The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  Ella winked at Rosa. ‘Boris will be wanting to play the charming Andrey Sergeyevitch, won’t you, Boris?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Come on, Boris,’ said Rosa. ‘Out with it, what’s the matter?’

  Boris carefully laid his knife and fork on the table and adjusted his glasses. He looked pointedly from Claudia to Ella and back to Rosa. ‘You haven’t heard, have you?’

  ‘Heard what?’ said the girls in unison.

  ‘We’re going to be purged,’ he said in a whisper.

  The expressions on Rosa and Ella’s face froze.

  ‘What’d you say?’ said Claudia as she scooped up another spoonful of gruel.

  Ella leant towards her. ‘They’re purging us.’

  Claudia’s hand stopped half way between the plate and her mouth. ‘What, us?’ Boris nodded solemnly.

  The word purge echoed through Rosa’s mind. Purges were what happened in offices or factories, she thought, surely they wouldn’t purge a bunch of young, fervent students such as themselves. Boris stood up to leave, his lunch barely touched. Perhaps, she thought, Boris was simply passing on a rumour; but, given rumourmongers were harshly dealt with, that in itself was a dangerous thing to do.

  ‘Boris, how do you know?’

  He paused. ‘I heard a couple of the lecturers in the toilets. They sounded terrified; they’ll be as vulnerable as us. I heard them say it though, they’re sending a Purge Commission.’

  ‘When?’ asked Ella.

  ‘Next week,’ he said, before disappearing into the throng of students.

  The three girls glanced nervously at each other. Rosa knew how indiscriminate the purges could be – however loyal one was to the Party, however idealistic one’s revolutionary zeal, no one was immune, no one safe. A false word last week, an unguarded comment last year, was all that they needed. She looked at her two friends and tried to smile. Friendship was no safeguard against incrimination when people were placed in front of a Purge Commission and subjected to their ritual of confession and humiliation. But Ella and Claudia were different. Together, the three of them had become like sisters; trust and loyalty bound them together – the three sisters, the three witches. She believed she could trust them, but now that their loyalty to each other was about to be put through the sternest of tests, could she trust herself? She had nothing to fear, she told herself – after all, she loved her country. But nonetheless, her blood ran cold at the thought of it.

  Chapter 5: The Proposal

  The morning after our meal with Dmitry, Petrov woke up feeling terrible, not that I was in the least bit surprised, the way he had guzzled Dmitry’s wine. For some reason I had woken early and found my mind full of thoughts about Dmitry. I remembered the way he looked at me and I felt touched by the way he’d tried to rescue me once Petrov had started his tirade. I thought of his painting and his artistic and emotional sensitivity. He seemed altogether the antithesis of the man now groaning and clutching his forehead in the bed. It was as if Dmitry represented man on a further stage on the road of evolution while Petrov languished in some dark age. Homo Sovieticus. I needed to do something and, without thinking, found myself dusting the dressing table in semi-darkness at six-thirty in the morning.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said the hoarse voice from the bed.

  ‘And a good morning to you, Petrov.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Time you got up. You don’t want to be late.’ Being more than twenty minutes late for work could have serious consequences.

  Petrov sat up in the bed, grunting with the effort. ‘Was I really rude last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, you were abominable.’

  ‘Uhh, I thought so.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I said some fairly horrible things, didn’t I? I’m sorry, you know I get like that when I drink. Why didn’t you stop me?’ Petrov had the knack of making his misdeeds my fault. ‘Don’t expect we’ll get invited round there again. Perhaps I should phone Dmitry and apologise.’

  ‘No, leave it for now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, climbing out of bed.

  ‘You’d better hurry. You don’t want to be late for work.’

  ‘Damn, is that the time, couldn’t you have called me earlier?’ He always had to have the last word, but there was nothing like the threat of ten years hard labour to ensure people got to work on time.

  *

  About a week after our meal with Dmitry, he rang me. Like our bathroom and kitchen, we shared the telephone with all the other occupants on the floor. It was situated down the corridor and it seemed to ring continuously day and night, but only rarely was it for us. This time, however, it was. A neighbour of ours had knocked on our door. Petrov was out at work. I opened the door a fraction, fearful, as always, of the ruffians who shared our living space. ‘Telephone – it’s for you.’

  The sound of Dmitry’s voice made my heart leap. But our conversation wasn’t easy – I felt awkward and he sounded embarrassed. He asked whether Petrov and I had arrived home safely after our visit. Then, to my surprise, he asked whether I could spare the time to call on him at two o’clock the following day. He had a proposal I might be interested in, if it wasn’t inconvenient. Yes, I said, desperately trying to disguise the delight in my voice, I think I would be available – let me just check – yes, as it happened, it would be convenient.

  A proposal? What, I wondered, did he have in mind? It all seemed somewhat officious and I found myself conjuring up all sort of possibilities. Indeed, all week I had thought of little but Dmitry. My mind invented dozens of little scenarios where we would accidentally bump into each other and he would invite me back to his apartment for a cup of tea. But I hadn’t thought of a phone call and a proposal.

  My duty as a housewife was to provide a cultured and welcoming environment to which my husband could come home to and enjoy after a strenuous day at work. And to be fair to Petrov, he did work hard – usually an eleven-hour day, often more. I used to keep our two-room apartment “Snow White clean”, as Petrov demanded but since Viktor’s return I’ve not kept to my old standards. Otherwise, I spent much of my time on my sewing-machine, sewing table napkins, curtains and suchlike, which would eventually find their way into the local Party offices or the barracks of the Red Army. Occasionally, I worked in the offices of the Komsomol, the organisation of the Communist Youth, as an English translator. I had spent my first few years of marriage learning to speak English, hoping it would, one day, provide me with the means of escaping my daytime tedium. I also read as much as I could. As the wife of a Party bureaucrat, I was expected to be cultured in Russia’s literature. It was all part of the camouflage. I was currently ploughing through War and Peace but during the week after meeting Dmitry, I found I could barely concentrate for more than a page before my mind wandered off into another daydream. And the day following his phone call, I could barely assemble my thoughts in a coherent pattern. Had he been thinking of me as much as I of him? Should I wear my best skirt or my other one? Should I wear my hair up or leave it down?

  In the end, I wore my ordinary skirt, and kept my hair as normal. This was, as I reminded myself many times, an afternoon visit to discuss some proposal with my friend’s brother – no more than that.

  *

  Upon arriving at Dmitry’s, I was disappointed to see he had a visitor – a stout middle-aged man dressed in a brown suit, broad in the lapel, long in the pocket. ‘Come in, Maria,’ said Dmitry. ‘Let me introduce you – this is Mikhail, my patron.’ His thinning hair was greased back and shone under the harsh light of Dmitry’s living room. With his small rounded glasses and portly stature, I couldn’t help but think he resembled a tax collector.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘How delightful to meet you. I’ve just popped in to disturb Dmitry from his important work. So, old man, how is it going?’

  I sat down on the settee.

  ‘It’s almost finished,’ said Dmitry. ‘Can I get either you a drink?’


  ‘No, no, thank you, I won’t take up too much of your time,’ said Mikhail.

  ‘Just as well really. The kettle’s broken and it takes ages on the stove.’

  ‘Can’t you fix it?’

  ‘No one to do so.’ He was right, of course, it was hopeless trying to get anything fixed. Artisans and craftsmen no longer existed, eliminated as profiteers, and it was nigh on impossible to find the raw materials to do it oneself. When was it ever going to get easier?

  Dmitry opened the door of his studio and stepped to one side to allow his portly patron through. He beckoned me to follow. I noticed again the scent of his aftershave. Mikhail had stopped a few yards short of the painting mounted on its easel and was adjusting his glasses, pushing them further up his nose. I watched for his expression, a spontaneous reaction. The painting seemed even more impressive in the light of the day. Each blade of grass carefully represented, the fur on the dogs finely executed, the slight tear in the boy’s trousers, the reflection of the sun in the straw field. All I remembered of the reality was the dirt, the mud, the unending days of grey, the hunger. Mikhail nodded slowly to himself and a small grin spread across his lips. ‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘Marvellous. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll do then?’

  ‘Do? Of course, my dear boy, it’ll more than do, it’s perfect. The director will love it. I told him you were the man for the job and he’ll see that I was right.’

  ‘Good. So when’s the big day?’

  ‘The director reckons it’ll be in about a month’s time. I must say, it’s a fine piece of work; you’ve surpassed yourself. It’ll take pride of place in the director’s office for a year or so and then probably be transferred to some gallery where he’ll take great delight in telling all his Party colleagues that he commissioned it. He’ll take more credit for it than you will; you know what they’re like. They like to show they’re in with the creative intelligentsia. And I won’t deny, it will further my cause too, you know. Discoverer of hitherto unknown genius, you know how it works. The director and I gain political capital and you’ll get the sort of elite access that’ll make middle-ranking Party workers green with envy. You could get a car out of this and a bigger dacha too.’

  Dmitry laughed. ‘Yes and if either of you fall, then we’re all in the stink.’

  ‘Oh come now, let’s not be so fatalistic. We don’t have any skeletons in the cupboard; we keep our noses clean, we toe the Party line, so where’s the problem?’

  ‘We’re like a row of dominoes, you need only to – ’

  ‘Yes, yes, let’s not go into that now. Tell me, young lady, have you heard our Dmitry here is up for an Order of Lenin?’

  ‘Yes, I’d – ’

  ‘He’s a clever chap.’

  ‘In some ways,’ said Dmitry, ‘it’s nothing more than the Party’s way of saying I’m doing the right thing. As an artist constrained by the State, it was not the kind of endorsement I necessarily need.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dmitry.’

  ‘But you’re right. Despite myself, I can’t help but feel flattered. I suppose, if I’m honest, it matters more to me than I cared to admit. The award has prestige – it will, undoubtedly, open doors for me and spread my reputation.’

  ‘Absolutely. So tell me, can I fix a time for someone to come and pick this up?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s finished yet.’

  ‘Looks finished to me. That’s the problem with you artists – you never know when to let go. It’s perfect, leave it as it is, man.’

  ‘It’s the old women, I was thinking of replacing one with a young woman.’

  Mikhail eyes flashed. ‘Ah, now you’re talking, you mean put in a buxom young wrench. Oh, I beg your pardon, young lady. What must you think of me? I do apologise.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I just think a younger woman would broaden the appeal,’ said Dmitry.

  Mikhail pulled at his jacket as if trying to stretch out the creases. ‘You won’t have long though, ten days at the most, can you do it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll start straight away.’

  ‘Well, my dear boy, I’ll leave you to it.’ Dmitry escorted his patron to the door. ‘Don’t forget,’ said Mikhail, ‘last Tuesday this month,’ he said shaking Dmitry’s hand vigorously.

  ‘Last Tuesday?’

  ‘RAPA meeting, seven o’clock. I’ll see myself out. Delighted to have met you,’ he said, addressing me as he left.

  *

  Dmitry’s apartment looked different during the daytime – more disorganised, bits of paper and books strewn around his living room, a newspaper lying on the floor, a half-full cup of cold tea, the previously ordered coat rack now laden with numerous coats, hats and scarves. I wondered how a man could afford so many coats. Dmitry himself was wearing paint-splattered dark blue overalls, his sweeping hair was dishevelled and he seemed on edge. Having invited me to sit down, he started to pace up and down in front of me. Something was bothering him and I feared he was about to bring up the subject of Petrov’s behaviour and I wondered whether to pre-empt him by offering an apology.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Dmitry. ‘It’s about my painting and what I was saying to Mikhail just now – ’

  ‘Oh, Petrov and I were very impressed by it.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s very nice of you to say so, but the fact is the female figure I was thinking of – ’

  ‘The buxom young wench?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. He’s a good man, Mikhail, but sometimes he speaks before he thinks. Anyway, leaving aside his unfortunate turn of phrase, I wondered whether I could use you as a model, so to speak.’

  ‘Me?’ I was flattered but I wasn’t sure. ‘Why me?’

  ‘It’s been troubling me. The women are all so damn maternal. Perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing. After all, the State likes to be seen in a paternalistic manner, the old women could be seen to represent the Motherland, heartily providing for their menfolk, the toilers of the countryside, the workers of the Revolution. I want the painting to appeal to all age groups, I’ve got the men – young and old, and I’ve got the children, but no young women. So, what if I make this figure a young woman? Should she be wearing a dress or overalls; should she be fair or dark? Or perhaps a brunette? Ideally, I wanted to paint her as a gypsy but that didn’t seem a good idea, politically. Then I remembered you and thought you would be perfect as a woman of the country. I wouldn’t want to demean you; I’d depict you as a cultivated citizen of the land.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘OK, that sounds rather pompous, but you get the gist. The more I tried to see her, the more I thought about you. I think your features would fit perfectly. It needn’t take up too much of your time but, of course, if you – ’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The idea that Dmitry had been thinking about me in such a manner, I found strangely pleasing. And I couldn’t deny there was something rather thrilling about it – for my face to be captured by the artistic hand and represented in a painting for all to see, forever. But there was more to it than that. I tried to explain. ‘Dmitry, your painting is lovely, really, but...’ I hesitated. He looked at me carefully, his head tilted slightly to one side. Could I trust him? I’d only met him the once but something between us made me feel as if we’d known each other for so much longer. And his sister was the only person I could truly call a friend. Was that enough? Trust was a rare commodity. When you place your trust in someone, you are putting your very existence at their mercy. The fewer people one trusts, the less you tell people, the safer one is.

  ‘Yes? Go on.’

  No. I could not tell him. Mine was a secret I would take to the grave. I had no choice. ‘Can I see it again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I stared at the outlined female figure, stripped of her features, of her characteristics, her existence. I tried to imagine myself in her place dominating the right side of the painting but
peripheral in the action. I could smell the straw; I could feel the breeze on my face.

  ‘Something’s bothering you.’

  ‘No, it’s just... it’s so prominent.’

  ‘Yes. Here, let me show you some drawings I did of you, I hope you don’t mind.’

  I was intrigued; the idea of Dmitry drawing me after only one meeting was incredibly exciting. He rummaged through a pile of papers and handed me a few sheets. I looked at them and was astonished. It was as if he’d known me all my life. There I was in a series of pencil drawings, depicted as I once used to be – a girl of the country. The detail to my clothing was sparse but my hair, my face, the expression was alarmingly accurate. Had he stared at me so intently over the dinner table without my noticing; had he secretly taken a photograph of me? Was it me or was every person he met a potential source of material? I couldn’t help but take Dmitry’s interest in me as complimentary even if it was purely in an artistic sense. Petrov, in comparison, was so unobservant, so uninterested.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

  Dmitry smiled broadly, his whole face beaming like a child presented with the biggest present. For a moment, I thought he would hug me, he seemed so delighted. His pleasure in my acceptance was heart-warming and I felt a little shiver run down my spine.

  *

  To my surprise, we set to work straight away. It was still only mid-afternoon; it would be hours before Petrov returned home. Dmitry pulled the easel back to one corner of his studio and placed me diagonally opposite. He disappeared for a few moments, only to reappear with dark blue overalls which he asked me to put on. While Dmitry made a discreet exit, I took off my cardigan and skirt and slipped on the overalls. They were slightly too small for me and was spotlessly clean – hardly the case, I thought, for a peasant girl. Dmitry came back carrying a tray loaded with a pitcher and four or so empty glasses. He made me stand in various poses and with different variations of a smile – from a subtle grin to an outright laugh.

  He began by making more sketches of me on scrap pieces of paper. After perhaps half an hour, during which time he didn’t say a word, he seemed satisfied with a pose so subtly different from all the others, I could barely tell the difference. He then picked up his palette and squeezed various tubes of paint on it, and began gleefully mixing the colours, adding minuscule amounts of this colour and that. I could tell that this was part of the process he enjoyed.