Boris waved them away. —You can’t go.
— The British are expecting me.
— The British can’t have you! The arrogance—
— It’s all been approved. Believe me, no one was more surprised than I was. And you said yourself, no one wants a diplomatic fuss, least of all Comrade Stalin.
— Over her, yes. You are a very different matter, and I’m surprised I need to explain that.
The Leningrad train whistled, warning of departure.
— Dr. Scherba, you are still a Soviet citizen on Soviet soil. Answer me. You contacted the embassy, did you not?
Efim said nothing.
— And you made this call from a hospital telephone assigned to one Dr. Annenkov. You’ve never even met Annenkov. He’s in Lubyanka now, charged with treason, execution scheduled for tomorrow night. You’ve cost him his life. Don’t cost Artistarkhova hers.
Efim snorted. —I can’t protect her. If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that I can’t protect her. I can’t protect anyone.
— Yet you’ll try to protect this foreign woman?
— She’s my patient.
— She’s a spy and a whore.
The train whistled a second time. One of the British men filled the carriage doorway, watching Boris and Efim.
Olyushka…
Efim recalled the touch of her cold fingers on his face just before she kissed him. Be a good doctor. She’d also said, Spare me a martyrdom. The night of the mistaken raid, when Kostya made the hot milk and spoke of his grandfather, Dr. Berendei: People came to the house all hours, and he treated them. He never turned anyone away. —Comrade Captain Kuznets, without medical oversight, perhaps even with it, that woman on the stretcher could die.
— Isn’t that what she wants? She did shoot herself. I’m sorry you’re entangled in this, Comrade Doctor, but I have a duty here.
— So do I. And I must go.
Anger glittered in Boris’s eyes. —Why?
— Because I’m a doctor.
After a moment, Boris took a few steps back. —Then go. As I told you, I have nothing left to lose. And I am not afraid of the paperwork.
— What?
— Go.
Legs weak, Efim wanted to grab onto Boris for support. Then he turned to face the train to Leningrad, where one of the British men waved at him. He nodded. Took a step.
Three steps.
— Comrade!
A stranger’s voice, male, commanding.
Not for me. Not me.
— Comrade, stop!
Not my business. Someone else. I’m free to go.
Third and final train whistle.
— Comrade, stop, or I’ll shoot!
The train lurched forward; Efim ran toward it.
A hammer blow: bullet to the thigh. As Efim fell, the train lurched again. Boot soles tapped as NKVD officers ran towards him, and a bucket clattered and clanked as the Special Clean crew dragged it over the floor.
— Open your eyes now, comrade.
Four pairs of legs blocked the light.
Boris watched Efim’s blood pool. Then he spoke with vigour so all could hear. —We told you to stop, comrade. And you ran. Only traitors run.
Efim stared at the muzzle of the Nagant.
As Boris aimed at Efim’s forehead, the other three offices understood something dire: the hassle of cleaning leather. They hurried to step clear.
Blood spattered their boots.
WRINKLED ICARUS
Sunday 1 August–Wednesday 4 August
In a shadowed corner of Arkady’s hospital room, Kostya imagined his body fusing with the slats of the wooden chair. His eyelids, heavy and hot, refused to part, and his shoulder, despite the doctors here injecting him with morphine every twelve hours, burned, burned, burned. He wondered what sort of tree had fallen for his comfort. Spruce? Pine? Birch? Vadym’s chair, what had that been?
Then he thought of Nadia and her story of Daphne.
Bernini got it right in his sculpture. Apollo is stronger and faster, and he chooses to rape her. To prevent that, to try to save her, Daphne’s father chooses to transform her into a tree. She’s not changing; she’s being changed. Where is the chance or design for Daphne?
In the hospital bed beside the chair, Arkady took the shallow breaths of the dying, stubborn function of the brain stem, oxygen moot.
Kidney failure, the doctors said, silent disease, many years’ ambush, mental and now physical functions impaired by accumulated toxins. Perhaps Comrade Nikto had noticed some mood swings, some paranoia? —We’ll keep him comfortable.
Arkady had glared at the hospital room ceiling. —My father died the same way. Don’t waste your tears on me.
Kostya wiped his face. —I’m not.
— You stink of tobacco, Little Tatar. You smoke too much.
Not long after that, Arkady slipped into his strange sleep.
Footsteps approached the private room.
A nurse, Kostya thought, eyes still closed.
A wash of light as the door opened, closed, and a man’s soft yet heavy tread.
He stood there a moment, waiting. Then he scraped another wooden chair across the floor, sat down, and grasped Arkady’s hand.
Kostya kept still. He knows I’m here. He must.
When Boris spoke, he kept his voice quiet. —Arkady Dmitrievich, can you hear me? I never wanted it to end like this. I swear it. A game. You played me, even as I thought I had you by the balls, telling myself every morning as I shaved that you’d do the same to me. And you just lie there like Scherba, sacrifice meaningless. You knew. You knew how sick you are. You had to know.
Sacrifice? Kostya allowed one eye to crack open; the shadows of the day had changed and now obscured him in the corner. Perhaps Boris had not yet noticed him.
— Your Kostya’s not left your side these three days.
Then he thinks I’m asleep.
Boris whispered now. —I once said we’ve not got time for vigils. I regret that. I do. Yury Stepanov asked me why your Kostya’s not arrested yet, why I’ve told the others to hold off and wait. I had to explain vigil, Arkady Dmitrievich, explain it, to a grown man. You’re right: Stepanov’s a stunted little weed. And when this purge is done, he’ll be the best of what remains.
Arkady’s breath rasped, stalled, rasped again.
— You did get your revenge. I had to fight off the British Embassy. Fucking diplomats. I still don’t know who the hell she is. We should have taken her straight to Lubyanka, but I was worried she’d die before she could tell us anything. See where mercy gets me?
Arkady’s lips sputtered.
Boris sighed, then grinned. —Here’s the best part. She had two passports, two different names. Both British. The travel papers only matched one.
Kostya’s eyes flew open.
Just in time to greet another wash of light as a nurse opened the door and peered in to see this NKVD captain bidding goodbye to his dear friend. Boris kissed Arkady’s hand and took up a song as though he’d just paused long enough for a few tears. His voice, so quiet, yet so rich, the best of those coached by choir leader Vadym Minenkov: the perfection of performance. Kostya almost laughed.
Touched, the nurse left, and the door swished the light and the dark.
Boris let go of Arkady’s hand; it flopped to the bed. —How did he hide her? How did you help him?
The vibrations, the pressure of Boris’s voice and question, his breath, touched Kostya’s cheek like a feather. This moment, right here, right now: likely his last chance for silence. He struggled not to speak.