As they passed the window, Temerity noticed a car parked on the opposite side of the street. Ilya took her elbow and guided her there, opening a back door so she might step inside. Then he sat in the front passenger seat. The driver said nothing. Kostya, gaze fixed on the drizzle-smeared windshield, waited in the back. He wore a badly fitting suit, with a white shirt and no tie. More of his scalp showed, and the greying hair that remained defied comb and pomade and still fell in waves. His broken nose sat at a strange new angle.

  Temerity sat next to him.

  No one spoke.

  She shifted her weight in the seat.

  Still, no one spoke.

  She sighed. —Gentlemen, I’ve drunk rather a lot of tea, and I need to find a ladies’ room. The one at the train station will do.

  The driver stifled his chuckle as Ilya glared at him.

  Temerity spoke with muted irritation and certainty. —Off we go, then.

  Ilya gave a slow nod. The driver started the car.

  Kostya said nothing until they’d boarded the train and Temerity closed the compartment door. He spoke in Russian. —Is this first class?

  — Yes. We might even have it to ourselves. It’s just over two hours to Prideaux-on-Fen. Then we’ll take a taxi to the school.

  He drew his fingertips over worn upholstery.

  Outside, the train guards blew whistles and waved flags. The train lurched.

  Temerity sat down, then ret
rieved cigarettes and matches from her handbag. — Here, I bought these at the station. Woodbines. The closest I can get.

  Kostya sat across from her, lit a cigarette, a took a deep draw. —Not bad. A little weak.

  She smiled. Then she considered his broken nose. Behind the glasses, her eyes widened.

  Kostya, reading her raised eyebrows as disgust with him, gave a half-smile. —I was afraid you would turn me away.

  — What? No, no.

  — I worked so hard to stay in the present. The doctors kept advising that when I got back from Spain. Your past is your enemy. Stay in the present. I got through some of…in Lubyanka, I could sometimes slip into the past. Not this time. The only comfort in my past is the ghost of what I wanted for you and me. Why didn’t you tell me they would imprison me?

  — How long have you been in England?

  The train lurched again and pulled out.

  — Kostya?

  Tapping ash into a tray, he stared out the window, then at her. —I never knew when it was night. They always kept the lights on. I told them everything, every little thing I knew, right down to Little Yurochka and the size of Arkady Dmitreievich’s boots, and still they don’t trust me. Why didn’t you tell me?

  She had no answer for him.

  Kostya almost smiled. —I got him, in the end, that old White interpreter.

  — Ostrovsky?

  — Yes. You know him? The contempt for me in his face…he’d reduced me to tears and snot, and I said, Whether you believe me or not, I can never go home again. At least in Kolyma I was exiled within my own country, but now, I can never go home. Neither can you. He turned pale as snow and had to leave the room.

  — He—

  — Fuck him. I never want to hear another mention of him. I hope dogs eat his corpse.

  — I can’t hate him, Kostya. He taught me to speak your language.

  Kostya stared at her, then snorted. —Let me see your eyes.

  — No.

  — Why not?

  — I said, no.

  — Please?

  After a moment, she pried off the glasses, looked at him.

  He took in the scars, the damaged eye, and shrugged. —I’ve seen worse.

  She put the glasses back on. —Ever the charmer.

  — What is your real name?

  She hesitated, said nothing.

  — Nadia, please don’t cry.

  — I can’t believe you’re here.

  — I’m here. Right here, right now, I am with you. Let me prove it to you. Tell me your real name.

  She took a breath. —Temerity.

  — Doesn’t that mean—

  — Yes, I know what it means. My middle name is even worse. Temerity Tempest West, in part because my Russian mother liked the sound of it.

  Kostya leaned forward, clasped her hands in his, and tried out the name. —Temerity. Temerity.

  — Without the Russian R. Call me Nadia, if it’s easier.

  — No, I will call you by your name. Temerity. Temerity. Temerity.

  He trilled the R harder and harder, keeping his face stern, until she laughed.

  He lifted her right hand and kissed it. —I love that sound. I want to laugh, too, but I keep thinking of the dogs. In Kolyma. When it got to minus fifty, we did not have to work. We never saw a thermometer. One day, it was bright and still, I’m sure it was only minus twenty, yet we did not have to work. The guards let the dogs off leash, and they played in the snow. Romped and barked and chased one another. Yet they stayed within the barbed wire. Even the dogs knew not to run out to death. I feel like that. If I stay within the wire on this one special day, I’ll be safe. After sunset, it’s back to that White Russian interpreter, or the camp.

  She couldn’t answer right away. —Kostya, I’m so sorry.

  He answered in English. —No. Do not be sorry. You tried to save me. You did not steal me. I stole you.

  Then he let go of her hands and looked to the floor.

  She touched his face, on the left cheek, near the scars on his ear. —I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief.

  His back and shoulders shook.

  — Sit beside me, Kostya. Come on, squeeze in closer.

  He did this, his face wet, and his spine seemed to surrender as he slumped. Temerity placed her arm round his shoulders, careful not to jostle the left one, shifting in some discomfort to herself so his head might rest on her chest. She inhaled the scent of his scalp, kissed a bald spot, shut her eyes, and smiled.

  Later, Kostya would remember hearing neither the racket of the tracks nor the mutters of Baba Yaga but the steady beat of Temerity’s heart.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Early in this project, tired, intimidated, and nearly broke, I rolled my chair back from my desk, rubbed my eyes, and said ‘What I need here is a detailed social history of Moscow in the year 1937.’ I couldn’t bear to look at my computer screen any longer, so I took a trip to a bookstore. I meandered over to the history section, where I spotted a thick hardcover called Moscow, 1937, by Karl Schlögel. I took a step back from the shelf, looked again: yes, it existed and yes, it offered up invaluable details of everyday life in 1937 Moscow — details of everyday life colliding with the brutal realities of the Great Purge. It was precisely what I needed. I couldn’t afford it, yet there it sat, as if waiting for me. My next paycheque several days away, I had to choose between the book and food. I chose Moscow, 1937. I owe Karl Schlögel and translator Rodney Livingstone a great debt.

  I also owe a debt to Vadim J. Birstein for The Perversion of Knowledge, his study of Soviet doctors and scientists working on poisons, to Alexander Vatlin and translator Seth Bernstein for Agents of Terror: Ordinary Men and Extraordinary Violence in Stalin’s Secret Police, and to Jeffrey Keith for his MI6: The History of the Secret Intelligence Service 1909-49. Of course, writing about characters in complex historical settings risks historical flubs. Any such errors in the novel are due not to my research sources but to my own limitations.

  Somewhere around draft six, I recognized I did not have a full grasp of Temerity West. I’d assumed she would be easier to write than the Russian characters, as she is English and I grew up in a culture informed — perhaps dominated — by British habits and views. I’d forgotten something crucial: the British Empire. The 2002 TWI/Carlton TV miniseries The British Empire in Colour was a huge help. This documentary explores the empire’s miseries, complexities, and legacies — and the footage is fascinating.

  I also studied, and continue to study, a work that felt like a quiet invitation into the realities of Soviet life in 1937: Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5. Shostakovich composed the symphony during the summer of 1937 while in official disgrace and terrified of imminent arrest. The symphony confronts the listener with fear, dark comedy, subversion, and tragedy: with truth. Listeners at the symphony’s premiere in Leningrad in November 1937 gave a half-hour standing ovation. Many wept. My favourite recording is the January 2015 concert performance by Orchestre de Paris, conducted by Paavo Järvi.

  An earlier and thinner version of this story as a one-act play called Aphasia benefited from the 2007 Women’s Work Festival and dramaturgy from Robert Chafe and Sara Tilley. I also acknowledge financial support for Constant Nobody from ArtsNL.

  Warm thanks to Bethany Gibson for her thoughtful edits, Jill Ainsley for her sharp-eyed copy-edits, and Antanas Sileika for reading a manuscript version and suggesting a change that I first resisted but then welcomed. Thanks also to Christine Fischer-Guy, Christine Hennebury, Ami McKay, Sean Michaels, and Trudy Morgan-Cole for manuscript reads and helpful advice. Loving thanks to my husband, David Hallett, who read every draft, and to my children, Oliver and Kendall, who endured hours of me chattering about this or that historical tidbit, sometimes grotesque, over supper.

  Michelle Butler Hallett, she/her, is a history nerd and disabled person who writes fiction about violence, evil, love, and grace. The Toronto Star describes her work as “perfectly paced and gracefully wrought,
” while Quill and Quire calls it “complex, lyrical, and with a profound sense of a world long passed.” Her short stories are widely anthologized in Hard Ol’ Spot, The Vagrant Revue of New Fiction, Everything Is So Political, Running the Whale’s Back, and Best American Mystery Stories, and her essay “You’re Not ‘Disabled’ Disabled” appears in Land of Many Shores. Her novel This Marlowe was longlisted for the ReLit Award and the Dublin International Literary Award, and her first novel, Double-blind, was shortlisted for the Sunburst Award.

  Butler Hallett lives in St. John’s. Constant Nobody is her fifth novel.

  Photo: David Hallett