Tom Smith - Child 44

Basarov scratched the rolls of his stomach.

— Let me show you to your room.

The room was small. Two single beds had been pushed together. There was a gap down the middle. Both mattresses dipped. The wallpaper was bubbled like adolescent skin, lined with some kind of grease, sticky to touch. Leo figured it must be cooking oil, since the bedroom was directly over the kitchen, which could be seen through cracks in the floorboards, cracks which ventilated the room with the smell of whatever had been or was cooking below — boiled offal, gristle and animal fat.

Basarov was put out by Nesterov’s request. These beds, and this room, had been used by his s taff , which is to say the women who worked his customers. However, he’d been unable to decline the request. He didn’t own the building. And he required the goodwill of the militia in order to function as a business. They knew he was making a profit and they were fine with it as long as they got a share. It was undeclared, unofficial — a closed system. If the truth was told he was a little nervous of his guests, having heard they were MGB. It stopped him being as rude as he would naturally have been. He pointed down the hall towards a door which was partly ajar.

— There’s the bathroom. We’ve got one indoors.

Raisa tried to open the window. It had been nailed shut. She stared at the view. Ramshackle housing, dirty snow: this was home.

Leo felt tired. He’d been able to handle his humiliation while it had remained a concept but now that it had a physical form — this room — he just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and shut out the world. Obliged to go back outside, he put his case on the bed, unable to look at Raisa, not out of anger, but out of shame. He walked out without saying a word.

Driven to the town’s telephone exchange, Leo was led inside. There was a queue of several hundred people waiting for their allotted time, a couple of minutes. Since most of them had been forced to leave behind their families in order to work here, Leo could appreciate that these minutes were extremely precious. Nesterov had no need to queue, heading into a cubicle.

Once he’d set up the call, which involved a conversation Leo couldn’t hear, he handed the receiver to him. Leo put the receiver to his ear. He waited.

— How’s the accommodation?

It was Vasili. He continued:

— You want to hang up, don’t you? But you can’t. You can’t even do that.

— What is it you want?

— To stay in touch so you can tell me about life over there and I can tell you about life here. Before I forget, the pleasant apartment you’d arranged for your parents, it’s been taken back. We’ve found them somewhere more suitable to their status. It’s a little cold and crowded, perhaps. Dirty, certainly. They’re sharing with a family of seven, I think, including five young children. By the way, I didn’t know your father suffered from terrible back pain. Shame that he has to return to the assembly line floor only a year from retirement: one year can be made to feel like ten when you’re not enjoying your job. But you’ll soon know all about that.

— My parents are good people. They’ve worked hard. They’ve done you no harm.

— But I’m going to hurt them all the same.

— What do you want from me?

— An apology.

— Vasili, I’m sorry.

— You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.

— I treated you badly. And I’m sorry.

— What are you sorry for? Be specific. Your parents are depending on you.

— I shouldn’t have hit you.

— You’re not trying hard enough. Convince me.

Desperate, Leo’s voice was trembling.

— I don’t understand what you want. You have everything. I have nothing.

— It’s simple. I want to hear you beg.

— I’m begging you, Vasili, listen to my voice. I am begging you. Leave my parents alone. Please…

Vasili had hung up.

17 March

Having walked all night — his feet blistered, his socks sodden with blood — Leo sat down on a park bench, put his head in his hands and wept.

He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten. Last night, when Raisa had tried to talk to him, he’d ignored her. When she’d brought him food from the restaurant he’d ignored that too. Unable to stay in their tiny stinking room any longer he’d gone downstairs, elbowed his way through the crowd, making his way outside. He’d walked without any sense of direction, too frustrated, too angry to sit still and do nothing although he realized that was exactly the nature of his predicament — he could do nothing. Once again he was faced with an injustice, but this time he was no longer able to intervene. His parents wouldn’t be shot in the back in the head — that would be too swift, too much an approximation of mercy. Instead they’d be persecuted drip by drip. He could imagine the variety of options open to a methodical, sadistic and petty mind. In their respective factories they’d be demoted, given the hardest, dirtiest jobs — jobs a young man or woman would struggle with. They’d be goaded with stories of Leo’s pitiful exile, his disgrace and humiliation. Perhaps they’d even be told that he was in a Gulag, sentenced to twenty years of katorga , hard labour. As for the family that his parents were forced to share an apartment with, there was no doubt that they’d be as disruptive and unpleasant as possible. The children would be promised chocolate if they made a lot of noise, the adults promised their own apartment if they stole food, argued and, through whatever means available, made home life intolerable. He didn’t need to guess the details. Vasili would enjoy reporting them, knowing that Leo wouldn’t dare hang up the phone since he was afraid that whatever hardships his parents were experiencing would double as a result. Vasili would break him from afar, systematically applying pressure where he was vulnerable — his family. There was no defence. With a little work Leo could discover his parents’ address but all he could do, if his letters weren’t intercepted and burnt, would be to reassure them he was safe. He’d built them a comfortable life only to have it ripped from under their feet at a time when they could least handle the change.

He stood up, shivering with cold. With some difficulty, and no idea what he was going to do next, he began to retrace his steps, back to his new home.

Raisa was downstairs sitting at a table. She’d been waiting for him all night. She knew, just as Vasili had predicted, that Leo now regretted his decision not to denounce her. The price was too high. But what was she supposed to do? Pretend that he’d risked everything for a perfect love? It wasn’t something she could just conjure on demand. Even if she’d wanted to pretend she didn’t know how: she didn’t know what to say, what motions to go through. She could’ve been easier on him. In truth, some part of her must have relished his demotion. Not out of spite or vindictiveness but because she wanted him to know:

This is how I feel every day.

Powerless, scared — she’d wanted him to feel it too. She’d wanted him to understand, to experience it for himself.

Exhausted, her eyes heavy with sleep, she looked up as Leo entered the restaurant. She stood, approaching her husband, noticing his bloodshot eyes. She’d never seen him cry before. He turned away and poured himself a drink from the nearest bottle. She put a hand on his shoulder. It happened in a fraction of second: Leo spun around, grabbing her by the neck and squeezing.