Sunday 6 June
— Nikto.
Go away.
— Nikto!
Kostya dreamt that bones fell from the metro tunnel’s mud and shattered the windows of the train. The Spanish boys screamed; the bones exploded; clouds of powder and ash fouled the air. New bones whistled like falling bombs, and as Kostya gagged and sought the boys, he found only cardboard name tags.
Thirsty.
Hung over.
The bed rocked and squeaked, a rhythm to it.
The neighbours are fucking. No, it’s my bed.
Someone yelled. To his right.
— Nikto, help me! She’s choking.
The room had developed a terrible spin, as if impaled on a spike and then given a smack to set it in motion.
The bed slowed; a sharp and ugly odour rose.
Scherba?
Kostya sat up fast, and the light sliced into his eyes. That British woman sat in bed next to him, retching over his sheets. He jerked away hard enough to fall from the bed. As he staggered upright, hand over his crotch to cover himself, the fabric of his trousers rasped his skin, surprising him. He was still dressed in last night’s civilian clothes when he usually slept naked this time of year, and he had no memory of bringing a woman home.
Certainly not this woman.
Dust motes fell across the beam of light separating him from Temerity. She still wore her blouse and skirt. Dark bags swelled beneath her closed eyes, and freckles stood out on her face like tiny stains.
Efim frowned as he held Temerity’s shoulders. —Afraid of a little bile, Nikto?
— How the hell did she get here?
— Puff of smoke? What did she drink last night? When I got in here, she — easy, easy, let it come — she was choking on her vomit. Good thing you left the bedroom door open.
Kostya rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his fingers. —I did? I need some water.
— Throw it in your face and wake up!
Catching himself against door jamb and walls, Kostya stumbled to the bathroom. He glared at the telephone. It stayed silent. Cold water ran into his cupped hands, and it smelled of soil and wood and something sweet yet unclean. Three handfuls down his throat, one handful on his face, as the good doctor said.
A decision. He’d made a decision. Enough, he’d said, surrounded by drugged women and sweaty men. He’d said it in Bilbao, navigating crowds of refugees, and he’d said it again on the docks struggling to write the boys’ names in Russian. He’d thought it when he’d disobeyed orders and left a witness simply because he found her attractive — a dire dereliction of duty — and now the witness lay in his bed. Under interrogation, she’d soon enough mention Kostya and how he’d shot wide in Spain and then let her go from Lubyanka. All good reasons to say Enough and get her out of that party, keep her from arrest, yet something else drove him: the knowledge that she’d suffer and die for no good reason.
Her, and how many others?
Enough. He said it to his reflection in the shaving mirror, except the idea writhed, and a different word split his lips. —Impossible.
Impossible he’d brought her home. Impossible he’d spared her in the first place. Impossible she’d turned up in Moscow.
Promising himself never to drink that wretched sweet wine again, he lurched back to the bedroom.
Oh, it’s possible. And sick in my bed.
Fucked in the mouth.
Eyes still clenched shut, she spat, gasped in air. —Get me some water.
Efim nodded his approval, and Kostya found himself filling a glass before he questioned why he’d obeyed her. He decided to ignore how she’d said Get me some water in English. Hadn’t she? Yes, Kostya told himself, Scherba must have missed it, if it had happened at all. Surely. He made no reaction to hearing a foreign language from a strange woman in his own flat. He had simply, in his medical concern, picked up on the general idea that someone hungover would need water.
Efim took the water and passed it to Temerity, then lifted her other wrist. —It’s all right. I’m a doctor. Your speech is slurred. I want to take your pulse. Sip, just sip, or else you’ll retch again.
She spoke Russian. —What day is this?
Efim peered at her, then placed his palm on her forehead. —Sunday morning, the sixth of June. When did you eat last?
— Friday. Sometime on Friday.
— It’s not very wise to drink on an empty stomach.
She took a breath to speak, as if angry. Instead, she sipped the water.
Then she looked up and saw Kostya.
As Efim dodged her flinch and steadied the glass, he noticed the mark on the back of her hand: a puncture wound. He sighed. His flat-mate, not as clever as a man his age should be, needed some advice.
Efim bundled up the soiled sheet. —Don’t lie down. Nikto, prop her up with pillows, then come see me in the kitchen. I’ll drop the sheets at the laundry service on my way to work.
At the kitchen sink, Efim ran water and hoped it would cover the sound of speech. —A narkomaniac streetwalker? Gonorrhea will be the least of it. Get rid of her.
Nerve pain zapped, and Kostya rubbed at his left arm, unaware he did so. —No, she’s…I met her at a party. Can you look at her knees before you go?
— Knees? Then you won’t need sulpha pills.
— What? No, no, she fell. Her knees are skinned and bloody.
Efim dug around in his medical bag. —Any more patients for me? Stashed in the pantry, perhaps?
— Just check her knees.
— After I check you.
Kostya leaned away from Efim’s touch. —I’m fine.
— No, you’re not. You keep your bad arm limp and close to your side. You skipped yesterday’s morning dose, and look how miserable you got by the evening. Then, after treatment, you ran off.
— The morphine will only wear off in a few hours and leave me where I started. I don’t want it. Listen to me!
Efim assembled needle and syringe. —I can hear you just fine. And I have clear instructions to keep you fit to work, something you know perfectly well, so stay still, and we’ll see if we can find better veins than last night. I am quite imprisoned enough here without adding a stray whore to the mix.
— She is not a stray anything. You will speak of her with respect.
Efim stared him down. —Should I get the police?
— What?
— Strange woman in the flat. You’re in distress. She frightens you.
— Frightens me?
— Clearly.
— What can she do: vomit on me?
Efim whispered it. —Who is she?
Kostya scowled. I will not submit to interrogation from you. —I notice you’re wearing a wedding band.
Wincing, Efim almost shook his head in admiration. —My wife is alive and well back in Leningrad. I’m seconded to Moscow for research.
— How many children?
The water pressure weakened. Efim turned off the tap, and the speed of his answer betrayed his sorrow and relief. —None.
Kostya sat down in a kitchen chair, his posture that of an interrogator’s, confidence and ease, just a small matter to straighten out, comrade. —Seconded, you said. Army?
— I was working at a hospital. A Red Army group forced me onto an armoured train. The White Army seized the train for a while, then the Reds took it back. Two winters, 1918 and ’19.
Unbuttoning his shirt, Kostya softened his voice. —Did you ever visit Odessa?
Efim recalled what he’d told himself when he declined a chance to escape the train. Escape where? I don’t know where I am. —I’ve no idea. All I saw was people, sick and injured people.