A Lonely and Curious Country

by Matthew Carpenter

  I felt faint. The air was too stuffy in here.

  “Kil-ler! He trembled at the sound of her voice. “Go down to the water and get the baby. Time to feed her.”

  “That’s okay,” I was backing away now. “I really need to be getting back. My daughter’s not feeling well . . . ”

  “Oh yeah, I reckon you better check on your little girlie. Make sure she’s all right. Be certain nothing’s wrong with her.” She stood up with effort and patted her enormous belly with satisfaction. Something moved under her stretched t-shirt. Not moved exactly. Roiled. “I got another li’l bun in the oven, in case you were wondering.” Her head swiveled around toward him, “Killer, don’t make me ask you again.”

  I muttered something about my husband needing me and stumbled for the hallway. The dog, Tiny yelped behind me. I bumped into massive furniture in the darkness and bruised my shins against a low-lying something before I twisted the front door handle and stumbled down the cracked concrete steps to the walkway.

  “That’s right, you better run away,” Mar-Lyna’s voice rose at me like a wave, crashing at my back. “That’s all you was ever good for anyway.”

  I dropped the key trying to open the car door. My legs shook as I crouched down in the sand, fumbling under the car for them. I groped, tearing my hands on weeds until I finally caught the glint of the key ring, grabbed it and stood up so relieved I thought I had wet myself.

  He was standing on the other side of the car.

  “OH. Oh god. Look, I have to go now. Expected back . . . ” I yanked the door open and had slid in, locked the doors, and put the key in the ignition when he tapped on the passenger window. Shaking, I waited a moment and pushed the button to roll the window down a crack. He bent down until his face was level with the opening. His eyes were no longer blue. He was holding one of Tiny’s white puppies under his arm.

  Help me.

  Please.

  Did I only imagine he said this? There was a high tinkling sound like broken glass from the house and he looked back toward it for the space of a pounding heartbeat, stood up, turned and staggered away from the car and across the yard and into the marshes. I thought the dark figure with a white patch under its arm hesitated and turned back toward me again but it was hard to tell. Thank God I couldn’t see his face anymore when he disappeared into the dilapidated shack near the water.

  I put the car firmly into reverse and backed hard out of the drive until I reached the deserted farmhouse and turned around and headed to the hotel. Fly home to the fields of Kansas, far from all salt-water bodies. Home with the man who adored me and our precious little one. My wiggly pink girl. My perfect little fishie.

  As I drove I rubbed the slit opening in the side of my neck and my finger caught on one of the tiny barbs. I yanked my hand away. There was a smear of blood on my fingertip where I’d hooked it.

  I’d always worked so hard to cover that opening with makeup, scarves, hairstyles. It was barely noticeable.

  Please God let her turn out just like her father.

  Please.

  Interrogation

  Damir Salkovic

  The corridor was cold and dark and stank of fear. Dull electric light bathed the iron galleries and rows of grim doors, threw long shadows up the stark white walls. The silence was absolute, funereal. Solovkin watched his feet move across the concrete floor of the passage without making a sound. His mind reeled: it was a mistake, had to be. They would realize it any moment now. Beneath his confusion he could taste fear, bright and hard and metallic, cutting through the daze like a knife.

  The guard in front opened a heavy steel door. Beyond it lay a wide, windowless chamber, its walls and floors covered in stained gray tile. A long wooden table stood halfway across the room, and behind it sat two uniformed men. Before the table was an empty chair. Further back was small desk with a secretary hunched over a typewriter, a metal cart covered by a dirty sheet. Dim, terrible realization dawned on Solovkin, something his bowels understood before his brain did. He felt his legs give way. The guards half-led, half-dragged him across the threshold, dumped him into the chair without ceremony. Behind him the door slammed shut.

  Harsh white light streamed from a naked bulb, blinding him. The faces of the two men were shadows in the painful glare. Solovkin recognized one of them, a tall, slender officer of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs who’d been present at his arrest. The other one was stocky and brutish, with coarse dark hair and a cruel set to his mouth. His huge, scarred fists lay knotted on the table like mallets. His eyes, flat and black and lifeless, stared at Solovkin like the eyes of a shark.

  They had come for him in the dead of night, hammering on the door of his apartment, the ill-lit landing echoing with their shouts. It was an old trick, one Solovkin himself had used with no small success: catch a man off guard, half-asleep and dazed, his mental and physical defenses lowered. He was given ten minutes to dress and pack his belongings. An arrest warrant had been thrust into his face. Before he knew what was happening, he was in the back of a huge black car, roaring through the sleeping Moscow streets. Then the prison, a vast, sprawling nightmare of brick and concrete, bristling with searchlights and machine gun towers. That had been days or months ago: time slowed to a trickle in the mute, shapeless darkness of the cell. No one had spoken to him until the two guards came and ordered him to get up and follow. He hadn’t dared ask where they were taking him, afraid of the cell door closing again, of the thick, viscous silence that descended like a shroud, shutting out the world.

  “Smoke, Comrade?” The tall interrogator pushed a crumpled pack across the table. Solovkin thanked him and reached for it with a trembling hand. The wood of the chair dug into his back. He lit a cigarette with the proffered lighter, feeling the eyes of the men on him. “My name is Malenkov and this is Commissar Kazakov. We have been commissioned to question you about the events leading to your arrest.” The pack vanished into an inner coat pocket. Malenkov leaned back in his seat. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “There has been a mistake, Comrades.” It took Solovkin tremendous effort to keep his voice steady. His gaze betrayed him, crept to the covered metal cart. Terror rose in him like an icy tide: he knew what lay beneath the stained sheet, had used it himself more times than he cared to remember. “I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter. I’m the deputy head of the Special Tasks Section, not a-”

  “Surely you don’t think we don’t know who you are, Vitaly Dmitrovich.” Malenkov chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. He rummaged through the thick folder before him. “A decorated veteran of the Great War and a stalwart of the Revolution. Before joining the Special Tasks Section, you served as acting chief of the Seventh Directorate. Your exploits in the fight against the enemies of the people, at home and abroad, are legendary. You’re something of a hero in the Commissariat. One of the Old Guard.” He put the folder down and steepled his hands under his chin. “This makes your betrayal all the more baffling.”

  Solovkin fumbled for words, but found none. Malenkov’s eyes bored into his, glinting with cold amusement. “You claim your arrest is a mistake. Very well. It might be so. Think carefully before you answer. Where were you in October last year?”

  A knot of hope and anticipation tightened in Solovkin’s chest; his mind grasped at it like a drowning man at a straw. “I was in Paris, on assignment. I stayed at-”

  “-the Hotel Quai Voltaire.” Malenkov was skimming over a tightly typed page. The expression on his face was suddenly stern; Solovkin felt the glimmer of hope die out. “Attending a trade exposition. Your cover was that of a publishing house representative. What was the nature of this assignment?”

  “It’s in my report.” The light hurt Solovkin’s eyes. From somewhere behind the table came the distant clatter of a typewriter. “We – the Section – received orders to find and eliminate Konrad Odinets, a former White officer and reactionary ringleader. I went to Paris to gather intelligence and coordinate the operation.”
>
  “How did that go?”

  “It was a failure,” Solovkin said. “An agent was assigned to visit the target in his quarters and kill him with a cyanide bullet. Somehow Odinets must have gotten wind of it. He fled the city, took the overnight train to Marseilles. I dispatched two men to find him there, but they were unsuccessful.”

  “I see.” Malenkov pretended to study the file again. “According to this report, on the third day of the exposition you met with a Finn by the name of Vartiainen. An antiquarian from Helsinki.”

  “As you said. It’s all in the report. I met with him to preserve my cover”

  “He gave you a package. What was in it?”

  “Yes.” Solovkin could hear the tremor in his voice. The other Commissar’s silence was beginning to unnerve him. “A rare copy of Philidor’s Analysis of the Game of Chess, published in Paris fifty years ago.”

  “Come now.” The thin man gave him a reproachful look. He reached under the table and brought out an old, leather-bound volume, the covers lettered in gold. “We found the book while searching your apartment. It is of no interest to us. We want you to tell us what you did with the letters.”

  “Letters?” The walls seemed to close in on Solovkin. “I don’t know anything about any letters.”

  “This Vartiainen,” Malenkov said, as if the prisoner hadn’t spoken, “is an enemy agent, in league with reactionary immigrant groups. He used you to transport ciphered messages to subversives and criminal elements within our borders. We want to know the names of his contacts here, in Moscow.”

  “There were no letters,” Solovkin said blankly. The words sounded like they came from the mouth of a stranger. A horrible uncertainty seized him for a moment. What if Malenkov was right? Nonsense, utter nonsense: he knew how the game was played. This was what they were taught to do – instill confusion, try to get the suspect to contradict himself, to question his own sanity. How many times had he sat on the other side of the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring at the condemned with cold, calculating eyes? “There are no contacts.”

  “He’s lying,” said the thick-shouldered Kazanov. His voice was very even, void of accent or inflection. He leaned back in his seat and laced his massive hands across his stomach. “The bastard is sitting in front of us, lying to our faces.”

  Malenkov shot an annoyed look at his comrade, turned back to Solovkin. “Do you know a man named Bogatsky? Mikhail Bogatsky?”

  “He was second-in-command of the foreign intelligence branch.”

  “Was?”

  “He was arrested and executed for treasonable conspiracy.”

  “Indeed.” Malenkov nodded and shuffled papers. “In his confession, the accused Bogatsky stated that he maintained contact with counter-revolutionary terror groups in Berlin, Warsaw and Helsinki. That he used his influence and position to betray state secrets to foreign powers through a network of dissidents and exiles. That he assisted them in planning assassinations. Are you aware of this?”

  “I am aware.” Solovkin rubbed his temple. His mouth was suddenly very dry. A sinking realization settled into the pit of his stomach with frigid certainty: he would never leave the prison alive. He was the one who had dictated the confession to Bogatsky. He recalled how the old man’s hands shook while signing the statement, the desperate terror in those watery blue eyes. Another one of the Old Guard. It had taken Solovkin less than a week to break the former Directorate chief; he wondered how long he would last.

  “ Two reactionaries arrested last week named Vartiainen as Bogatsky’s man in Helsinki.” The Commissar crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “According to them, you acted as the courier, delivered correspondence from abroad to the leader of a secret counter-revolutionary cell in this city. Who is this man?”

  “This is absurd,” Solovkin said, knowing all was lost. The trap had been laid with great skill. If he tried to confute Bogatsky’s confession, they would accuse him of putting an innocent man to death to cover his tracks. If he didn’t, he would be admitting his guilt.

  “There’s no use denying it.”

  “There is no man.” He stared at the drab floor tiles. A dark, rusty stain had seeped into the grout, into the tiny cracks. “I’m telling you, I never-”

  The blow caught him unawares, knocking him off the chair. For a man of his bulk, Kazanov moved like a panther. Shadows gathered in the corners of Solovkin’s consciousness. Malenkov’s voice reached him from a vast distance: … restraint… handled delicately… well-known figure. A great hand picked him up, deposited him back into his seat with a boneless thump. The pain came in a dull bolt, almost an afterthought. He was vaguely aware of the cut above his eye, the warm stickiness crawling down the side of his head.

  “We’ll have none of that,” he heard Malenkov say. A noncommittal grunt came in response. The blur before Solovkin shifted, resolved into the faces of his interrogators. “Why do you so stubbornly maintain your innocence? We know you’re not a subversive at heart. It is the belief of the Commissariat that you have been manipulated by the criminal reactionary movement. You can be reformed.”

  Solovkin shook his throbbing head. To his right, the troll-like form of the hulking Kazanov hovered on the fringe of his vision. Malenkov sighed and rubbed his eyes.

  “Is it ready?”

  Behind the interrogators, a metal chair scraped across the floor. Footsteps approached and receded. Solovkin kept his stare riveted to the scratched surface of the table. It was an awful dream; any moment he would wake up, away from the interrogation room, from the hideous silence of the prison.

  A typewritten page was thrust in front of him. He tried to read it, but his mind refused to make sense of the words. References to clandestine meetings, unfamiliar places, names he didn’t recognize. A drop of blood fell from his cheek to the paper, a red circle spreading across the whiteness.

  “Sign the statement,” Malenkov said, pushing a pen across the table. The tall man’s countenance was weary and sallow; dark shadows ringed his eyes. “It’s an admission of guilt, concocted to minimize your culpability in the affair. Ten years at most, but you can get amnesty in one or two.” The Commissar’s tone was businesslike. He rapped his fingers on the tabletop. Solovkin sat with the pen poised over the page for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he looked up and placed the pen to the side.

  “As you wish.” Malenkov shrugged his shoulders. Kazanov took a menacing step forward, but his companion waved him away. A bell rang in the depths of the endless corridor beyond the door, and within minutes two prison guards appeared in the room. Solovkin was escorted down the dark passageway, through the great circular galleries, back to his cell. Thoughts roiled in his head, each one more dismal than the next. He didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep, but exhaustion overcame him as soon as he settled on the hard, uncomfortable cot, and his sleep was full of nightmares.

  ***

  In his dream he sat behind a chessboard in a vast, shadowy hall, its walls melding with the darkness. Across the board sat a tall figure, pale-skinned and gaunt and swathed in black robes. Its long, bony fingers flickered over the black and white squares with uncanny speed. Solovkin couldn’t make out his opponent’s face amid the shifting shadows; its contours seemed to meld and change with each shift of the flickering light. The only thing that didn’t change was its grin, huge and frightful: a hungry grin, looming in the darkness like the crescent of a diseased moon. The teeth in the grin were like a shark’s, folding back from the gums in double rows, too many to count. Bone-deep cold sank into Solovkin’s flesh; he was thankful for the shadows that hid the rest of that hideous face. Dream or no dream, he suspected the sight might drive him mad.

  Frozen as his mind was with fear, his fingers danced across the chessboard with unusual confidence and cunning, seemingly playing the game on their own. The dark man played with blacks, cackling and tittering after every move, regardless of the outcome. At times his actions appeared erratic and haphazard; yet no matter how well
Solovkin plotted his tactics and developed his position, his opponent remained a step or two ahead of him, weaving a tangle of moves and countermoves, the mad, glassy smile never wavering. Slowly the realization that he was going to lose dawned on Solovkin with chilling certainty. His second thought, groundless but persistent, was that there was more to the game than met the eye, that he was playing for the highest stakes imaginable.

  A black knight blundered into the right file, leaving the middle exposed. Solovkin saw through the gambit and riposted deftly. The cackling ceased; Solovkin thought he could see the dark man’s eyes now, dull red embers glowing in the shadowed face. The robed figure leaned forward, grin twisted into a grimace, skeletal fingers grasping the sides of the chessboard. Sick, baking heat came off it in waves. Silence held for a moment; then the creature threw its head back and hooted with laughter.

  “Excellent.” The dark man’s voice was the whistle of wind across a corpse-strewn battlefield. He shook and clapped his hands with mirth. A black piece slid across the board without making contact with the pale, thin fingers. “You’re a crafty player, Vitaly Dmitrovich. But how many moves do you have left?”

  Solovkin stared at the board, a furrow of concentration etched between his brows. He launched a counteroffensive, but his opponent evaded, ever a maddening step or two out of reach.

  “The game draws to a close,” the dark man said, shaking his head. For a moment the room took on the shape of Solovkin’s cell, wavered, dissolved once more into dimensionless shadow. “A pity. All for a handful of letters.”

  “I already told you,” said Solovkin through clenched teeth. “There were no letters.”

  “That’s of no importance.” It was Malenkov’s voice issuing from the man’s black lips. The tiny figures on the chessboard came alive, writhing in mute agony. “Your guilt has already been decided. By refusing to sign your confession, you’re preventing justice from taking its course. You’re a bourgeois parasite, a scab and a traitor to the Motherland.”