The Vanishing Futurist (19 page)

‘Come with me, I’ll show you. This is the room I kept him in’ – a bare little cell with a tiny window – ‘not comfortable, but clean. And safe. After a week I was washing him and he suddenly looked at me and smiled. “Dear one,” he said, “how tired you look.” I couldn’t believe my ears. His eyes were clear, his speech was a little blurred because he’d bitten his tongue so badly in the fits, but it was calm, reasonable. He had forgotten a great deal, but slowly he began to remember, and to tell me, little by little.’

‘Did he tell you about his machine?’

‘More than that, he began to build it again. As soon as he could get about, he went out by day and gathered materials – bits of scrap metal, this and that. I thought at first he was still crazed, but then I saw him at work, shaping, hammering. He took a broken engine from one of the Army trucks here and fixed it – even those brutes of soldiers were impressed then. I found tools for him in one of the old stores. What he needed was a furnace, but that was impossible. “It doesn’t matter,” he kept saying. “Victory will be ours.” He worked constantly, eighteen hours a day – I couldn’t stop him. He said, “Thank goodness they arrested me. I had no idea before how much there is to do.” He talked to my poor patients. He explained to them about the machine that he was building, and how it would transport us all far away from today into another world, where Communism is possible.

‘I have lived all my life as a nun, but God forgive me, I believe that Communism will come one day . . . and I believed him that his machine could make it possible. Why not? Why not? God will not stand by and watch us all suffer for ever . . .

‘But I worried that he was exhausting himself. I was dreading another attack. Sometimes his mind would wander, and he’d start talking gibberish. All of us are starving, every one of us, but he was so thin – his wrists, his shoulders – and yet he burned with energy. I don’t know. He seemed to have some kind of superhuman strength, just for those weeks. I used to look at his bony back, the shoulderblades that stuck right out through his shirt like wings, and I used to think . . .’ She looked away. ‘Never mind what I thought.

‘He told me about the IRT, about all of you. He was terrified that you had been arrested. He hunted the streets for the papers to check for your names on the lists. He felt that if he made contact with you it would endanger you. They arrested him on charges of plotting counter-Revolution, but he must have had his first fit almost as soon as they took him in, because he couldn’t remember anything about the prison at all. So presumably they dropped the case. Once he went to watch you – to spy on the building from some doorway or other. He came back so sad. I think he was hoping to see someone – perhaps someone who wasn’t there?’

‘Sonya.’ My voice came out strangely. ‘He was hoping to see Sonya. But she died of typhus the week after he was arrested.’

‘Sonya. Yes, he did mention that name when he was ill.’

‘But where is he now, Sister? Our . . . our informer said he didn’t know.’

‘He was telling the truth. We don’t know.’

‘
What
?
’

‘I don’t know where he is. At the end of March I had to make a trip out to the countryside to try to collect food for my patients. We are starving here, I’ve already said. What food I grew last summer ran out and we receive only third-class rations. I left my patients here in Slavkin’s charge; he was not entirely well, I knew, but still – he was the only person I could trust.

‘I came back . . . Oh, forgive me. I came back and that Red Army
filth
had wreaked havoc. They claimed there was trouble and they had to come in to sort it out. I’m willing to bet that any trouble before they arrived was nothing to what they left behind. And Slavkin had gone. He
and
his machine – disappeared.’

‘And . . . and you don’t know where he went?’ I said stupidly.

Without a word, Sister Serafima led us out of the cell and through a dank corridor. At the end was a heavy door with two bolts. ‘Be very calm and quiet,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘These patients are anxious about people they don’t know.’

The sign on the door read ‘Laboratory No. 37’.

‘Good morning,’ said Serafima politely as she swung open the door. ‘I hope we are not disturbing you.’

We stepped inside another long, dark hut. There were many fewer people in here – perhaps a couple of dozen – each sitting on their own, bare pallet. At first the greater order and space seemed to contrast favourably with Lab 36. Then I realised that they were manacled. Many lay motionless, as if barely alive. One man was curled up in the corner, groaning. One, who looked young and strong, was straining at the end of his chain, tugging on it and grunting.

‘Grisha, calm yourself. These patients are chained because they have consistently harmed themselves and others. It is unpleasant to see, but it is the only possible course of action.’ Sister Serafima shrugged. ‘If she is able to talk, one of the patients told me something about Slavkin’s disappearance that perhaps would interest you.’

She led us up to a powerfully built young woman who was sitting on her pallet and gazing blankly out of the window. Very gently, she took the woman’s hand in hers and spoke to her almost in a whisper. ‘Anna, my dear, don’t be afraid.’ The woman looked at her blankly. ‘These are good people, friends of our dear Nikita Gavrilovich. They want to hear about the day he went away. When I was not here. You remember, don’t you, Anna? Be brave and tell.’

Anna’s eyes swivelled and she caught sight of us. She began to whimper and sidle backwards on her bed. Her face had been horribly burnt and was covered in red scar tissue. I could hardly bear her expression of terror. ‘Hush,’ murmured Sister Serafima. ‘Calm yourself.’ And over her shoulder, to us, ‘It’s best not to look at her – look away.’

Pasha and I turned away and gazed down the hut. After a moment a croaky whisper emerged. ‘Are they truly his friends?’

‘Yes. They are searching for him. They love him.’

‘I remember what happened,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I’ll tell them, shall I?’

And so the story of Nikita’s last journey was told, in Anna’s poor, painful voice, while the inmates gazed dully at the ceiling and Grisha grunted and pulled at his chains.

‘It was the day that evil men came in and made misery for us. They said they were coming to help us but then they laughed and hit us and they frightened everyone and they took our food. They took my cloak and laughed and they beat Misha and they—’

‘Shh – you needn’t remember all of that.’

‘Nikita tried to stop the bad men. He stood in front of them and he spoke a long time to them, lots of words, all about his machine and the world and everything. He thought they were friends, but they weren’t friends. They were laughing at him and one of them hit him and he fell over. And then they made fun of him and pushed him and he banged against the wall, and they made him walk about and prodded him with their bayonets. And they said show us this machine then and he took them outside and I heard them say get in and he lay down in it and they did more laughing. And then . . .’ She sat up straight and turned towards us, and very cautiously I looked back at her, keeping my head bowed in case I frightened her again. ‘Then there was a very loud noise, it hurt my ears so much’ – she covered her ears to show us – ‘and shouting. And we didn’t see our Nikita again.’

‘What did the noise sound like?’

‘It – it sounded like the air splitting in two, crack! – and crack in my ears – like . . . like thunder right here in the room, like a gun . . .’

There was a pause.

‘And then you talked to the bad men, didn’t you, Anna?’ prompted Serafima.

‘Yes, and they said straight out to me, they said, “He’s gone away in his machine.” That’s the words they said. They didn’t say anything else, because they didn’t know about it like we do, do they, Sister? Nikita didn’t tell them everything that he told us.’

‘No, that’s right, he didn’t tell them what he told us.’

‘They didn’t say that he was coming back, because only we know about that. But they said he had gone away and that was just what Nikita told us they would say.’ For the first time she looked at me full in the face with her big blue child’s eyes, wide and clear and triumphant. ‘He’s gone away in his machine, they said so, in those words. And he told us, if that happens, it means we’ve won. So we’ve won, haven’t we, Sister Serafima? We’ve won the future, and they don’t even know it.’

‘Yes,’ said Sister Serafima, and her voice was a little hoarse, ‘I believe we’ve won. Somewhere in the future, we’ve won.’

‘Anna.’ I leant forward. ‘Thank you.’ Without thinking I reached my hand out towards hers.

‘No!’

Serafima tugged hard on Anna’s chain. She screeched and fell back.

‘Move away, please – go to the door.’ Serafima hurried us out, tight-lipped. ‘You don’t understand. They can’t help it.’

As we came out into the corridor men’s voices could be heard in Lab 36. Serafima stopped. ‘That’s the Red Guard. I think it best if you leave by this door. Take the path down to the river and wait for me there – I will come as soon as I can . . .’

She bundled us through a small door and we found ourselves outside again, blinded by the sun.

‘Oh, Pasha, I don’t know if I can—’

‘Come,’ muttered Pasha, taking my arm. ‘Little by little.’

We slipped and staggered together like drunks down the steep, narrow footpath to the river. No one seemed to have seen us go; if they had, I doubt either of us would have been able to run. Within a few moments we were out of sight of Serafima’s huts. A few more and we were in a little copse leading down to the river. The trees were like huge swaddled peasant women beneath their layers of snow. We crept beneath the skirts of one and pushed ourselves in among the brushwood. From this place we looked out onto the glittering river and waited. Slowly, slowly, I felt my heart calm and the dizzy, sick sensation seep away. We didn’t talk.

I don’t know if it was hours, or minutes before Sister Serafima appeared quietly on the path, leading an old donkey with a blanket on its back.

‘The Cheka seem to be on their way. I suggest you keep away from the road. At the edge of the park, by those firs, there is a path running north. It will take you back to the river – we are in a huge curve here, do you understand? Follow the river until you see the railway bridge. There you can climb up to Kotly station, on the Moscow Circular railroad. Let Dusya go when you get there – she will come home by herself. Here, this is all I can give you.’ She pressed a little parcel wrapped in a cloth into my hands. ‘Forgive me if I ask you one thing.’ She looked hard at me. ‘Is it his child?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, I’m glad. Very glad. Go with God, my children . . .’

Dusya waited while I mounted her in an awkward side-saddle and Pasha took the rope; and then she slowly, carefully stepped out along the path. Her neat little hooves made no sound on the narrow animal tracks. Light sparkled and snapped around us and the air tasted like iced leaves. Apart from one deserted road, there was no sign of human life, no building, no chimney – just the blank curves of the snowy forest. I had not been out of the city for over a year – a year and a half, since we were at Mikhailovka in the summer of 1917, and we played blind man’s buff in the twilight . . . Dusya’s warm, comforting back moved beneath me and the baby was calm. Pelyagin was obviously after us, but all I could feel was weariness. The sun was sinking in the sky when we finally saw the railway bridge. I dismounted Dusya and we let her go: we didn’t want anyone to see her at the station. She looked at us for a slow moment, blinked, and turned for home.

‘Just a moment,’ murmured Pasha. ‘Before we enter the station, I think we should decide on our plans. We may not be able to talk openly there.’

After the warmth of the day, the woods were full of dripping and the occasional ‘flump’ of melted snow sliding from the branches. We turned our faces to the last sunshine.

‘The only course for you now is to go abroad. I’ve heard the Estonian border is open at Narva. We must get to Petrograd and then find out how to make the rest of the journey.’

‘And you? What about you?’

‘I will accompany you as far as you wish me to, of course. Then I suppose I’ll continue my work at Narkompros.’

I stared at him. ‘But you’ve impersonated a Cheka official – you’re in danger too.’

‘I doubt Sister Serafima would identify me.’

His expression was stony, a look that I would not have recognised on him a couple of years ago. Weakly, I changed the subject.

‘How will we get tickets to Petrograd? People wait for weeks to get them . . .’

‘Volodya might be able to help us. But we shouldn’t spend a minute more than we need at Gagarinsky Lane. I’m willing to bet Pelyagin’s men will have been round to tell the neighbours to report our return.’

We waited in the woods for the next train, a goods vehicle that we managed to scramble aboard. We sat on the running plate until it arrived just outside Paveletsky station in Moscow at six in the evening. I was very cold, very tired and my belly seemed to be growing heavier and more uncomfortable each moment. Until then I had given little thought to the birth, but now it suddenly filled my mind. I had little more than a month left. I wanted to beg Pasha to promise he would stay with me at least until the baby was born, but he looked so grim I didn’t have the courage to raise the subject.

‘Perhaps we can rest somewhere?’

‘If you want.’ Outside the station we found an old woman with a little card saying simply ‘Bed’. She took us to her room, in the basement of an old apartment building, and showed us the bed she meant – her own. We lay down and covered ourselves with our coats and she sat on a chair, keeping a close eye on us. At some point I woke in the night and found her trying to undo my shoelaces. I pushed her away but she clung on for a while, glaring at me reproachfully. Finally she let go and sat back down again.

During the hours of night Slavkin’s hands, with their long, pallid, Orthodox fingers, appeared in my dream. His gentle manner with the old ladies, his smile. ‘Guardian angels’, he remarked once to me, ‘are a scientific fact.’

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ I said, laughing.

‘Yes, a fact! They are the electric current that guides us, unknowing, through our lives . . . towards one decision, away from another. On what do we base our decisions? Most of them spring from an instinctive response, very few are based on logic. And yet we make good decisions much of the time. Like animals, we have a natural instinct for the electromagnetic currents of the Universe.’

We left before dawn and walked up to Gagarinsky Lane to collect our passports and a few belongings. I shoved the surviving IRT papers into a couple of boxes and, in return for the last of our food supplies, the metalworker’s wife agreed to deliver them to the British Embassy. Volodya, miraculously, managed to obtain tickets for us that evening, to travel under false papers as a Communist Party member and his wife, going to take up a post in Petrograd. Once in Petrograd, we took turns all day to queue for tickets to Narva. The train left the following morning on a twenty-four-hour journey, much of which was spent stopping, starting and crawling into sidings for hours at a time. Around midnight, our compartment fell silent and I finally plucked up the courage to speak to Pasha.

I put my lips up against his ear and whispered as quietly as I could.

‘I wanted to ask . . . I mean, I don’t want to press you . . . but I wondered if you would mind very much if I asked you to marry me?’

A pause.

‘I didn’t know whether I should ask you, what with the – the matter of the baby, and of course marriage itself is utterly bourgeois, against both our principles. I quite understand if you refuse . . .’

He still said nothing but I could feel him pulling away from me.

‘No, I’ve started this all wrong. Wait, please, it’s nothing to do with Revolutionary principles. You’re right, of course I loved Nikita – we both love Nikita, we will never stop loving him. But I made a mistake. I misunderstood what love felt like, do you see? For whatever reason – I don’t know why – I thought of love as something difficult, something I should suffer for.’ I swallowed hard, floundering. ‘I – I didn’t realise I loved you, because it was just so easy, and warm, and good . . .’

He tried to speak, but I was determined not to be interrupted. ‘The fact is, now I know that I love you, I have to say so. I can’t let you disappear, and I’m terrified that when we get to the border they might not let you through, or they might take me off somewhere separate, or . . . or who knows what they might do to you, don’t you understand?’ I was gabbling by this time and my voice was rising. Suddenly I felt his finger on my lips.

‘Sh. No – no.’

‘No?’ My voice rose to a squeak.

‘No, I don’t mind marrying you, my darling love. You absolute idiot. And also no, I don’t care about the matter of the baby, and it’s not against my principles. And no, I am not going to disappear. I didn’t think you wanted me to come with you . . .’

‘Oh . . . Good.’

We started laughing weakly in the dark, and trying to stifle our laughter, which had the result of mild hysteria.

‘Oh, shut your gobs!’ snapped the market trader squashed beside us. ‘You’re shaking the bed up like a bloody blancmange!’

That didn’t help. It was some moments before I could compose myself. Then Pasha whispered in my ear, ‘Let’s do it now, then, shall we?’

‘What?’

‘Get married.’

‘Oh! How?’

‘We each say our vows to the other. I, Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev, take you, Getrude Freely—’

‘Gertrude Adelaide.’

‘Really? I didn’t know. How delightful. Gertrude Adelaide Freely, as my beloved wife. I vow to love you, care for you, kiss you, and always tell you the truth, till death us do part.’

‘And not to disappear.’

‘And not to disappear. Now you.’

‘I, Gertrude Adelaide Freely, take you, Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev, as my beloved husband. I vow to love you, care for you, and always be truthful, till death us do part.’

‘And to kiss me. You can start that now.’

We kissed, in the darkness, all the way to the border.

Finally we were told to disembark. At the checkpoint they kept us waiting for hours, searching through the mound of luggage that our fellow travellers were carrying. My stomach began to ache so painfully that I was convinced that labour had begun. I begged them to let me get to the hospital in Reval. The young customs officer looked alarmed, and went to consult his superior.

‘Go on,’ snapped the senior officer, jerking his head. ‘Get out of here. We’re not a crèche!’

Holding hands, Pasha and I walked across the bridge over the muddy, turgid Narva river and into Estonia.

We were married for the second time in Reval (or Tallinn, as it had just been renamed). The city was battered by civil war itself, but to us it seemed the epitome of peace. Its shops were magically stuffed with goods, and in the streets people strolled about and appeared not to be thinking about food at all. With our last funds we bought ourselves clothes and visited the barber. I remember the delicious luxury of lying back in the barber’s chair, only the snippety-snip of the scissors breaking the silence, the previous months falling away from me as each long curl landed on the floor. We bathed ourselves carefully in the digs we had taken near the station and dressed in our new clothes, like children going to First Communion. Outside the Guild Hall we bought a bunch of snowdrops from an old woman. Half an hour later, we emerged with a marriage certificate.

The Kobelevs had friends, perhaps even distant cousins, the Rauds, who had an estate south of Tallinn. I hadn’t met them, but before the war they had been frequent visitors in Moscow and Pasha had visited their estate as a child. We sent a telegram on our arrival, and the next we knew, several days after our wedding, was Mark Raud himself arriving at our door in a pony-trap, embracing us both, and insisting we eat the picnic he had brought with him from the estate. A big, stern figure, he stood over us, hushing us while we ate.

‘Now get in the trap,’ he ordered, ‘and you can tell me the news of the family while we travel. I want to get you back to Jarvekula straight away. I am sorry to say such a thing, but you look terrible, my children. Never mind, thank God the war is over in Estonia, at least. You will have your baby here, my dear.’

The year was just tipping over into spring; every day the ground dried out a little more and the buds swelled. The Rauds, kind, generous people that they were, housed us for almost six months. Like all women waiting for their first baby to be born, I could not quite believe that an entirely new person was about to arrive in the world. I was scared – not so much that our living conditions might have affected her (I could sense how healthy she was inside me), nor of the birth itself, but of the great burden of sorrow that she would immediately have to shoulder. Yet when, in the middle of April, she emerged –
you
emerged – tiny and hairy-eared as a little wood sprite, with large, serene, dark eyes, I saw that my fears were quite irrelevant. We called you Sophia – for Sonya, and also for the calm wisdom that you seemed to exude. You immediately knew what to do, eating, sleeping and looking about you with lovely solemnity. I was tired, of course, in the first months, but now my little Sophy was here, the terrible events of the past year seemed somehow to make more sense.

In September we packed up and sailed for Paris, after exacting a promise from the Rauds that they would visit us soon. You were by then a solid baby with creases on your wrists and a throaty little laugh and Pasha had, at last, tracked down his parents. We had heard nothing from them more recently than November 1918, when they had left Russia for Marseilles. As a last resort, Pasha wrote to put an advertisement in the
Figaro
.
A week later, to our amazement, a boy came up the track to Jarvekula with not one but three telegrams in his hand, all from Mr Kobelev. The first: ‘Dearest children we are in Paris stop your mother Liza Dima all well stop send news.’ The second: ‘Dears come immediately I will wire funds Bank of Estonia.’ The third, simply: ‘All to meet boat Calais.’

Before we left, we decided to tell Pasha’s father about Sonya by telegram. We felt it was better that he break the news to the others gently, before we arrived. There was a part of me that dreaded seeing them; again and again I saw poor Sonya lying on the divan in the study, glassy-eyed, while I tried to feed her broth.

The thought also struck me now, as it had signally failed to do when Pasha and I were signing our marriage certificate at the Guild Hall, that the Kobelevs might be less than pleased at their new daughter-in-law and their not-quite-granddaughter. Pasha and I agreed on an official line: we had had a Communist wedding in Russia, but having lost our papers in our hurried exit from Russia we’d decided to formalise our situation in Tallinn. It went without saying that you were his daughter.