The Innocent Page 7

  Squinting out at the park, Aleksandr was aware of Ivanov’s halitosis – a surprisingly faecal smell – as he exhaled in the seat next to him. Their shoulders were more or less touching. Snapping out of momentary sleeps, he would find the sunlit park still there, the quivering shouts, Lieutenant Voronin’s floating papirosa smoke. He felt sick. He had felt sick since the previous evening.

  Irina had found him lying on the divan. It was still light outside, though the room was starting to fill with shadows. ‘Are you alright?’ she said.

  ‘No. I feel sick.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She started to unpack their weekly parcel from the Ministry of State Security supply store. If she seemed unsympathetic it was because they had had a fight twenty-four hours earlier and had not spoken since. In the middle of the shouting he had just left and walked the streets for an hour. Though it was eight o’clock the sun was still high in the sky. He mounted the stairs in the huge stairwell, which smelled of damp plaster even in summer, and let himself into the flat. Zalesky’s family had vacated the kitchen. Though he had not eaten all day, he was not hungry. On the floor next to the divan was a seashell with two cigarette-ends in it – Irina had smoked, and now she was asleep. Standing there in the dim silence, he looked at her inert face. It looked ugly and pallid. Her small mouth was slightly open, and there were purple shadows under her brown eyelids. Her dry hair was spread out on the stained pillow. Her thin arms were pulled up protectively in front of her …

  She finished unpacking the supply parcel, and put the soap to one side. ‘Was it something you ate?’ she said.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If it was, it must have been something you ate at work.’ She sat on the edge of the divan and put her hand on his forehead. ‘You don’t have a fever,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  He would not.

  The interior of the Pobeda was infused with the smell of sweat, like an old shirt – the leather, the stained ticking, even the wood. Voronin was reading something out from the newspaper. A feature on Polina Gelman. Voronin was obsessed with Polina Gelman. He said the idea of a female fighter pilot excited him, ‘especially a Jewess’. When he had finished the feature, he turned the page. ‘The overthrow of British imperialism in Palestine,’ he said in his nasal voice, ‘and the establishment there of the state of Israel, should be seen as a progressive development, supportive of the international socialist movement. It occurred with the full support of the newly formed Communist Party of Israel (previously the Palestine Communist Party), which is a leading force in the new government. The Soviet Union has recognised the state of Israel, and calls on all countries in the region to respect UN Security Council resolution 181, which partitions Palestine into two states …’

  In the twilight, Irina stood up and started to prepare her supper. ‘Maybe you should eat something,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you should eat something then.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Have you actually been throwing up?’

  ‘Not really.’

  When she opened a tin of processed meat, he shut his eyes and turned to face the wall.

  He slept for a while.

  When he woke he lay on the divan watching Irina undress; her pale yellowish skin, her elegant shoulders – she was proud of her shoulders – the folded plumpness of her belly, the fine somewhat scant hair pressed flat by her underwear. It struck him as sad that watching her he experienced no more than a vague, wavering desire. He knew that there were many men – Lieutenant Morozov, who lived downstairs, for one – who would envy his lying there, watching Irina undress in the twilight; for whom it would be an exciting, almost a fantastical experience. Quite possibly, Morozov was lying downstairs imagining it at that very moment – hearing through his open window the same sounds that Aleksandr was hearing (the donkey cart passing outside in the street, the whisper of the wheels, the quick tapping of the little hooves) – and imagining with a sort of yearning pain what Aleksandr was actually seeing. And seeing it, he experienced only this vague, wavering desire, which seemed little more than the memory of a former desire. If he had wanted to he might have stood up and taken two steps through the twilight and touched her – touched her hips, her thighs, her lips – as Morozov so painfully longed to, and never would. Her lingering there seemed a sort of invitation. Though his pulse had quickened perceptibly, however, he did not move.

  And in fact Irina did not seem aware that he was watching her. Moving quickly and efficiently, she wrapped her hair up in a stiff towel, took off her watch, and shouldered on her dressing-gown. Then she went, and in the sudden stillness he saw the soap, still where she had left it by the door – presumably so that she would not forget it – and wondered whether to take it to her. He was about to do this, or had decided that he should, when the door opened impatiently and she snatched it herself.

  He had fallen into a light sleep and was woken by the sound of the door shutting. It was nightfall. He felt feverish, and hoped only that he would sleep until morning. He was sweating under the single sheet. Irina lit the special little oil-lamp that was supposed to ward off mosquitoes. Her hair was loose, making a wet patch on her dressing gown. She stepped out of her slippers and went to the window, where there was still some pale light, and started to brush her hair.

  When she had finished she sat down on the divan. Feeling the pressure of her weight on the old springs, he opened his eyes. It was almost dark. She was looking down at him.

  ‘What?’ he murmured.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She smelled of soap, was still warm from her bath.

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  Her dressing gown was loosely tied and from where he lay he was able to see the pale profile of her left breast inside it. He put out his hand and touched it, felt the infinite softness of its tip in his palm. She turned slightly from the waist to move it towards him. Eventually he withdrew his hand, and shut his eyes, and she leaned over and kissed him.

  Though he then fell asleep, he did not sleep through to the morning. He fell asleep while she smoked a cigarette sitting in the not-quite-night. There had been something peaceful about that – the tiny sounds of her smoking, the scent of the smoke itself – and imagining the tumbling rush of the water through the sluice gates of the Plotinka, he had slipped quietly into sleep.

  When first aware, some hours later, that he was awake, he did not open his eyes or move his limbs from where they were. He stayed perfectly still. However he was too hot. The sheet was wet with his sweat. The frogs were singing in the street. He hoped it was almost morning. It was midnight.

  10

  WE WAITED FOR Lozovsky in an old Pobeda in the shade of some trees on the edge of the Rastorguyev-Kharitonov Park. He would have to pass through the park on his way to the station. We expected him at one o’clock. When he still wasn’t there at two, I sent Voronin to find out what was happening. ‘Are you alright?’ I said, turning in my seat to face him. He nodded, fiddling with a wet handkerchief. ‘Should you be smoking?’

  ‘S’alright …’ He sneezed.

  ‘Why do you keep sneezing?’

  ‘It’s the p –’ he said, into another sneeze. ‘It’s the pollen. These trees …’

  ‘I want you to find a phone and find out what’s happened to Lozovsky.’

  ‘A phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Find one.’

  ‘What should I say?’

  ‘Just find out what’s happened to him, whether he’s left. Maybe he stayed for lunch. I don’t know.’

  Voronin wandered off down the street.

  I was starting to worry. Lozovsky was supposed to have spent the morning in meetings at the obl
ispolkom. No mention would have been made of Yudin. He would have talked small talk with the health service managers, Gasselblat and his ilk, perhaps eaten a plain lunch, and left. And if he had been nervous when he arrived in Sverdlovsk the previous evening – it was his first visit to town since his refusal to sign the form – the way in which everything passed off normally would surely have made him feel more secure, probably more secure than he had felt for weeks. So where was he? Had we missed him somehow? An hour earlier, I had been nervous about seeing him – it was an unfortunate, unpleasant situation. Now I just wanted him to show up. And I was not well. When I looked at the park it seemed to seethe. I scanned the slope on the far side for Afanasyev. When Lozovsky showed up, Afanasyev was supposed to speak to him, to say that he knew him. (He was about Lozovsky’s age, though still a lieutenant.) He was then supposed to walk him towards the place where the Pobeda was parked in the shade. When they were near, Ivanov and Voronin would get out. However Afanasyev seemed to have fallen asleep. ‘I think Afanasyev’s fallen asleep,’ I said. Ivanov was standing next to the car in his shirtsleeves, smoking a cigarette. I was about to tell him to go over there and wake him, when Afanasyev sat up. For a few moments he looked around as though wondering where he was. Then he slowly got to his feet. He looked at his watch. ‘What’s he doing?’ I said.

  We watched as Afanasyev started to walk away. He was walking towards the trees, where there was a little tea shop, the Orangery, in an old Palladian pavilion. Minutes passed. I waited with my eyes on the point where Afanasyev had vanished into the shade under the trees. In my feverish state, I felt the situation slipping away from me. Finally I said to Ivanov, ‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I took Afanasyev’s attitude personally – he was twelve years older than I was, and seemed to feel this entitled him to ignore my orders. Though I felt light-headed, I started to jog through the shade under the trees, towards the sun-dappled façade of the Orangery. In front of it there was a small formal garden, and there, in spite of everything, I was struck by the fact that in one of the parterres the gardeners had made a portrait of the First Secretary of the party out of plants, entirely in shades of green. It was extraordinarily well done. I was still staring at it when I noticed that something unusual seemed to be happening in the Orangery. People were standing in the entrance, trying to see inside. I told them to move, and went in. There were many more people inside, in the strange, creamy light. In spite of this, it was very quiet. ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ At first there was silence, then someone said, ‘It was a heart attack.’ And someone else: ‘No, not a heart attack.’

  ‘Who?’

  Afanasyev, of course.

  He lay on the tiled floor, with his head propped on something, perhaps his jacket. His face was ashen. Someone had loosened his tie. The light fell from above, through the filthy, orange, translucent dome. He seemed unconscious. I was immediately sorry that I had been so furious, that I had made the poor old fellow sit for over two hours in the sun. He looked so helpless, so stricken – a forty-eight-year-old lieutenant. A man who in twenty-eight years of service had risen from junior lieutenant to senior lieutenant. His chin shone with saliva, his grey moustache looked wet. ‘Has someone called an ambulance?’ I said.

  A strange silence had fallen in the Orangery. Probably they had found Afanasyev’s Ministry of State Security card in his jacket pocket. They parted to let me through, and I squatted down next to his head. If he was aware of me at all, it seemed unlikely that he knew who I was. I put my hand on his shoulder – his shirt was literally sodden – and said, ‘You’re going to be okay, Afanasyev.’ I don’t know why I used his surname. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ I said in a whisper. And for a minute I stayed there, with my hand on his wet shoulder.

  My eyes started to wander nervously – on the nearest table there was a newspaper, an untouched tea with a segment of lemon suspended in it. Further off, three dusty pot plants stood awkwardly under the little dome. I felt the cool grittiness of the tiled floor under my palm.

  Afanasyev was shivering. ‘Put his jacket over him,’ I said. A woman placed it over his torso. ‘When was the ambulance called?’

  Someone said, ‘Ten minutes ago?’

  I squeezed Afanasyev’s shoulder and stood up.

  The standing heat, the looser noises of outside, struck me as I stepped out of the Orangery. It was half past two – I had been in there for only a few minutes. Making my way towards the place where the Pobeda was parked, I felt feverish and did not notice Ivanov until I was quite near him. The park was full. There were people everywhere. Ivanov was standing on the path near the water’s edge. He had his pistol in his hand. When I saw that all sound seemed to fall away. There was a man in a linen suit and a panama hat, walking towards Ivanov. I was not sure it was Lozovsky until he stopped, and turned, and started to walk the other way, towards me. I thought I saw Ivanov lift his pistol. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t shoot!’ In his panic, Lozovsky seemed to push over a child, who started to scream. The child’s mother was shouting at Lozovsky. She snatched his sleeve and shook it, and it was then that he saw me. His mouth was open, he was panting slightly, his face had a sheen of perspiration. For a few moments the woman kept shouting at him. Then, sensing something intense about his silence, she stopped. ‘Hello, Mikhail Naumovich,’ I said, walking up to them, forcing myself to look him in the eye. I put my hand on his arm. ‘I want a word with you.’

  We left the park at a measured pace. People stepped off the path to let us pass. I was only vaguely aware of them. I had my hand on Lozovsky’s arm, and was probably squeezing it tightly. He had still not said a word, and sat in the Pobeda as if he was expecting a lift home, innocently fanning himself with his panama hat. ‘What’s this about?’ he said. I put my hand in my jacket pocket – I was not wearing my jacket; it was next to me on the seat – and pulled out the arrest warrant. He looked at it while Ivanov started the engine. ‘What does this mean?’ he said. ‘Is it because I didn’t sign that form?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to say,’ I said. ‘It’s something you wrote.’

  ‘Something I wrote? What?’

  I was aware of Ivanov listening from his seat in the front. He turned the Pobeda onto Karl Libknekht Street. ‘Something you wrote in the thirties. In a scientific journal.’

  ‘What thing?’ Lozovsky was almost shouting. ‘What scientific journal?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning to the window. ‘I’m sorry.’ I had a splitting headache, and was suddenly extremely sleepy. I just wanted to sleep.

  It was not a long drive, only a few minutes. I left the paperwork to Ivanov and went to tell Mikhalkov what had happened. Then, on my way home, I went to the hospital to see how Afanasyev was. He seemed surprisingly well. ‘What happened?’ I said. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Diabetes.’

  ‘Well …’ I said. ‘That’s not so bad. I was worried. I thought it was a heart attack or something.’

  Afanasyev shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Diabetes.’

  A few days after Lozovsky’s arrest I went to Metelyev Log for the last time. I was looking through the books in his office – with one exception, they were medical textbooks in Russian, English and German – when there was a knock on the door. ‘Yes!’ I shouted. Sosnovsky put his head in. ‘It’s that bloke again,’ he said. I was turning the pages of a huge volume – not merely written in German, but printed in Gothic script – and did not look up. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He says he wants to talk to you,’ Sosnovsky said.

  ‘Okay.’

  He opened the door a little wider. Entering the sunny room, Dyomkin looked at me shiftily. ‘Where’s Mikhail?’ he said.

  ‘Professor Lozovsky’s not coming back.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve got this for you.’ It was the letter offering him Lozovsky’s job.

  He looke
d quickly at the official envelope.

  ‘Open it,’ I said.

  Frowning, he tore it open and pulled out Gasselblat’s letter. I watched him as he read it. His face – he looked a little like Otto Schmidt, the polar explorer – was impassive. The letter did not, of course, explain what had happened to Lozovsky. When he had finished, he looked up.

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Will you take the job?’

  He laughed. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was a long pause. Then, with a shrug, he said, ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Well … congratulations. When we’ve finished in here, you can move your stuff in.’ He nodded, but did not move. He seemed unsure of himself – of the meaning of what had just happened, of what he should do. ‘Oughtn’t you to telegraph them,’ I suggested, ‘and let them know you’re taking the job? The oblispolkom.’ He stared at me for a moment, then turned to leave. ‘And I’d like a word with you later, if you’ve got a minute.’

  He did not acknowledge this immediately. First, with a sort of flourish, he opened the door. Then he said, ‘For you, Major, I always have a minute.’