— Scherba is dead.
Kostya gave a little grunt, as of a man stirring in his sleep.
Boris smirked. —Nice try, Nikto. You had me, for a moment.
Kostya opened his eyes. —Scherba? Was that necessary?
— Yes. Shot him myself. She might be dead by now, too. I don’t know. The last I saw, she lay strapped to a stretcher on a train to Leningrad.
Leningrad. Steamer back to England?
Boris leaned over Arkady and smoothed his hair. —Shall I tell you both what gushed down the pipe yesterday and splattered at our feet? Order four hundred forty-seven. We must now make special renewed efforts against foreigners and spies and other anti-Soviet elements, and we must speed up interrogation and trial. Vigour, vigour, vigour. Beat the horses to the bone. How much faster can we go?
Arkady seemed to sigh.
Boris patted Arkady’s hand. —When I came here, I wanted to say something else. I rehearsed it in the back of car number forty-two; my driver is waiting outside. Here it is. You are finished. So am I. You get the easy way out, Arkady Dmitrievich. And you, Konstantin Arkadievich, this is your portrait, the flower and roots, you and him. This deathbed is how I shall always remember you.
Another wash of light: Boris departed.
Early the next morning, Arkady died. Kostya signed some paperwork consenting to cremation of Arkady’s body and acknowledging the state’s seizure of Arkady’s house, received a morphine injection, and worked to understand his orders. No funeral for Balakirev, the message read, just the cremation already arranged, and for Kostya himself, informal medical and bereavement leave. Do not report to the department, the message concluded, but still consider yourself on call.
On the way back to his flat, aware of the weight of his service weapon, Kostya took a guess why.
They want me to shoot myself, save them the trouble.
So he sat in the soft armchair in the front room, turned on the radio, and practised his aim. Temple? Over the ear? Roof of the mouth? Quick, he reminded himself, quick and easy. How many times have you squeezed a trigger?
His wrist ached.
He dropped the Nagant, caught it in his lap, tucked it back into the holster. Then he stood up and returned to his bedroom, where he removed each piece of his uniform and hung it up with precision and care, placing the amber worry beads on his bedside table and his underclothes in the hamper. Naked, he got into bed and dozed, sleeping and waking, for almost eighteen hours, missing his evening injection appointment. He woke up with his nose blocked, his face and pillow wet.
He sat up in bed. Any moment now, his colleagues would come arrest him. Any moment.
The paint on the walls rippled and danced like amber beads between his fingers.
No one came.
The fifth day after Temerity shot herself, Kostya reported to the hospital and received another morphine injection. He also received a stern medical lecture for missing his previous evening appointment.
Kostya fastened his gymnastyorka. —How much longer must I come here?
The doctor, a slender young man with dark circles beneath his eyes, waved a form. —As long as the paperwork holds.
Kostya returned to his flat, where he’d left the radio on, changed from his uniform to civilian clothes, and cooked and ate some kasha. Then he slept some more, waking up every hour when the radio announcer gave a time check, except for six and seven o’clock. Once again, he missed his evening injection. Once again, he sat up all night. His skin twitched. His shoulder hurt; his thoughts raced; his fingers numbed as he stroked the amber beads. The paint on the walls, at least, kept still.
And once again, NKVD did not come.
The doctor plucked the needle from Kostya’s arm. —I reviewed your new X-rays. That’s a lot of shrapnel. You’re lucky you kept that arm, let alone got use of it back. Do you know that?
Kostya tugged his gymastyorka straight. —I exercise the hand with worry beads. Here.
The doctor accepted the amber beads and held them to the light. —Beautiful.
— Are we done?
The doctor handed back the beads. —How’s your appetite? Are you eating?
— Kasha now and then.
— Washed down with vodka and wine?
— What of it?
— Any patient who uses morphine for a long time is at risk of narkomania. The risk grows if the patient is also addicted to alcohol. That you’re standing up after the dose I just gave you makes me think you’ve developed a dangerous tolerance.
Kostya tugged his cap onto his head. —I drink no more than any other officer.
— That does not reassure me, Comrade Nikto.
Kostya considered how the doctor had just insulted the entire NKVD. Such an easy arrest, this one, a clear example of an anti-Soviet activity. He sighed. —You’re just out of med school, yes? Twenty-five?
— Twenty-four.
— Married?
— Engaged.
— Live at home?
— With my mother. My father’s dead, but—
— But you’ve not reported that to all the right places because you and your mother want to keep the flat, what little space you’ve got?
The doctor raised his clipboard as if to shield himself. —She can come live with me once I am married, once my wife and I find a larger flat of our own.
— And your comment about drunken NKVD officers?
The doctor stared at him.
— I’ve got you on two different offences: propiska fraud, and abuse of an officer of state security. Let’s throw in some anti-Soviet activities. Perhaps your mother—
— Wait!
Kostya shook his head. —Kolyma gets cold, so cold that sound and light warp and your heartbeat feels like a scream. The commandants sometimes keep doctors out of the mines so they can do the amputations. Frostbite, you see: fingers, noses, toes. Cocks. Perhaps your own. So unless you want ten to twenty-five years to find out, do not say you presume every NKVD officer to be a drunkard. Understand me yet?
The doctor’s voice shook. —By my silence, I give consent.
Kosyta laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. —Shove your heroics up your arse and shit them out in the morning. If not for yourself, then for your mother and your fiancée, yes? Promise me that, and I’ll keep quiet.
After a long moment, the doctor picked up the ampoule of morphine and rocked it back and forth. —And in return? What do you want?
— Nothing you can give me.
In Gorky Park, grass and sky shimmered, and so did the light.
Here, Kostya decided. I’ll sit here.
I told the old man we should visit the parks more often, or even go on holiday. Told him and told him…
Kostya leaned back on the bench, arms outstretched, amber beads in the fingers of his left hand, and stared at the sky. As someone squealed in delight at the parachute tower, the sunlight got too bright, and Kostya closed his eyes.
For a moment, and for a moment within a moment, he allowed himself to believe he lay in the sun near the water, on holiday with Arkady, in Yalta, or in Sochi. And for a moment within that moment, he believed he lay on his back in an Odessa park, that grassy bit by the oaks, as his grandparents fussed with the picnic basket and called each other, even in their mutual exasperation, fond names.
Misha never understood sunbathing. I can’t just lie about and get burnt.
Kostya shoved back his cap. The sun’s heat felt like a fond caress on his face, and his fingers reached for a cloisonné cigarette case.