Дэвид Даунинг - The Dark Clouds Shining

Above this tumult the soaring broken arch of the Bibi-Khanym seemed almost contemptuously otherworldly. According to Bertolt it had started crumbling as soon as it was completed; like Tamerlane’s empire its initial conception had simply been too ambitious. “Still, even vanity is awesome on such a scale,” the German had remarked.

A little farther down the street, Piatakov found himself passing a school. Through a line of open windows, he could see rows of children sitting on wooden benches and hear the teacher addressing them in what was presumably Uzbek. The pupils looked more attentive than his had sometimes been, but that had always been one of the challenges that made the job so rewarding.

He remembered the conversation he’d had with Caitlin after his first tour of duty in Tambov province. He’d done enough, she’d said with her usual bluntness—why not go back to teaching?

He’d scoffed at the idea. How could she talk about teaching when there was so much that needed doing ?

Because that was what she did, had been her answer. That was what the Zhenotdel did. She and her comrades taught women to want and ask for more and men that their lives would also be fuller if women received it. The new society wouldn’t just spring into existence because the faces changed at the top. People had to learn—had to be taught —how to live in a different way.

At the time he’d said, “Yes, but,” but maybe she’d been right. It hardly mattered now. That ship had sailed.

Piatakov walked on, through a section of moneylenders, their rates chalked on boards beneath open windows. The crowd was thinner now, and he began to feel conspicuous. The towering Registan was visible above the roofs about half a mile ahead, and he decided to risk losing himself in the back streets. These were mostly empty and considerably cleaner than their counterparts in Tashkent. And though the Registan soon disappeared from view, he trusted his sense of direction. “So much iron in the brain,” had been Caitlin’s expression, one she had learned from her favorite aunt.

A church bell was tolling noon in the Russian town as he approached the Registan. The three huge madrasahs—they looked just like mosques to Piatakov but were, according to Brady, religious schools rather than simple places of worship—occupied three sides of a square, the fourth side being open. The two structures facing each other were similar, each with two flat-topped minarets flanking an oblong façade that contained a giant pointed arch. The third structure, sitting between them, was lower and wider, its façade flanked by two storys of small arched openings, like a Muslim version of the Colosseum.

The buildings were far from ruins, but they weren’t in good repair. Myriad pieces of blue, green, and golden mosaic had fallen away, leaving patches of the yellow-brown walls exposed. Like the Bibi-Khanym, these ancient structures were a sight to behold, yet seemed almost incidental when compared to the world at their feet, where another cacophonous market sprawled. The open space was about four hundred feet square, and all but its rim was sunk some six feet below the level of the madrasahs. Steps descended from each main entrance into the jumble of stalls.

Piatakov’s approach had taken him between two of the madrasahs, and he found himself looking out over the market, exposed to any searching eyes. He quickly walked across to the steps in front of the central building and took a seat halfway down them, level with the heads of the milling shoppers. If Aram was there, he would see him.

But there were no European faces in sight. Piatakov wiped his brow on his sleeve and waited. It was already five minutes past the appointed hour. How long should he wait? Another five minutes? Ten?

And then he saw the familiar wiry figure, walking slowly down the central aisle, patiently scanning those to left and right. There was no sign of Chatterji.

Piatakov was in the act of rising when two armed Russians brushed roughly past him as they descended the steps. Chekists! He looked around for others, but couldn’t see any.

There was nothing else for it. He stood and waved his arms, hoping to get Shahumian’s attention. A few more paces, and the Armenian suddenly noticed him. Shahumian grinned and waved back.

Piatakov desperately gestured him sideways; the two Chekists had seen his friend and were pushing their way through the crowd toward him, guns in hand.

Aram couldn’t see them. He was still smiling at Piatakov, holding his hands up inquiringly, when the two men appeared in front of him. One held a gun to his head while the other reached for his papers.

Piatakov raced down the steps and into the crowd, which, with some trepidation, was edging away from the Chekists, creating a pool of space around them and their victim. By the time Piatakov had fought his way through to the front, Aram was loudly disputing his arrest, and claiming a lasting friendship with Lenin that his captors seemed reluctant to credit.

Piatakov gripped the butt of the revolver inside his shirt. There seemed to be only two of them, but what could he do with the crowd all around them. Which way would the Chekists take his friend? Did they have a car?

Piatakov looked around to see another two Chekists hurrying down the steps. At the same moment, a gun boomed, the crowd exploded in a hundred directions, and Piatakov was knocked to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he saw an Uzbek—no, it was Chatterji—frantically trying to draw a bead on the Chekist wrestling Aram for possession of a gun. The other Chekist was writhing on the ground, holding his groin.

Another shot and Aram crumpled, still grasping the Chekist’s gun hand. Chatterji fired, and the Chekist flew backward against a stall, scattering apples.

Piatakov sped across the widening space, shouting, “It’s me!” as Chatterji whirled toward him. Behind him the other Chekists had been temporarily swallowed by the retreating crowd.

Aram was dribbling blood from the mouth; there was a gaping hole in his chest. But he was conscious. “Get out of here!” he wheezed.

“But—”

“A blaze of glory, Sergei! Go!”

Piatakov turned to Chatterji, who was skipping from foot to foot like a dancer on hot coals, a manic look in his eyes. He grabbed the Indian’s arm and pulled. “This way!”

He sped down one rapidly emptying aisle, then turned into another where an overturned stall had created a bottleneck. The panicking crowd did its best to part before them, but there wasn’t the space to do it quickly.

“Halt!” a voice screamed out in Russian. A shot was fired, the bullet crashing into a woman just beside them. She sunk to her knees; everyone else flung themselves into the dust. Piatakov and Chatterji raced on, hurdling over prone bodies and leaping up steps as bullets gouged showers of tile from the ancient walls of the central madrasah.

They ran into the building through the nearest doorway, only to find there was no way out.

For want of anything better, Piatakov pulled the Indian into one of the arched enclosures.

The pursuing Chekists followed them in at a run, which was a serious mistake. Piatakov shot one in the legs, Chatterji one in the torso. The two of them raced back out through the doorway, and found themselves facing an audience of thousands. Piatakov had the fleeting sense of coming out onto a stage.

Away to the left, two cars were squealing to a halt in the open space fronting the square. “This way,” Piatakov said, pulling the Indian along the front of the madrasah toward the gap he’d arrived through.

They sped down the dark passage between the buildings, almost knocking over a group of veiled women, dodging under a line of stationary camels straddling the street, and ran into a narrow alley. A hundred yards, two hundred, their feet splashing through the dust, their breath now loud and ragged. For one dreadful moment, it seemed like a dead end, but a concealed turning took them through a yard full of tall clay jars and out into another narrow street. This one was empty and led them to Tashkent Street just in time to watch another car roar past in the Registan’s direction.