He rinsed. —Arkady Dmitrievich says my grief entitles me to nothing.
— He’s right.
Kostya turned off the water, accepted a towel from Temerity, and dried off. He touched his scalp. —What have I done to my head?
— How’s the shoulder?
— Fucking recoil. Did Efim say when he’d be back?
— No.
— Please.
Please, what?
He stood there, arms limp. —Nadia, please. Just…touch me. Tell me I’m real. I still exist.
She stared at him.
— I am a ghost. I’m already dead. And I’ve killed you, too.
Temerity touched the skin near the scars of his bad shoulder. —You’re quite warm for a ghost.
Gentle, he took her hand, placed it instead on his good shoulder, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
Then he let go of her hand and picked through his clothes for cigarettes and matches. —Recite something and help me fix my head. Please?
Almost line by line, interrupting herself with pauses as she got better control of the clippers, she whispered Shakespeare’s sonnet 40 in English and cut what remained of Kostya’s hair.
The English words and rhythms soothing his ears and his mind, even as meaning flew past him, he sat on the toilet seat and watched his hair fall away. Gavriil, still standing by the wall, eyes no longer flames but caverns, refused to explain anything. Then he disappeared.
Temerity lowered the clippers. —Done.
Kostya ran his hand over his scalp: the faintest stubble. —Good. We’ll clean this mess up later. Right now I need a drink.
— I think you’ve had enough for tonight.
— Far too much. But just one drink, for just one story, yes?
Big green eyes stared up at her.
Tapping the clippers clean of hair, she gave a tight little smile. —All right, Kostya. One drink.
He sipped his vodka. —Vadym had a nephew my age, Mikhail. Everyone called him Misha. When Arkady Dmitrievich first brought me here to Moscow, in ’18, we both had flu. Vadym looked after us. After I got a bit better, he introduced me to his Misha. He thought we might be friends. Arkady Dmitrievich never liked Misha, called him a rebellious angel and said he’d come to a bad end. Misha was determined to solve every problem himself, and he was braver than me, not that I ever told him that. I loved him. We competed in everything, especially at the gym. He played better bandy, but I could row faster. He leapt hurdles, but I could run the long races. I could shoot better, and that pissed him off. Neither of us could be best in wrestling. Coaches called stalemate after stalemate. We graduated from school and ran straight for the NKVD. We competed there, too. In the end I got the better grades, and I was always the better shot.
Remembering where she’d heard the name Misha, remembering Cristobal Zapatero, Temerity felt nauseous.
Kostya swirled his drink around in the glass. —We both ended up in foreign intelligence because of the languages, and we got sent our separate ways. Except we met up again in Spain. All these international communists poured in to fight the fascists, winds of change, flames of revolution, blah blah blah…
— I know what you did in Spain.
— And I enjoyed it.
Temerity took a good swallow of vodka, hoping to block her memory of Cristobal’s rosary beads hitting the floor. She failed.
Kostya raised his glass to her, in a silent toast. —I got homesick. I never expected that. When you spoke Russian to me, you knocked something loose. I knew my duty. I knew I’d have to shoot you, leave no witness. But you spoke Russian, and you told me about your Russian mother. Was that true?
— Yes.
After a moment, Kostya shrugged. —I met up with Misha again just a few days before in Bilbao. I was so happy to see him. All the troubles of Spain, and there’s Misha. Things made sense again. He even remembered my birthday was coming up. He had vodka. He’d saved it, one little flask, carried it from Moscow and then all over Spain. It felt like years, and yet it felt like only a minute passed as we drank together, and we spoke Russian, and we laughed. Later told everyone we were Canadians.
Temerity snorted. —Canadians?
— Mr. MacKenzie and Monsieur LeBas of the International Brigade who came all the way to Spain to the fight the fascists. I didn’t have time to carve any princes out of butter, so I wouldn’t call it a very good Canadian disguise. Misha spoke better Spanish, so I let him do most of the talking. Even if anyone guessed we were Russian, no one wanted to believe we might be NKVD, or would want us to know they’d guessed, so it worked. Then we got the orders to liquidate Zapatero. I needed to see a doctor anyway, so I thought I could get treatment first, and then kill him. Except I met you. And Misha fucked things up. Misha should have shot Zapatero in the head. Simple execution job, but no, he had to miss. And I knew right away it was deliberate. No way, no fucking way, could he miss from so close. I gave him hell. Misha and I had a spot in Gerrikaitz, this abandoned barn, and we took Zapatero there. Misha said we should question Zapatero. We had no orders to question him, but what the hell, Misha argued, we had him, so we might as well use him. We packed his wound, but once we moved him he started to bleed again. I could see we didn’t have long. So we got him to the barn, tied him down. Misha’s big chance: interrogate the captured POUM member and glean useful intelligence. ‘Fine,’ I said, and I stood back.
That Spanish fucker…Three hours we worked on him, and all he said was, ‘Take the bullet out.’ Told us to free his hands so he could do it himself. Then he started babbling. At first Misha thought Zapatero was giving us names, but he was just calling on the saints. I aimed at Zapatero’s forehead, and Misha got between us. ‘Listen to him,’ said Misha. ‘Just listen to him.’ We both looked to Zapatero, but he’d passed out. ‘Then listen to me,’ Misha said, ‘because we’re killing our own.’
We argued for hours. We drained the last of the vodka, and some of the wine I’d stashed there. I got so fucking sick on wine and sulpha pills. I’d retch, and nothing would come up. I looked around. Solid, well built, big rafters in the ceiling. Various pieces of gear stored there, scythes and ropes and shovels. Big hooks.
We talked some more. At least, Misha talked. He asked if I ever had doubts. ‘No room for doubt when there’s duty,’ I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. All I could think of was how I hadn’t shot you and how that could get me killed. Then I thought that Misha would understand.
Before I could say that, Misha admitted he missed Zapatero’s head on purpose. ‘I wanted you to listen,’ Misha said. ‘I wanted you to listen to someone in POUM and then make up your own mind.’
‘Enough,’ I said, and I got in front of Zapatero and shot him through the right eye. ‘You want mercy for the enemy,’ I said, ‘there it is. He’s out of his misery.’
Misha leapt at me. He knocked me over, pinned me to the floor, and he looked so hurt and betrayed. Misha, the rebellious angel. Arkady Dmitrievich said he could see it in Misha’s eyes, a reflection of fire. He’d come to a bad end.
He got up without hurting me. Then he reached out his hand to help me up, and we drank.
Misha had no head for vodka, never did. He passed out, snored through the dawn. I got things ready. I had to save him. Misha was my best friend, and I loved him, so I had to bring him back and save him. It was all I knew. He fought me all the way, but I’d surprised him. Good strong rafters. Pulleys and hooks. Misha hung from his wrists. He kicked at me, and he spat on me, and I kept calm and hit him in the ribs with a spade. When he cursed at me again, he sounded afraid. That got me. Until I’d hit him with the spade, we could still back out, pretend somewhere in our heads that we were competing at the gym, playing a game.