Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

Ivan was sitting beside Semyonov behind the palm tree, on the polished wooden planks that concealed the radiators. Semyonov was leaning sideways with his rigid leg stretched out. From time to time he gave explanations to Ivan in a low voice: "There, you see, in the basement behind the cloakroom, they have a valyutka, a currency bar. It's reserved for capitalists. And the girls, of course. You see that couple there walking toward the elevator? And there, look at that tight-fitting dress. She's going to go with him. Ten minutes' work and she'll pocket what you used to earn in a month driving trucks."

Ivan saw people coming and going who were unusual not only in their language and clothes but even in the way they moved.

Silently the elevator doors opened and closed. A very young girl ran up to the cloakroom, meowing like a cat: "You wouldn't have a packet of Marlboros, would you?"

"He trades, that one. He's no fool," Semyonov explained to Ivan. "She doesn't want to spend her currency, and maybe she hasn't earned it yet. She's very young…"

A large, dazzling woman sailed past, her bosom opulent beneath a fine knit dress. She walked on heels so high and pointed that her calves looked as if they were tensed with cramp. A young man in an elegant suit, a newspaper in his hand, stopped near the cloakroom desk. He exchanged a few offhand words with the attendant, glancing now at people emerging from the lifts, now at those entering the hotel. "A guy from the KGB," whispered Semyonov.

Ivan was wearied by the uninterrupted parade of faces and the mechanical creaking of the malfunctioning door. The blond woman in the tight dress emerged from the elevator and made for the cloakroom. "Job done," thought Ivan. The woman put on some lipstick in front of the mirror and headed for the exit. Absently he watched her go.

At that moment Ivan saw Olya.

She was walking beside a tall man, whose face Ivan did not have time to notice, such was the fascination with which he was staring at his daughter. Olya was talking to her companion, relaxed and natural. Semyonov nudged Ivan with his elbow and murmured something to him. Ivan heard nothing. He felt a horrible tensing inside himself and a salty taste tightening his jaws. He understood he ought to react, leap up, cry out, but he could not. When he began to hear again he caught a remark of Semyonov's: "They're talking German, Ivan, can you hear…?"

At the same moment the elevator doors began to slide shut behind Olya and her companion. Reflected in the mirror in the cabin, Ivan saw a man's face with short gray hair, neatly trimmed. The elevator doors closed smoothly.

Ivan tried to get up but was overcome with such a fit of trembling that his knees gave way. And once more he felt a salty lump in his throat. He had never before experienced such a painful, almost physical pang. He did not realize that what he was suffering from at this moment was a kind of jealousy.

Semyonov tugged at his sleeve, exclaiming in a muted voice: "Vanya, Vanya, what is it? What's the matter with you? You've gone as white as a sheet…"

Stunned, Ivan gazed at him without seeing him and, unable to control a quivering at the corner of his mouth, breathed softly: "That's my daughter."

"He's called Wilfried Almendinner… No, not 'Almendinner,' what am I saying? Almendinger… There's a surname for you! A real tongue twister! We're going to take a great interest in him. Svetlana was supposed tq be looking after him. But she's on sick leave, you see. As to conversation, don't worry. To begin with, your German is perfectly adequate, and in any case he speaks Russian. He was here in the war. He was taken prisoner in the Ukraine and learned the language while they were rebuilding Leningrad. I'm telling you this, Olya, to give you a certain amount of background, so you can prepare yourself a little psychologically But when you're talking to him, of course, you're not supposed to know this. In any case you know your business and you don't need me to remind you of it."

Vitaly Ivanovich took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He had a weary and disappointed air. Ever since the winter he had been looking forward to the blissful torpor that awaited him on the beach at the KGB's vacation home beside the Black Sea. And suddenly everything was turned upside down, the spring and summer vacations had been put back to the fall and the order had been given to prepare for the International Festival of Youth and Students.

"They're all going to be gathering here, the whole pro-Communist rabble," Vitaly Ivanovich swore internally. "And because of them, I'll have no vacation. What bizarre routines we're falling into. Almost every year there's something: one year it's the Olympic Games, then it's conferences, now this festival… They come here to make love. It's 'Workers of the world, copulate!' This festival's a farce! If only I could take my leave in September, at least I could go mushroom picking. But no! I'll get it around the new year…"

Vitaly Ivanovich pulled a face, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and went on with a sad smile: "That's right, Olya, we're going to take a great interest in him. He comes here as the representative of a firm of chemical products, but he has links with the secret services, we know that for certain. In fact, for a time he was an expert on military affairs, but that's just for your information. We think he's going to make a contact. So it's not impossible that someone may pass documents to him. It would be very helpful for us to be able to examine his briefcase. Clearly that can only be done at night, you understand. Of course, customs will check him with a fine-tooth comb when he leaves. But before they get to customs they generally have time to encode it or learn it by heart or even entrust it to the diplomatic pouch. So you see your role is crucial, Olya. He arrives on May the third and leaves on the seventh. He'll be staying at the Intourist."

Olya passed on the German's briefcase, a smart black attaché case, for inspection the very first night. It was an object of quality and price, like all the things this man used.

Olya waited until he was breathing regularly and slipped out of bed. She knew he would sleep deeply for at least two or three hours. The sleeping draft was added to the cocktail. At the table in the restaurant, as if she had just happened to think of it, Olya would exclaim: "Oh! I completely forgot! They do a cocktail here – you know, it's a rather… Russian-style combination – absolutely delicious."

If for any reason the "subject" refused, the waiter would bring exceptionally salty caviar. In the bedroom, after the delights of love had made him breathless, the foreigner would take eager drafts of the cool wine thoughtfully poured out by his attentive companion.

Olya took a large black plastic envelope out of her bag, put the German's briefcase into it and closed the zipper. Then she placed the envelope close to the door, gently withdrew the key from the lock and went over to the telephone. She dialed twice and, without waiting for the customary "Hello," murmured "Forty-six" and hung up. Two minutes later the lock clicked softly, the door opened slightly and a hand deftly seized the black envelope. To avoid falling asleep, Olya did not lie down – she sat in an armchair.

Almendinger was lying on his back, stretched out fully, his great bony hands crossed on his chest. The neon light from the street silvered his face. It was a face that resembled a mournful plaster mask. And it now seemed impossible that the petrified folds of this mouth should, only a few minutes ago, have sought and touched her lips, those hands held her body.

During dinner at the restaurant he had talked a good deal, joking and correcting her mistakes. He bore himself with such worldly ease and there was such precision in all his words and gestures that Olya had no need to act. It felt as if he knew the scenario quite as well as her, that the allocation of roles suited him and in no way discomfited him. It even felt as if it was all so familiar to him that he was intent on making the most of this May evening, the presence of this young escort, as unexpected as she was inevitable, and of the chance, possibly for the last time in his life, to assume the rewarding role of social lion.