The bottle was three-quarters full. Setting it on the desk, I rinsed a glass under the tap by the lathe. Choking smoke burnt the back of my throat and the flames crackled in my ears as they rushed along the dry wood, shrivelling the grass. Ghazis. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I poured a generous measure into the glass. I raised it to my lips. The smoke plumed from the hilltop, like a volcano. From nowhere, then, the pitiful cry of a child arrested me, catching all at once the hate, the raging anger from my heart. The glass hesitated against my lip. I stopped, the dust rising in swirls around me, the smoke, forced down by the wind, curling into the trees. I looked back up towards the barely visible village, the sun behind it dark and brooding. Lowering the glass to the table, I rolled up my shirtsleeve and examined the crinkled skin.
A soft knock at the door startled me. Pulling down my sleeve awkwardly, I twisted around, half expecting to see Kirov’s face once more. But it was Tanya who stood in the doorway, the light of a street lamp illuminating her from behind. I unlocked the door and let her in.
‘You’re all in darkness,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you were here.’
I looked around. A buttery slab of light from the street fell through the glass in the door, faintly illuminating a patch of floor. The rest of the shop had dissolved into the evening gloom.
Tanya took off her coat and shook it, before hanging it over the back of a chair. She relit the paraffin heater and turned on my desk lamp.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, noticing the opened bottle, the glass on the table and my shirtsleeve, hanging loosely around my wrist.
‘Kirov was here,’ I said.
‘Kirov?’
‘Vassily never spoke of him?’
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Not that I can remember.’
‘We served together in Afghanistan. Vassily told me he was in prison.’
A look of concern crossed Tanya’s face. ‘Did he hurt you?’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘No, he didn’t hurt me,’ I reassured her. ‘He wanted to know about the bracelet.’
Tanya pulled the two chairs close to the heater and drew me down next to her. I held my fingers up before the flames. They were, I noticed, shaking.
‘I can’t stop them,’ I said to Tanya, ruefully. ‘Every time I look at them, they’re trembling like leaves on the trees.’
She took my hands in hers and held them tight, massaging them gently with the tips of her fingers.
‘Tell me about Kirov,’ she said. ‘Tell me what he said.’
For a moment I weighed in my mind whether I should tell her of the veiled threat he had made against her. I decided not to.
‘He is under the impression,’ I said, ‘that I am after this bracelet. He was warning me off, I think. He is after Kolya.’
Tanya shook her head, a bewildered frown creasing her forehead.
‘Kirov was taunting me,’ I added. ‘He suggested Vassily was not the friend I thought he was, that he was not as honourable as I believed.’
‘Its not true, Antanas,’ Tanya said. ‘You know Vassily has been a good friend to you.’
‘Of course, Tanya,’ I reassured her. ‘He rescued me. He nursed me back to health. If it was not for him I would not have survived, I wouldn’t have found the strength to carry on.’
Tanya stared into the flickering jets of flame for a few moments, silent. They were changing slowly from blue to orange as the heater warmed up.
‘Do you know where Kolya is?’ she asked finally.
‘No.’ I shrugged. ‘Not unless it said on the letter.’
‘Does this Kirov know where he is?’
I shrugged again. ‘I don’t know what Kirov knows.’
‘Would he harm Kolya?’
If I paused before I answered, it was not because I had any doubts about whether Kirov would be prepared to kill to get what he wanted.
‘We were on a patrol, once, in the mountains,’ I said to Tanya, ‘when we got cut off. Snipers had opened up on us from behind the walls of a ruined village, driving us farther up the mountain. Darkness fell, trapping us at the top of a ravine. The temperature dropped well below zero and we were hopelessly equipped. We sat huddled up in a crater, fearing that at any moment the muj would discover us and if they didn’t the cold would kill us before the night was out.
‘There was an Uzbeki boy, Yuri. He decided he was going to make a break for it. If he had been seen or captured he would have drawn attention to the rest of us. We tried to stop him but he would not listen. As he climbed out of the crater, Kirov caught him. Covering the boy’s mouth with one hand he slit his throat. He held the boy tight as he jerked about, blood squirting out across the rock, pooling at our feet. Not one of us said a word. Kirov held him until he was dead, then pushed him into the corner. We sat through the night with his body there, waiting until first light when some back-up finally arrived.’
Tanya shuddered.
‘Kirov will kill without compunction,’ I said, realising, as I said the words, their significance.
‘What are we going to do?’ Tanya said, after a while.
‘I told Vassily I was not interested in hearing about how he got the bracelet.’
‘But don’t you want to know what Kolya has to say?’
‘I’ve spent eight years trying to forget about it all.’
‘Much good that has done you,’ Tanya said. ‘Still you dream, you wake in the night trembling, shouting. Your drinking is pulling apart your relationship with Daiva. Perhaps it’s time you faced up to things.’
I stood up and walked over to the door. The wind gusted, rattling the glass in the window. Sullen clouds darkened the sky, bearing night prematurely.
‘You think I should try to find him?’ I said.
She got up and walked over to me. I felt her standing close behind me. She rested her head between my shoulder blades.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Vassily wanted you to. I think you should, for him. He made me promise to make you. It was important to him and it’s important that you stop burying your experiences, it isn’t helping you. And so what if Kolya just wants to sell the bracelet to buy drugs? What is that to you?’
Not answering, I stared out into the street.
‘You have no idea where to start looking for him?’ Tanya asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen him. Not since Afghanistan.’ I turned from the doorway. ‘The letter,’ I said, ‘if only I had not thrown away the letter.’ I had a sudden vision of it, snagged in the branches of the birch tree by the banks of the Vilnia.
‘What?’ said Tanya, seeing me hesitate as I crossed the room.
‘The letter,’ I said. ‘I was in the Uzupis Café. I screwed it into a ball and tossed it out towards the river. It caught – in the twigs. Do you think it’s possible… it’s still there?’
Tanya looked dubious. ‘I don’t think there is much hope.’
Tanya’s apartment was warm and inviting after the icy wind. It was less than a kilometre from the shop, but in the time it took us to walk that short distance we were chilled to the bone. Tanya’s teeth chattered as I closed the door behind us.
‘I’m going to take a hot shower to warm up,’ she said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. In the sitting room I turned on the standard lamp. The sofa was still made up as a bed. Clogging the surface of the low table were empty cups, sticky glasses and overflowing ashtrays. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and brandy. Clothes littered the floor.
Finding a clean glass, I poured myself a drink from the half-empty brandy bottle and drank it quickly. I poured a second and relaxed with that. Glancing at my watch, I noticed it was late. Instinctively I felt a spasm of guilt. I almost rose, before I remembered than Daiva had gone, that she would not be waiting for me. That the apartment would be empty. I sank back into the sagging armchair and drained the second glass. Remorsefully I considered how many times I had made her wait. How many times I had not been able
to face going back to the apartment and had continued drinking with Vassily instead.
Hopelessly, and though I knew better, I got up and went over to the telephone. Dialling the number for our apartment, I listened as it rang.
After a minute I replaced the receiver and stood by the table, my mind skimming back across the last couple of years, recalling the number of times I had failed to come home to her, the number of times I had shamed her in front of her colleagues with my drunken sarcasm so that she had stopped inviting them to our apartment.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned. Tanya was dressed in a white cotton dressing gown; her hair was wet and dangled around her face in loose dark curls. She smiled hesitantly and my heart lurched. Zena, I thought, and trembled at how much she looked like that other beautiful young woman in that other world, that other time.
‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ Tanya said, looking at the detritus of her life scattered untidily about the room. ‘I just can’t seem to…’
Her explanation faded away when she saw how I was looking at her. When I reached out for her, she did not step away. I pulled her close. She rested her head against my chest. My lips grazed her hair, which was damp and smelt fresh and clean. I felt that if I reached down and touched her she would not stop me, that she needed closeness, the physical touch of another human, the comfort of skin against skin. I longed to, but didn’t. In the bedroom, in the pale light that filtered through half-drawn curtains, I undressed quickly and slipped in between the clean sheets. We lay close; I could hear her breathing, could feel the heat from her hand by my own, could smell her soap-scented body. With every part of my body I could sense her.
‘Tanya,’ I said, to remind myself who it was by my side.
She turned over and I felt her breath on my skin, could see her face milky cool in the light of the moon.
‘Yes?’ she whispered.
I reached out and ran a finger gently across her cheek.
‘I feel confused,’ I confessed. ‘Confused and afraid.’
Mistaking my meaning, she sighed and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me too.’
I withdrew my hand and we lay close but not touching. After some minutes she turned from me and later I heard the catch in her breath and a slow exhalation and knew she was sleeping. My mind spun. The image of a girl played across the ceiling above me. As much as I tried to banish it, she returned. Screaming. Her face distorted by fear. Screaming.
Leaving Tanya, I went back to the sitting room and poured myself another two drinks. When I went back to bed, I lay and watched the wind-tousled shadows of the trees dancing on the ceiling and thought of Daiva and Laura and where they were and wondered whether Laura had noticed my absence. I recalled the soft sound of her breathing as I lay in bed. The moments when, waking in the night, I would lift my ear from the pillow and hold my breath to listen for some sound of her, straining, unable to relax back into sleep before I heard the low sigh, or a faint rustling as she moved in the crib.
Spring had come suddenly, the year I met Daiva. Buttery yellow petals broke through the melting snow and the clouds flew higher, large billowing cumuli, which sparkled in the sunlight. Sharp showers sluiced away the last of the grey packs of ice, and children reappeared in the streets, shouting and laughing and running after a winter of incarceration.
In the early summer, Daiva and I had taken the trolley bus to the edge of the city and wandered in the forest, down to the river, where we lay in the deep grass at the edge of the water, watching the heron poking around the fields and the trout lolling lazily in the warm shallows.
I clung to our desire; found peace in the act of love. There no thought was required. I abandoned myself to the cool smoothness of her skin, the feel of her ribs, the arch of her belly, the sharp, hot exhalation of her breath.
As the months unfolded, the tightness of my chest loosened and the crushing weight lifted from me. I no longer jumped at the sudden crackle of static on the telephone line. I no longer woke in the night, with a scream on my lips, upright and soaked with fear. That other life – that life I slewed off, like a snake its skin, as Vassily put it – no longer haunted me with its dark emptiness.
I awoke in Tanya’s bed the next morning just after dawn, and, unable to return to sleep, got up and made myself coffee. The sky was bright and cloudless, and over the tops of neighbouring buildings I could see the trees in Kalnu Park tossing in a strong breeze. I felt curiously calm after the events of the previous couple of days, as though, having slipped down a crevice, my fall had finally been broken and I was left on a ledge, regarding my position.
Sipping the coffee, I thought of Vassily, of the years we had spent together and all that he had done for me. I thought of Kolya, too, the young boy I had grown up with in the children’s home, his bright face, his laughter. Of how he had blushed in shame when Liuba had declared her affection for him.
Tanya was sleeping still when, just before eight o’clock, I took her coffee. Sitting beside her, I brushed her dark hair from her face. She stirred and looked up and smiled sadly.
‘I was dreaming,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ she said, shifting, running a hand through her hair, taking the mug of coffee from me, ‘there’s no need. I’ve been living in a dream since he died, before that even, since the time we finally admitted to ourselves he was ill, the evening he came home and told me it had been diagnosed as malignant. It’s been unreal since then, a waiting, not daring to hope, not daring to think.’
‘I have not thought for years,’ I told her. ‘I have existed. Each day a conscious act of will, to live without thinking. If I tried hard enough it almost worked. Daiva, the baby, the work with Vassily. It was enough. What cause was there to think of anything else, to remember that there had been anything else? But perhaps you were right, yesterday evening, maybe it’s time I faced up to it.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘I think I should find Kolya.’
Tanya nodded and reached out to take my hand. ‘But how will you find him?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘I really don’t know.’
The café on the bank of the Vilnia was closed. Scaling the high wall, I peered over into the beer garden. The chairs were upturned on the wooden tables and the glass doors closed and curtained. Squinting into the early sun, sharp and bright after the rain, I scanned the trees down by the water. Against the brilliant shimmer on the surface of the river it was impossible to see whether the letter was there still, balled in the mesh of twigs. For some moments I considered climbing over the wall to go and see, but the street was busy and I had no desire to involve the police in my search.
Disappointed, I wandered back across the bridge into the Old Town, heading along Bernadinu in the direction of the university. A large crowd of students congregated in the courtyard of the university, smoking and talking and laughing. Often Vassily would visit his old friend Gintaras Zinotis, a professor in the Department of Archaeology at the university. Zinotis knew everything there was to know about ancient jewellery and was an expert on the history of amber. He had served in Afghanistan in the very early eighties. Though he looked every centimetre the university professor, it was possible to see beneath the worn jacket and the spectacles, beneath the slight paunch and his pipe, the lean figure of the soldier he had once been. Zinotis belonged, I knew, to the Afghan Vets organisation, and it was possible, I considered, that through his contacts he might have heard something about Kolya, or would be able to direct me to somebody who might know where he was.
His small office was at the end of a long corridor. I had been to the university on only one previous occasion when Vassily had asked me to pick up a book the professor had promised to loan him on the jewellery of the Kushan Empire. Now I knocked on the door and waited, feeling out of place among the young students, folders tucked beneath their arms, waiting for their lectures.
When the door did not open, I knocked ag
ain, loath to be disappointed for the second time that morning. A creased face appeared at the door, staring furiously over the top of half-moon spectacles.
‘Yes?’ Zinotis said irritably. He looked me up and down and, realising at once I was not one of his students, his frown eased a little. ‘Who are you looking for?’ he added a little more pleasantly.
‘Professor Zinotis?’ I asked, though I recognised him immediately.
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Antanas, I am a friend and colleague of the jeweller Vassily. We have met once before.’ The professor opened the door a little wider. He took off his glasses and polished them absently on the sleeve of his pullover.
‘I heard the news,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
I nodded. Zinotis stepped to one side and indicated I should enter his office. The room was small and oppressive. Books lined every wall and were piled in high, unstable heaps on the floor and desk. On the sill, beneath the small, dusty window, were various lumps of amber, some of them worked, displaying their inclusions, organisms trapped when the resin was still liquid, while others were dull, raw, milky pieces. There were two chairs in the room, one by his desk and a second by the wall, beneath a particularly wobbly-looking pile of volumes.
‘Please sit down,’ Zinotis said, offering me his chair. ‘I would offer you a drink, but I’m afraid I don’t have a bottle. Always when Vassily came he would bring one with him, but it has been a long while since he was last here.’
Zinotis perched himself on the edge of the desk, shifting a pile of folders aside.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Vassily, I know, often came to talk to you about jewellery,’ I said, not sure how to raise the topic or how much I should say.
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