The Black Maria

by Rupert Colley

  Mikhail continued on his new line of attack but my attention was diverted by Dmitry who had swivelled around in his chair and was smiling at me, his eyes full of mischievous charm. He faked an exaggerated yawn and then crept towards me, his shoulders hunched as if hoping not to be noticed. Sitting on the chair next to mine, he took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Hello, my pretty, shall we go?’ he whispered.

  I could smell his aftershave. ‘Can you leave?’

  ‘God, yes, I’ve heard all this a hundred times before, it’s always the same. I always try to leave before someone reminds us we’re the engineers of the soul. No one will care. Come, let’s go.’

  I hadn’t heard much but I’d heard enough. I knew the identity of my next victim. Rykov would be pleased with me.

  *

  ‘Interesting meeting,’ I said as we walked back.

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Well, may be not so interesting.’

  Dmitry laughed. ‘Yes, we go round in circles, always talking about the same thing, how to interpret social realism.’

  We strode side-by-side through the packed snow, hands deep in pockets, the sky as grey as lead. ‘I wouldn’t mind attending again.’

  ‘You surprise me. Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘My award’s been confirmed: the Order of Lenin for my “Contribution to Socialist Art”.’

  ‘Wow!’ I spun round and, hugging him, kissed him, our red noses touching. ‘Congratulations, my super talented artist.’

  ‘That I am! I get my moment of glory in a special presentation during the Labour Day celebrations. Gorky Park. And it gets better – it comes with twenty-five roubles a month and a small pension.’

  ‘To add to all the other privileges they give you. How the State spoils you.’

  ‘Ha! There’s a fine line between honour and ruin.’

  ‘I’m very proud of you, my Dmika.’ I smiled at an elderly couple walking passed, featureless in their heavy coats and scarfs.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘But I’m no fool; I know it’s more a political award than artistic. I play by the rules; I paint what I’m supposed to paint. The real artists of this world, the free spirits, they’re the ones who suffer, just as Mikhail was alluding to. People like my old student friend, Busygin, who believed that, as artists, they’re entitled to paint as they see fit. He was a true artist, more than I’ll ever be, but he’s paying the price for his stubbornness and his integrity – arrested for daring to show the proletariat life as it really is. Once the word was out, he was roundly condemned, even by those who’d never heard of him. He ended up in hospital with the stress of it all but they soon kicked him out.’

  ‘Why – because he was an enemy?’

  ‘Of course, the silly bugger. It’s strange when you think about it – when I was a kid growing up in Moscow, there were the writers and artists our teachers recommended and those we were warned against. Of course, we all sought out the ones we weren’t meant to. But kids today, they intrinsically believe in the system and if the system tells them not to read Dostoevsky or listen to Tchaikovsky, then they say “all right, we won’t read Dostoevsky and we won’t listen to Tchaikovsky”. It never occurs to them to do anything different. They are the children of revolutionaries but they themselves have not got a rebellious bone in their collective body.’

  ‘Your patron Mikhail – he says things that perhaps he shouldn’t.’

  ‘He ought to be more careful, I agree. But he has a generous heart; he believes we all need a second chance when it comes to art. We don’t necessarily agree with him, but he’s among friends here, he’ll be all right with us. Yes, there’re informants at every turn, why should RAPA be different? We have to toe the line or expect the worst. We’ve led a charmed life up to now.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said as my stomach tightened. ‘And your Comrade Mamontov seemed antagonistic.’

  ‘He and Mikhail go back a long way and they haven’t always seen eye to eye, but Mamontov is all right; he wouldn’t do anything to harm the reputation of the association, and he knows Mikhail is an influential supporter of ours.’

  A car passed us at speed, splashing us with slush. ‘Silly idiot,’ muttered Dmitry.

  ‘What did Mamontov mean when he said Mikhail had been given a second chance?’

  ‘What? Oh, that. Mikhail once refused to sign a collective petition demanding Bukharin’s execution. He publicly recanted and the Party forgave him but the stain will always be there. Anyway, what’s gone is gone.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘You OK, Maria?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a sigh.

  *

  Half an hour later, Dmitry and I were back in his apartment. As soon as he closed the door, he pulled me towards him and wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. Oh, the smell of him, his touch. I felt myself melt in his all-embracing presence as his kiss became more urgent, his hand travelling up and down the undulating journey of my spine.

  It was almost dark when I awoke within the warmth of Dmitry’s bed. I was alone; the covers on his side of the bed pulled back, the sheet still warm. My picture was still there, in the corner of the bedroom, next to the wicker chair, taunting me with her smile, my smile. I wrapped the blankets tighter against me, pulling them up to beneath my chin. My past, present and future seemed to be colliding into each other, each fighting for dominance, cancelling each other out. To escape my past, I came to the present; to escape the present, I needed a future, but however I looked at it, my past and present denied the future. However hard I tried to divide them like neat chapters in a book, the more they merged into one.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Dmitry softly, hovering over me, naked, holding two steaming cups in one hand, the other hand behind his back.

  ‘What a sight!’ I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

  ‘I’ve bought you a present.’

  ‘So I see.’

  He placed the cups on the bedside table and his other hand came out from behind his back. He smiled as he held out something wrapped in a brown paper bag. ‘A present for my love.’

  ‘A present? I’ve never been given a present before.’ I opened the bag and inside felt the texture of engraved wood. I pulled out a four-inch high wooden carving of a bear. It was, I think, a grizzly bear, standing on its hind legs, its front legs pawing the air. Its eyes seemed ablaze with fury and his mouth was open, revealing small sharp teeth and a bright red tongue. ‘It’s lovely. What is it?’

  ‘Flip open the head.’

  Indeed, the head of the bear flipped open on a delicate hinge in the back of its neck. Inside, was a small bottle, plugged with a tiny glass cork. I smiled, unplugged the cork and breathed in the lush fragrance. ‘Oh, Dmitry, eau-du-cologne, how wonderful; thank you, thank you.’ I dabbed some on my neck and he leant forward and smelt me.

  ‘Hmm, very nice,’ he declared.

  ‘What a funny little bear.’

  ‘Funny? Looks quite vicious to me. Grrl!’

  ‘That sounds more like a lion.’

  ‘Does it? I wouldn’t know; you don’t get many of either in these parts. Either way, the perfume is to remind you how much I love you.’

  ‘And the bear...?’

  ‘The bear? Well, he’s there to protect you, of course. Forever.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ve always wanted eau-du-cologne, it’s so divine. I’d better be careful when I wear it.’

  ‘You won’t have to soon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Leave him, Maria. I know what you’re thinking, and the only answer is to leave him.’ He handed me my cup of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Petrov. You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Not long ago you were telling me to go back to him.’

  Holding his cup, he sat on the bed and swung his legs up and covered them with the blanket. Sitting up in the bed, his naked torso against the pillow, he turned towards me. ‘Not now. Y
ou could come here to begin with, and... and who knows, if you liked it, you could stay. And we could go out for trips to my dacha – ’

  ‘I forgot – you have your very own dacha.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really mine but it’s on loan to me.’

  ‘You’re not going to start talking about privilege again, are you?’

  ‘For every person that’s –’

  ‘No, please, no. Spare me!’

  ‘Ha! Anyway, the dacha is my little perk for being a “valued” artist. It’s only about an hour away by train. I’m going there next Wednesday, just to get away from the city for a while. You’d adore it. How about it?’

  ‘Oh, Dmitry, you know I would love to, but...’

  ‘But what? Come on, Maria, the man is stifling you; you have to make a stand. He’s killing you slowly from inside, you must see that.’

  ‘I know, I know. Don’t you think I agonize about it every waking moment, but I’m frightened, Dmitry. I beg him to give me my freedom, but he’s a proud man, he won’t let me go.’

  ‘You’re worried he’ll denounce you in some way?’ I cupped my hands around the warm cup and gazed at the rising steam. ‘Maria?’

  I spoke softly, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I have a lot to be ashamed of, Dmitry, I’m politically infected, and he knows that. If I left him, he could have me arrested within the day. And I’d be putting you at risk as well as myself. If he even knew I was here, I dread to think how he’d react. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘We have to do something. I think of you all the time. I’ve never met a woman like you. It’s strange, I feel as if I know you inside out already, but there’s a part of you I know you can’t share. I can’t expect you to trust me fully yet, I understand that, but one day you’ll realise you’ll be able to tell me everything. Everything.’

  ‘No, I can’t ever, believe me, you should never know. At least...’

  ‘At least?’

  ‘Not while I remain tied to Petrov.’ I took his hand and gripped it tightly and he leant towards me and kissed me on the forehead. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘We’ll think of something, we have to. Whatever happens, we’ll think of something.’

  *

  Half an hour later, I was washed and fully dressed, and wondering whether I should go, when there was a knock on the door of Dmitry’s apartment. He glanced at me and at once we were both agitated, both immediately assuming the worst. He motioned that I should return to the bedroom. A second knock, louder, more urgent, startled us even further. Dmitry went to answer it and I, behind the door in the bedroom, found myself holding my breath.

  ‘OK, where is she?’ The voice, once the intruder had forced his way in, brought both relief and horror. It was my husband.

  ‘Hello, Petrov, how nice to see you too. And so soon.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. I said, where is she?’

  I listened to their exchange, my nude alter ego staring back at me. I hoped to God Dmitry would prevent Petrov from barging in. ‘Who exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘If you’re referring to your wife, then I don’t know. Now I’d offer you a cup of tea but the kettle’s broken but if you’re prepared to wait for a pan to boil...’

  ‘So why’s her coat here?’

  I listened to the silence, pinned against the wall.

  ‘Is that Maria’s coat? Yes, I think you’re right; so it is.’

  ‘Well? Where is she?’ I could hear him stamping around; he was looking for me.

  ‘All right, I admit she was here but you’ve missed her. She – ’

  ‘Stop lying to me! She wouldn’t have gone out in this cold without her coat. What do you take me for? Is she in here...’ I heard the door to Dmitry’s studio open.

  ‘Look, all right, I’ll tell you.’ Inside the other room, the voices were muffled but still loud enough for me to hear every word.

  ‘Go on, I’m all ears.’

  ‘I invited Maria over to pose for me – in the painting you saw the other week. It’s gone now, hanging up in some factory. But look, here are some of the preliminary sketches I made. Don’t you think she’s perfect for the role?’

  There was a pause. I knew what was going through my husband’s mind – he was impressed but could hardly admit to the fact.

  ‘Yes, it’s all very well. She told me. And I forbade it.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because I... it’s none of your bloody business. You think you can have it all, don’t you. First all of this... this luxury and now my wife. I despise your sort with a vengeance.’ He’d come back into the living room. ‘You smarmy your way round with your precious art; you live it up in this splendour like the high and mighty. You’re no better than the bourgeois scum the revolution destroyed. You look at something and you think it’s yours, that it’s your goddamn right to take it.’

  ‘And you think yourself different? You’re telling me you don’t spend your days like a puppy, trying to please your bosses, trying not to upset the apple-cart?’

  ‘I don’t care what you think.’ The bedroom door suddenly swung open, the door almost hitting me. I tried to disappear into the wall as I saw my husband’s hands grip his hair as the vision of my naked self bored onto his eyes. ‘What the... what do you call this?’ he bellowed, standing in front of the painting. He seemed to be gasping for air. ‘I can’t believe this.’ Please, I thought, don’t let him turn round.

  ‘I’m an artist, Petrov, what can I say?’ I could hear Dmitry’s voice in the room but couldn’t see him.

  ‘This is not art; this is pornography. And Maria let you do this, to exploit her like a whore? You... you bastard.’

  Talk to him, Dmitry, don’t let him turn around.

  ‘Oh, for the love of saints, shut up, man. Have you not been to the Tretyakov recently? Half the paintings are of the nude.’

  ‘Painted by the great masters, not some lowlife bastard like you. This is not art, this is titillation.’

  ‘Titillation is in the eye of the beholder. Let’s go through, Petrov, you look like you need to sit down; you’ve had a jolt, dear man.’ I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t see me.

  Petrov was still facing the painting but his shoulders had slumped, as if the shock had drained him. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he said.

  ‘This way,’ said Dmitry, steering him out of the room. I pressed myself still further against the wall. But they’d gone, back to the safety of the living room. My knees trembled. I found myself panting with relief.

  ‘Now, you sure you won’t have that cup of tea?’ Oh please, Dmitry, don’t prolong it.

  ‘No. No, I’ve got to go.’ He sounded like a man defeated.

  ‘Look, I know I’m not a great master deserving of a place in the Tretyakov, but I am still an artist; it’s what I’m paid to do and, as I said when you came round for dinner, the State values what I do. Maria is not a whore, she is a good woman and for me, a perfect model. Now, go home, Petrov, and think about it.’

  I could tell from their voices that Dmitry had almost shoved Petrov out of the apartment. ‘OK, you can paint,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you that, and what you paint is your business. But please, have some respect, don’t paint my wife again. In fact, I’d ask you not to see her again, you understand? And that painting in there, don’t even think about putting it on display. I’m sure you can appreciate my wish not to have my wife paraded naked for all of Moscow to see.’

  ‘Of course, I understand. Now, you mind how you go.’

  I waited for the front door to shut but Petrov had not quite finished. ‘What are you going to do with it then?’

  ‘Maria’s portrait? I shall destroy it.’

  ‘Yes. Good. Well, in that case, perhaps I could have it?’

  Chapter 13: The Market

  I couldn’t face going home straightaway; not after that exchange. So I decided to go shopping, always a disheartening experience but we were short o
f food. I needed meat or fish, anything with a bit of protein, which could be made into soup. I’d remembered to bring a string bag with me which I’d stuffed in my pocket. It was my “just-in-case” bag, just in case I came across something affordable. I caught a streetcar, entering, as by regulation, at the back. The tram was packed and the mass of passengers swayed this way and that with the motion of the vehicle as it made its way across town.

  My mind wandered back to Viktor, sitting motionless in his chair. He was getting worse but every attempt to call out a doctor had failed. They were all far too busy dealing with people who mattered. As an ex-enemy of the people, no one wanted to know. I could just about persuade him to eat my offerings of thin soup, but that was about it. I knew he was dying; it was only a matter of time. I was being pulled from different directions and the strain was beginning to show.

  ‘We have our suspicions that there are unsuitable elements within the RAPA.’ That’s what Rykov had said. ‘I need you to find out information about your Dmitry Kalinin’s colleagues and where they stand.’ It was like having a tiger for a pet. As long as you continued to feed it, it was satisfied, but as soon as the supply of food dried up, it would eat you up. There was no turning back, they had me where they wanted me; it was a lifetime commitment. I had to protect my brother from Rykov’s clutches and if that meant informing on men like Mikhail, then so be it. As Dmitry’s patron, he was the most obvious target. But there was always the fear that in denouncing Mikhail, he would be pressed into naming names. As a recipient of the Lenin award, would Dmitry still be vulnerable? What choice did I have?

  But for now, my thoughts turned to more pressing matters. I alighted from the streetcar near Gorky Park. Once freed from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the tram, I made my way through the bustling streets to the nearby proletariat shopping centre. The sun had come out but a brisk wind whistled through my coat. I stepped off the pavement and was almost run over by a horse-drawn taxi, the driver yelling at me to get out of the way.