Child 44 (12 page)

—Thank you.

—Perhaps you’d like to get on with the examination?

She screwed the lid back on the jar, leaving it on the side and stepping towards the bedroom. He didn’t move.

—I’d like to finish my tea first. There’s no rush.

She was forced to return. Zarubin pursed his lips and blew across the surface. The tea was hot and sweet. She was flustered. He was enjoying making her wait.

The windowless bedroom was hot, the air stale. Zarubin knew from the smell alone that the man lying in bed was ill. To his surprise he felt something like disappointment. Pondering what underlay this feeling he sat down on the bed, beside Leo. He took his temperature. It was high but not dangerously so. He listened to Leo’s chest. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Leo wasn’t suffering from tuberculosis. There were no indications that this was anything more than a cold. Raisa stood beside him, watching. The doctor could smell soap on her hands. He liked being this close to her. He took a brown glass bottle from his bag and measured out a spoonful of thick green liquid.

—Please lift his head.

She helped her husband into a sitting position. Zarubin tipped the liquid down his throat. Once he’d swallowed she lowered Leo’s head onto the pillow.

—What was that for?

—It’s a tonic–to help him sleep.

—He needs no help with that.

The doctor didn’t reply. He couldn’t be bothered to think up a lie. The drug administered in the guise of a medicine was in fact the doctor’s own creation: a combination of a barbiturate, a hallucinogenic and, to disguise the taste, flavoured sugar syrup. Its purpose was to incapacitate the body and mind. Administered orally, in less than an hour the muscles went first–becoming slack, relaxed to the point where even the slightest movement felt like unimaginable hard work. The hallucinogenic kicked in shortly after.

An idea had taken hold of Zarubin: it had taken shape in the kitchen when Raisa had blushed and crystallized into a plan the moment he’d smelt soap on her hands. If he reported that Leo wasn’t sick, that he was faking his leave of absence, then he would almost certainly be arrested and interrogated. With all the other doubts surrounding his behaviour there would be a heavy weight of suspicion. He’d most probably be imprisoned. His wife, his beautiful wife, would end up alone and vulnerable. She’d be in need of an ally. Zarubin’s status within the State Security forces matched or even surpassed Leo’s and he felt sure he could offer an acceptable, comfortable alternative. Zarubin was married but he could take her as a mistress. He was convinced that Raisa’s survival instinct was highly tuned. Yet all things considered there might be a less complicated way of getting what he wanted. He stood up.

—Can we speak in private?

In the kitchen, Raisa crossed her arms. There was a furrow in her brow–a tiny crinkle in her otherwise perfect pale skin. Zarubin wanted to run his tongue along it.

—Will my husband be OK?

—He’s suffering from a fever. And I would be prepared to say that.

—You would be prepared to say what?

—I’d be prepared to say that he was genuinely sick.

—He is genuinely sick. You just said so yourself.

—Do you understand why I’m here?

—Because you’re a doctor and my husband is ill.

—I’ve been sent to discover if your husband is genuinely ill or if he’s merely trying to avoid work.

—But it’s obvious that he’s sick. Doctor or not, anyone could see that.

—Yes, but I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who decides. And they’ll believe what I say.

—Doctor, you just said he was sick. You said he was suffering from a fever.

—And I would be prepared to say that, on the record, if you were prepared to sleep with me.

Remarkably she didn’t even blink. No visible reaction. Her coolness made Zarubin want her even more. He continued:

—It would only be once, of course, unless you took a fancy to me, in which case it could continue. We could come to some arrangement: you’d be rewarded with whatever you wanted, within reason. The point is that no one need ever know.

—And if I said no?

—I would say that your husband was a liar. I would say that he was desperate to avoid work for reasons unknown to me. I would recommend that he be investigated.

—They wouldn’t believe you.

—Are you sure of that? The suspicion is already there. All it needs is a slight push from me.

Taking her silence as acceptance of his offer, Zarubin stepped towards her tentatively pressing a hand against her leg. She didn’t move. They could have sex in the kitchen. No one would know. Her husband wouldn’t wake. She could moan with pleasure, she could make as much noise as she liked.

Raisa glanced sideways, disgusted, unsure what to do. Zarubin’s hand slid down her leg.

—Don’t worry. Your husband is fast asleep. He won’t disturb us. We won’t disturb him.

His hand moved under her skirt.

—You might even enjoy it. Many other women have.

He was so close she could smell his breath. He leaned towards her, his lips parting, his yellow teeth nearing her as though she were an apple he was about to bite into. She pushed past him. He grabbed her wrist.

—Ten minutes is hardly a high price to pay for the life of your husband. Do it for him.

He pulled her closer, his grip tightening.

Suddenly he let go, raising both his hands in the air. Raisa had a knife against his throat.

—If you’re unsure of my husband’s condition, please inform Major Kuzmin–a good friend of ours–to send another doctor. A second opinion would be most welcome.

The two of them sidestepped around each other, the knife against his neck, until Zarubin backed out of the kitchen. Raisa remained at the entrance to the kitchen, holding the knife at waist height. The doctor took his coat, leisurely putting it on. He picked up his leather bag, opening the front door and squinting as he adjusted to the bright winter sunlight:

—Only children still believe in friends and only stupid children at that.

Raisa stepped forward, snatching his hat from the peg and tossing it at his feet. As he bent down to pick it up she slammed the front door shut.

Hearing him walk away, her hands were shaking. She was still holding the knife. Perhaps she’d given him some reason for thinking she’d sleep with him. She ran the events through her mind: opening the door, smiling at his ridiculous joke, taking his coat, making tea. Zarubin was deluded. There was nothing she could’ve done about that. But maybe she could’ve flirted with his proposition, pretended that she was tempted. Maybe the old fool only needed to think that she was flattered by his advances. She rubbed her brow. She’d handled that badly. They were in danger.

She entered the bedroom and sat down beside Leo. His lips were moving as though in silent prayer. She leaned closer, trying to make sense of his words. They were barely audible, fragments which didn’t match up. He was delirious. He gripped her hand. His skin was clammy. She pulled her hand free and blew the candle out.

Leo was standing in snow, the river before him, Anatoly Brodsky on the opposite side. He’d made it across and was almost at the safety of the forests. Leo stepped after him only to see that under his feet, locked within the thick sheet of ice, were the men and women he’d arrested. He looked left and right–the entire river was filled with their frozen bodies. If he wanted to get to the forests, if he wanted to catch that man, he had to walk over them. With no choice–it was his duty–Leo quickened his pace. But his footsteps seemed to bring the bodies to life. The ice began to melt. The river came alive, writhing. Sinking into a slush Leo now felt faces under his boots. It didn’t matter how fast he ran, they were everywhere, behind, in front. A hand caught his foot–he shook it free. Another hand grabbed his ankle, a second, a third, a fourth. He closed his eyes, not daring to look, waiting to be dragged down.

When Leo opened his eyes he was standing in a drab office. Raisa was beside him, wearing a pale red dress, the dress she’d borrowed from a friend on the day of their wedding, hastily adjusted so that it didn’t look too big on her. In her hair she wore a single white flower picked from the park. He was wearing an ill-fitting grey suit. The suit wasn’t his: he’d borrowed it from a colleague. They were in a rundown office in a rundown government building, standing side by side, in front of a table where a balding man was hunched over paperwork. Raisa presented their documentation and they waited whilst their identities were checked. There were no vows, no ceremony or bouquets of flowers. There were no guests, no tears or well-wishers–there was just the two of them, wearing the best clothes they could manage. No fuss: it was bourgeois to make a fuss. Their only witness, this balding civil servant, entered their details into a thick, well-thumbed ledger. Once the paperwork was completed they were handed a marriage certificate. They were man and wife.

Back at his parents’ old apartment, the place where they’d celebrated their wedding, there were friends, neighbours, all keen to take advantage of the hospitality. Elderly men sang unfamiliar songs. Yet there was something wrong with this memory. There were faces that were cold and hard. Fyodor’s family was here. Leo was still dancing but the wedding had become a funeral. Everyone was staring at him. There was a tap at the window. Leo turned to see the outline of a man, pressed up against the glass. Leo walked towards him, wiping away the condensation. It was Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, a bullet through his head, his jaw smashed, his head battered. Leo stepped back, turned around. The room was now completely empty except for two young girls–Zinoviev’s daughters, dressed in filthy rags. Orphans, their stomachs were swollen, their skin blistered. Lice crawled across their clothes, their eyebrows and in amongst their matted black hair. Leo closed his eyes and shook his head.

Shivering, freezing cold, he opened his eyes. He was underwater and sinking fast. The ice was above him. He tried to swim upwards but the current was pulling him down. There were people on the ice, looking down at him, watching him drown. An intense pain burned in his lungs. Unable to hold his breath, he opened his mouth.

Leo gasped, opening his eyes. Raisa was seated beside him, trying to calm him. He looked around, confused: his mind half in the dream world, half in this one. This was real: he was back in his apartment, back in the present. Relieved, he took hold of Raisa’s hand, whispering in a hurried unbroken stream.

—Do you remember the first time we saw each other? You thought I was rude, staring at you. I got off at the wrong metro stop just to ask your name. And you refused to tell me. But I wouldn’t leave until you did. So you lied and told me your name was Lena. For an entire week all I could talk about was this beautiful woman called Lena. I’d tell everyone, Lena’s so beautiful. When I finally saw you again and convinced you to walk with me I called you Lena the entire time. At the end of the walk I was ready to kiss you and you were only ready to tell me your real name. The next day I told everyone how wonderful this woman Raisa was and everyone laughed at me saying last week it was Lena this week it’s Raisa and next week it’ll be someone else. But it never was. It was always you.

Raisa listened to her husband and wondered at this sudden sentimentality. Where had it come from? Maybe everyone got sentimental when they were sick. She made him lie back and before long he was asleep again. It had been almost twelve hours since Dr Zarubin had left. A slighted, vain old man was a dangerous enemy. To take her mind off her anxieties she made soup–a thick chicken broth with strips of meat, not just boiled vegetables and chicken bones. It bubbled on a slow heat, ready for Leo when he was able to eat again. She stirred the soup, filling a bowl for herself. No sooner had she done so than there was a knock on the door. It was late. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She picked up the knife, the same knife, placing it behind her back before moving closer to the door.

—Who is it?

—It’s Major Kuzmin.

Her hands shaking, she opened the door.

Major Kuzmin was standing outside with his escort, two young, tough-looking soldiers.

—Dr Zarubin has spoken to me.

Raisa blurted out:

—Please, take a look at Leo for yourself—

Kuzmin seemed surprised.

—No, that isn’t necessary. I don’t need to disturb him. I trust the doctor on medical matters. Plus, and don’t think me a coward, I’m fearful of catching his cold.

She couldn’t understand what had happened. The doctor had told the truth. She bit her lip, trying not to let her relief show. The major continued:

—I’ve spoken to your school. I’ve explained that you’ll be taking leave in order to help Leo recover. We need him fit. He’s one of our finest officers.

—He’s lucky to have such concerned colleagues.

Kuzmin waved this comment aside. He gestured at the officer standing beside him. The man was holding a paper bag. He stepped forward, offering it to her.

—This is a gift from Dr Zarubin. So there’s no need to thank me.

Raisa was still holding the knife behind her back. In order to accept the bag she’d need both hands. She slipped the blade down the back of her skirt. Once it was in place she reached forward, accepting the bag, which was heavier than she expected.

—Will you come in?

—Thank you, but it’s late and I’m tired.

Kuzmin bade Raisa goodnight.

She shut the door and walked to the kitchen, putting the bag on the table and taking the knife from the back of her skirt. She opened the bag. It was filled with oranges and lemons, a luxury in a city of food shortages. She shut her eyes, imagining the satisfaction Zarubin was enjoying from her feelings of gratitude, not for the fruit, but for the fact that he’d merely done his job, for the fact that he’d reported that Leo was genuinely sick. The oranges and lemons were his way of saying she should feel indebted to him. Had another whim taken him, he might have had them both arrested. She emptied the bag into the bin. She stared at the bright colours before picking out every piece of fruit. She’d eat his gift. But she refused to cry.