His heart feels heavy. God, it was hot. Never had he shown so much interest in football. Today, he is urging Lokomotiv on as if he’d supported them his whole life. He’s desperate for a goal, for a Lokomotiv win. His career depends on it – and possibly more. But for now, at least, the Russians are playing well.
Gimes, the outside right, is making a run down the wing, making good progress. George sprints in parallel down the centre, careful not to run offside. Gimes crosses. Instinctively, George knows it’s a perfect cross. He sees the goal ahead of him. He leaps but then subtly ducks his head a fraction. The ball skims off the top of his head and peters off the pitch for a goal kick. Gimes shouts at him, astonished that his ever-reliable centre forward should miss such a peach of an opportunity. George puffs his cheeks.
The Lokomotiv goalkeeper takes the goal kick, an imposingly large man, bald and broad, eyes too close together. George wonders whether the AVO man is in the crowd. Why should a friendly be of such importance to the secret police? Why should they care whether he scores or not, whether his team wins? Bordas, the manager, certainly seemed agitated, short of patience and quick to the criticism. It was unlike him; even before the most important games, he usually maintained a sense of proportion and of humour, motivating and encouraging by turn. Maybe it was the heat. And what if Mark Decsi was being straight and the national manager really is watching? Why had he ducked that ball? Because, he realises, he’s frightened; frightened of the AVO, frightened because his life isn’t what it seemed; because he hadn’t expected to be so disappointed by his father’s return.
Lokomotiv are on the attack. The winger seems set to cross the ball but instead turns inside and runs at the heart of the City defence. A short pass. A shot from the edge of the penalty area. The ball hits the post and ricochets out. Zoltan screams at the sky, pleading for some form of divine intervention.
Fischer claps quietly. Zoltan glares at him with more venom than he’d intended. Why was Fischer still looking so cool in this temperature, and why was he applauding? Because Lokomotiv almost scored or, as he suspects, because City got away with it? Even Donath shoots him a nasty look and Fischer desists from clapping.
Zoltan casts his eyes over the City players, counting off the ones he’d nobbled. At least two were missing but the big goalie was there, as was Lorenc. He hoped for their sakes, they played ball.
Donath has taken off his jacket, the circles of sweat beneath his armpits clearly visible. He looks at his watch. ‘Almost half time, Beke.’
If the previous transition from his first name to comrade was ominous, then the transition to his surname was even more so. ‘But it’s still nil-nil, boss, and all the chances have fallen Lokomotiv’s way.’ He wiped his brow.
‘Mmm.’ But Donath wasn’t convinced, that much was obvious. They still desperately needed that goal.
The referee blows his whistle. It is half-time. In need of an excuse to escape Donath’s intense presence, Zoltan volunteers to buy a round of coffee. He fights his way through the crowd towards the refreshment stands. Donath and he take sugar. Fischer does not. He returns with three heavily-sugared coffees. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Fischer, I forgot.’
The second half begins. The near side of the pitch is now in the shade – a striped oasis of relative coolness. George now knows for sure that the AVO had gotten to Bordas too. The manager’s half-time pep talk was the most nonsensical, ineffectual one he’d ever heard. Carry on playing as you are was the basic message. Heck, thought George, normally if the team had put in a first-half performance such as that, Bordas would have something more to say about it. He would have blasted them and cajoled them by turns; dictated changes in tactics, picked up on specific points to dissect. But nothing of the sort today. Like the near side of the pitch, the man was a shadow of his usual self.
Milan takes a goal kick. Kosak runs onto it, and simply blasts the ball speculatively towards Lokomotiv’s goal. By sheer fluke, it hits the crossbar, bounces off and a defender scoops up the loose ball and clears. The crowd roars its approval – this is more like it, they think.
George’s father is at home; too weak to attend. He wished George well, not knowing the rollercoaster of emotions George had ridden over this single game. But his mother was there, in her usual spot. Is this where she met the talent scout, watching her son play football? Were her post-match opinions her own or words taken from the mouth of her lover? The word lover sits on George’s tongue like a distasteful scrap of food. He spits to clear his throat, to rid his mind of the word. Will his mother stop seeing Mark Decsi now that his father is back?
He realises that he’s playing his worst ever game. He hopes now that the national manager isn’t in the crowd. Who’d take on a turkey like him?
At that moment, Lokomotiv’s big number six shoots from ten yards out.
Later, when he thought back on that moment, Zoltan realised he’d never experienced such an intense rush of pure joy. When that ball hit the back of the net, he threw his arms up in the air, screamed as he had never screamed, and started jumping – again and again, knowing but not caring that he looked demented. He even threw his arms round Donath, who shrugged him off, disgusted at this unmasculine show of emotion. He realised he was crying – such was the relief surging through his body. By the time the match re-started he felt exhausted, drained by the heat and the sudden intensity of ecstasy. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his eyes, realising that he alone had cheered the Russian goal in a totally partisan crowd. Ten thousand pairs of eyes glared at him. But he didn’t care. Glancing either side of him, he realised how embarrassed Donath and Fischer had been by his outburst. But still he didn’t care.
‘Who scored the goal, boss?’
‘Their number six,’ said Donath, flipping through his match programme. ‘Valentin Ivanov. You weren’t the only one cheering like a maniac – there’s that woman over there.’
Zoltan follows Donath’s pointing finger and only a few rows away, he sets eyes on the attractive redhead with a huge grin, sitting next to a glum-looking man with a bushy beard.
The shade had inched across the pitch, slowly furthering the boundary between sun and shadow. George realises that the AVO man must’ve also got to Milan in goal. It was a good strike from Lokomotiv’s number six but it was well within Milan’s diving range. OK, he wasn’t the ’keeper he used to be, but he was still capable of having stopped that one.
Kosak is deep in his own half but lobs forward a perfect cross-field pass for George to run onto. A Lokomotiv defender runs with him and attempts the slide tackle. George skips over the lunging boots and finds himself in acres of space with the ball at his feet. He sprints towards the Lokomotiv penalty area, thinks about the pass but instead shoots. It’s a rasping shot that the Lokomotiv ’keeper saves spectacularly, earning the crowd’s sportsman-like appreciation. George turns, disappointed. But now he feels different. For the first time in the match his mind is focussed and all the external thoughts disappear. No longer the pawn in everyone else’s lives, he is George Lorenc, the footballer, playing for his team, the supporters, and himself – and it feels fantastic.
Donath looks at his watch again. ‘Still ten minutes left,’ he said, in a tone that conveyed, Don’t count your chickens yet, Beke.
If Zoltan thought he was nervous before, he now feels terrified. The last ten minutes would be the slowest of his life. He glances at his watch every few seconds, willing the second hand to move faster round the dial, for another minute to pass. Eight minutes. Between looking at his watch, he concentrates on the ball, silently cheering every time it ventures further into the City half, and filling with dread when it goes the other way. The Hungarian players had barely put together an attack the whole length of the game; surely they couldn’t score now? Lokomotiv, satisfied with their one goal lead, seemed content to sit back and soak up the pressure. It’s a tactic Zoltan finds difficult to comprehend.
Seven minutes. That wonderful number six, Valentin Ivanov, is loite
ring outside the penalty area, the ball at his feet. A quick side-step around a defender, and a shot. Somebody in Row Y caught the ball.
Six minutes. Zoltan would happily fall to his knees and pray for another Lokomotiv goal. He’d give up his possessions, halve his salary, work double the time, whatever it took. City’s centre-forward, the majestic George Lorenc, takes hold of the ball and runs at the Lokomotiv defence – his first display of skill of the game. He takes a pot shot but the ball is easily gathered by the bald-headed Russian goalkeeper. Thank you, God, thank you.
Five minutes. Another Hungarian attack – they seemed to have decided to give it a last throw. The inside left, Kosak, Zoltan thinks is his name, sprints into the penalty area, but the ball is running away from him. A defender slides in, misses the ball, and catches Kosak, bringing him crashing down inside the box.
The referee blows his whistle and, running, points to the penalty spot. Zoltan feels his knees buckle. Donath, fanning himself with the match programme, glares at him. ‘You did nobble the ref, didn’t you, Beke?’
‘Erm...’
He’d never given it a thought.
Another dubious penalty, thinks George, remembering the previous game when his spot kick sealed his hat-trick, when life was so much easier. But this time, George doesn’t want to take it. Kosak’s getting up, wiping himself down. ‘Do you want to take it, Kosak?’ asks George. ‘After all, you earned it.’
‘No, you take it, it’s your job.’
Yes, it’s his job. Someone throws the ball at him. He drops it and someone quips that it’s a good job George is the striker and not the goalie.
He places the ball on the penalty spot and wipes the sweat from his eyes. Four carefully paced steps back. His heart is beating furiously. He feels weak.
He looks round – the referee is ready, his whistle poised at his lips; the Lokomotiv goalkeeper is on his line, his close-together eyes on the ball, the sun reflecting off his scalp. A gaggle of players from each side gather on the D of the penalty area; the crowd are hushed – in full anticipation of another Lorenc goal. But it is those George cannot see that crowd his mind – his mother, up there in the stands, the talent scout with his cat-like eyes, the national manager – if he’s there at all, his father of old with his pipe, and the father of now sitting pathetically at home, dreaming of happier times, dreaming his son’s dreams.
The referee blows his whistle.
It feels as if the whole world is holding its breath.
He shoots.
The roar of the crowd fills his ears, but everything is as black as the darkest night. He realises he’s retching, the bile clawing in the back of his throat. Nauseating. The noise is getting louder, suffocating, a ceiling of noise he can’t escape from. He opens his eyes for a moment, a flash of light, a circle of men looking down on him; he thinks perhaps he’s dying as the blackness returns and descends like a curtain. And then the silence. Nothing but the silence.
Chapter 14: Eva
I almost felt embarrassed that the gap left in my life by Josef should so easily been filled by Valentin. I knew Valentin was no more than a distraction, a means to escape the everyday, that soon I would be engulfed by the certainty of loneliness, having only the demons of my failures to keep me company, but like a drunk drinking more to delay the inevitable hangover, I was determined to postpone the inescapable and enjoy the moment, to relish the sensation of infatuation, to wallow in the rapture of this fantasy I found myself in.
Today is the day I hope to meet Valentin. It is ten days since Moscow Lokomotiv’s game against the team from Budapest and since then they having been touring the country, playing a number of games. If they have done well, the players will be permitted two days sightseeing leave in the capital. I have been following their progress in Free People like an avid supporter, hoping each time for a victory. And I haven’t been disappointed – five games: four wins and a draw. I just hope that the Soviet authorities don’t cancel their leave on account of that sole draw. I couldn’t bear not to see him again – one last time.
Today the heat is as intense as ever. I have forgotten the meaning of rain or cold. Valentin and I agreed that if all things went well, we should meet at the Café of the Revolution at ten. It is now half past nine.
The café is busy today. I hope this time we don’t meet the old man. I couldn’t face hearing his life story for the third time; I think I’d scream. I wave at the old hag waitress as I enter but receive only a glare in return. I order my coffee and cake, and open my newspaper, not that I can concentrate, my heart is in too much of a flutter. My palms are wet and I feel almost sick with nerves. Realising I’m not hungry, I push the cake aside.
For the first time, I allow myself to think what I might do if he didn’t show. It is a possibility. Such are my nerves, I think in some ways I’d be relieved. For then, at least, I’d be spared the agony of parting, for whatever happens today, it must end with a parting. Not this time for ten days, or a few weeks or a year, but forever. Despite the warmth, I shudder.
I think of Karolina and her futile attempt to save her husband, whose circumstances she now shares. Karolina’s situation has brought home to me the precarious position Josef and I are in. The responsibility of his work is such that he won’t survive unscathed for much longer. One day, he will stand accused of a mistake, real or fictional, it won’t matter. And, like Karolina, if my husband falls, separated or otherwise, I will fall soon after. If not arrested, I’d be ejected from the apartment and left with no means by which to live. Unless, of course, we were divorced.
I need Valentin to do the impossible, to save me, to take me away. But to take me away to what? I still have no idea of how he lives in Moscow. He hasn’t told me and I haven’t asked. I don’t want to know, don’t need to know. Anywhere is better.
‘Eva, hello.’
Oh, how I melt at the sound of his Russian accent. ‘Valentin. Oh, Valentin.’ We embrace, not as friends, but in an indiscreet manner that I know will have the waitresses talking.
We sit, refusing to let go of each other’s hands. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says.
‘And I’ve missed you.’ You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve waited for this moment.
‘I’ve forgotten quite how beautiful you are.’
‘Oh.’ I feel almost faint. I feel beautiful because you make me beautiful.
I ask him then because I have to: ‘Today, is it your last day?’
‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘It is our last day.’
We had to five o’clock, the time of the team’s evening meal together in the hotel restaurant.
We sit in silence for a while; thankful we had this day, this final day.
‘I’ve thought of you my every waking moment.’
I try not to giggle; how love reduces us to the silliest of thoughts. If only life could always be so wonderfully silly; why must our lives be so complicated when the most important things are so simple?
‘Even when you were playing?’
‘Especially when I was playing,’ he says, picking up on my slightly mocking tone. ‘You were my motivation. I dedicated my goal to you.’
A goal dedicated to me. I held the words in my mind, frightened of letting them go.
‘Eva?’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I... I don’t know.’
‘Shall we walk?’
‘Yes, let’s walk.’
*
We strolled through the park in silence, gently holding hands, breathing in the warm air, the smell of freshly cut grass, of the blooming array of flowers – the snapdragons, busy lizzies, geraniums, and roses plentiful, white, yellow and pink. We were both too frightened to talk, worried that if we talked, we might talk the day away. Each moment had to last, each second treasured.
When I did finally speak, I said words I would once have believed impossible but my feelings for him were so acute, my trust so absolute, and our parting so imminent, I did not even hesitate. ‘Valentin, I want y
ou to take me to your room.’
He smiled the faintest of smiles, took my face in his hands and kissed me.
*
The Hotel Astoria near the city centre is an ancient Gothic-style building; large, imposing and ugly. The square in front of it was a mass of cars and nearby the privilege shop or simply stroll around, wanting to be seen in the fashionable part of the city.
‘I share a room with a team-mate but he’ll be out sightseeing,’ said Valentin, as we approached the foyer. ‘But we may have a problem.’
‘Oh?’
‘We are not permitted to entertain guests in our rooms.’
This, I concurred, was potentially an obstacle.
The effort of getting me into his room was the stuff of pantomime. We had to enter the hotel together, otherwise I would never have got past the doorman. We sat for a while in the lobby bar and, for the sake of appearance, ordered water. After a while, I followed Valentin’s instructions and, alone, walked confidently to the lift and asked for the fourteenth floor. I was to go first in case I ran into trouble. I was then to walk slowly down one flight of stairs by which time; Valentin should have caught the lift to the thirteenth floor and made his way to his room. If the door was ajar, I could go in; if not, I was to wait for him back down in the lobby.
Fortunately, when I got there, the door was ajar.
The room was large with two single beds and an adjoining bathroom. The curtains were thick, the carpet lush, the bathroom spotlessly clean. Obvious things perhaps, but not to me; I’d never been inside a hotel room, never seen such luxury.
‘Welcome,’ said Valentin as I entered, closing the door behind me.
‘He reached for my hands. Pulling me towards him, we kissed, delicately, nervously; our first private kiss.
‘What if your roommate comes back?’
Anastasia Page 8
