Mark Blair - Stroika

He thought back to that April morning ten years ago. It had been raining, he remembered. Cloud had malingered heavily over the city for days, casting a grey oppressive pall over the Neva, turning it a deep black. He had just crossed the Lomonosova Bridge on his way to Apraksin Market, when a man blocked his way. He was taller than Misha’s then five foot ten, wiry, intense. He had flashed him some official-looking ID but it was too quick for him to take in beyond a photograph, the hammer and sickle. He waved him towards a café only a few metres away. Misha had held his ground at first as people streamed past them on either side.

‘Just a coffee and a chat. I have something that might interest you.’

Curiosity had eventually got the better of him. It didn’t look as though whoever-he-was would take no for an answer either.

‘What would you like?’ the man had asked once inside the café. Misha could remember precisely what he had chosen: sweet tea and honey cake. The waitress had somehow divined his new benefactor’s status – perhaps it was the highly polished black shoes or a raincoat that fitted him better than the average raincoat fitted an average citizen, or was it simply his air of confidence or sense of underlying menace? ‘ Yes comrade ,’ was all she said after scribbling down their order and hurrying back to the serving counter. They had sat there in silence and waited. The waitress returned shortly, deposited the contents of her tray and retired safely out of earshot.

‘I am told that you are a bit of a chancer around here, up for things?’

Misha shrugged noncommittally, wondering who he was and how he had come by that information.

‘If you are interested, I might have a small job for you, something suited to your talents.’

Misha had remained silent.

‘There’s a meeting taking place, Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, two men… Can you use a camera?’

Misha had nodded. Back home he had an album packed with photos, mostly friends larking around. A third-hand Zenith had been a present from his mother for his fifteenth name day.

‘I need someone to get close, close enough to get a clear shot, and you fit the bill.’

Misha had asked if he was to do it how he would identify them, and he had been shown a photograph of a man wearing heavily rimmed spectacles and a fedora hat. He had known better than to ask who he was or why he wanted a photo of him.

‘Fifty roubles, take it or leave it,’ the man had said bluntly.

Misha stared again at the photo until his anonymous host had leaned across the table and plucked it out of his hand.

‘Eighty,’ Misha had countered, as the man placed it back in his wallet.

‘Seventy.’

He had nodded his assent, not quite believing his luck. It was more than his mother earned in a month. Misha remembered the man pulling a small camera out of his raincoat pocket and handing it to him.

‘Just point and shoot. And don’t worry about finding me. I’ll find you.’

But, of course, ten years later he still hadn’t. Things had not gone as intended, but at least he had had the foresight to put a backup plan in place; when his pursuers had searched him they had come away empty-handed.

‘Can I ask whose those men are?’ said Ilaria, staring over his shoulder.

He had asked himself the same question for years. ‘I wish I knew.’

‘Why have you held onto them?’

Because someone wants them badly enough, he thought, enough to have ransacked his place, enough to kill for. Months before, Misha had had Ilaria’s photographer friend blur a set of prints to abstraction. Whoever had them now, he hoped, would assume he had nothing of value and leave him alone.

‘You never know when something might be useful,’ he said, ‘particularly in Russia.’

From the look on her face he sensed she was disappointed he had not told her more.

‘Look, Ilaria, I’m sorry, but I suspect the less you know about these photos the better. The fact is I don’t really know any more than you do. You’ve looked at them – two men standing by the Neva on a wet April morning… period. But whoever they are, or whoever they are involved with, ten years later they are suddenly important again.’

‘What’s changed?’ she said, softening.

‘That’s it… I can’t figure it out… the Soviet Union, Russia, everything is changing, falling apart… why now… the renewed interest… how valuable can a ten-year-old photo be?’

She stared at him for a moment.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ she said, rolling the key between her fingers.

‘I think we should go back to work. Can you ask one of the girls to go to Carlo’s and fetch me a cappuccino? I want to talk with you about the oil business.’

LENINGRAD

Viktoriya ran a finger over the faint scar under her right eye and searched for her reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. She reached forward and with the palm of her hand cleared a small patch. She stood there for a moment just staring into her own eyes, her father’s eyes, trying in some way to see into herself, beyond the superficial exterior. She knew she was beautiful, but that same beauty had got her into trouble, had drawn her attacker too. Maybe it was impossible to see oneself as someone else might. She wondered how Kostya viewed her; time had not made him any more transparent. Was she just the trophy girlfriend – replaceable, expendable? He never shared his fears with her or discussed his business interests… not in any meaningful way. They might spend a night together and the next day she would receive a call from him; he would be in Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Novgorod, or some other place, and would not have mentioned anything about it to her the night before. She had given up asking why. She did not want some veiled excuse, or, worse, be lied to. Was there another woman? She never had a sense of that. Did he have sex with other women? It was hard to believe he didn’t. In the sort of places he frequented, he had only to point. Misha was right, of course. You didn’t acquire the cars, the property and the standard of living Konstantin enjoyed just from owning nightclubs. Her life felt in limbo, unresolved, uncertain.

Through the half-closed door, Viktoriya heard the phone ringing in her bedroom. It was Misha.

‘I thought you were in Milan,’ she said, pleased to hear his voice.

‘I was. I’m at Pulkova. I landed fifteen minutes ago.’

She looked at her bedside clock; it read 8:10 a.m.

‘How about I pick you up in an hour? I need to talk to you about something.’

Fifty minutes later, the concierge called, a Mikhail Dimitrivich was waiting for her in the lobby. He looked a lot better than the last time she had seen him. The bandage was gone and he was bubbling with supressed energy. Outside, three cars lay parked up against the kerb. Ivan and four men with Kalashnikovs covered the space between the lobby entrance and the street.

‘Vika!’ Misha kissed her on both cheeks, holding her by the shoulders. He looked at her intently, as though he hadn’t seen her in years. Did he see something in her that she had been unable to find earlier?

‘You look great, Vika.’

He kissed her again and took a deep breath.

‘Givenchy,’ she said, amused, before he asked. ‘You gave it to me. You had a consignment of it delivered to the warehouse, I seem to remember.’

Misha raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it was a good choice.’

As they drove across the city to Malaya Morskaya, chelnoki traders standing alone or in small groups plied their wares on street corners. Here and there, queues were forming; on the Moika embankment, Viktoriya saw women and men stoically wait their turn at a vegetable stall. She thought back to the last time she and her director had visited the central food distribution centre in Leningrad – an oxymoron in itself – how long ago could it have been? A month, six weeks? She remembered the smell of rotting food and rats the size of cats.