Dave Hutchinson - Europe in Autumn

Rudi smiled uncertainly.

THEY WERE VERY polite. They took his clothes. They put him in a cell that was a windowless concrete cube about four metres on a side, whose only features were a drain in the middle of the floor and an armoured glass bubble in the ceiling containing a light source that never went out.

Rudi sat for long periods of time on the floor. When it got too cold under his naked buttocks, he got up and paced around the cell. He lost track of time, but he didn’t worry. It was all a test.

He cursed himself for not realising straight away. It was patently ridiculous that Fabio would just march him across the border without any preparation at all. Therefore it was a test. It was patently ridiculous that someone like Fabio could talk his way past the border guards. Therefore the guards had been in on it. It was patently ridiculous that Fabio could wander around the Line’s Consulate unmolested. Therefore everyone had been in on it. Like the Situation with Max’s cousin, it had all just been a test of nerve and character. All he had to do was sit here and wait for the test to end and he could go back to Restauracja Max.

He was still thinking that, right up to the first time the Line’s security men waterboarded him.

AT SOME POINT, he was given an orange jumpsuit to wear, but he didn’t understand what it was and someone had to help him put it on. Then he was helped, not ungently, down a corridor to a little room containing a table and three chairs. A casually-dressed man of indeterminate middle-age was already sitting on one of the chairs. Rudi was invited to sit on the one facing him across the table. The third chair was taken by someone large and humourless.

Rudi and the middle-aged man looked at each other across the table for a long time. Rudi’s legs hurt and he couldn’t stop shaking and he kept feeling moments of weightlessness.

“My name is Kaunas,” the middle-aged man said eventually.

“That’s not a name,” Rudi said through a split lip. “That’s a place.”

Kaunas sat quiet again for a long time. He had a hard face and greying brown hair swept straight back from his forehead. Finally he said, “How are you being treated?”

“I’m being tortured,” said Rudi. “Just look at me.”

“Where is Fabio?” asked Kaunas.

“He went to consult with a colleague down the corridor,” said Rudi. “What day is it?”

Kaunas looked at Rudi again for a long time without speaking. Then he looked at a corner of the ceiling and said, “We’ll be making a formal diplomatic protest. He knows nothing.”

The corner of the ceiling did not answer, but the large humourless person in the third chair got up and lifted Rudi to his feet. “It’s a place ,” Rudi told Kaunas as he was ushered firmly out of the room.

Instead of being taken back to his cell, or any of the other rooms he’d been in, he was walked up a set of stairs and suddenly found himself in the Consulate’s reception room. Hazel was still behind her desk. He smiled at her as he was walked past, but it made his lip bleed and Hazel looked away.

Outside, the sunshine hurt his eyes, but it was only for a few moments. He was helped into one of those cars with darkened windows and seats so comfortable they felt like leather clouds, and he fell asleep for a while.

He woke up as he was being helped out of the car. He was marched through a loud space, then up some steps, then down a corridor and into a room with a sliding door and a big window and seats facing each other against two of the walls. He was lifted onto one of the seats. The door slid closed. He looked out of the window, and his mind refused to process the scene when everything outside started to slide backwards. He fell asleep again.

Some time later, he woke up again and the view outside the window was different. There was a big sign right outside. It read, Kraków , which he thought meant something to him. Then the door slid open and someone came into the room and started to help him to his feet, but his legs hurt and they didn’t work properly and he threw up what little was in his stomach and then he went away for a while.

DARIUSZ CAME TO see him in hospital. Not right away, but after a few days. After Max and the kitchen crew and some (not very many, Rudi was disappointed to discover and determined to revenge) of his acquaintances from other restaurants had visited. He arrived unannounced, outside visiting hours. Rudi, who had been dozing, opened his eyes, and there was the little mafioso, sitting beside the bed and looking as if he wanted a cigarette.

“You took your time,” said Rudi.

“You have our abject apologies,” said Dariusz without preamble.

“Oh,” said Rudi. “Abject apologies. Oh, good.”

Dariusz leaned forward fractionally. “You’re angry, but–”

“Yes,” said Rudi. “I am angry. I told you there was something wrong with Fabio, but you wouldn’t listen. ‘He’s a genius, Rudi.’ ‘We must be tolerant of our geniuses, Rudi.’ Fuck you, Dariusz.”

Dariusz paused. Then he said, “You’re angry, but I need to know what you told them.”

Rudi looked at him. “What?”

Dariusz reached out and touched his arm. “I need to know what you told them.”

“Fuck off, Dariusz.” Rudi turned away from him.

“It’s important,” Dariusz continued gently. “You don’t know much, but what you do know could compromise… certain things.”

Rudi turned back to look at him. “I kept your name out of it, if it’s any comfort. But I dropped Fabio in the shit as much as I possibly could.”

Dariusz sat back and nodded, as if hearing confirmation of something. “Something terrible has happened,” he said. “But it had nothing to do with the Coureurs. It was about as off-piste as it’s possible to be. You must understand that.”

“Must I?” Rudi struggled into a sitting position, punching the pillows down behind him. “Must I? You brought me a teacher and he almost got me killed. Must I understand that?”

“Fabio was operating outside orders,” said Dariusz. “He was running his own operation. What he did wasn’t sanctioned by Central. He took you into the Consulate as a patsy to gain time for his own dustoff.”

A patsy. “Well, great.”

Dariusz took his time asking his next question. He watched Rudi’s face. He looked around the room. He looked back at Rudi. He said, “Do you still want to be a Coureur?”

“I beg your pardon?” howled Rudi, loud enough to bring a brace of nurses running to see what all the fuss was about. By which time, of course, Dariusz was gone.

“SMALL NATIONS ARE like small men,” said the cobbler. “Paranoid. Twitchy. Quick to anger.”

“Mm,” said Rudi.

“I wouldn’t call them nations anyway,” the cobbler went on. “Most of them break down after a year or so. Look at me. Don’t smile.” He pointed a little camera at Rudi, paused a moment to frame the shot, and took four pictures. The camera was cabled, along with a number of other little devices and anonymous boxes, into a battered-looking old Motorola phone. “Thank you. In my opinion they don’t have the right to call themselves nations until they’ve been about for a century or so.”

“Is this going to take long?” Rudi asked. “I have a train to catch.”

The cobbler looked at him. “Getting in and out of the Zone is child’s play,” he said soberly. “Residence visas and work permits are much more difficult.”

“I know,” said Rudi.

“My regular pianist wasn’t available; I had to hire someone out of my own pocket.”

“I’m sorry,” Rudi said, hoping the stand-in pianist was trustworthy.