Love in Revolution (28 page)

Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja
.

I said, ‘Who is he?’

Leon winced, and gestured at me to keep my voice down. He murmured, ‘To get you out of the country. Go and find him – be careful, you’ll probably be followed when you leave the prison – and tell him who you are. He runs people over the border. God knows, he owes me enough favours . . .’

‘Leon . . . are you sure –’ My throat clogged up and ached. ‘I mean . . . there really isn’t
any
chance . . . ?’

Leon sighed, shook his head. ‘There’s nothing you can do, or me. But sometimes . . . Listen, Esteya. You should leave. I know that’s the right thing for you to do. Mama and Papa and Martin are almost certainly dead, or will be soon . . .’ His voice was matter-of-fact, but he broke off and ran his hand over his face. ‘Maybe there’ll be a miracle. But that’s no reason for you to stay and get arrested yourself. Do you understand? It’s horrible, and I’m sorry. But any kind of heroics would be suicidally stupid.’

I nodded. I knew already that he was right; I just wished he wasn’t.

‘My brave little sister,’ Leon said, and tried to smile.

For a second he looked like Martin. I felt grief punch into me. I looked down, staring at the address, pronouncing the words silently in my head, trying to distract myself:
Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja
. I said, ‘I don’t know where that is.’

Leon leant forward without saying anything, and drew a rough map. ‘It’s easy,’ he said. He added writing:
Behind what used to be the Royal Parade. Big building, all apartments. Ask him if he remembers his grandfather’s shed, when he kept contraband vodka in it.

I nodded again. I wanted to think of more questions. I remembered how when I was small and Papa was helping me with my homework, I’d pretend to be stupider than I was, to delay the moment when he sent me away. He was always surprised when I got good marks at school.

‘Leon . . . would they really stop you, if you tried to leave?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and even though the silence went on and on he didn’t add anything else. In the corridor I heard footsteps, a quiet, cut-off laugh, and the clunk of a metal chair as someone sat down on it.

‘Esteya . . . you should go. If you go now, he might get you out by tonight, or tomorrow morning.’

‘
Tonight?
’ I hadn’t realised it would be so soon.

‘Have you got this by heart?’ He pointed at the paper.

‘Yes – but –’

Leon picked it up and put it into his mouth, grimacing as he chewed. Black ink ran and stained the corners of his lips. He looked at me and grinned, shaking his head. ‘Yum yum.’

For a second he was Martin again. I couldn’t speak. I suppose something must have shown on my face, because Leon’s grin died, and he chewed and spat the grey pulp of paper into a bucket in the corner of the room. Then he came and put his arms round me, the way he had when I first walked into the room. It made me feel strange – as if we were going to start again, say and do everything again, exactly the same.

Leon gave me a final squeeze and then pushed me away, holding me by the shoulders to look into my face. He said, ‘You remember the address?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re – you’ll be all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘No heroics. Promise me, Esteya. For Mama and Papa and Martin. Promise me you’ll survive, no matter what.’ The way he said it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think clearly.

‘Yes.’

‘Good girl.’ He kissed my forehead, the way Papa would have done; and then punched me lightly on the arm, the way Martin would have done. It was as if he heard the thought; he screwed up his face and added, ‘Call your first son Martin.’

I stared at him, and a bubble of misery rose and burst in my throat.

‘Don’t cry.’

‘I’m not crying.’

He gave me a long look, and smiled. It was a warm, generous, affectionate smile, as if he wasn’t keeping anything in reserve. I wished I had a camera; but then, he’d never smile like that for a photo.

‘Go on. Stop dithering.’

‘Yes.’ I went on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The skin was rough and smelt sour, and I paused for a split second, breathing in the odour, not wanting to let go of him. ‘Goodbye, Leon.’ I turned away, and banged on the door. I heard Leon move behind me – I think he went to his desk and sat down – but I didn’t look; and when the guard opened the door and stepped aside to let me pass, I left the room without a backward glance, because I was afraid that if I looked back I wouldn’t be able to leave.

Sometimes I dream about that moment. I dream I’m back in the cell, just after I’ve kissed Leon goodbye, and the guard opens the door to let me out. And in spite of myself I
do
turn to look at him, wanting to know for sure whether he’s at his desk, or at the window, or leaning his forehead against the wall with tears streaming down his face. In the dream, I’m glad I’m going to look – that when I leave I can take the image with me, that I’ll always know exactly what he was doing, the moment when I walked out of his cell for the last time.

And I turn and look, and he’s gone. The cell is empty, and suddenly I know the only person in the prison is me.

Sixteen

Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja
.

The guards did search me, half-heartedly. Their hands lingered on my buttocks and breasts, and the one who checked my pockets stood too close and breathed the smell of tobacco into my face; but they didn’t check my socks or my underwear or the fold of my collar. Their hands didn’t bother me. I thought they could have undressed me and pushed me up against a wall and I wouldn’t have felt anything. I stood there like stone, not caring what they did, and after a while they lost interest, or realised that I wasn’t hiding anything. When they stopped, I said, ‘Can I go now?’ as if I was at school talking to a nun, and they looked away, shrugging their shoulders.

Leon had told me to be careful in case I was followed, so I left the prison and turned at random, walking the streets without taking any notice of where I was going. When I looked over my shoulder there was someone there – a dumpy woman with a shopping basket – and she stayed a street-length behind me, never catching up or dropping behind. I imagined a whole army of followers waiting at the prison, ready to nip out at a moment’s notice to track whoever seemed interesting. I felt a rush of anger, mixed with a kind of amusement: no wonder the country was so badly run, with so much energy and manpower spent this way. I wanted to call out to her, but I’d promised Leon no heroics. Instead I sped up, ducked round a corner into an alleyway, then sprinted to the other end of it and round into another alley that led to a wide quiet street. I paused, listening, and eventually heard the woman breathing heavily as she jogged a little way into the alley and then stopped and stood still, looking for me. She waited there for a long time – until I was almost sure she’d gone and I was imagining the rasp of her breath – and then I heard her footsteps go back the way she’d come, and a muttered stream of obscenity that got fainter and fainter. I took a deep breath, but I hadn’t been afraid; I was still in a grey, numb haze.

I kept walking. I wanted to put off going to Eli Apal for as long as possible; while I was still wandering aimlessly, I could tell myself that there was still time to change my mind, to go and pound on the doors of every prison, asking for Mama and Papa and Martin. Or I could go to the guards’ headquarters at home, and give myself up. I felt myself smiling, without amusement, at the thought of what Leon would say.
Promise me you’ll survive, no matter what.

And suddenly I realised what it was, that had niggled at me, when he’d said that.

Skizi. He’d reminded me of Skizi. As if she – as if her ghost – was speaking to me through his mouth, loving and fierce. As if I would be betraying her, as well as Leon, if I stayed.

Call your first son Martin
. . .

I thought, I
might
have children, one day. I
might
have a son called Martin.

I shut my eyes, and pictured the map Leon had drawn me.

The building, when I finally found it, was a great soot-darkened apartment block, with balconies and shutters that had been grand, once. Now the windows were covered in cataracts of grime, and the stagnant air that met me as I opened the main door was damp and rancid. Outside the air was cool, with a cold bite to it when the breeze blew; but inside it was icy, and I started to shiver the moment I crossed the threshold. It occurred to me for the first time that I’d have to cross the mountains, and it was October already, and there’d be snow. I clenched my teeth together to stop them rattling, and went down the dark little passageway to find the door to 2a.

I paused at the end, where the corridor turned a corner, and tried to read the plaque on the door in front of me. The light was thick and murky, like a soup you wouldn’t want to eat. 3a. I looked round, wondering if I’d gone past it, or if the numbers weren’t in the right order.

A door opened at the far end of the passage, and a young couple hurried out, the woman tucking something into a little leather purse. The man was laughing nervously, in a kind of loose, hysterical voice, and the woman pushed him on the shoulder, propelling him down the corridor towards me. She said, in a low voice, ‘Shut up! Let’s go. If we don’t make it to the car in time –’ Her voice had an odd kind of lilt, as if she was putting on an accent. It resonated in the narrow space and made my stomach clench.

‘All right, all right! I’m just . . . God, I hope he’s straight, don’t you? Or –’

‘Shut
up
!’ She hurried after him, clumsy in her high heels. She was wearing a flimsy dress with a red handkerchief around her neck, and her hair was so dark it blended in with the shadows.

The man stumbled past me, still with that hiccupping laugh bubbling in his throat. He was younger than I had first thought; hardly older than me. He had the same impossibly black hair as the girl, and I wondered if they were brother and sister. I didn’t move, and he didn’t seem to notice me. He was very pale, with beads of moisture on his forehead, and he smelt of sweat and anxiety. He got to the doorway and turned to call to her. ‘Esta!’

For an odd, dislocated moment I thought he was calling my name; then she said, ‘Yes, coming,’ and I realised it was hers. She was standing in the corridor, peering through the dimness. I started to follow her gaze; then I realised she was staring at me. I couldn’t see her properly, but there was something in the way she was standing, the angle of her shoulders . . .

She opened her mouth, and said something; but the boy called again, ‘
Esta!
’ and whatever she said was lost in the echo.

I said, ‘Go away. Go.’ My voice was small and childish. I didn’t know why I felt so strange, so quivery and afraid; but there was something about her. She reminded me –

She took a little step backwards, then forwards again, wobbling on her high heels as if she wasn’t used to them. I despised her for her dress, her jet-black hair, the lipstick that was like a bruise in the dim light. She looked like she slept with Party members for black-market nylons.

The boy called, ‘Esta! For God’s sake, we have to go, the car is goi–’ He seemed to notice me finally, and broke off. He lowered his voice, even though she was further away from him than I was. ‘
Esta
. Come right
now
. Or I’ll go without you.’

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She’d gone white, a white that gleamed through the shadows like ivory. She said, ‘All right, Jack, I’m coming.’ She tottered towards me, and I caught a whiff of cheap perfume. Something turned over inside me as she went past.

I heard them go out, and realised I’d been holding my breath. I let it out slowly; but then I heard her heels clacking in the doorway, coming back. When I turned, she was outlined against the light, the shape of her legs showing through her dress. She called something to me, but the echoes blurred the consonants and I wasn’t sure what she’d said. Something beginning with M . . . She called again – the same thing – and I realised that it was a name. Marina? Miren? Madeleine. She was calling to me because she thought I was someone else.

She started to say something, but the boy shouted at her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her out into the street, and I turned away. No wonder she’d stared at me like that. I wondered who Madeleine had been, and when she’d disappeared, and why.

But the encounter had shaken me. The girl’s voice seemed to ring in my ears, singing like a glass about to break.
Madeleine
. . . I trailed my hand along the wall, in case I lost my balance, and stood trembling in front of the door marked 2a. In the end I had to knock three times before it was hard enough to make a noise.

After I’d knocked I stood there for a long time, hearing shuffling from behind the door. Finally it opened a crack, jerking against a chain, and half a brown, leathery face peered at me through the gap. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you Eli Apal?’

‘No,’ he said, and started to close the door.