I walked up to the doorway and put my head around the door frame. But before I could say anything, the guard said, ‘You on Party business?’
‘Not – not exactly, but –’
‘Then bugger off.’ He hadn’t lifted his gaze from his stunted cigarette.
‘I need to find Leon Bidart.’
The grimy thumb flicking at the lighter paused, and he raised his eyes to mine. ‘Sorry,’ he said, with an edge in his voice. ‘Can’t give out addresses for Party officials. You could be an assassin.’
I said, ‘I’m not.’
He looked me up and down, taking in my short hair, my trousers, the bag slung over my back, and his eyebrows twitched. There were footsteps behind him, but he didn’t seem to hear. He gave me a grin full of a personal, pointed malice that I didn’t understand. He said, ‘All right, sweetheart. Number one, Pello-Heroes Street.’
‘Where’s that?’
His grin got wider, until it was almost a grimace. ‘Oh . . .’ he said. ‘Go down Icons-of-the-Working-Class Road, turn left on to Loyalty-to-the-Proletariat Road and it’s on the corner of Liberty-from-Tyranny Street.’
‘Shut up, Bernardo.’ The voice was sharp and thin, with an educated accent, but the man who stepped into the light was hefty and bearded, with a few greasy curls escaping from a flat cap. He looked at me, and somehow even from metres away I could smell his exhaustion, as strong as the odour of sweat and stale clothes. ‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m just . . . one of Leon’s friends, from home.’
He gave me a look. He didn’t believe me, but he said, ‘He’s in pr– he’s working in the prison. I don’t know if they’ll let you see him.’
I swallowed. ‘And that’s . . . in the north, beyond the Queen’s – the Red Park? In –’ I glanced at the guard – ‘Pello-Heroes Street?’
The bearded man clenched his jaw and shot the guard a foul look; but he only said, ‘No, that was a joke.’
‘And . . . Icons-of-the-Working-Class, Liberty-From-Tyranny . . . ?’
‘No. Just follow the road outside, until you see the towers. Big place, you can’t miss it.’ He gestured, as if he was eager for me to leave; as if he might have said too much already.
I nodded. There was a tight knot of unease in my stomach; I didn’t understand why the guard had lied to me about the street names. If he was really joking, he could have thought of something funnier.
Silence. The bearded man stood staring at me. That was it, obviously; I wasn’t going to get any more help.
Pello-Heroes Street. I didn’t know why that made me feel so horrible. I didn’t know what I was scared of. It wasn’t the prison; it wasn’t the way the man had almost said Leon was in prison, before correcting himself. It was something else, something more. The look on the guard’s face . . .
Pello-Heroes Street.
I said, ‘Thanks, Comrade,’ and started to run.
The man was right, the prison walls and watchtowers loomed above the street like a fortress. You couldn’t miss it.
The gate was massive, wood reinforced with iron, as much for keeping people out as keeping them in. And it was shut.
Then, with a kind of frozen hope, I realised that there was a littler door set into the big gate. I laid my hand flat against it, almost too afraid to push, in case it was locked. But it gave under my weight, and I stumbled through it, catching my foot on the lower rim and nearly falling. Inside the gate it was dark and cold, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light.
‘Criminal or subversive?’ someone said.
I looked round. There was a guard sitting at a table, rolling a cigarette on a pile of black ledgers. He raised his eyebrows at me, and said again, ‘Criminal or subversive?’
‘I’m here to see my brother,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, and sighed so strongly the cigarette paper fluttered and specks of tobacco littered the desk. ‘Is he a criminal, or is he a subversive? Criminal visits are eleven to twelve weekdays, subversives you need written authorisation from a Party offi–’
‘He works here. At least . . . Leon Bidart. Minister for Information. He is a Party official.’
‘Oh,’ the guard said. He didn’t exactly snap to attention, or sit up straighter, but he did stop rolling his cigarette. ‘Er . . .’ He looked round, as if he was hoping someone would tell him what to do.
I felt a wave of anger so strong it took all my strength not to overturn his table and smash one of the heavy black ledgers into his face. I concentrated on breathing. I said, ‘I want to see him, please, Comrade. Now.’
‘Yes, well, I . . . ye-es . . .’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the . . .’ He gestured helplessly to the right. ‘Past the waiting room. The tower, around the yard . . .’
‘Thank you.’ I walked away, forcing myself not to run. I heard the guard behind me say something else, but I ignored it, and although my back tingled under his gaze he didn’t follow me.
There was another guard in the doorway of the tower, but I walked past without a word. There were more guards at all the intersections of the corridors, but when one of them caught my eye and opened his mouth I said, ‘Long live Our Glorious Leader,’ and by the time he’d said automatically, ‘Long live the Republic,’ I’d turned the corner, leaving him behind.
I’d lost my bearings, but there was a spiral staircase in front of me, with a square of barred sunlight falling on the wall. I went up. The guard at the top of the stairs looked at me, frowning, but he didn’t say anything. I pointed at the door opposite – it was thick wood, without a window, and not, I thought, the door to a cell – and said, ‘Is Comrade Bidart through there?’
He licked his lips, and gave the same glance around that the guard at the gate had, as if he was looking for help. In the end he said, ‘Yes. But I think – he’s probably . . . not seeing anyone.’
‘He’ll see me,’ I said. ‘He’ll definitely see me.’
‘Are you on Party business?’ His voice was unconvincing, as if he had no idea what to do about me and didn’t want to get it wrong.
‘Yes,’ I said, and pushed the door open before he had time to ask any more questions.
Leon was there. He was sitting at a desk, looking out through barred windows at a brick wall. But there was a shaft of afternoon sunlight coming through, cutting a bright parallelogram on the floor, and when he looked up the sun flashed on his glasses, and the dust in the air swirled and sparkled. He said, ‘Esteya . . . ?’
And then he stood up, stumbling against his desk, and walked towards me. I couldn’t move. He put his arms round me. I breathed his smell of tobacco and ink and felt his shirt against my cheek; and I relaxed and started to cry, in spite of myself, and for a second I thought everything was going to be all right.
Fifteen
Leon helped me walk to his bed. He sat down next to me, keeping his arm around me, and let me cry. It was only when I’d quietened down that he said, ‘Hello, Esteya.’
‘Mama and Papa,’ I said, fighting to make the words intelligible. ‘Martin . . .’
I felt him stiffen. ‘Yes?’
‘They took them – Leon, they took them away, I came home and no one was there. Martin, on his bedroom wall, Martin put his name . . .’ But Leon wouldn’t understand about the list on Martin’s wall. ‘Leon, please . . .’
Leon didn’t answer. His arm seemed to have turned to stone. Then he stood up and went to the window. He shouted, without looking at me, ‘Get away from the bloody door!’ I jumped; then I heard footsteps retreating down the corridor and realised he’d been talking to the guard outside.
‘I warned them,’ Leon said, his voice hoarse and flat. ‘I sent them letter after bloody letter. Get out of the country, I said, it’s only a matter of time. The stupid bloody fools. How could they? I don’t believe it.’
‘We didn’t get any letters,’ I said. My insides felt thick and sticky, like something congealed. Leon would be able to help. He’d be able to do so
mething. He would. ‘We thought you didn’t have time to write.’
‘But I –’ Leon spun on his heel, spitting the words, and then swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘I wrote and wrote. Smuggled out a letter with every single bloody guard. Bribed them all. Every single . . .’ His voice cracked, and he stopped.
My insides got heavier and heavier, dragging everything down. I said, ‘You have to get them out,’ but my voice didn’t sound right. He’d had to bribe the guards? So he was a prisoner here, or nearly; and that meant he wouldn’t be able to do – anything . . .
He must have seen the expression on my face, because he laughed. It made me flinch; it didn’t sound like him.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Est, the guards are here to protect me,’ he said. ‘After the assassination attempts on Karl, the Party wants to make sure I’m safe . . .’
‘And Mama and Papa and Martin? You have to help them, Leon.’ My voice sounded high and panicky.
He turned back to look out of the window, staring as if he could see more than just a blank square of wall. He said, in the same tight, flippant voice, ‘What do you suggest? Smuggle them a pie with a rope ladder baked into it?’
‘But you’re – you’re in the Party, you’re important, Minister for Infor–’
‘Yes,’ he said, and gestured at the little room. ‘Yes, I’m exactly this important. Important enough to be stuck here, waiting for someone to come and –’ He stopped, the muscles in his jaw flexing. ‘I can’t do anything, Esteya. I’m washed up. No more leaflets, no more writing speeches for OGL, no more sending you food parcels . . .’ He shook his head, his face suddenly contrite, as if the food parcels were the most important thing in the world. His eyes were vague.
‘But Leon –’
‘Only a matter of time,’ he said. ‘When they get round to making a decision . . . chucked in with the other poor buggers, in the death pits . . . Not supposed to admit to the death pits, but everyone knows . . .’
I took a deep breath. The dust danced in the sunlight and I focused on it. ‘Leon,’ I said, ‘you have to find out where Papa and Mama and Martin are, and get them out.’
‘Stop saying that!’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
I stared at him. It was as if he didn’t understand what I was saying; as if I was telling him to change his shirt, or have a shave. ‘Leon –’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ He swung round, and I saw how white his face was. ‘I CAN’T. Listen to me! I can’t.’ He stumbled to his chair and dropped into it. ‘Don’t you think . . . Don’t you think I would, if I could? Mama and Papa and Martin, oh hell, all of them. If I could walk out and offer myself instead, don’t you think I would? I tried, I warned you all – I tried to warn you – and now everything’s . . . everyone I care about, it’s all . . . Oh hell, damn it, damn it all . . .’ He dropped his face into his hands. For a moment I thought he was going to cry; then he lifted his head again and said, ‘Stop staring, Esteya . . . You look just as bad as I do, you look a mess. What the hell did you do to your hair?’
There was a silence. I looked away sharply.
‘Sorry . . . I’ve been . . . There’s no one really to talk to. I daresay I’m not completely . . . ever since they put me here . . .’
‘But you can have visitors,’ I said.
‘Yes, but who would want to visit me? Everyone I know is in the Party, and now that Karl – now I’m not – now . . .’ He tailed off, into a kind of laugh. ‘Now that . . . ever since we . . . He’s mad, Esteya. He’s gone funny in the head. He sees plots, conspiracies everywhere. Someone tried to shoot him and ever since then, before then, ever since things started to go wrong, he’s been . . . You wouldn’t believe . . . and I had to, if we didn’t agree he said we were liberals, weren’t committed to the new order, and I had to, I had to, I had to –’ He stuttered, saying the words over and over like a cracked record.
I glanced over my shoulder in spite of myself, checking the gap under the door for the shadow of someone lurking on the other side. I didn’t think there was anyone there. Leon followed my gaze, nodding as if I’d asked a question. He looked mad himself – mad, and old. I wanted to stand up and walk out; but where would I go?
‘Want to know what I did? Why good old Karl turned against me? Want to know? I told him he’d gone a little bit too far, in my opinion. He’s a bloody madman, he’s paranoid. There are things . . . things he did, told people to do – madness – and I took him to one side and told him he’d gone a little bit too far . . .’ He laughed, gurgling. ‘In my opinion. That’s it. That was bloody it. Not that he’d liked me for a long time. People read my leaflets, you see, that was the real problem – they knew Karl was the psychopath and I was the man of the people. I was a bloody good minister, he was just . . . just . . .’
There was a pause. The sunlight had moved. The wall opposite was in shadow.
‘Remember Hiram Jelek, and the young one, the blond one . . . ?’
A pause. I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure he’d really said it. Maybe my mind was wandering, and I’d imagined it.
‘Pello player . . . The other one. A kid. Won the King’s Cup, the last King’s Cup, remember, we were there, the day the Revolution started? Best player ever, people said. Only a kid. Only a kid . . .’
Pello-Heroes Street. Whatever Leon was going to say, I didn’t want to hear it; but I couldn’t stop myself. I said, ‘Angel Corazon.’
Leon shut his eyes; and I had the impression that he knew the name perfectly well, he just hadn’t wanted to say it. He said, ‘Yes. The kid. The . . . He was a hero. He was in a gun battle, the first day of the Revolution . . . An icon of the working class . . . poor sod.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, but I don’t think he heard me.
‘Lost the game, at home, remember? The pressure got to him, he was only a kid . . . But Karl thought he’d done it on purpose, thought he hadn’t tried . . . and then the crowds . . . People care about pello more than politics, course they do, but Karl thought . . . Karl got worse and worse.’
I didn’t know what he was trying to say. I said, ‘Leon . . .’ but I couldn’t make myself change the subject. Pello-Heroes Street . . .
‘Telling OGL that the games were a security threat, all that, and then . . . The kid couldn’t handle it, being an icon. He couldn’t make speeches or say nice things about the Revolution, of course he couldn’t, he was just a pello player, for God’s sake, just a kid, and . . .’ Leon shook his head and then opened his eyes, looking at me like someone waking up. ‘House arrest,’ he said. ‘We put them under house arrest, for their own protection. So they wouldn’t get involved in any kind of uprising. Karl said they were a danger to security . . . House arrest. Room arrest. An old place, dark. They put them in the top rooms, nurseries. There were bars . . . bars over the windows . . .’
‘You mean . . .’ I swallowed. ‘Hiram Jelek and – and Angel Corazon . . . ?’ It made my heart pound, just to say his name.
Leon frowned and nodded, like a schoolmaster with a slow pupil. ‘House arrest,’ he said again. ‘The kid . . . Funny, Jelek was how you’d expect – shouted, tried to bribe the guards, pleaded, had his wife go to OGL and beg . . . But the kid . . . had a ball in there with him . . . that was all, just the ball against the wall, over and over, all day, thud thud thud. Used to drive the guards crazy . . .’
I clenched my teeth. It was stupid – I didn’t even know Angel Corazon – but even now, after everything, it made me feel sick, to think of him shut up in a dark room, throwing a ball against the wall. I said, ‘Couldn’t you get him out?’
Leon didn’t seem to hear me. ‘And Karl . . . didn’t understand. Hated him, really hated him, used to listen through the wall, thud thud, used to shout at him, like he wanted the kid to know he was there . . .’ He laughed. ‘Like it was a fight, and the kid was winning. He’d tell the guards to go in, rough him up a bit, but the next day the kid would be back to it, thud thud thud with the ball . . .’
I sat silently, watchin
g the shrinking diamond of sunlight on the floor.
‘Then Jelek got ill, and it was just the kid left, and . . . they started to interrogate him – Karl’s orders. The kid used to get letters from all over the country, people who didn’t even know him, piles and piles; he was a hero, even though he was just a kid bashing a ball against a wall . . . Karl was sure it was some kind of conspiracy, made the guards sit and read the letters, underline anything suspicious, and then they interrogated . . . they . . . and he didn’t know anything, of course he didn’t, he was just a kid . . .’ There was something blank in Leon’s voice, slurring the words, as though he’d said this so many times before that he’d smoothed the edges off the consonants. I imagined him saying it to himself, telling himself this story over and over again, and wished I hadn’t. He swallowed, and I thought he’d fallen silent; but in the end he went on speaking. ‘And then . . . Karl – he was mad, paranoid. If you criticise it’s the end, no one dares to open their mouth . . . but he was obsessed with him, with the kid, obsessed . . . and so . . . I tried to stop it, but it got worse and worse. I did try to stop him . . . but they . . . the poor kid, they . . .’
I was frozen. I thought I knew what he was going to say.
‘They . . . it was the only thing he had, and they – they took the ball away . . .’
I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them again, because the blankness of my eyelids was worse than the real world.
‘Took him away, knocked him out, put him back in the room without the ball, and just watched . . .’
I looked at the sunlight, and the shape of it seemed to burn into the back of my eyes. In my head I could see a boy stepping out from behind the fountain in the square, his hair golden, a kind of glamour hanging about him like a halo. I tried to keep hold of the image, because if I let go of it I might believe what Leon was telling me.
Love in Revolution Page 19
