A Lonely and Curious Country (16 page)

I guess that’s what they did with his money.

I rang the doorbell. It boomed deep fathoms within the silent house. I leaned, with my ear against the door, not breathing, listening for the inhabitants in its depths. I rapped the cavorting dolphin-shaped doorknocker. Nothing.

I was fighting the nervous stomach-tingle urge to flee when I heard something faint but getting closer from inside. A scuffling noise and the door flew open. It was Mar-Lyna’s mother holding a dirty little white dog. “Say hi to Tiny,” she said, jiggling the animal in my face.

The dog let out a ripping growl and snapped in my direction. “Do you recognize me?” I asked.

“Of course. You’re still one of us.” She looked much as I remembered her, slender with wavy jet-black hair that flowed over her shoulders. “Missed you. Sorry couldn’t none of us make it to your mama’s funeral.” She turned and gestured for me to follow her into the darkened house. “We sent flowers.”

She waved a hand back in my direction, “Mar-Lyna’ll be happy to see you. Of course there’ll be the baby. There’s a fresh one for you to look at.” She muttered, as if to herself, “The other ones got so
big
.”

She led me to a dark-paneled den at the back of the house, crammed full of enormous furniture. Velvet curtains covered the windows so that no sunlight entered. Mar-Lyna’s mother flopped down on an overstuffed sofa, of which there were several. She stared at the blue underwater flicker of a large television with the sound on low. Tiny nursed a basketful of squirming white puppies.

Mar-Lyna was curled up in a huge round chair carved in the shape of a shell. “Aw, come here and give me a hug. I’d get up but I’m just tuckered.” She wheezed and said in a hoarse voice, “The baby, you know. Just wears me out.” She appeared bloated and her features were rubbery. Her skin felt clammy. Surely she couldn’t be pregnant again. Hadn’t one just been born?

“I know about that. I have a baby too. She’s six months old now, a handful.” I thought of our little pink bit wriggling on the hotel bed with David and wished I were there with them.

“Well where’s she at, hon? Should have brought her.”

“Her father is taking care of her back at the hotel. She was feeling a little . . . under the weather.”

“David?” she sneered. “Well, I guess he’s okay. Y’all married now?”

It was then I realized we were not alone in the room.

“I can’t get him to do nothing.” She glared at a corner. “Worthless.”

“Well, hello,” I said. “How have you been?” and immediately regretted it when I saw his face.

He crouched like a toad next to the cold empty fireplace. His once-fine physique had melted into a pale ruin and the long blond hair was gray and stringy, pink patches of scalp showed through. In the dimness I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in the thickened blank of his face. He looked at me with the beseeching expression of a dog about to be kicked for piddling on the rug.

His cracked white lips struggled to form a word.

“Hey, I know what,” Mar-Lyna said, “Bet you want to see the new baby. She’s big now. I mean huge. Probably way bigger than your kid.” Her eyes were very bright. “Mumma, go get us girls something fun to drink.”

I felt faint. The air was too stuffy in here.

“Kil-
ler
! He trembled at the sound of her voice. “Go down to the water and get the baby. Time to feed her.”

“That’s okay,” I was backing away now. “I really need to be getting back. My daughter’s not feeling well . . . ”

“Oh yeah, I reckon you better check on your little girlie. Make sure she’s all right. Be certain nothing’s wrong with her.” She stood up with effort and patted her enormous belly with satisfaction. Something moved under her stretched t-shirt. Not moved exactly.
Roiled
. “I got another li’l bun in the oven, in case you were wondering.” Her head swiveled around toward him, “Killer, don’t make me ask you again.”

I muttered something about my husband needing me and stumbled for the hallway. The dog, Tiny yelped behind me. I bumped into massive furniture in the darkness and bruised my shins against a low-lying something before I twisted the front door handle and stumbled down the cracked concrete steps to the walkway.

“That’s right, you better run away,” Mar-Lyna’s voice rose at me like a wave, crashing at my back. “That’s all you was ever good for anyway.”

I dropped the key trying to open the car door. My legs shook as I crouched down in the sand, fumbling under the car for them. I groped, tearing my hands on weeds until I finally caught the glint of the key ring, grabbed it and stood up so relieved I thought I had wet myself.

He was standing on the other side of the car.

“OH. Oh god. Look, I have to go now. Expected back . . . ” I yanked the door open and had slid in, locked the doors, and put the key in the ignition when he tapped on the passenger window. Shaking, I waited a moment and pushed the button to roll the window down a crack. He bent down until his face was level with the opening. His eyes were no longer blue. He was holding one of Tiny’s white puppies under his arm.

Help me.

Please.

Did I only imagine he said this? There was a high tinkling sound like broken glass from the house and he looked back toward it for the space of a pounding heartbeat, stood up, turned and staggered away from the car and across the yard and into the marshes. I thought the dark figure with a white patch under its arm hesitated and turned back toward me again but it was hard to tell. Thank God I couldn’t see his face anymore when he disappeared into the dilapidated shack near the water.

I put the car firmly into reverse and backed hard out of the drive until I reached the deserted farmhouse and turned around and headed to the hotel. Fly home to the fields of Kansas, far from all salt-water bodies. Home with the man who adored me and our precious little one. My wiggly pink girl. My perfect little fishie.

As I drove I rubbed the slit opening in the side of my neck and my finger caught on one of the tiny barbs. I yanked my hand away. There was a smear of blood on my fingertip where I’d hooked it.

I’d always worked so hard to cover that opening with makeup, scarves, hairstyles. It was barely noticeable.

Please God let her turn out just like her father.

Please.

Interrogation

Damir Salkovic

The corridor was cold and dark and stank of fear. Dull electric light bathed the iron galleries and rows of grim doors, threw long shadows up the stark white walls. The silence was absolute, funereal. Solovkin watched his feet move across the concrete floor of the passage without making a sound. His mind reeled: it was a mistake, had to be. They would realize it any moment now. Beneath his confusion he could taste fear, bright and hard and metallic, cutting through the daze like a knife.

The guard in front opened a heavy steel door. Beyond it lay a wide, windowless chamber, its walls and floors covered in stained gray tile. A long wooden table stood halfway across the room, and behind it sat two uniformed men. Before the table was an empty chair. Further back was small desk with a secretary hunched over a typewriter, a metal cart covered by a dirty sheet. Dim, terrible realization dawned on Solovkin, something his bowels understood before his brain did. He felt his legs give way. The guards half-led, half-dragged him across the threshold, dumped him into the chair without ceremony. Behind him the door slammed shut.

Harsh white light streamed from a naked bulb, blinding him. The faces of the two men were shadows in the painful glare. Solovkin recognized one of them, a tall, slender officer of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs who’d been present at his arrest. The other one was stocky and brutish, with coarse dark hair and a cruel set to his mouth. His huge, scarred fists lay knotted on the table like mallets. His eyes, flat and black and lifeless, stared at Solovkin like the eyes of a shark.

They had come for him in the dead of night, hammering on the door of his apartment, the ill-lit landing echoing with their shouts. It was an old trick, one Solovkin himself had used with no small success: catch a man off guard, half-asleep and dazed, his mental and physical defenses lowered. He was given ten minutes to dress and pack his belongings. An arrest warrant had been thrust into his face. Before he knew what was happening, he was in the back of a huge black car, roaring through the sleeping Moscow streets. Then the prison, a vast, sprawling nightmare of brick and concrete, bristling with searchlights and machine gun towers. That had been days or months ago: time slowed to a trickle in the mute, shapeless darkness of the cell. No one had spoken to him until the two guards came and ordered him to get up and follow. He hadn’t dared ask where they were taking him, afraid of the cell door closing again, of the thick, viscous silence that descended like a shroud, shutting out the world.

“Smoke, Comrade?” The tall interrogator pushed a crumpled pack across the table. Solovkin thanked him and reached for it with a trembling hand. The wood of the chair dug into his back. He lit a cigarette with the proffered lighter, feeling the eyes of the men on him. “My name is Malenkov and this is Commissar Kazakov. We have been commissioned to question you about the events leading to your arrest.” The pack vanished into an inner coat pocket. Malenkov leaned back in his seat. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“There has been a mistake, Comrades.” It took Solovkin tremendous effort to keep his voice steady. His gaze betrayed him, crept to the covered metal cart. Terror rose in him like an icy tide: he knew what lay beneath the stained sheet, had used it himself more times than he cared to remember. “I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter. I’m the deputy head of the Special Tasks Section, not a-”

“Surely you don’t think we don’t know who you are, Vitaly Dmitrovich.” Malenkov chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. He rummaged through the thick folder before him. “A decorated veteran of the Great War and a stalwart of the Revolution. Before joining the Special Tasks Section, you served as acting chief of the Seventh Directorate. Your exploits in the fight against the enemies of the people, at home and abroad, are legendary. You’re something of a hero in the Commissariat. One of the Old Guard.
”
He put the folder down and steepled his hands under his chin. “This makes your betrayal all the more baffling.”

Solovkin fumbled for words, but found none. Malenkov’s eyes bored into his, glinting with cold amusement. “You claim your arrest is a mistake. Very well. It might be so. Think carefully before you answer. Where were you in October last year?”

A knot of hope and anticipation tightened in Solovkin’s chest; his mind grasped at it like a drowning man at a straw. “I was in Paris, on assignment. I stayed at-”

              “-the Hotel Quai Voltaire.
”
Malenkov was skimming over a tightly typed page. The expression on his face was suddenly stern; Solovkin felt the glimmer of hope die out. “Attending a trade exposition. Your cover was that of a publishing house representative. What was the nature of this assignment?”

“It’s in my report.” The light hurt Solovkin’s eyes. From somewhere behind the table came the distant clatter of a typewriter
.
“We – the Section – received orders to find and eliminate Konrad Odinets, a former White officer and reactionary ringleader. I went to Paris to gather intelligence and coordinate the operation.”

“How did that go?”

“It was a failure,
”
Solovkin said. “An agent was assigned to visit the target in his quarters and kill him with a cyanide bullet. Somehow Odinets must have gotten wind of it. He fled the city, took the overnight train to Marseilles. I dispatched two men to find him there, but they were unsuccessful.”

“I see.” Malenkov pretended to study the file again. “According to this report, on the third day of the exposition you met with a Finn by the name of Vartiainen. An antiquarian from Helsinki.”

“As you said. It’s all in the report. I met with him to preserve my cover”

“He gave you a package. What was in it?”

“Yes.” Solovkin could hear the tremor in his voice. The other Commissar’s silence was beginning to unnerve him. “A rare copy of Philidor’s
Analysis of the Game of Chess
, published in Paris fifty years ago.”

“Come now.” The thin man gave him a reproachful look. He reached under the table and brought out an old, leather-bound volume, the covers lettered in gold. “We found the book while searching your apartment. It is of no interest to us. We want you to tell us what you did with the letters.”

“Letters?
”
The walls seemed to close in on Solovkin. “I don’t know anything about any letters.”

“This Vartiainen,” Malenkov said, as if the prisoner hadn’t spoken, “is an enemy agent, in league with reactionary immigrant groups. He used you to transport ciphered messages to subversives and criminal elements within our borders. We want to know the names of his contacts here, in Moscow.”

“There were no letters,” Solovkin said blankly. The words sounded like they came from the mouth of a stranger. A horrible uncertainty seized him for a moment. What if Malenkov was right? Nonsense, utter nonsense: he knew how the game was played. This was what they were taught to do
–
instill confusion, try to get the suspect to contradict himself, to question his own sanity. How many times had he sat on the other side of the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring at the condemned with cold, calculating eyes
?
“There are no contacts.”

“He’s lying,” said the thick-shouldered Kazanov. His voice was very even, void of accent or inflection. He leaned back in his seat and laced his massive hands across his stomach. “The bastard is sitting in front of us, lying to our faces.”

Malenkov shot an annoyed look at his comrade, turned back to Solovkin. “Do you know a man named Bogatsky? Mikhail Bogatsky?”

“He was second-in-command of the foreign intelligence branch.”

“Was?”

“He was arrested and executed for treasonable conspiracy.”

“Indeed.” Malenkov nodded and shuffled papers
.
“In his confession, the accused Bogatsky stated that he maintained contact with counter-revolutionary terror groups in Berlin, Warsaw and Helsinki. That he used his influence and position to betray state secrets to foreign powers through a network of dissidents and exiles. That he assisted them in planning assassinations. Are you aware of this?”

“I am aware.” Solovkin rubbed his temple. His mouth was suddenly very dry. A sinking realization settled into the pit of his stomach with frigid certainty: he would never leave the prison alive. He was the one who had dictated the confession to Bogatsky. He recalled how the old man’s hands shook while signing the statement, the desperate terror in those watery blue eyes. Another one of the Old Guard. It had taken Solovkin less than a week to break the former Directorate chief; he wondered how long he would last.

“
            
 
Two reactionaries arrested last week named Vartiainen as Bogatsky’s man in Helsinki.” The Commissar crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “According to them, you acted as the courier, delivered correspondence from abroad to the leader of a secret counter-revolutionary cell in this city. Who is this man?”

“This is absurd,” Solovkin said, knowing all was lost. The trap had been laid with great skill. If he tried to confute Bogatsky’s confession, they would accuse him of putting an innocent man to death to cover his tracks. If he didn’t, he would be admitting his guilt.

“There’s no use denying it.”

“There is no man.” He stared at the drab floor tiles. A dark, rusty stain had seeped into the grout, into the tiny cracks. “I’m telling you, I never-”

The blow caught him unawares, knocking him off the chair. For a man of his bulk, Kazanov moved like a panther. Shadows gathered in the corners of Solovkin’s consciousness. Malenkov’s voice reached him from a vast distance: … restraint… handled delicately… well-known figure. A great hand picked him up, deposited him back into his seat with a boneless thump. The pain came in a dull bolt, almost an afterthought. He was vaguely aware of the cut above his eye, the warm stickiness crawling down the side of his head.

“We’ll have none of that,” he heard Malenkov say. A noncommittal grunt came in response. The blur before Solovkin shifted, resolved into the faces of his interrogators. “Why do you so stubbornly maintain your innocence? We know you’re not a subversive at heart. It is the belief of the Commissariat that you have been manipulated by the criminal reactionary movement. You can be reformed.”

Solovkin shook his throbbing head. To his right, the troll-like form of the hulking Kazanov hovered on the fringe of his vision. Malenkov sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Is it ready?”

Behind the interrogators, a metal chair scraped across the floor. Footsteps approached and receded. Solovkin kept his stare riveted to the scratched surface of the table. It was an awful dream; any moment he would wake up, away from the interrogation room, from the hideous silence of the prison.

A typewritten page was thrust in front of him. He tried to read it, but his mind refused to make sense of the words. References to clandestine meetings, unfamiliar places, names he didn’t recognize. A drop of blood fell from his cheek to the paper, a red circle spreading across the whiteness.

“Sign the statement,” Malenkov said, pushing a pen across the table. The tall man’s countenance was weary and sallow; dark shadows ringed his eyes. “It’s an admission of guilt, concocted to minimize your culpability in the affair. Ten years at most, but you can get amnesty in one or two.” The Commissar’s tone was businesslike. He rapped his fingers on the tabletop. Solovkin sat with the pen poised over the page for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he looked up and placed the pen to the side.