Tom Smith - Agent 6

Grigori replied:

– Get out of my way!

– Listen to me – Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.

– What has happened to you?

– To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page…

Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.

– Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!

He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:

– Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.

– She’s dead!

He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:

– They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart. .. a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.

Leo felt sick.

– Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me – You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.

Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.

*

Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic – it would be a bitter blow to the regime, a suitable revenge for Polina’s murder. But looking into Austin’s kind eyes he realized that this man did not want to know the truth either.

Austin wrapped an arm around Grigori’s shoulder, announcing to the audience:

– I don’t know if he’s a fan, or someone telling me to shut up! There was laughter. Grigori slurred the words, drunk, but exhausted, defeated:

– Comrade Austin.

Grigori pulled out the diary page:

– What does this mean to you?

Austin took the page, examining the doodle. He turned to the audience.

– Our friend has shown me a drawing of the most important symbol of our time. It is the Statue of Liberty, in New York. There in my country, that statue is a promise of things to come – a future of liberty for every man and woman, regardless of background, or race. Here your liberty is real.

Grigori was crying, surrounded by people and yet alone. He repeated Austin’s words, speaking up, projecting to the back of the warehouse:

– Here our liberty is real!

*

On the steps to the stage an agent grabbed Leo’s arm.

– Do something! Fix this!

– What can I do? You want me to go up onstage?

– Yes!

Leo edged closer but Austin shook his head, indicating that he’d deal with it. He began another song. It wasn’t due to be performed until the very end, as the finale, but Austin had brought it forward, sensing that he needed something to finesse the interruption. It was The Internationale – the anthem of Communism. Arise, you branded by a curse,

You whole world of the starving and enslaved!

Many in the audience stood up immediately. The rest quickly followed and Leo understood why Austin had chosen this song to mask the disturbance. The audience knew the lyrics. Though their singing was tentative at first, it was only because they were unsure whether they were supposed to join in. As Austin encouraged them, they became louder and louder, until each man and woman was singing as loud as they could, perhaps fearful that their loyalty to the State might be measured by their volume, perhaps fearful that if they didn’t sing until they were hoarse they would become like the strange sad figure of Grigori. Leo was also singing, but half-heartedly, preoccupied with his doomed trainee. There were tears in the young man’s eyes, glistening in the bright spotlights. He too was singing: We will destroy this world of violence

Down to the foundations, and then

We will build our new world!

Austin ended the song after the first verse. As the calls for a new world died down, vigorous applause broke out across the auditorium. Agents stepped up onto the stage, clapping, false smiles on their faces, closing around Grigori, edging nearer, trying to disguise their murderous intent. Oblivious, Grigori stood, waving at some distant point, towards imaginary friends, biding the new world goodbye.

Leo felt another tug on his arm. It was Raisa. She’d left her seat, taking hold of him. It was the first time she’d ever touched him. She whispered:

– Please, Leo, help that man.

Leo saw fear in her eyes, for Grigori certainly, but also for herself. She was afraid. That fear had brought her to him. Finally Leo knew what he had to offer – safety and protection. It was hardly a great talent. But, perhaps, in these dangerous times it would be enough, enough to create a home, enough to satisfy a wife, enough to make a person love him. Putting his hand on top of hers he said:

– I will try.

24 July 1965

Climbing the stairs, Leo Demidov’s shirt became damp with sweat, clinging to his back and stomach in transparent patches. His socks seeped with each squeeze of his toes. On the ground floor the elevator was broken: the door jammed half open, the light inside flickering like the eyes of a dying animal. Despite having to climb thirteen flights of stairs he encountered no other people. It was eerie for an apartment block to be silent in the middle of the day. No children played in the corridors, no mothers with shopping, no doors slamming shut or neighbours arguing – the bustle of ordinary life muffled by the heatwave now in its sixth day. In housing projects constructed in this fashion the concrete hoarded heat with the greed of a miser collecting gold. At the top of the stairs Leo paused, catching his breath before entering apartment 1312, unseen by the other occupants of the floor.

Surveying the cramped surroundings, he pinched the shirt off his torso as though it were a series of leeches feasting on him. He crossed the living area into the kitchen and ran his face under the water. The pressure was weak, the water disappointingly tepid. Nonetheless the sensation was pleasant and he remained underneath the stuttering flow with his eyes closed allowing the water to run over his cheeks, lips and eyelids. He turned the tap off, water dripping from his face, snaking down his neck. Opening the small window, he found the hinge stiff even though the building was only a few years old. The air outside was still, not a trace of wind, a block of heat wedged around the building. Opposite him the identically designed residential tower shimmered like a mirage: the vertical lines of thousands of windows quivering in the sunlight.