Sam Eastland - Red Icon

*

Zolkin and Elizaveta watched the Red Army staff car, bearing Kirov and Pekkala to the Kremlin for their meeting with Stalin, as it reached the end of Pitnikov Street, turned the corner and was gone.

Now they found themselves awkwardly alone together.

‘I’ve never had a bodyguard before,’ said Elizaveta, trying to make conversation.

‘And I have never been one,’ Zolkin replied earnestly.

‘But you look like a bodyguard to me.’

Zolkin wore army breeches, tucked into tall black boots, and over an olive cotton shirt he had on a waistcoat of civilian manufacture, which he usually wore under a heavy double-breasted canvas jacket normally reserved for the crews of armoured vehicles. But it was a warm day and Zolkin had left the coat hanging on a nail inside the garage.

‘Appearances count for a lot in your new line of work,’ she said encouragingly.

It was true, his thickly muscled arms and bear-like shoulders did much to conceal the gentleness of his nature.

‘Then let us set off on our first mission together,’ announced the sergeant.

‘And what is that?’ asked Elizaveta.

‘To bring you home!’

Zolkin fished a bundle of keys from his pocket and jangled them in his hand. ‘I’ll just pull the car out,’ he said.

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Elizaveta. ‘It’s only a five-minute walk.’

Zolkin paused, the keys still clutched in his hand. ‘Walk?’

‘Unless that is somehow beneath you,’ replied Elizaveta.

‘It’s just that, once you’ve been a driver, going anywhere on foot just seems a waste of time. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to get there more quickly? The Emka is ready to go!’ He made a hopeful gesture towards the garage.

‘No,’ Elizaveta told him flatly. ‘Now close that place up and come with me.’

With a groan of resignation, Zolkin set his shoulder to the heavy wooden door, which rolled across the front of the garage. It fastened with a huge bronze padlock, the key for which was on the bundle which Zolkin carried with him everywhere.

Turning the corner of Pitnikov Street, they set off down Trubnaya Street. Zolkin plodded along behind Elizaveta, looking like a scolded dog.

After a while, Elizaveta stopped and turned. ‘Are you going to drag your heels all the way there?’

‘It just seems proper,’ Zolkin said defensively. ‘I am your bodyguard, after all.’

Elizaveta rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake, Zolkin, stop fussing and walk here beside me!’

Zolkin did as he was told and they continued for a while without speaking.

As people passed them on the street, Elizaveta noticed how others moved aside to let them pass, readily giving ground before the imposing bulk of Zolkin. Zolkin himself seemed completely unaware of the deference they showed to him.

It was rarely the case that anyone stepped aside for Elizaveta, as she was neither tall nor imposing. Even with her husband, the effect wasn’t quite the same. If people did give ground to him, it usually seemed to be because of his uniform, rather than his physical presence. Elizaveta couldn’t help enjoying this new and powerful sensation, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

Zolkin still hadn’t said a word.

‘What is on your mind?’ Elizaveta asked at last.

‘I was thinking,’ Zolkin replied eventually, ‘that since you probably won’t be wanting the car at all, I might as well just drain the oil and remove the battery while your husband and the Inspector are away.’

‘Then we wouldn’t be able to go on the picnic,’ said Elizaveta.

‘What picnic?’ asked the driver.

‘The one I have planned for tomorrow.’ The thought had only just occurred to her, but it already seemed like a good idea. ‘I have two friends where I work, in the records office on the fourth floor of Lubyanka. One is Corporal Koroleva and the other, whom I would like you to meet, is Sergeant Gatkina.’

‘What’s she like?’ asked Zolkin.

‘Oh, you’ll see,’ she answered vaguely. In truth, Sergeant Gatkina was no great beauty. Elizaveta knew of lotteries, down on the third and second floors, for when and if Gatkina ever smiled. She chain-smoked rough machorka cigarettes from dawn to dusk, which had given her a voice as gravelly as a tiger’s, if such an animal had ever spoken Russian. Her hair was a thicket of grey brambly curls and the colour of her eyes was unknown to almost everyone, so fiercely did she squint at the world. As if that were not enough, she had a habit of stubbing out her cigarettes as if breaking the neck of some small animal that had strayed into her clutches.

This fearsome reputation had served to ward off even the most determined of suitors.

Gatkina may have given the impression that she was content to keep the world at arm’s length, but in truth she was lonely – terribly lonely – and would gladly have put away the armour of her gruffness if someone could be found to remove it.

That someone could be Zolkin, thought Elizaveta. He would not be deterred by the things which drove others away. It was Zolkin’s sheer obliviousness that gave her hope. In the past, she had even considered Pekkala as a possible partner for the sergeant. But she quickly abandoned the idea. No matter how lonely Gatkina might be, it would be simply cruel to inflict upon her the eccentricities of the Inspector. What could you say about a man who prefers to sleep on the floor? Elizaveta wondered to herself, and who, according to her husband, cried out in his sleep in his strange and guttural native tongue, as if he was pursued by wolves across the landscape of his dreams? No, thought Elizaveta. I will spare my beloved and misunderstood boss the impossible task of loving a man like Pekkala.

It was true Zolkin did have some unusual habits of his own. After all, he lived in a garage and spent his nights in a hammock, hanging from the ceiling like a silkworm in a cocoon. But those were matters of practicality, she persuaded herself, not facets of the man’s true nature.

‘Where will we go on this picnic?’ asked Zolkin, his mood brightening at the thought. ‘What will we have to eat?’

This isn’t about food! Elizaveta wanted to yell in his ear. This is about love! But she simply shrugged and said, ‘Let’s let Sergeant Gatkina decide.’

By now, they had turned off Trubnaya Street and were walking along Pushkarev Street. It was much quieter here and, except for a few passers-by, they had the pavement to themselves.

One man emerged from an alleyway, carrying a brown leather coat over his arm, and walked in their direction. He was tall and muscular, much like Zolkin himself, and Elizaveta found herself wondering which one of them would give way to the other. She became so curious about it that she even stepped a little to the side, forcing Zolkin into the man’s path, so that one of them would have to step out into the street in order to get by. She felt a little wicked to be conducting such an experiment, but no harm would be done, after all.

Other than this man, the street was empty.

As the stranger approached, he cast a glance at Elizaveta.

Elizaveta caught his eye. Defiantly, and to her own surprise, she returned his stare, a thing she would never have done if she were on her own.

Zolkin was paying no attention. Instead, he was carrying on about the food he would like for the picnic.

Just when it seemed as if the two men would collide, the other man stepped out into the road.

A faint, but satisfied smile crept across Elizaveta’s lips.

In that moment, the man appeared to stumble. Perhaps he had caught his foot amongst the cobblestones which lined the gutter.

Elizaveta felt a sudden stab of guilt, knowing she had caused this little incident.