Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  Now in the tunnel which led to the platform he was faced with crowds of people in front of him. Suddenly he heard the sound of an approaching train, pulling into the platform. There was no way he could reach it in time, not with all these people in front of him. He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out his State Security identity card and tapping it on the shoulder of the man in front of him. As though scalded, the man stepped aside, the woman stepped aside, the crowd parted. With a clear path he was able to hurry forward. The train was there, its doors open, ready to go. He put his card away and boarded. He turned to see how close his tail was. If the man managed to catch up and board this train, the game was up.

  The people who’d moved out of the way had closed ranks. The agent was stuck behind them, resorting to less subtle methods, pushing and shoving people out of the way. He was catching up. Why weren’t the doors closing? The agent was now at the platform, only meters away. The doors began to close. His hand darted out, grabbing the side of the door. But the mechanism wouldn’t be pulled back and the man—who Leo saw closely for the first time—had no choice but to let go. Maintaining an air of casual indifference, Leo tried not to react, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the agent was left behind. In the darkness of the tunnel Leo took off his sweat-sodden hat.

  SAME DAY

  THE ELEVATOR CAME TO A STOP on the fifth floor, the top floor, the doors opened, and Leo stepped out into the narrow corridor. The hallway smelled of cooking. It was seven in the evening, the time at which many families ate uzhin, the last meal of the day. As he walked past the apartments he could hear the sound of dinner preparations through the thin plywood front doors. The closer he got to his parents’ apartment the more tired he felt. He’d spent several hours crisscrossing the city. After losing the agent following him at Teatral’naya station he’d returned home, to apartment 124, turning on the lights and radio, drawing the curtains—a necessary precaution even though they were on the fourteenth floor. He’d left again, taking a deliberately circuitous route to the metro and traveling back into the city. He hadn’t changed his clothes and he regretted not doing so. They’d become unpleasant; his shirt, drenched with sweat, had dried and stuck to his back. He was sure it stank although he couldn’t smell it himself. He brushed these concerns aside. His parents wouldn’t care. They’d be too distracted by the fact he was asking their advice; something he hadn’t done in a long time.

  The balance of their relationship had shifted—he now helped them far more than they helped him. Leo liked it that way. He enjoyed the feeling of being able to secure them easier jobs at their places of work. With nothing more than a polite inquiry his father had become a foreman at the munitions factory, taken off the assembly line, while his mother, who spent her days stitching parachutes, had been given a similar rise in status. He’d improved their access to food—no longer did they have to queue for several hours for basics such as bread and buckwheat. They were given access to the spetztorgi, the special shops not intended for the general public. In these restricted shops there were exotic delights such as fresh fish, saffron, and even slabs of real dark chocolate, instead of the synthetic kind which substituted for cocoa with a blend of rye, barley, wheat, and peas. If his parents had trouble with a quarrelsome neighbor, that neighbor never remained quarrelsome for long. There was no violence involved, no crude threats, just a hint that they were dealing with a family better connected than their own.

  This apartment, the apartment he’d managed to have them allocated, was in a pleasant residential area in the north of the city—a low-rise block where each apartment could boast of private washroom facilities and its own small balcony overlooking a small stretch of grass and a quiet road. They shared it with no one: extraordinary in this city. After fifty years of hardship they finally enjoyed a privileged life, a fact his parents keenly appreciated. They’d become addicted to comfort. And it all hung by the thread of Leo’s career.

  Leo knocked on the door. When his mother, Anna, opened the door she seemed surprised. That surprise, which rendered her briefly speechless, melted away. She stepped forward, hugging her son, speaking excitedly:

  —Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We heard you were ill. We came over to see you but you were asleep. Raisa let us in. We looked in on you, I even held your hand, but what could we do? You needed your rest. You were sleeping like a child.

  —Raisa told me you came round. Thank you for the fruit—the oranges and the lemons.

  —We didn’t bring any fruit. At least I don’t think we did. I’m getting old. Maybe we did!

  Having heard the conversation, his father, Stepan, appeared from the kitchen, gently nudging past his wife. She’d gained a little weight recently. They’d both gained a little weight. They looked well.

  Stepan embraced his son:

  —Are you better?

  —Yes, much.

  —That’s good. We were worried about you.

  —How’s your back?

  —It hasn’t hurt for a while now. One of the benefits of an administrative job, all I do is oversee other people’s hard work. I walk around with a pen and a clipboard.

  —Enough with the guilt. You’ve done your time.

  —Perhaps, but people look at you differently when you’re no longer one of them. My friends are not quite so friendly anymore. If someone is late, I’m the one who has to report them. Thankfully no one has been late so far.

  Leo rolled these words around his head:

  —What would you do if they were late? Would you report them?

  —I just keep telling them every evening, don’t be late.

  No, in other words, his father would not report them. He’d probably already overlooked a couple of cases. Right now wasn’t the time to warn him, but that kind of generosity was liable to be found out.

  In the kitchen a head of cabbage was bubbling in a copper pot of water. His parents were in the middle of preparing golubsty and Leo told them to carry on, they could talk in the kitchen. He stood back and watched as his father mixed together mince (fresh meat, not dried, possible only because of Leo’s job), fresh grated carrots (once again possible only because of him), and cooked rice. His mother set about peeling the color-drained leaves from the cooked cabbage head. His parents knew something was wrong and waited, without prompting, for Leo to begin. He was glad they were busy with the food:

  —We’ve never spoken much about my work. That’s for the best. There have been times when I’ve found my job difficult. I’ve done things of which I’m not proud but which were always necessary.

  Leo paused, trying to work out how best to proceed. He asked:

  —Have any of your acquaintances been arrested?

  The question was awkward, Leo appreciated that. Stepan and Anna glanced at each other before carrying on with the food, no doubt glad to have something to do. Anna shrugged:

  —Everyone knows someone who’s been arrested. But we don’t question it. I say to myself: you officers are the ones with the evidence. I know only what I see of people and it is very easy to appear to be nice and normal and loyal. It is your job to see past that. You know what’s best for this country. It is not for people like us to judge.

  Leo nodded, adding:

  —This country has many enemies. Our revolution is hated around the world. We must protect it. Unfortunately even from ourselves.

  He paused. He hadn’t come here to repeat State rhetoric. His parents stopped working, turning to face their son, their fingers sticky with oils from the mince:

  —Yesterday I was asked to denounce Raisa. My superior officers believe she’s a traitor. They believe she’s a spy working for a foreign agency. I’ve been ordered to investigate.

  A single drop of oil dripped from Stepan’s finger onto the floor. He stared at the drop of grease and then asked:

  —Is she a traitor?

  —Father, she’s a schoolteacher. She works. She comes home. She works. She comes home.

  —Then tell them that.
Is there any evidence? Why do they even think such a thing?

  —There’s the confession of an executed spy. He named her. He claimed he’d worked with her. But I know that confession is a lie. I know that the spy was in reality nothing more than a vet. We made a mistake in arresting him. I believe his confession to be the fabrication of another officer trying to implicate me. I know my wife is innocent. The whole thing is an act of revenge.

  Stepan wiped his hands clean on Anna’s apron:

  —Tell them the truth. Make them listen. Expose this officer. You are in a position of authority.

  —This confession, whether fabricated or not, has been accepted as the truth. It’s an official document and her name is on it. If I defend Raisa I’m contesting the validity of a State document. If they admit one is flawed then they admit all of them are. They cannot go back. The repercussions would be enormous. It would mean all confessions were up for question.

  —Can you not say that this spy—this vet—was mistaken?

  —Yes. That is what I intend to do. But if I make a case and they don’t believe me, then not only will they arrest her, they will arrest me too. If she is guilty and I’ve claimed she’s innocent then I am guilty too. That isn’t all. I know how these matters play out. There’s a very strong chance that they will arrest both of you. Part of the judicial code targets any family members of a convicted criminal. We’re guilty by association.

  —And if you denounce her?

  —I don’t know.

  —Yes you do.

  —We’ll survive. She won’t.

  The water was still bubbling on the stove. At last Stepan spoke:

  —You’re here because you’re unsure what to do. You’re here because you’re a good man and you want us to tell you to do the right thing, the decent thing. You want us to give you the right advice. Which would be to tell them that they’re wrong, to tell them that Raisa is innocent? And to brave the consequences that come from that?

  —Yes.

  Stepan nodded, looking at Anna. After a moment he added:

  —But I can’t give you that advice. And I’m not sure you believed I would give you that advice. How can I? The truth is, I want my wife to live. I want my son to live. And I want to live. I would do whatever it takes to ensure that. As I understand the situation, it is one life for three. I’m sorry. I know that you expected more of me. But we’re old, Leo. We wouldn’t survive the Gulags. We’d be separated. We’d die alone.

  —And if you were young what would your advice be then?

  Stepan nodded:

  —You’re right. My advice would be the same. But don’t be angry with me. What did you expect when you came here? Did you expect us to say fine, we don’t mind dying? And what purpose would our deaths serve? Would your wife be saved? Would you live happily together? If that had been the case I would gladly have given up my life for the two of you. But that isn’t what would happen. All that would happen is that we’d die—all of us, all four of us—but you’d die knowing that you’d done the right thing.

  Leo looked at his mother. Her face was as pale as the lank cabbage leaves she held in her hand. She was quite calm. She didn’t contradict Stepan, asking instead:

  —When do you have to decide?

  —I have two days to gather evidence. Then I must report back.

  His parents continued with the preparation of dinner, wrapping mince in the cabbage leaves, laying them side by side in a baking tray like a row of thick, dismembered thumbs. No one spoke until the tray was full. Stepan asked:

  —You’ll eat with us?

  Following his mother into the living room Leo saw that there were already three place settings:

  —You’re expecting a guest?

  —We’re expecting Raisa.

  —My wife?

  —She’s coming for dinner. When you knocked on the door we thought you were her.

  Anna laid a fourth plate on the table, explaining:

  —She comes almost every week. She didn’t want you to know how lonely she finds it, eating with only the radio for company. We’ve become very fond of her.

  It was true that Leo was never home from work at seven. A culture of long working days had been fostered by Stalin, an insomniac, who would take no more than four hours of sleep a night. Leo had heard that no one in the Politburo was permitted to leave until the lights of Stalin’s study were turned off, normally sometime past midnight. Though this rule didn’t apply exactly to the Lubyanka, similar levels of dedication were expected. Few officers worked anything less than ten-hour days even if several of those hours were spent doing nothing at all.

  There was a knock. Stepan opened the door, allowing Raisa into the hallway. She was as surprised as his parents to see him. Stepan explained:

  —He was working nearby. For once we can eat together as a family.

  She undid her jacket, which Stepan took from her. She stepped forward, close to Leo, looking him up and down:

  —Whose clothes are these?

  Leo glanced at the trousers, the shirt—these dead men’s clothes.

  —I borrowed them—from work.

  Raisa leaned closer, whispering in Leo’s ear:

  —The shirt smells.

  Leo moved toward the bathroom. At the door he glanced back, watching as Raisa helped his parents with the table.

  Leo had grown up without running hot water. His parents had shared their old apartment with his father’s uncle and his family. There had been only two bedrooms, one for each family. The apartment had no inside toilet or bathroom; the occupants of the building had to use outdoor facilities which were without hot water. In the morning the queues were long, and in the winter snow would fall on them while they waited. A private sink full of hot water would’ve been an impossible luxury, a dream. Leo stripped off the shirt, washing himself. Finished, he opened the door, asking his father if he could borrow a shirt. Though his father’s body was work-worn—stooped and shaped by the assembly line as surely as the tank shells that had been shaped by him—he was of a roughly similar frame to his son, a strong build with broad, muscular shoulders. The shirt was a close enough fit.

  Changed, Leo sat down to eat. While the golubsty finished baking in the oven they had zakuski, plates of pickles, mushroom salad, and for each of them a thin slice of veal tongue cooked with marjoram, left to cool in gelatin and served with horseradish. It was an exceptionally generous spread. Leo couldn’t help but stare at it, calculating the cost of each dish. Whose death had paid for that marjoram? Had that slice of tongue been bought with Anatoly Brodsky’s life? Feeling sick, he remarked:

  —I can see why you come here every week.

  Raisa smiled:

  —Yes. They spoil me. I tell them kasha would be fine but—

  Stepan interjected:

  —It’s an excuse to spoil ourselves.

  Trying to sound casual, Leo asked his wife:

  —You come here straight after work?

  —That’s right.

  That was a lie. She’d gone somewhere with Ivan first. But before Leo could consider it further, Raisa corrected herself:

  —That’s not true. Normally I come here straight after work. But tonight I had an appointment which is why I’m a little late.

  —An appointment?

  —With the doctor.

  Raisa began to smile:

  —I’d meant to tell you when we were on our own, but since it has come up . . .

  —Tell me what?

  Anna stood up:

  —Would you like us to leave?

  Leo gestured for his mother to be seated.

  —Please. We’re family. No secrets.

  —I’m pregnant.

  20 FEBRUARY

  LEO COULDN’T SLEEP. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow breathing of his wife, her back pressed against his side not out of any deliberate expression of intimacy but through chance movements. She was an unsettled sleeper. Was that enough reason to denounce her? He knew it wa
s. He knew how it could be written up:

  Unable to rest easy, troubled by her dreams: my wife is clearly tormented by some secret.

  He could pass responsibility for the investigation to another person. He could kid himself that he was deferring judgment. He was too close, too involved. But any such investigation would only come to one conclusion. The case had been opened. No one else would position against a presumption of guilt.

  Leo got out of bed and stood by the living room window, which had a view not of the city but of the apartment block opposite. A wall of windows with only three lights on, three out of a thousand or so, and he wondered what worries were troubling the occupants, what was keeping them from sleeping. He felt an odd kind of companionship with those three squares of pale yellow light. It was four in the morning, arresting hour—the best time to seize a person, to grab them from their sleep. They were vulnerable, disoriented. Unguarded comments made as officers swarmed into their homes were often used against suspects in their interrogations. It was not easy to be prudent when your wife was being dragged across the floor by her hair. How many times had Leo smashed a door open with the sole of his boot? How many times had he watched as a married couple were pulled from their bed, flashlights shone in their eyes and up their nightclothes? How many times had he heard the sound of an officer laughing at the sight of someone’s genitals? How many people had he pulled from their beds? How many apartments had he torn apart? And what of the children he’d held back as the parents were taken away? He couldn’t remember. He’d blocked it out: the names, the faces. An indistinct memory served him well. Had he cultivated it? Had he taken amphetamines not to work longer hours but to erode the memories of that work?