Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

The militiaman came in. Thickset, a dull face, a damp red mark on his forehead left by his cap.

"Your papers, please, Citizen."

"Here are my papers."

Ivan tapped on his Gold Star. There was a smear of blood on his raincoat. The palm of his hand had been cut by a fragment of glass.

The militiaman tried to grasp him by the elbow.

"You'll have to come to the station."

Ivan jerked his arm free with a sudden movement. The militiaman stumbled; the crunch of glass could be heard beneath his shoes. The balalaika slipped from the grasp of one of the Swedes, who were watching the scene in amazement. It fell onto the marble paving and emitted a pitiful groan. Everyone was rooted to the spot in a mute, uncertain pose.

"Just a minute, Lyosha," the sales assistant murmured to the militiaman. "First let me show the foreign visitors out."

At this moment two Japanese men came into the Beriozka, almost identically dressed. Had not one of them been slightly taller, they could have been taken for twins. Dark official suits, ties that glittered slightly

Smiling, they walked up to the counter and, as if they noticed neither the broken glass nor the militiaman, nor even the old man with a bloodied hand, they began speaking in melodious English. Pulling herself together, the salesclerk offered them a long black leather case. Ivan stared at them, almost spellbound. He sensed that life, like duckweed displaced by a stone, was about to settle back into the well-ordered equilibrium that was so alien to him.

The Japanese, having made their purchase, headed for the exit; the militiaman took a step toward Ivan, crunching a fragment of glass underfoot. Then Ivan seized a statuette that was standing on the counter and hurled himself, in pursuit of them. The Japanese turned. One of them had time to dodge the blow. The other, hit by Ivan, collapsed onto the pavement.

Ivan lashed out blindly, without really managing to harm them. What was more alarming was his yell and his bloodstained raincoat. The Swedes scurried toward the door, yelping and pushing one another. As Ivan's fingers struck out, they knocked over a bronze figurine of a bear cub, an Olympic souvenir, which shattered the glass storefront into fragments. Commemorative items of this kind had not sold well at the time of the Games, no one wanted to weigh themselves down with such a burden. The whole series had been shipped out to the provinces: only this one had remained. The salesclerks kept it on the counter as a paperweight…

Almendinger came to the Beriozka shortly before closing time. He was glad he knew Moscow so well that he could make his way there not along Gorky Street but following little shady alleys. One of them pleased him particularly. It was quiet, almost deserted. You walked along beside the old brick building of a tobacco factory. Behind its walls could be heard the low, regular hum of machinery. The slightly bitter smell of tobacco hovered all along the alley

"Little by little I'm going to forget it all," thought Almendinger. "All those figures, all those Moscow telephone numbers, all these winding alleys… And this smell, too. Now that's something to keep me busy until I die – forgetting…"

The side window at the Beriozka store was cordoned off with a rope stretched between two chairs. The sales-clerks were talking in whispers. All Almendinger could hear was: "Mad… completely mad…" A glazier was at work behind the counter. Bowed over the table, he scored a long groove with his diamond, making a dry, grinding sound. Then with a brief musical tinkling, he snapped the glass.

Almendinger smiled and asked the salesclerk to show him a small gold watch for a woman. "Or maybe it would be better to buy a necklace or a bracelet, this silver one with amethysts and emeralds? Of course, it would be much simpler to ask her what she would prefer. But what can you do? I'm getting old… It's tempting to play Santa Claus – or rather the Count of Monte Cristo of the third age…"

After a fine morning the sun was in hiding and the evening was gray, but, as always at that time of year, luminous and strangely airy. When he emerged, Almendinger turned left and entered a well-tended square in an open space that was rather provincial in style. At the center of the square a huge bronze column towered upward, covered with a tracery of writing in Russian and Georgian – the monument in honor of the friendship between the two peoples. He sat down on a bench, and, with a pleasure he could not quite understand, began watching the people and the long buses that drove around the square with weary dexterity. He caught gestures and snatches of conversation that were quite without significance for him and were for this reason utterly engaging.

Not far away there was a shoe store. People came by with their cardboard boxes, still flushed from the pushing and shoving and the joy of purchase. A woman sat down on the edge of the bench beside him, took off her old down-at-heel pumps and put on those she had just bought. She turned her foot this way and that, studying it from ah angles, then stood up, took a few paces on the spot – are they too narrow? – and made off for the bus. The toes of the old abandoned shoes were left sticking out from under the bench.

Almendinger realized he was still holding the little parcel from the Beriozka store in his hand. He opened his briefcase and slipped his purchase into a small leather pocket. He saw the wads of paper there, the neatly arranged files and smiled. A tipsy passerby came up and asked him: "Tell me, friend, you don't happen to have any matches, do you?"

Still smiling, Almendinger held out a lighter to him. When after several attempts the man managed to light his cigarette and mumbled: "Thanks for coming to the rescue, friend," and tried to return the lighter, Almendinger was no longer there. He was already strolling toward the alley that smelled of bitter tobacco.

Ivan remained in the hospital for a long time, recovering from the heart attack he had suffered in the militia van. The inquiry took its course. No serious charges were brought against him. The Embassy sent a note to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. An article appeared in a Swedish newspaper: "Failed Hold-Up in Moscow Beriozka Store." The following day "Radio Liberty," broadcasting from Munich, gave the facts, mentioning the full names of all the participants correctly. Everyone knew that the story would soon evolve into one of those piquant anecdotes that are related at diplomatic cocktail parties: "It actually happened at the Be-riozka, you know. And a Hero of the Soviet Union, what's more! A Gold Star on his chest… Oh no, he's had his psychiatric assessment. A man of perfectly sound mind… You're right. Maybe it's what they call the Old Guard syndrome. Have you heard what that fellow Petrov says about it? Quite priceless! He's supposed to have stamped out all that kind of thing. When they told him about it he nodded and growled: 'Yes, the veterans stay young at heart for a long time…' And by the way, the veteran's daughter… Yes, yes… And there's another quite fascinating detail…"

At the beginning of June Ivan was to be transferred into preventive detention. While he was in the hospital Olya had been to see him every day. They did not have much to say to each other. Olya would produce the latest newspapers and fruit and food from her bag, and ask after his health. Then they would go down and sit on a bench in front of a flower bed that gave off the bitter smell of marigolds.

In the course of these two weeks, by borrowing money left and right and exchanging foreign currency, she settled accounts with the Beriozka. She telephoned Alexei… It was sometimes his father, sometimes his mother, who picked up the phone and each time they replied politely that Alexei was not there. His mother added: "You know, Olyechka, he's preparing for the Youth Festival at the moment. He's gone to France to sort out some problems to do with the makeup of the delegation." Olya thanked her and hung up.