Constant Nobody

1958

THE BEZPRIZORNIK

Woking, England

Monday 7 October

Shipr cologne. Temerity often smelled it in her dreams, the resinous and sharp scent worn by Kostya in 1937. Except what those two young men leaning against a lamppost wore as cologne — carried on the mist, it seemed — was unlikely to be Russian. The young men gave no sign they noticed her as she passed. Then the heels of their boots clacked against the street as they detached themselves from the lamppost and hurried to catch up with her, one on either side. She saw now they might be sixteen or seventeen, boys, really, yet no less a threat. One of them asked for a cigarette as the other tried to snatch her newspaper and handbag.

A tall bobby rounded the corner, recognizing the boys, and he ran towards them. —Oi!

The boys turned to look. Temerity seized the distraction, sweeping one boy’s ankles with a kick and sending him to the ground, and striking the second in the sternum with her elbow. The boys writhed at her feet.

The bobby reached out to touch Temerity on the shoulder, then thought better of it. —You all right, Madam?

— Fine, thank you.

One of the boys got his breath back. —Bitch!

Swift and graceful, the bobby reached down and hauled up the two boys by their collars. —No way to speak to a lady. Right, lads, off to the nick. You know the way. Madam, you follow me.

Adjusting her glasses and head scarf, Temerity noticed the bobby’s preoccupation with handling the boys and decided to ignore his instructions. Instead, she continued to the address she’d been given in a crisp telephone summons. The boys’ cologne and behaviour had stirred deeper memories of Moscow, memories already polluting her dreams and thieving sleep. One dream recurred. The beginning varied and over time became grotesque in its absurdities of just how Temerity found herself back in Moscow and compelled to find Kostya. She might glimpse him in a crowd, hear his voice, catch a whiff of Shipr. After long and complex quests, sometimes interrupted by another recurring dream of Gernika fires, the dreams ended the same way, with Temerity running to a train platform and arriving too late. She knew, knew as much as she knew that she existed, that Kostya had just been forced aboard.

She’d not seen Kostya after the 1957 evening at the Moscow café, and she knew nothing of his possible defection. After her friendly debriefing, as it got called, with Neville Freeman and then his superiors, she’d lost her security clearance. Just temporary, Neville had said, his cheer brittle and forced, just until we get a few things sorted.

She knew better than to ask about her former students and thereby further compromise them. Still, she ached to know, ached to apologize.

So Temerity had concentrated on her West Language School. Administration, recruitment, and scholarships, on top of teaching, filled her days, yet she felt empty, adrift. This limbo, this shadow existence of imperfect loyalties and exclusion, left her more lonely than she’d thought possible. Neither love nor duty drove her life. Purpose had fled.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d seen Kostya in ’57 at all, wondered why she’d bothered with hope. So much risked…

Yet now, obeying a strange phone call, she stood in the worsening drizzle outside a dingy tea shop in Woking. The window bore spatters of mud and the remains of children’s sneezes round the smudges of nose prints. Inside the window stood a display of bright cakes and sweets — dusty cardboard, Temerity discovered inside as she passed the tables nearest the window for one closer to the kitchen.

She sat with her back to the wall and facing the door, glanced around for other exits, and took a compact from her handbag to check her lipstick. Then she ordered tea for one with a slice of Battenberg cake. Stale and dry, the cake crumbled to a parching mess in her mouth, and the tea tasted muddy and weak. Milk only made it worse. She sighed. Lowest grade Ceylon, none of the sparkle and bite of Simla or Darjeeling. She unfolded her newspaper and turned to an obituary she’d read twice on the train. She now read it a third time, waiting for the thrill of schadenfreude. William Brownbury-Rees, who’d disgraced himself during the war and endured imprisonment as a fascist, had died after a long struggle with cancer. His attempts to return to politics in the early 1950s had failed. His estate, mortgaged in 1939 to support the British Union of Fascists, would go to the National Trust. Of Brownbury-Rees’s now penniless widow, the obituary said nothing.

No schadenfreude, Temerity told herself, only sadness.

On her third cup of tea, now cool, Temerity asked the waitress for the location of the ladies’ room. She could not risk missing the rendezvous for something as silly as a full bladder, yet whomever she was expected to meet was almost an hour late.

The waitress offered Temerity another pot of tea, stressing the word another in a voice loud enough for a music hall performance. —Or are you just about to leave?

Temerity’s memsahib voice, much quieter, seemed the stronger. —Another pot would be lovely, thank you. And do your best to scald the pot first this time.

Temerity smiled to herself as the waitress departed. She’ll probably do her best to spit in the pot, after that.

As she stood up to visit the ladies’ room, cold and damp air swirled around her ankles. An elderly man stepped inside the teashop, tall and slim, elegant, using a silver-topped cane. She’d last seen him before Christmas, by chance, at a London performance of Shostakovich’s Symphony No 5. They’d not spoken. Now, as he removed his hat, strands of his fine white hair stuck to the fabric, then fell, and his bright blue eyes looked sad. Spotting Temerity, he made for her table. The waitress noticed him, too, and she almost tripped over herself, addressing him as sir and asking if he’d like some of the reserved Keemun today. He agreed, his accent as crisp and aristocratic as Temerity’s own. As the waitress left, he commented to Temerity on the dreadful rain. Perhaps aiming for non-rhoticity, perhaps overcompensating, he seemed to swallow his Rs.

Temerity nodded to him. —Count Ostrovsky.

— Mister will do. It is pleasant to see you again, Miss West.

— It’s been a long time. I’m surprised you recognized me.

— I knew about the injury. A pity about the scars. You had such a pretty face. I would worry about you when I was your Russian tutor, because your other tutor, Freeman…well, I did not approve of how he looked at you. And then I did not approve of how later he handled you.

Temerity gave a polite smile. Ilya had just as good as told her that he worked for one of the services, mostly likely in domestic counterespionage for MI5. Five, whose agents had tailed her openly since she’d lost her clearance. —Do you come here often?

Ilya frowned at the Battenberg crumbs on Temerity’s plate. —Yes. Why?

— They must like you here. Keemun’s not on the menu. The last time I drank any Keemun was well before the war.

— Your family preferred Indian tea.

As Temerity considered Ilya’s rebuke, the reminder of empire, the waitress arrived with a large pot and fresh cups. —There you are, sir. I know the lady’s had quite a lot of tea already, but no doubt you want to share.

Ilya waved the waitress away with a flick of his hand. Temerity, forgetting her own imperious manner earlier, wanted to apologize for him.

Neither of them spoke as the tea steeped.

After checking his watch, Ilya poured, first for Temerity, then for himself. —You require a Russian teacher for your school?

For just a moment, Temerity thought Ilya meant himself. —I’m sorry, Mr. Ostrovsky, you’ve caught me off guard.

Ilya stirred sugar into his tea. —When he told us about the day he struck you on the face, I almost struck him myself.

Pulse quickening, Temerity inhaled the scent of the tea. Struck my face? Brownbury-Rees?

Oh my God. Kostya?

Face neutral, Ilya studied her. —Please think hard before you answer me, Miss West. Do you need a Russian teacher?

— I could certainly use one.

Ilya took two good swallows of tea. —That will warm my bones. Do you want a Russian teacher?

— I just said—

— Do you want him? Not just to see him over tea and cakes, but at your school. In your life. After everything he’s done.

She felt chilled. Everything he’s done. By his own free will, yet twice as much by compulsion? —Where is he?

— Answer my question.

— You’ve got him. You’ve got him locked away. Taking your revenge for history, are you? He had nothing to do with you leaving Russia in 1917.

Ilya’s eyes shone with anger. —I shall be honest with you. I said I wished to strike him. Then I wanted to shoot him. In the thigh first. Then the testicles, then the gut, and finally in the face.

Temerity felt grateful for the cup, for something to hold. —He served eighteen years in the Gulag. Eighteen bloody years. Tell me, Mr. Ostrovsky, when will he be punished enough?

Ilya kept his voice soft. —Answer my question. Do you still want him?

— Yes, I want him. Where—

— Why have you taken such risks for one man?

Adjusting her glasses, Temerity let out a long breath. —Duty.

— To what?

She didn’t answer right away. —To love. Or at least to the idea of it. Not that you’d know it.

Ilya turned pale. —I’ve never told you what the Cheka did to my children in 1917. I had a daughter your age. And it was not very long ago. Not for me. Do not presume to lecture me on love.

Cups clinked against saucers.

Ilya picked up the teapot and poured more for them both. —This has been a difficult case. He’s cleared.

— What?

— We needed to confirm his claims. He’s cleared now. So are you. He’s free to go with you, if you will have him.

— Wait, I’ll be reinstated?

— So long as this Russian is in your life, you look compromised. At least one of my colleagues still thinks he might be a double agent, or that you are.

— But Freeman—

— Has retired. Quietly. In some disgrace. You must not forget, Miss West, that we’ve had traitors who hid their activities in the thirties, and you omitted a great deal about 1937.

Temerity studied the fork she’d used to eat the Battenberg and imagined stabbing it into Ilya’s neck. We. Who is this we? —How did you get involved?

— Language. I’m an interpreter, and his English is appalling.

Questions tumbled in her mind, yet she could not speak.

Ilya tapped his right temple. —He’s damaged. We were hard on him. We had to be. The debriefing might have been too much, after everything else.

Hearing the sound of running water from the kitchen, Temerity watched a stray piece of tea leaf sink to the bottom of her cup. —When can I see him?

— Whenever you wish.

— Now.

Ilya laid coins on the table to pay for the tea. —Come with me.

As they passed the window, Temerity noticed a car parked on the opposite side of the street. Ilya took her elbow and guided her there, opening a back door so she might step inside. Then he sat in the front passenger seat. The driver said nothing. Kostya, gaze fixed on the drizzle-smeared windshield, waited in the back. He wore a badly fitting suit, with a white shirt and no tie. More of his scalp showed, and the greying hair that remained defied comb and pomade and still fell in waves. His broken nose sat at a strange new angle.

Temerity sat next to him.

No one spoke.

She shifted her weight in the seat.

Still, no one spoke.

She sighed. —Gentlemen, I’ve drunk rather a lot of tea, and I need to find a ladies’ room. The one at the train station will do.

The driver stifled his chuckle as Ilya glared at him.

Temerity spoke with muted irritation and certainty. —Off we go, then.

Ilya gave a slow nod. The driver started the car.

Kostya said nothing until they’d boarded the train and Temerity closed the compartment door. He spoke in Russian. —Is this first class?

— Yes. We might even have it to ourselves. It’s just over two hours to Prideaux-on-Fen. Then we’ll take a taxi to the school.

He drew his fingertips over worn upholstery.

Outside, the train guards blew whistles and waved flags. The train lurched.

Temerity sat down, then retrieved cigarettes and matches from her handbag. — Here, I bought these at the station. Woodbines. The closest I can get.

Kostya sat across from her, lit a cigarette, a took a deep draw. —Not bad. A little weak.

She smiled. Then she considered his broken nose. Behind the glasses, her eyes widened.

Kostya, reading her raised eyebrows as disgust with him, gave a half-smile. —I was afraid you would turn me away.

— What? No, no.

— I worked so hard to stay in the present. The doctors kept advising that when I got back from Spain. Your past is your enemy. Stay in the present. I got through some of…in Lubyanka, I could sometimes slip into the past. Not this time. The only comfort in my past is the ghost of what I wanted for you and me. Why didn’t you tell me they would imprison me?

— How long have you been in England?

The train lurched again and pulled out.

— Kostya?

Tapping ash into a tray, he stared out the window, then at her. —I never knew when it was night. They always kept the lights on. I told them everything, every little thing I knew, right down to Little Yurochka and the size of Arkady Dmitreievich’s boots, and still they don’t trust me. Why didn’t you tell me?

She had no answer for him.

Kostya almost smiled. —I got him, in the end, that old White interpreter.

— Ostrovsky?

— Yes. You know him? The contempt for me in his face…he’d reduced me to tears and snot, and I said, Whether you believe me or not, I can never go home again. At least in Kolyma I was exiled within my own country, but now, I can never go home. Neither can you. He turned pale as snow and had to leave the room.

— He—

— Fuck him. I never want to hear another mention of him. I hope dogs eat his corpse.

— I can’t hate him, Kostya. He taught me to speak your language.

Kostya stared at her, then snorted. —Let me see your eyes.

— No.

— Why not?

— I said, no.

— Please?

After a moment, she pried off the glasses, looked at him.

He took in the scars, the damaged eye, and shrugged. —I’ve seen worse.

She put the glasses back on. —Ever the charmer.

— What is your real name?

She hesitated, said nothing.

— Nadia, please don’t cry.

— I can’t believe you’re here.

— I’m here. Right here, right now, I am with you. Let me prove it to you. Tell me your real name.

She took a breath. —Temerity.

— Doesn’t that mean—

— Yes, I know what it means. My middle name is even worse. Temerity Tempest West, in part because my Russian mother liked the sound of it.

Kostya leaned forward, clasped her hands in his, and tried out the name. —Temerity. Temerity.

— Without the Russian R. Call me Nadia, if it’s easier.

— No, I will call you by your name. Temerity. Temerity. Temerity.

He trilled the R harder and harder, keeping his face stern, until she laughed.

He lifted her right hand and kissed it. —I love that sound. I want to laugh, too, but I keep thinking of the dogs. In Kolyma. When it got to minus fifty, we did not have to work. We never saw a thermometer. One day, it was bright and still, I’m sure it was only minus twenty, yet we did not have to work. The guards let the dogs off leash, and they played in the snow. Romped and barked and chased one another. Yet they stayed within the barbed wire. Even the dogs knew not to run out to death. I feel like that. If I stay within the wire on this one special day, I’ll be safe. After sunset, it’s back to that White Russian interpreter, or the camp.

She couldn’t answer right away. —Kostya, I’m so sorry.

He answered in English. —No. Do not be sorry. You tried to save me. You did not steal me. I stole you.

Then he let go of her hands and looked to the floor.

She touched his face, on the left cheek, near the scars on his ear. —I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief.

His back and shoulders shook.

— Sit beside me, Kostya. Come on, squeeze in closer.

He did this, his face wet, and his spine seemed to surrender as he slumped. Temerity placed her arm round his shoulders, careful not to jostle the left one, shifting in some discomfort to herself so his head might rest on her chest. She inhaled the scent of his scalp, kissed a bald spot, shut her eyes, and smiled.

Later, Kostya would remember hearing neither the racket of the tracks nor the mutters of Baba Yaga but the steady beat of Temerity’s heart.