Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  ‘More wine?’

  *

  As we tucked into our roasted duck, I felt pleased with how the evening was going, that he felt able to unburden his woes with me. Josef rarely complained about work. The fact that he’d told me so much was a show of trust. If there was ever a time to approach him about Karolina, now was it. I began by passing comment on the weather, the building progress at the far end of our street, the patriotic fervour of our portly butcher. And all the while, I felt Karolina’s presence at my shoulder, urging me on, threatening me.

  ‘I met Karolina the other day.’ I paused. No response. ‘Do you remember Karolina? Pretty thing, different coloured eyes; she came to one of your work parties. Vida’s wife?’

  ‘Ah yes, Vida. Don’t remember her, though.’

  ‘He’s fallen on hard times since he left.’

  ‘Huh, no doubt,’ he said, chewing on a mouthful of beans.

  ‘Come now, Josef, he was a fine assistant, and you know it.’

  ‘He was a fool to himself and rightly paid the price.’

  How easy it is, I thought, to dismiss the past, to airbrush the inconvenient memories. The two men had been friends as much as two colleagues could be. Vida had saved Josef’s skin over a slightly mistaken estimate, but once he’d slipped up himself, Josef was too afraid to stand up for him. The guilt lasted as long as Vida was still visible – which was not long. Out of work, out of favour, Vida disappeared from view. For a while he was still a free man. But, according to Karolina, not any more.

  ‘He’s been arrested,’ I said quickly.

  Josef looked at me, his glass of wine poised mid-air, and for a moment his face displayed a flash of genuine regret. But his inner feelings quickly disappeared behind the mask as he recovered his composure. He sipped his wine, looked away and, with nonchalant effort, said, ‘It was bound to happen.’

  ‘Karolina’s distraught, says he’s innocent.’

  ‘Innocent of what?’

  This was a pointless conversation and we both knew it – people are usually arrested for no particular reason, hence, by default, they are innocent. It is only afterwards that they are charged with some immaterial allegation of which of course they are still innocent.

  ‘Help him, Josef.’ There – I’d said it, more directly than intended perhaps, but I’d said it.

  ‘Me?’ He pushed his plate to one side, a couple of roast potatoes still remaining.

  ‘You like to pretend you don’t remember but you remember only too well.’ I was on unfamiliar territory, never before had I dared criticise my husband so directly. I knew I should have stopped; I was ruining the evening. This is not what I’d planned but I couldn’t stop, I ploughed on with gusto. ‘Your career would have died if it hadn’t been for Vida. He saved you. But when he needed you, you turned your back on him. But here’s your chance to make amends.’

  ‘No.’ His face was blank.

  ‘You could use your contacts –’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Josef –’

  ‘Eva, stop it, just bloody stop it.’ His face was not blank any more. Instead, there was a fear in his eyes I’d never seen before. ‘OK, OK, I was in the shit and Vida pulled me out. Don’t you think I know it; do you think I can ever forget it?’ He rose abruptly from the table and paced to the window. Gazing out into the night and the flickering lights across the city, he said, ‘But that was over a year ago when people could still talk. It’s different now. You don’t realise how much worse it has become. He wouldn’t stand up for me now, he’d be too frightened, he’d have too much to risk. And I have too much to risk. I can’t do it; it’d be suicide. You expect me to use my contacts, as you say, as if I could simply walk up to the director and say, Listen, Comrade Director, a grave mistake has been made. Can you imagine it? I might as well slit my throat now. I can’t help Vida. I’m sorry for him, truly I am, and I’m sorry for Karolina, but there’s nothing I can do.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair, exhausted by his outburst.

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  He sat back down with much weariness. ‘Eva, listen. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘About work?’

  ‘No. It’s not about work.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s something else.’ He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass.

  ‘Oh no. Don’t tell me what I think you’re going to tell me.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Eva.’

  Chapter 6: Zoltan

  Zoltan Beke felt the need to undo his top button and loosen his tie. But he couldn’t – he had an appointment to keep. Even with the window wound down, the heat in the Pobeda was suffocating, (these Soviet-made cars were the AVO’s vehicle of choice). Fischer sat to his left, gazing out of the window. If his assistant felt hot, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too long a job,’ said Fischer.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ replied Zoltan, hoping his reply sounded both offhand and authoritative.

  The driver, a woman, glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.

  But no, thought Zoltan, it shouldn’t be too long. He’d spoken to the manager, to the centre forward, now it was simply a matter of nobbling the goalkeeper, and that’d be it. Not that it would make much difference, by all accounts. This goalkeeper, Milan Ignotus, was once a player to be reckoned with but his best years were far behind him. Liable to drink one too many, on a bad day he was as much use in goal as a sack of potatoes.

  It still bothered Beke, however, that Donath was sending him out on these jobs. Surely, it was a job for Fischer and someone more junior in the department. Had he fallen out of his boss’s favour? It rankled that he should work so hard, striving for the promotion he thought was his by right, only for Donath to send him out on these errands. It diminished his standing in Fischer’s eyes; it wasn’t right.

  The car had stopped, halted by an overly efficient traffic policeman, who hadn’t noticed the official car nor the distinguishable small-numbered licence plate. ‘Just push through,’ he said.

  The driver beeped her horn, attracting the policeman’s attention who, on realising his oversight, waved them through. The man saluted as they passed, the shadow of his peaked cap obscuring his eyes. Zoltan didn’t salute back.

  The driver laughed. He knew that she was relishing the power that came with the job. She’d once been a prostitute but after the Party had closed down the brothels, many of the girls were retrained as taxi drivers and used by the AVOs as chauffeurs and informers. No one dared hail a female-driven taxi any more – they drove terribly, too busy eavesdropping, and never knew the way.

  Zoltan’s thoughts returned to the job in hand. At least the consolation in this menial task had been meeting George Lorenc. The boy had prospects, not simply in footballing terms, but as a new man in Hungary’s communist future – earnest, dedicated, and strong. You could see it in his bone structure. Zoltan believed you could tell a lot about a man by his bone structure. George Lorenc had a strong jaw line and deep set eyes. He had, Zoltan reckoned, a strength of character etched into his face that matched his undoubted physical prowess. He only hoped that the boy had the mental maturity to correspond.

  ‘This is it, boss,’ said the driver.

  Milan Ignotus lived on the seventh floor of an apartment block on the outskirts of Pest, a relatively new but run-down affair, the street outside poorly constructed, littered with potholes and cracks. No one would dare complain, however. A small group of children played on the pavement, racing snails then cracking the shells. He thought of his own daughter. He’d never allow her to play such crass games, let alone out on the street with a rabble of children dressed like orphans straight out of Dostoyevsky. A child of about seven came out from the apartment block and Zoltan grabbed the door before it shut. The block was eight storeys high and he and Fischer began the climb to the seventh floor. There was no way he’d ever risk the lift. For such a new block, the stairwe
ll was already in a poor state – the concrete steps chipping away, the paint falling off, half the light bulbs gone. Another child came racing down the stairs and shot at Zoltan with his wooden gun. He was in no mood to feign death.

  On reaching the seventh floor, he paused to catch his breath and wipe his brow with a handkerchief. It was too hot a day to be climbing to the top of apartment blocks. Fischer looked as cool as ever.

  He knocked on the door and straightened his tie. A young mother with a baby in her arms answered.

  ‘Yes?’ A wave of her hair obscured one eye; her clothes seemed surprisingly neat.

  ‘Milan Ignotus, please.’

  She eyed him for a moment, nodded and then stood to one side. After the bright sun, the apartment seemed depressingly dark. The goalkeeper was standing in the middle of the room, all six foot something of him, as if he’d been expecting them. In contrast to his wife, Milan Ignotus looked terrible – dressed in a string vest, unshaven, his hair unkempt. Not an image Zoltan would associate with a top athlete; a far cry from George Lorenc. Zoltan introduced himself and Fischer. He noticed the sunken settee, the newspapers littered on the floor, an empty pack of cigarettes, a dirty plate on a chair, and, amongst the squalor, a sideboard decked with two glass footballers, some ten centimetres high.

  ‘Have you come to arrest me?’ asked Ignotus, as his wife came to stand behind him.

  ‘No, no.’ He tried to keep his tone light and realised he felt slightly intimidated. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to (except when in the presence of Donath).

  ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘A courtesy call, if you like.’

  ‘Cut the crap.’

  Zoltan exchanged a quick look with Fischer. ‘I’ll get to the point, then. May we sit down?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Ignotus sat on a hardback chair as his visitors sunk inelegantly into the settee.

  Zoltan launched into his spiel – the visiting Russians, the role of the generous host, the need to stand aside for the greater interest. No one would blame you if you let slip two or three through. We all have a bad day. Ignotus listened carefully, leaning forward, stroking his stubble.

  Zoltan finished, aware that he’d ended with his last word on the up so that it sounded less like an order and more like a request. Fischer, he knew, would be taking mental notes – how not to intimidate a suspect.

  Ignotus did not respond. Instead, he opened a new packet of cigarettes and lit one without offering any to his guests. He blew out a puff of smoke and watched it dissipate. The baby stirred and Ignotus’s wife held it up and sniffed its behind. Pulling a face, she disappeared into another room.

  The smells interlocked and lingered, baby shit and pungent cigarette smoke. The olfactory assault and the silence seemed to mock Zoltan. He tried to rise to his feet but the settee sucked him back down. With greater determination, he hauled himself up, his face red with the effort and embarrassment.

  Clearing his throat, he broke the silence. ‘Well, if that’s understood, we won’t detain you any more. Fischer?’

  Fischer too struggled to disengage himself from the smothering piece of furniture. But Zoltan was damned if he was going to humiliate himself further by offering his assistant a hand. Finally on his feet, Fischer stretched his neck and pulled the creases out of his jacket.

  Milan Ignotus still ignored them, watching a shaft of sunlight cut through the weaving strands of smoke. ‘We will expect your full co-operation come Sunday then. Thank you, Comrade Ignotus, for your time.’ He turned to leave, relieved to be escaping the fog of disgusting smells.

  But Fischer, who rarely spoke, was speaking now. ‘Answer him, you arrogant shit.’ Zoltan glared goggle-eyed at his assistant.

  Ignotus held his nerve. ‘You expect me to play ball with your stupid games; get out of here.’

  The shattering of the glass took Ignotus by surprise. Fischer had moved to the sideboard and now one of the glass football figurines lay smashed at his feet beneath his AVO boots.

  Ignotus moved off his chair, stretching himself to his full height. ‘You bastard, that was my –’

  ‘I don’t care what they are. You still have one left...’ He ground his foot into the pieces of glass. ‘For now.’

  Ignotus stepped towards Fischer. Zoltan noticed his fists clenching at his sides. Neither he nor Fischer would be any match for the enormous goalkeeper. He had images of throwing himself onto the man’s back like a child clinging onto the playground bully.

  He knew he had to speak, to somehow take control of the situation. ‘I think you should have the hint by now.’

  ‘Fuck off, you,’ yelled Ignotus over his shoulder.

  Fischer held his ground. ‘That’s a lovely baby you have there,’ he said. ‘You have another, don’t you, a girl, aged three?’

  ‘So? What of it?’

  ‘No doubt she dotes on you. Does she come see you play, or perhaps she’s a bit young? Still, she will one day, I guess. Unless of course...’

  ‘Get out,’ growled Ignotus, so deep that the floor seemed to vibrate. But Zoltan knew the sound came not from aggression but from fear. ‘Get out before –’

  ‘Before what, citizen?’ said Fischer.

  Ignotus’s wife reappeared, still holding onto the baby. ‘What was that noise?’ she asked. ‘Did something break?’ She looked at the trio of men, Fischer and Ignotus only inches apart. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, comrade, we were just leaving,’ said Zoltan, nodding at Fischer that it was time to make a move. As they reached the door, Zoltan turned and said, ‘We’ll be there on Sunday, cheering you on, comrade. Make sure you don’t fail us.’ He winked at the goalkeeper but the man ignored him, his eyes still fixed on Fischer. ‘Good day,’ said Zoltan as they left.

  Outside, the children had gone but the squashed snails with their shattered shells lay round and about. Twenty yards away, the ex-whore leant against the Pobeda, reading a paperback. She hadn’t seen them yet.

  Zoltan reached for his Red Stars in his pocket. ‘That told him,’ he said, circling his shoulders.

  Fischer shot him a look designed to diminish.

  And diminished is how he felt.

  Chapter 7: George

  The smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, swirls of bluish smoke dancing in the sunlight. George's mother skipped round the kitchen, throwing rashes of bacon into the frying pan, cutting tomatoes into two to grill, boiling a pan of water for coffee. George, meanwhile, sat at the table reading of the exploits of Moscow Lokomotiv in Free People. The team had recently beaten a visiting team from England, a team with a strange name he couldn’t pronounce but written Wolverhampton Wanderers. It was only a week until the match; the match he’d hoped would change his life, and now knew for certain that it would, but perhaps not in the way he’d originally anticipated. He pondered on the two men who’d walked briefly and unexpectedly into his life and pulled him so forcibly in opposite directions. He wondered how much of it had been preordained.

  His mother hummed a little tune he hadn’t heard since his childhood as she busied herself preparing his breakfast. Why she should be singing it now he didn’t know, but it made him smile inwardly. He remembered a family trip to the city zoo. He must have been about ten, before the war had come to Hungary. He’d been fascinated by a Bengali tiger, a huge brute, who seemed equally as fascinated by the podgy boy in long shorts. The tiger paced the length of his cage, his eyes fixed on George. Finally, it stopped and growled, exposing his fearsome fangs. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was no more than a purr, a greeting. But terrified, poor George burst into tears and ran for his mother. She held him and hummed the little tune quietly into his ear, wiping his eyes. George already felt too old for this and desperately wanted to pull away, as frightened of being caught in his vulnerability as he had been terrified by the tiger. But something held him there and wouldn’t let him leave.

  His mother was as excited by the prospect of Sunday’s game as he. The idea of
Sebes Gusztav, the national team coach, being there in person to watch George play was quite the most exciting thing. In celebration, she’d opened a bottle of white wine she had kept hidden for years under the writing bureau. At last, they had the celebration worth opening it for. She toasted his future success and they sat quietly, sipping the wine, neither of them willing to admit it’d gone off.

  But what George hadn’t managed to do, was to tell her of the second visit. He watched her as she poured the boiling water into the coffee pot, a tea towel wrapped round her hand. He hadn’t wanted to worry her, to burst her bubble. He didn’t want to listen to her opinion in case it should be different to his. Not that he had an opinion, only a dilemma. Whether to play for football or for safety. It was as simple as that. And yet nothing had ever been so complicated. Would the Soviet masters really be that bothered about the result of a football game? Obviously yes, by the way the newspaper was revelling in the Russian victory against these English Wanderers. Would the AVO forgive him if he played well but the team still lost? Or if he purposely played poorly and the team still won? Over the previous few days he had thought of nothing else. He’d considered every possible permutation, every single cause and effect he could think of, and still he was no clearer as to what to do. If only his father had been there.

  ‘George, keep an eye on the bacon, be a dear.’

  He poked at it with the spatula. He had to tell her; she had a right to know. But however hard he tried to rehearse, his opening words sounded wrong.

  ‘Now, you’re keeping an eye on that bacon, aren’t you, George?’

  ‘What was that tune you were humming earlier?’

  ‘Was I humming? I’ve no idea. Does it matter?’

  ‘No,’ said George, watching the little specks of fat dancing in the pan.

  *