The Lost Labyrinth

III

Nadya caught up with her email and posted a couple of small items on her blog, because it didn't pay to go dark, not even for a day. She'd intended to write an update on the suspicious death of a human rights lawyer, but her heart wasn't in it, so she closed her laptop. A successful day, all in all-enough to justify yesterday's deferred reward. She checked the mini-bar, but miniatures weren't her style, so she put on some fresh clothes and went down to the lobby bar.

It was empty, however, its lights dimmed, no obvious prospect of it opening soon. She went onto the front steps, looked around. A line of cars opposite, but no black Mercedes. She put on her shawl and dark-glasses for the anonymity, then headed into Plaka, intending to walk up an appetite. Or, more accurately, a thirst.

The night was still young, huddles of gloom and shadow broken by the lights of cafes, restaurants and late-night shops; though not yet enough of them to create an atmosphere. A light drizzle started. She hunched her coat around herself and shrank into its folds, then gave a little shiver, even though it wasn't that cold, despite the gusting wind. Memories. It had been a night much like this: except that she hadn't been alone, of course, not when the evening had started.

She came to a square, where a few groups of hardy tourists were taking al fresco dinners. She turned and went the other way, feeling her sharpest pang yet for a drink. The sight of families often did that to her.

She'd only been at the paper three weeks, head-hunted from her style magazine by a proprietor keen to sex things up. Albert had returned from a gruelling month in Samegrelo, where he'd been covering the civil war, only to learn that his in-depth account of Gamsakhurdia's suicide was being slashed to make more room for her feature on swimwear. He and the editor had gone at it like blacksmiths. 'Sure,' he'd yelled. 'Why the fuck not? Our country is falling to fucking shit around us, so let's write about bikinis.'

She'd been mortified and angry; but mostly angry. She'd gone to his desk intending to read his copy and pick it apart, so that she could feel better about herself. It had only taken two paragraphs for her to be caught up by his story instead. She never read about war if she could help it, it was too depressing, so it had all been new to her. She'd been shocked to learn the depth of horrors going on in her own country, what Georgians were doing to other Georgians. When she'd finished, she'd sensed someone standing at her shoulder.

'So you're the one?' he'd grunted. 'The one who writes about bikinis?'

She'd turned to face him, expecting to have her head bitten off, feeling deserving of it too. But he'd noticed her eyes glistening, and had softened. It was impossible for any man to be angry at a beautiful woman who wept at what he'd written-or so he'd told her, at least, reaching over her for his cigarettes the following morning. Hero worship on her side, lust on his: not a great recipe for wedding cake. Yet despite the difference in their ages, they'd made something durable and even precious out of it.

He'd never been afraid to ask the questions others had balked at, or to write candidly about the crimes of brutal men, so they'd both always known a day of reckoning might come. A man in a tugged-down baseball cap and with a scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth had been waiting in ambush when they came home together from work. He'd waited until they were just inside before charging out of the shadows and barging Albert onto his back, then slamming the door shut, with the three of them inside.

Typically, Albert's first thought had been to get up and fight, while yelling at her to run. The man had stabbed Albert twice, first in the gut, then through his heart. He'd wiped the blade on Albert's sleeve, rummaged calmly through his pockets for his wallet, then stood and advanced upon her. She'd wanted to scream, but somehow it had caught in her throat. She'd backed against the wall instead. He'd pressed the blade against her throat with one hand while running the other down over her breast and belly to her crotch, which he'd cupped in the strangest way, as though testing a fruit for freshness. And though his face had mostly been hidden by his scarf and cap, his ice-blue eyes had burned unforgettably into her.

The police hadn't believed it had been a hit. Tbilisi was a violent place, they'd told her; muggings and burglaries happened all the time. The miscarriage had happened a week later; she hadn't even realised she was pregnant. Perhaps not surprisingly, fashion had held little interest for her since then. When the newspaper had declined to put proper resources into investigating Albert's murder, she'd thrown in her job and turned freelance so that she'd have the time to do it herself. She'd got nowhere with his murder, but she'd discovered plenty else while she'd been looking. Much of it had been too hot for any paper to publish, which was why she'd started her own blog.

Her grip on her coat had loosened, even though the drizzle had now turned into rain that the strengthening wind was spraying in her face. A few umbrellas went up, bucking and rearing like wilful horses, forcing her to shy her eyes away from their sharp spokes. Music blared from a bar ahead, an anonymous place with low lighting, frosted glass and booths set at odd angles around the wall. A place where drinkers could be alone with their vice. A tall waiter in a garish bow-tie greeted her at the door and ushered her into its shadows. 'Vodka,' she told him, for wine wasn't going to cut it tonight. He nodded sympathetically before he went, as though he could read her life, and knew it would be the first of many.