Zugzwang (18 page)

‘He says there was no trip to Kazan.'

She bit her lip. ‘It's not true. He took me there. We went on the train.'

‘Why does he say the trip never took place?'

‘There are many things my father would prefer to keep hidden.'

‘He says you never met your grandmother, that she died two years before the trip.'

‘He's lying,' she said, her eyes ablaze. ‘He doesn't want anyone to know.'

‘Know what?'

She was becoming agitated. ‘During the visit. He doesn't want people to know what happened.'

‘How much do you remember about Kazan?' I said, suddenly uneasy about what she was saying.

She put a hand to her forehead. ‘I really can hardly think. I'm so tired. I don't think I slept at all.'

I took her by the arm. ‘What happened?' I repeated.

She looked at me in alarm. This was not the gentle, patient psychoanalyst she was used to. She tried to pull away from me.

‘Anna?' I said. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘There was an argument,' she said. ‘My father and my grandmother started screaming at each other. It was horrible. They had both been drinking. Then my father …'

She hung her head.

‘Your father? What happened, Anna, tell me?'

‘He hit her. He picked up a knife and … ' She was sobbing, unable to go on.

‘He killed her?' I said. She nodded. ‘You saw your father kill your grandmother?'

She nodded again.

‘You saw it with your own eyes?'

She looked up at me sharply. ‘Yes! I saw him kill her. I saw him do it with my own eyes.'

I could not say anything for a minute or more. Eventually I managed: ‘Why did you not tell me this before?'

She didn't reply, but dabbed her eyes with a white lace handkerchief. ‘I tried to forget it, I tried for so long,' she said. ‘But then, once you'd started asking me about Kazan, it all came back to me. It was horrible, so horrible.'

She put her head to my chest and I held her. After a while, when she had recovered herself, we walked on.

She said quietly, ‘Am I going to see you again?'

‘What do you think?' I said with a smile.

‘When?'

‘I don't think you should come to my office again. Or here. Your father may be having us watched.'

She thought for a moment. ‘I think I know somewhere we can go,' she said with a smile.

We found a taxi. We kissed as she got inside. I waved as the car pulled away.

Imagine yourself a hermit. You emerge from your cave only to discover that during the twenty years of your isolation a huge metropolis has been built on your doorstep. Instead of the loneliness of the mountains you are confronted by the helter-skelter of a great modern city. So it was that morning for me. I was suddenly exposed to the assault that life makes on the senses. Motor cars flew past. Satin horses, with battery lights on the carriages, liveried servants, soldiers in uniform, cavalry officers, civil servants, students, and well-to-do young
men walking past well-to-do young women, flirting with them, turning to look at the faces of the objects they fancied from behind. The noise, the colour, the smells of the street. Flurries of wet snow blowing up every now and then and vanishing as quickly as though a tap had been turned off.

I was beginning to see clearly again. And one thing I saw was that Anna was not telling me the truth, or at least not the whole truth. I had worked with patients who had buried traumatic experiences, some for the best part of a long lifetime. But none recovered their memories as readily as Anna had.

Returning to the house, I telephoned Minna to say I would not be in until midday.

‘Telephone Rozental to confirm our appointment. He may be reluctant to keep it, in which case, Minna, try to persuade him.'

‘I will do my best,' she said, sounding slightly puzzled. ‘Mr “Grischuk” called twice this morning already. He wants to see you today.'

Petrov. It was highly unusual for him to ask for an appointment.

‘Does he want to come to the office?' I asked, remembering what he had said about the Okhrana.

‘No,' Minna said, sounding even more puzzled. ‘In fact he was quite vague about where he wanted to meet. He said to tell you he would see you at four o'clock “where the pigs are”. He said you would understand.'

‘See that I can get away for two o'clock,' I said, ‘even if it means moving another patient.'

I had smuggled Anna in and out of the house without Catherine knowing. Lidiya was another matter. She said nothing, but her look was full of disappointment and reproach. I asked her to make some tea, which I took to Catherine in her room. Catherine was coming out of a deep sleep but smiled sweetly when she saw me. Since our release,
we had hardly spent more than a few minutes alone together. I sat on the bed and kissed her.

‘Good morning,' I said.

She made a contented, sleepy sound. ‘You were out late,' she said.

‘I was dining with Kopelzon.'

‘Did you have a nice time?'

‘Very nice,' I said. ‘I've brought your tea.'

She sat up and rubbed her eyes while I arranged the pillows behind her. ‘What time is it?'

‘Almost ten o'clock.'

She sipped her tea, leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

‘We are not yet out of danger, Catherine,' I said.

Her eyes moved to meet mine. ‘I'm so sorry for the trouble I've caused you.'

I reached for her hand and squeezed it. Catherine never apologised for anything. She embraced me, fierce and tender all at once.

‘Tell me about Yastrebov,' I said.

On occasion Blok, Akhmatova, Gumilyov and other famous writers dropped into the Stray Dog and sometimes read, but the club was mainly the resort of students and the
demi-monde
who wanted to bemoan the woes of Russia, discuss symbolism and the approaching apocalypse, listen to poets, get drunk and have sex. One night in February, Catherine noticed a thin young man with sad eyes, high cheekbones, long, wild hair and the brave, anxious look of the young lost. Catherine, always attracted to strays, started talking to him. He was shy, friendly and serious. The atmosphere between them quickly became intimate and, in the way of young people, they were soon exchanging their life histories. Catherine's was true – at least as she recognised it – his only partly so.

His name, he told her, was Leon Pikser. He had left his small village beyond the Urals two years before to go to Moscow, driven by a passionate desire to do something meaningful with his life, which for him meant writing poetry. But things did not go as he had hoped: his poems were rejected by every editor he sent them to. He decided to travel to St Petersburg to solicit help from his heroes, Blok and Akhmatova. He had not been able to make contact with them, however, and had soon run out of money and been reduced to the doss-house and soup kitchen.

Catherine, charmed by his romantic idealism, poverty and good looks, proposed temporary solutions to two of his most pressing problems: a friend of hers worked at Leinner's on the Moika Embankment and, she was certain, would be able to find him a job there as a waiter. As for somewhere to stay, she could get the key to an office which, after eight or nine o'clock at night, was always empty.

After leaving the Stray Dog, Catherine smuggled Pikser into my office building through a back door. They made love on the couch and stayed together until dawn. Before they slipped out again early next morning, Catherine took one of my
cartes de visite
so he would be able to find his way again to his provisional sanctuary. They used the office on three or four occasions only and were meticulous about leaving everything exactly as they found it.

‘Did you love him?' I asked.

‘It wasn't love,' Catherine said after some moments. ‘Or maybe to begin with it was. I liked him, but after I'd seen him a few times I started to like him less. When I told him I wouldn't see him any more he started to cry, and that's when he told me about the other things.'

‘What other things? You have to tell me, Catherine. This is more important than you know.'

‘Leon did write poetry – in fact, he showed me some of his
poems. They weren't very good. But he'd lied when he said he came to St Petersburg to meet Blok and Akhmatova. I think he would have liked to meet them – who wouldn't? – but what had really happened was that in Moscow he'd fallen in with a group of anarchists. He implied they were serious revolutionaries and that he'd learned things from them.'

‘What sort of things?' I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Practical things of use to the revolutionary, he said, but he never revealed exactly what.'

‘Go on.'

‘One day, in Moscow, Leon met this man. He was obviously in awe of him. He described him as “the true revolutionary”.'

‘What did he mean by that?' I asked.

‘Someone who didn't waste time with words and arguments – just got on with the job.'

‘Did he tell you his name?'

‘I'm not sure Leon ever knew his real name.'

‘What happened then?'

‘This man, this revolutionary, persuaded Leon to come to St Petersburg where, he said, he would arrange for him to be put in touch with other serious comrades. He gave Leon the name and address of someone he could stay with, until the man himself could join him, that is.'

‘What was the address, did he tell you?'

‘19 Kirochny Street, near the Preobrazhensky Barracks.'

‘Did he go to the address?'

‘He said it was being watched by police spies, that he was walking into a trap. He asked me to go with him and we posed as a courting couple so as not to attract attention. We strolled past it. I didn't see any police but Leon was convinced they were watching. I don't know if they were – I think he just lost his nerve.'

‘What did this mysterious man in Moscow want him to do?'

‘Leon just said that it was very important, the most
important thing that would ever happen in my lifetime. I didn't know if any of it was true or if he was making the whole thing up, including the house on Kirochny Street, to impress me. By then I was getting a little scared of him. I wanted him to go and leave me alone. I didn't want him in your office any more.'

‘Did you ever see him with guns or dynamite?'

‘He always carried a big, heavy bag. But I never saw what was inside and assumed it was his clothes and books. I never saw guns or anything like dynamite or chemicals, in the office or anywhere else.'

‘Did he ever mention the name Berek Medem?'

Catherine's eyes widened. ‘Berek Medem the terrorist? No, never.'

‘When did you last see Leon?'

‘The day before he was murdered. He was on his way to Leinner's to start his shift. He was very excited. He said he'd had word from the man from Moscow and he was going to meet up with him that night. But I wasn't interested any more. He got upset and started shouting at me. He said, “Soon the whole world will know my name.” '

‘What do you think he meant by that?'

‘I have no idea,' she said.

We sat together for a while, both of us thinking about Leon Pikser and the trouble he had brought into our lives. The question now was how to extricate ourselves.

I drove to Yegorov's. Undressing in the Moorish tent, I smelled Anna's smell all over me. I took a steam bath, then went to float in the pool. After half an hour, feeling somewhat refreshed, I got dressed and went to Café Central. I lit a cigarette and ordered pastries and coffee. The smoke in my nostrils did no more to dislodge the scent of Anna than the steam or the pool. She was in my throat, on my tongue and my
fingertips. She was under my nails. I did not want her to go. The heyday was past, but the blood was not yet humble.

I scanned the faces of those around me. If there was an agent among the patrons, I could not pick him out.

I concentrated on two specific variations, two lines. One: co-operate with Lychev. Tell him what Catherine had told me of Pikser/Yastrebov and the house on Kirochny Street. It seemed simple enough. Pass on the information. If I got anything from Rozental, pass that on too. What were the likely consequences for Catherine and me? Would Lychev leave us alone?

The second line: refuse to help Lychev. What would be the consequences? The detective's investigation is taken over by Colonel Gan. There would be another raid, more time in the cells of the Peter and Paul fortress. The interrogation would be more brutal. There was more to hide: my knowledge of Pikser; Semevsky's murder; Gan's involvement with the Gulko assassination.

What line to choose?

I ordered a second cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. For distraction, I went to the newspaper rack and selected
The Orator
. There had been another bomb, this time the Bronze Horsemen was the target. According to the account, the device was small and amateurish; there were no casualties and it had inflicted only superficial damage to the monument of the city's founder. In a separate, prominently displayed item, the German ambassador had complained to the foreign minister about reports that Russia and Great Britain had agreed closer naval ties, something the ambassador could interpret only as an act of hostility towards Berlin. In the newspaper's opinion it was not a question of
if
there would be war but
when
. I folded the paper and pushed it aside.

What line to choose?

I checked my watch. It was almost time to go to the office. I finished my coffee and went to the telephone booths in the short corridor leading to the bathrooms. I called police headquarters. Lychev answered at the first ring.

‘I will do what you want,' I told him, ‘but first you have to do something for me.'

There was silence from the other end. The policeman said, ‘I wasn't offering to bargain with you.'