The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  ‘It’s good, very good,’ said Petrov. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow; it was so unusual for Petrov to voice a spontaneous opinion, let alone a complimentary one. But he was right; it was good, more than good. It was a bright, autumnal countryside scene, although in an overly-idealized style. Of course, in Dmitry’s position, he could hardly depict anything different. A table dominated the viewer’s eye, and gathered around it were a number of healthy-looking peasants sharing what looked like a well-earned drink. Some of the figures were already well-defined with careful and realistic attention to their weather-beaten but content features. Others were sketchy in their execution, awaiting their characteristics, their proper place in the painting. The men wore overalls, mainly dark blue, some still clutching their pitchforks or hoes. Fussing around them, pouring drinks, were a couple of plump older women with black dresses and practical shawls around their hefty shoulders. Running round beneath the table, a couple of dogs and, playing in the dirt to the left, a small group of children. In the background, a field in the process of harvesting, the straw bathed in golden sunshine, and further beyond, a cluster of trees. Every detail was precisely rendered, every nuance of expression carefully represented. This was what collectivisation was meant to look like, the idealised peasantry, the countryside at its harmonious best.

  For a moment, I remembered with a shiver my own experiences of collectivisation, but then the warmth of the painting quickly eclipsed my reservations. This was the work of one man’s imagination, the toil of a creative force. I felt privileged to be standing next to its creator, an artist capable of giving life to an abstract, glorified vision in his head.

  ‘Yes, very good,’ repeated Petrov.

  ‘Art has to appeal,’ said Dmitry, ‘and its appeal has to be immediate.’

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ I purred.

  He smiled at me with almost childlike gratitude for my genuine enthusiasm. We looked at each other, longer than was strictly necessary, each trying to read the other’s thoughts. It was, I think, the moment I fell in love with him.

  *

  We were eating Anna’s meringue pie and Petrov once again held forth, singing the praises of the Party, proposing frequent toasts to various Politburo dignitaries and, as was often the case, exaggerating his role at work and his responsibility as an unofficial and unpaid informer for the secret police. The slightest digression at his work or the hint of a wrongly placed word, and the NKVD came to hear about it. It was something Petrov was proud of but rarely talked about unless stripped of his modesty by the influence of alcohol. I smiled weakly; Dmitry and Anna seemed on edge.

  Interrupting Petrov’s flow, Dmitry turned to me and said, ‘So, are the two of you planning on children?’ Petrov’s eyes flared up and I fumbled with my napkin. Dmitry realised his mistake. ‘I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ he said awkwardly, exchanging a brief glance with his sister.

  I looked into my glass and swilled its contents. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Doesn’t matter?’ growled Petrov. ‘Of course it bloody matters. Five years, that’s how long we’ve been married, five years. You’d think in that time, we’d have half a dozen babies, but oh no, not one, not a bloody thing.’

  Anna coughed delicately and Dmitry played with the stem of his wine glass, neither of them able to look us in the eye. Petrov, oblivious to the tension he’d caused, finished his glass of wine. Reaching for the empty bottle, he held it up and peered into it inquisitively. Fortunately, Dmitry didn’t take the unsubtle hint.

  Petrov belched. ‘It’s all I’ve ever asked of you,’ he mumbled into his glass. ‘All I’ve ever asked and you can’t even do that, can you?’ I tried to ignore him. ‘Five years,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘I wouldn’t even mind that much if it was a girl, I just want a child. But no, my wife here, she can’t or won’t do it. God, it’s not as if you have anything else in your boring life, I mean –’

  ‘Stop it, Petrov,’ I said trying to contain the irritation in my voice.

  Dmitry and Anna looked shocked by Petrov’s outburst. Somehow, I’d been expecting it, but not at this point, not in front of company. Petrov was usually most careful about these things, never one to wash his dirty linen in public. Dmitry twiddled with his dessert spoon. ‘Comrade,’ he said, ‘I know you’re upset but I think perhaps we’ve heard enough.’

  ‘Enough? You haven’t heard the half of it.’

  I swallowed; desperately trying to check the tears I could feel building up inside me.

  Dmitry tried again, ‘Yes but perhaps –’

  ‘It’s unnatural, that’s what it is, and unpatriotic. Every night she uses every excuse under the sun. Christ’s sake, she only has to lie there –’

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Dmitry, slamming his spoon on the table. Petrov glared at him incredulously, his mouth gaping open. ‘Have you no manners, man? How dare you talk of your wife like this in front of others.’

  I held my head in my hands, ‘It’s OK, Dmitry, really –’

  ‘No, it’s not OK, he talks only of himself as if you don’t exist; and treats you like a second-class citizen...’

  Petrov continued staring at his host. ‘How dare you speak to me like that –’

  ‘Consider your own behaviour before you pass judgement. You come in here, get drunk and then proceed to abuse your wife.’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘And what sort of man do you think that makes you?’

  ‘Not the sort of man so far removed from reality, he lives like a bourgeois nobleman.’

  I saw Dmitry take a deep breath as if consciously deciding to resist Petrov’s taunt. He turned to face him again. ‘I think you should leave now.’

  *

  An hour later, I was in bed, Petrov next to me, dead to the world, impervious to the discomfort of the mattress, impervious, as usual, to my distress. I stared into the darkness, the tears rolling down my cheeks, and contemplated the gulf that divided Petrov and me, the gulf of empty space between us. It’d been an awful evening for him, an ordeal. He felt intimidated by men of standing, overwhelmed by intelligence, painfully conscious of his own shortcomings. And I can’t say I blamed him, for few men could match the charm and splendour of a man like Dmitry. Poor Petrov, always eager to do the correct thing, to think the right thoughts. Deep down he was a good man; but I was having to dig deeper and deeper to find the good within the increasingly boorish exterior. And for that, I was frightened.

  Chapter 3: The Appointment

  At this time of night, the streetcar was almost empty. I sat down near the back and stared idly out of the smudged window. How ugly most of Moscow was – a continual construction site with buildings torn down here and replaced there; old and new side by side, the new Soviet skyscrapers and the old buildings of Imperialist Moscow; the quaint and the ugly juxtaposed in a seemingly haphazard fashion but all uniformly grey and in a constant state of change. But everything looks ugly when one’s nervous; when one’s stomach is constantly churning over. However many times I made this fortnightly trip, familiarity never took away the dread. Every other Tuesday at ten at night, I crossed half of Moscow to keep my appointment. To keep my side of the bargain, I surmounted whatever obstacles were placed in my way – illness, the weather, transport difficulties – none of it could excuse me from my twice-monthly humiliation. I’d happy forgo the small amount of income this unpleasant duty affords me not to have to continue my sordid work. The headlamps of passing cars illuminated the steady drizzle. The streetcar trailed through the long, straight streets, passing the old squat houses, the uniform apartment blocks, the featureless offices, the occasional church. The time of night and the drizzle had emptied the streets save for the groups of beggars or “former people” heaped in doorways waiting to be evicted and moved on.

  I opened my copy of Pravda. My eye was caught by an article about the arrest of an internationally-renowned chess player for anti-Soviet agitation who, only the month before, had been gl
orified for his triumphs against foreign opposition. Otherwise, the news consisted of the usual exalted statistics of fantastic production rates, of quotas exceeded, of technological advances – a new hydroelectric power station, the “biggest in the world!” Hail the Soviet experiment and let us compare and contrast with the evil capitalist empires and the plight of the working masses under the yoke of scheming exploiters. Here and there, mention was made of Comrade So-and-So arrested for bourgeois sympathy or for lacking vigilance against the enemies of the state. Another article glorified the extension of collectivisation – so many hundred kulaks exposed for lording it over the peasants and transported to some godforsaken place in the dustbin of Russia. It was all familiar fare but I tried to concentrate. Digesting Pravda on a regular basis was an important part of one’s routine, for one didn’t dare express an opinion until one knew where the newspaper stood on it. Whether it concerned foreign affairs, economic policy, or a review of the latest film, play or exhibition, it was essential to echo the newspaper’s sentiments. If Pravda criticised, you criticised; and if Pravda approved, you followed suit. And if Pravda hadn’t yet voiced an opinion, you kept quiet. People were too frightened to offer their own point of view for fear it didn’t correspond with the official line.

  I alighted near Gorky Park, from where I walked the rest of the way. Wrapping a scarf over my head, I crossed the road and made my way down a darkened narrow side street, turning left and right into various other alleys, a maze of twisting streets hidden within the main boulevards, punctuated by the occasional square, many decorated with a fountain. The dimmed lights from the small windows provided the only source of light, the sporadic barking of a dog the only sound in an otherwise silent city. I looked at my watch – it was almost ten; my heart fluttered. As I strode on, my shoes echoing on the wet cobbled stones, I tried to rehearse my words, the text of my weekly report. I turned into a short alleyway and slowed down as I approached the house. From the outside, it seemed like any other private dwelling, four storeys high with numerous windows, mostly dark. I approached the front door and pressed twice on one of the many bells. The door swung open almost immediately. A tall, uniformed young man with shrewd, unblinking eyes glared at me for a second before stepping silently to one side to allow me in. The man then leant outside and peered up and down the street. Satisfied that I hadn’t been followed, he closed the door.

  ‘Go up, Comrade Rykov’s waiting for you,’ he said mechanically.

  Without acknowledging him, I made my way up the stairs to the top floor and crossed the hallway, where I paused outside a door to catch my breath. I knocked and, upon hearing the tediously familiar voice from within, entered. The room, which I was so accustomed to, had obviously been a bedroom once, but had since been transformed into an office. A lamp shone brightly on the imposing mahogany desk, a desk incongruously large for such a limited space. Seated behind it was a clean-shaven, neat man in his late forties, his fair hair thinning almost out of existence exposing a heavily-lined forehead. A small pair of glasses magnified his eyes, giving them an owl-like appearance.

  ‘Maria Radekovna, how pleasant,’ he said, as if my appearance had been unexpected. He waved his hand by way of offering a seat. I sat down in the hard chair in front of his desk and glanced up at the framed portrait of Stalin on the sidewall. ‘How quickly two weeks comes around. Drink?’ I shook my head. ‘Be spring before we know it.’ He poured himself a vodka, his teeth bared under his curling smile. Despite his apparent neatness, his fingernails, I noticed, were dirty. His cordial greeting, the offer of a drink and a passing comment on the weather was all part of the routine. I waited for him to ask after Viktor. He took a swig of his drink and, leaning forward, looked at me earnestly. ‘So, how’s your brother?’

  I thought of Viktor sitting limply all day in the armchair in the corner of their apartment, his eyes only occasionally registering my presence, uttering the sporadic half-sentence.

  ‘No better,’ I replied tonelessly.

  ‘Oh now, that is a shame.’

  My answer and his response were always the same. It was as if the two of us were actors who met once a fortnight to perform lines in our very own play, a play without an audience and without an end.

  Rosa had come to terms with her father’s dilapidated appearance but in a way I found rather callous. Rosa’s acceptance was borne out of avoidance. Instead, she busied herself with her studies and her new boyfriend, Vladimir. Within the walls of this very office, I had met Vladimir on numerous occasions but Rosa had no idea of my acquaintance with him. And for the sake of Rosa’s security, it had to remain a secret.

  Rykov picked up a piece of paper. ‘Well I must say, Maria Radekovna, your report on the misgivings of the chap from the Technological Institute bore some fruit...’

  I felt the tension in my head. I knew this meant that, on my say-so, some poor unsuspecting person had fallen victim to Rykov and his henchmen and had probably suffered dire consequences for uttering an unguarded word to me. Rykov continued, ‘Turned out to be a right deviationist. Of course he denied it, but eventually he came round.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘They all do in the end,’ he added. ‘So good work, thanks to you we’ve all been spared another bastard of the counter-revolution.’ I rubbed my eyes. Rykov smiled again. ‘Come, come, don’t look so perturbed, there’s no point getting all sentimental about it. It’s unpleasant work for a woman like you; I appreciate that, but think of what you’re doing. We are fighting a war, and our enemy is an internal one, one that doesn’t wear a uniform. We must always be vigilant; we can’t afford to spare the rod, not until our work is done.’

  The words were depressingly familiar, more lines acted out in our personal piece of theatre. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye and instead stared nonchalantly at the small bust of Lenin on his desk, which he used as a paperweight.

  ‘So then,’ said Rykov, ‘how are things, what sort of fortnight have you had?’

  ‘Usual.’

  ‘Anything new to report?’

  It was the question I dreaded, especially when I felt that I did have something to report. Normally, I picked my victim carefully – someone I’d just met, people I didn’t really know. What I didn’t know about the person, I made up. At least that way, I was spared the crushing knowledge of the repercussions. The more distant the victim, the less the effect on my conscience – that was the theory. However, it rarely seemed to work. For if I didn’t know them, I knew someone who did. And then, sooner or later, I’d find out. I imagined the poor sap being woken up in the middle of the night by the dreaded knock on the door and hauled away in a Black Maria. I imagined the hysterical wife or the panicked husband, the bewildered children, the shattering of a family, of a life. But this week I had no casual acquaintance on whom I could report, no life to ruin.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Comrade Rykov, this week I have nothing to report.’

  Rykov eyes narrowed. An eyebrow rose. He spoke quietly, menacingly. ‘I think perhaps, Comrade Radekovna, you should try to rack your brain – surely there must be something.’

  In the six months we’d been acting out this ritual, I had never dared come empty-handed. But surely, I thought, after over a dozen reports, twelve or more lives destroyed, he’d allow me the odd blank. I shook my head.

  ‘Did you not talk to anyone?’ Rykov was speaking quickly. ‘Did you not go out? Were you living a life of a hermit?’ He rose from his chair and came to stand next to me, hovering menacingly. ‘Yours is not a passive role, comrade,’ he said, now speaking slowly, quietly. ‘I don’t expect you to lie back and wait for things to happen.’ He ran his finger down the side of my face. The cold sensation of his touch caused me to shiver. ‘I need you to be active, Maria; to mingle, make new friends, find out where their loyalties lie. I thought you understood that?’

  ‘Oh but I do, Comrade Rykov, it’s just that – ’

  ‘So where’s your fucking report?’ he screamed, his fingers gripping tightly
my cheeks, forcing my mouth open.

  ‘Please...’ I managed to say, panting from the shock as his fingers tightened.

  ‘What?’ His fingers fell away.

  ‘Please. I – I’m sorry, Comrade Rykov, I did s-speak to people but... but no one said anything incriminating. P-people are more enthusiastic these days, they have nothing bad to say.’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit,’ he shouted, spinning away from me. Pacing across his room, he continued. ‘More guarded perhaps, but nothing more than that. It’s not good enough, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Comrade Rykov. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘You assume I’m giving you a second chance?’ he shouted.

  Of course I’d assumed. ‘Well, I...’ I didn’t know what to say, conscious only of the tightening knot in my stomach as he stood next to his desk, glaring down at me.

  He sat back down with the expression of an exasperated parent. ‘You have failed me, Maria Radekovna. So what’s to stop me from sending your brother back? Hmm? Answer me that.’

  ‘But please, comrade,’ I said, catching my breath. ‘You know what state he’s in. He’d die if he merely stepped outside; he’s still suffering awfully. Please, I beg you... have a heart.’

  ‘Heart? Ha, bourgeois sentimentality. I have no heart when it comes to the enemy. Your brother was a wrecker.’ He slapped his hand against the desk. ‘A saboteur of the Five-Year-Plan. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be languishing in Hell.’

  I shook my head; I’d had this conversation too many times before. ‘He was innocent,’ I dared to mutter.

  ‘Innocent? That’s neither here nor there. Now, unless you want poor Viktor sent back, I’d suggest– ’

  A knock on the door interrupted Rykov’s flow and a tall uniformed youth clutching a file stepped in, his height accentuated by the length of his leather coat. Barely a man but his blond hair was already receding, exposing large ears and a shiny expanse of forehead – a younger version of his boss, another Rykov in the making. On seeing me, he hesitated and then stopped. ‘Maria Radekovna,’ he said politely.