by William Ryan
“There. You see, he’s not so bad. Just a bang on the head. How many fingers, Comrade?” The man in the spectacles held up three fingers.
“Three,” Korolev said, his voice sounding broken and old. No energy for cleverness this time.
“Good. But, you need a day on your back all the same.”
“Can’t,” Korolev heard himself say.
“Of course you can. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Semion Semionovich?”
“At least a day. We have to preserve our best workers. That comes from the Central Committee directly.” He recognized Popov’s voice but couldn’t see him—the man with the spectacles was so close that he blocked out the rest of the room.
“There, what do you say to that?”
Korolev realized he was frowning. As far as he could work out, he was lying on the chesterfield in the shared kitchen. He managed to push himself up onto his elbow and then, with Spectacles’s assistance, into a sitting position. He let his head hang and focused on the shifting floorboards at his feet until they steadied, and the urge to empty what little must be left in his stomach passed. Then he looked up at the people in the room. Shura was standing by the kitchen entrance, her face grave. To her side, Valentina Nikolaevna stood, her blue eyes searching his for something, her mouth a straight line. Her hand rested on a pretty young girl’s shoulder. He presumed this must be Natasha, Valentina’s daughter; about eight, dark blonde hair, her mother’s eyes and a Pioneer’s red scarf tied round her neck. She smiled at him shyly. Popov was standing by the window, rubbing his nose with his unlit pipe.
“What happened?” Korolev asked, still confused as to how he’d ended up back in the apartment surrounded by people—when the last certain memory he had was of being bent over double, spilling his guts onto a rain-drenched street with an assassin’s footsteps fast approaching. But perhaps even that memory was uncertain.
“General Popov brought you,” Natasha said, her eyes on his, her wide face open and frank. “He knocked hard on the door until I opened it. You were asleep on the floor. He told me you were ill and needed a doctor and then he brought you in here.”
“She came upstairs and I called up to Professor Goldfarb,” Shura said. “He lives on the fifth floor. He came away from his supper and we carried you in here.”
“It will keep,” the professor said, taking off his spectacles to polish them.
“And the Comrade Investigator,” Shura asked, “will he be all right? A nasty cut on his head he has, hasn’t he?”
“As I said, he should be fine.”
“Your face was as white as a sheet of fancy paper, like a ghost’s,” Natasha said with relish.
“What happened?” Valentina Nikolaevna took a step forward and reached out her hand as if to touch the stitching. “It looks bad.”
“An accident.” Korolev said, waving away everyone’s concern, although his voice sounded weak, even to him. “Concussion is it?” he asked the professor, trying to adopt a man-to-man professional brusqueness.
Valentina Nikolaevna shook her head in bemusement. “You should have seen the place when I came home, full of people and you in the middle looking like a corpse—it was like a scene from a play. Could you manage some food?”
Shura’s head popped up like a gundog’s and he hadn’t the heart to refuse. “Maybe a little soup,” he said and soon Valentina Nikolaevna and Shura were arguing quietly in the kitchen over its preparation. Natasha gave him a small smile as she placed a cushion on a wooden chair. Then she sat up to the table and opened an exercise book. Homework, Korolev thought to himself, and something about the child studying and the sound of the women in the kitchen filled him with a feeling of warmth and security. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again to find Popov gazing down at him. He looked smaller than usual.
“How do you feel, Alexei Dmitriyevich?” Popov asked, his voice barely audible.
“I feel like someone filled my head with concrete, but not too bad, I think. Lucky for me you picked me up off the pavement.”
“Your notebook fell out of your pocket in the car. I came back to give it to you.”
“Thank you, Comrade General.”
The general waved his thanks away. “The professor says you need a minimum of twenty-four hours rest. I’ll talk to Semionov and Gregorin tomorrow and we’ll work out how to deal with the investigation. Whatever else, you’re going to take it easy for a day or two.” Korolev opened his mouth to object, but the general raised a weary hand.
“An order, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Comrade Professor, please confirm your diagnosis.”
“Indeed. Concussion requires at least twenty-four hours bed rest. Well, you don’t actually have to lie on the bed, but certainly no going to work. You need a bit of quiet and a lot of sleep. Oh, and no vodka. Not even beer. Sleep is what you really need. Ideally there should be someone here with you the whole time. A precaution purely, but important. Valentina Nikolaevna?”
Valentina nodded without smiling. “Of course, Comrade Professor. If it’s necessary, I can rearrange my shift.”
Perhaps if the general hadn’t looked so utterly worn, Korolev might have objected, but instead he allowed himself a grimace of annoyance for form’s sake and nodded his agreement.
“Good,” the general said, rising to his feet. “Well, we shall say our farewells, I think, Professor.”
“Yes. Goodnight. Valentina Nikolaevna, here’s my number at the university tomorrow if you need to call me.”
The professor scribbled on a page from a small notebook, then tore it out and handed it to Valentina.
Korolev would have stood, but the moment he tried to shift his weight to do so he realized it was impossible. He made do with a nod of his head as they left and then slumped back.
“Here you are, Comrade Investigator,” Shura said, as she brought some soup to the table and placed it beside Natasha. “Can I help you up?”
He nodded and Shura and Valentina Nikolaevna each took an arm and maneuvered him to the table. The smell of the soup, cabbage with some scraps of chicken in it, brought saliva to his parched mouth and he picked up a spoon, blowing on the soup before sampling it.
“Is it too hot, Comrade Investigator?” Shura asked.
“I told you so,” Valentina Nikolaevna said. “Here, let’s give him some bread. He can dunk it till it cools.”
“It’s fine. Please. Thank you both. It’s very good.”
“I’m not allowed to dunk my bread,” Natasha said, turning indignant eyes from her copy book. “How come he is?”
“Because he’s an investigator, Natasha, and he needs to feed himself up to catch murderers and the like,” Shura said, with a mixture of conviction and reproof that seemed to satisfy the little girl. Natasha returned to her homework and the two women watched him finish the soup with satisfaction.
“A strong appetite, hasn’t he, Valentina Nikolaevna—the Comrade Investigator?” Shura said when he tilted the bowl toward himself to scoop up the last of the liquid.
“What happened to my clothes?” Korolev asked, aware that he was wearing an old sweater and his uniform trousers.
“You were soaked to the skin. Don’t worry, we didn’t look,” Valentina Nikolaevna said, causing a burst of laughter from Shura and Natasha, which they hid behind their hands.
“No wonder he has such an appetite,” Shura said in a low tone, and Korolev felt his cheeks becoming warm. He wasn’t used to having so many women around him—they weren’t as cultured as people thought they were.
“What? There’s no other entertainment in Moscow?” he said. “Must all three of you stare at me like I’m a giraffe at the zoo?”
His anger wasn’t false, but it seemed ridiculous in the context, both to the women and to himself, and they didn’t bother to hide their laughter this time. He found a smile tugging at his own lips, which delighted them even more.
“I should go back upstairs,” Shura said, when they’d finished. “Isaac Emm
anuilovich will be home soon. But I’ll come down later, Valentina Nikolaevna, in case you need me.”
They said their farewells to Shura and then sat looking at each other: Korolev, Valentina and the small girl. Natasha was the first to break the silence.
“I’ve finished my homework,” she said.
“Good,” Valentina said. “Go and get ready for bed, Natasha. I’ll be through in a moment.”
Natasha picked up her exercise books and her pen and, with a shy glance at Korolev, left the two adults alone. Korolev tried to look elsewhere but his eyes kept wandering back to Valentina’s.
“Natasha did well,” he finally managed to say, after rejecting several alternative ways of breaking a silence that had become too intimate to bear. Valentina seemed to consider the question, clenching her hands together, the knuckles white.
“She’s old for her years. They all are these days. We demand it of them. You saw her Pioneer scarf? Even primary schoolchildren are being prepared for war.” She put a hand to her forehead and tapped a finger gently between her eyebrows. “You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course.”
“I don’t, believe me. I know you to be a loyal citizen.” Which didn’t come out quite how he meant it to, but perhaps all she wanted was reassurance.
She looked up at him and shook her head, as though at her own foolishness.
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I say it makes me nervous, having you share the apartment with us. What if I were to say something in anger? Do you understand? I can see Natasha likes you, I don’t know how or why, perhaps because she helped you. But it makes me nervous. Having you around all the time, it’s like being watched.”
“I’m an investigator. I’m not a Chekist. I’m just a simple Militiaman.”
She laughed dryly. “You think the Militia don’t get involved in internal security? That it’s all handled by the Cheka? You must know that’s not the case.”
He did. He knew that a large proportion of the arrests under Article 58 were carried out by Militia officers, usually under the direction of the NKVD, but often independently. He was able to ignore it, more or less, sitting in his Petrovka Street ivory tower, dealing with murder and mayhem, and glad of it. But he was no longer surprised when witnesses to the crimes he investigated took the opportunity to denounce their neighbors, workmates and even family for political offenses. The citizens on the street knew better than he did that the Militia handled political matters, even if he’d clung to the belief that he worked on purely non-political crime. He nodded in agreement.
“I understand. But what can I do? I’m assigned to this apartment. If another becomes available, then I’ll move on. But you know how unlikely that is. I’ll try to keep to my room. Don’t worry—I’m not here to spy on you.”
She waved his words away. “That’s not what I meant either. You’re here now, and that’s that. I was just trying to explain—” she paused and considered him for a moment “—I was trying to explain my reserve.” She stood, holding out her hand to shake his. It seemed a very manly gesture. “I’m glad we spoke so frankly.”
He took her hand with a feeling of confusion. He really wasn’t sure what the conversation had meant, but he nodded his head in agreement.
“You should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll stay at home tomorrow to keep an eye on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Natasha will expect me to; you’re the stray dog she rescued from the rain. Would you like me to help you to your room?”
“I think I can manage.” He stood up from the chesterfield slowly, holding onto one of the chairs for support. He swayed for a moment, smiled at Valentina, and then made his way to the door to his bedroom with tentative steps.
“See? I’m fine.” He nodded a goodnight and then closed the door, leaning against it with his shoulder while his right hand felt for the round molding of the light switch. Finding it, he hesitated. Instead he walked to the window and looked across the lane. The shadow of a man was clearly distinguishable in the gateway opposite. A round fur hat and a long coat that could be leather, judging from the way it reflected the light from the streetlamp. Who was he? A Thief? A priest? A Chekist? A foreign spy? If the devil was still there tomorrow, he’d pull a little surprise on him, but tonight he would be lucky to make it over to the bed. He pulled the curtain shut and, without turning on the light or taking off his clothes, walked to the chair where they’d stretched out his overcoat to dry. His leather holster lay on the seat and he took the automatic out, checked the safety was on, slipped it under his pillow and then rolled himself into the blankets.
For a few moments he was aware of the sounds of the building—conversation from Valentina and Natasha’s room, someone walking around upstairs, the rush of water down a pipe—and then the room, the building and even Moscow itself spun away as sleep finally took hold of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Korolev slept like a dead man, as his mother would have said had she not been dead herself for fifteen years. He slept past five o’clock and then past six. He wasn’t woken by dawn squeezing itself round the edges of the curtain, and the cockerels calling to each other from street to street didn’t wake him either. He slept through the pack of dogs that chased a cart down the lane and even the crack of the driver’s whip as he tried to get rid of them. The factory whistles calling the workers to their shifts made no impression on his slumbering. For the first time in many years he slept past seven and then past eight. He didn’t even stir when Valentina Nikolaevna opened the door with great care and listened to his gentle snoring. She and Natasha watched him for a moment or two, Valentina told him later, and then decided to let him sleep on. If neither of them mentioned the strange affection that darkened their faces in the half-light, it might have been because they were unaware of it themselves. Or perhaps a man sleeping soundly can make a woman of any age maternal, if she’s so inclined. In fact, it was only when Babel looked in on him and, curious to see his reaction, shook him by the shoulder, that Korolev woke abruptly and, before his eyes had quite caught up with him, rewarded Babel with a close-up view of the business end of the automatic. Babel responded with a wide smile.
“It’s me, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Babel. Is that a Walther? May I have a look? Where’d you pick up a piece like this? I had one many years ago, but it’s long gone. Ah. 1917—a Model 7, they stopped making them at the end of the war, of course. The Germans, that is. An officer’s gun. Spoils of war?”
“A Pole.” And the flatness in his sleep-croaked voice pronounced a death sentence on the former owner, even to Korolev’s ears. Babel blinked and handed the gun quickly back, then looked at his hands as though the dead man’s blood might have transferred to them.
“Sleep well?” Babel asked, after a moment, looking over his shoulder to where an amused Valentina Nikolaevna leaned against the door.
Korolev put the automatic back under the pillow, yawned and ran a hand across his scalp. He saw the daylight in the doorway to the shared room.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly ten o’clock.”
Korolev looked at his watch. He held it to his ear to make sure it was still ticking and felt the glass cold against the sudden warmth of his cheek.
“I don’t normally sleep this late,” he said.
“Well, you don’t normally try to crack people’s heads open with your forehead, either. At least, I hope not.”
“Ah,” Valentina Nikolaevna said, putting disappointment, mockery and a tinge of reproach into the single syllable.
“It was self-defense,” Korolev said.
“You mean: ‘He started it,’ of course. Yes,” she said, shaking her head in wry disillusionment, “I’ve heard that excuse before.”
Korolev was tempted to throw the blankets over his head and pretend his guests weren’t there.
“Can a citizen not have any privacy any more? I support the Collective as much as anyone, but does it need to hold its meetings in my bedroom?”
Valen
tina Nikolaevna smiled at his discomfort and, touching her forehead in salute, let the door shut behind her. Korolev turned his attention to Babel.
“And you? Will you let me have five minutes to myself?”
“Of course,” Babel said, settling himself into the chair he’d pulled up beside the bed.
“Well?” Korolev demanded, after the writer showed no sign of leaving.
“Well what? Do you want to hear what I have to tell you or not?”
Korolev considered the question and then pointed to the window. “At least give me a minute to change into a clean shirt.”
“You’re shy? I was in the army as well, you know. There was no prudery on bath day in the Red Cavalry, believe me.”
“Look out at the street. Please, Isaac Emmanuilovich, I beg you.”
Babel grunted and stood up, before walking over to the window with a show of reluctance.
Korolev swung his feet down onto the bare floorboards. His vision took a while to catch up with the change of perspective and he breathed in deeply. He looked over at Babel, who was observing him with interest.
“You’ve gone quite gray, very suddenly. It’s an interesting thing to see. Really, just like that. And you were so red only moments ago.”
Korolev managed to wave a hand in the writer’s direction.
“I’m fine,” he said, without much conviction. “Just look out of the window, if you don’t mind.”
The damned writer would end up describing his flabby arse in Novy Mir if he wasn’t careful. And, anyway, a citizen should be entitled to a moment or two to himself, housing shortage or not. He reached out for the chair and pulled himself to a standing position, feeling the blood plummet to his toes. He rested for a moment and then took a couple of steps over to the wardrobe.
“You look even more unwell now; would you like me give you a hand?”
Korolev discovered that keeping the contents of his stomach where they belonged required all his concentration. Speaking was out of the question, as was even the tiny turn of the head necessary to give the irritating interloper a stare that would melt his spectacles to his damned nose. Instead he made do with a feeble flick of the hand, which he hoped conveyed his dismissal of the writer’s annoying interruptions adequately. With one final step he grabbed hold of the wardrobe with both hands and allowed his cheek to rest for a second or two against the smooth wood. The smell of varnish seemed to revive him and something resembling energy began to seep back up his body and give him hope that the danger of being sick had passed, for the moment at least. With a grunt, he pulled the jumper off over his head, undid the buttons on the trousers and allowed the clothes to form a pile at his ankles.
