Part 27 (1/2)

Yeva Cornelius stares up at a tall cliff of concrete and windows. The concrete is grey but the building is somehow brown, and the windows reflect brown and yellow although the sky is blue. The paving of the street is brown and everything is strange.

Eligiya Kamilova has told them that this is Big Side, and this is the street where Aunt Lyudmila's apartment was, before the bomb; she's told them they can't go back to the raion where their proper house was, with the Count and Ilinca and the dog and all the other people who lived there too, because the raion isn't there any more. Yeva is beginning to doubt whether Eligiya is right about that or anything else. This doesn't look like Big Side at all. Maybe there was another city, the one they lived in, and this is a different place, another city with the same name but somewhere else, and everything is a bad mistake.

Eligiya doesn't say much any more, and Galina is thin and tall and her eyes are big and dark and she never says anything at all. They sleep in a dirty room with only one bed and come here very morning, but Yeva's more sure every day that it's the wrong place. The women who live here wear pale blue dresses and coats, and their hair is wavy and doesn't move in the breeze, and they wear small hats, though it's not cold or raining, and the hats are the same colour as the dresses and coats. Always the same colour. That's what you have to do here. The men wear hats too, and thin shoes.

Yeva Cornelius thinks she's eleven years old still, but she hasn't counted the days and the dates here are wrong. She knows what date it is herethe newspaper has thatbut when the date of her birthday comes, it won't be her birthday. No one asks how old she is anyway. Birthdays are for children, and this is the wrong place; her mother is somewhere else.

'This is the wrong place,' she says again to Eligiya Kamilova, who's standing next to her with Galina. They come here every day at ten o'clock and wait for half an hour. That's their plan.

'You say that every day, Yeva,' said Eligiya, 'but it's not.'

A woman in black is watching them from the other side of the road. She looks like their mother but she's smaller and she has browner skin and shorter hair and the hair's grey and she's very thin. Even from so far away, Yeva can see her eyes are black and sad.

The woman in black is watching Yeva just like the dead soldiers used to watch her at Yamelei: patient and with nothing to say and watching for ever and never getting bored or wanting to look at something else instead. But the eyes are black and sad and that shows the woman is alive.

It is their mother.

Galina has seen her too but she doesn't move and she doesn't make a sound.

Yeva wants to run across the road but she doesn't because... because her mother is not the same and Yeva is not the same and nothing is the same. The awkwardness of strangers meeting. Yeva watches her mother back, from the opposite side of the road, and says nothing and doesn't move.

Eligiya doesn't know yet. She hasn't seen.

The woman in black makes a small movement, almost a stumble. Yeva thinks she's going to turn round and walk away. But she doesn't.

4.

The Sixth Plenum of the New Vlast convened in Victory Hall in central Mirgorod under low ceiling mosaics of aviators and cherry blossom, harvesters and blazing naval guns, all depicted against the same brilliant lucid eggsh.e.l.l-blue cloudless sky. Victory Hall was not large: despite the brutal columns of mottled pink granite and the banners of gold and red, the atmosphere was surprisingly intimate.

The Central Committee took their seats on the platform in a pool of golden light. The floor of the hall before themthe sixty non-voting delegates from the oblasts, the observers from the armed forces in their uniforms, the leading workers in crisp new overalls of bluemurmured antic.i.p.ation. Order papers were shuffled. An official in a dark suit tested the microphone at the lectern.

This was the day of accounting. Annual reports were to be delivered, production targets exceeded, measures of increasing wealth and prosperity noted, improvements celebrated without complacency. Your committee can and must do better, colleagues, and in your name we will. Revisions to the rolling Five Year Plan would be proposed, and adopted by acclamation.

Watching from the tiered side-galleries, the fifteen chosen representatives of the press, snappy in new dresses and suits, were relaxed and slightly bored, their copy already written and filed according to tables of information and officially approved quotations previously supplied. The seven amba.s.sadors and their a.s.sistants from the independent border states measured their s.h.i.+fting relative importance and influence by the seating plan. In the rows behind them, squinting at the platform, trying to identify the members of the committee by name and thinking of what they would tell their families and friends later, sat several dozen selected members of the publicoutstanding citizens all, decorated heroes of the Vlast. And among them, perched at the end of a row, inconspicuous in shadow, Vissarion Lom waited alongside Lukasz Kistler.

Every person in the Victory Hall was waiting for Rizhin to appear.

At two o'clock precisely he did. The small crowd gave a soft wordless visceral rising moan of delight.

Rizhin, simple white uniform blazing under the lights, paused a moment to acknowledge the receptiona modest deprecatory smileand took his place with the rest of the committee. His chair was no grander, his place no higher than the rest.

I am the servant of our people. I do what I can.

As soon as Rizhin had settled, the Victory Hall was flooded with warm pink illumination. The chamber orchestra in their cramped pit below the platform began to play. At the sound of the first familiar bars every person except Rizhin rose to their feet, and they all began to sing, falling naturally into the fourfold harmonies of which everyone always knew their part.

Thank you! Thank you! Papa Rizhin!

All our peace is owed to you!

All new truth and all fresh plenty!

A million voices, a thousand years!

Kistler leaned across to whisper in Lom's ear. 'When the time comes they will not do it, Lom. All this, it's too strong. It's too much to go against. They'll lose their nerve.'

'It'll be fine. You've done what you can.'

The members of the Central Committee came to the lectern one by one to deliver their reports and were received with warm applause. The afternoon wore on. Rizhin was to speak last, and as the time approached he began to flick through his script. s.h.i.+fting in his chair, preparing to stand.

Gribov was in the chair. He cleared his throat nervously and stood. 'Colleagues...'

Rizhin was already coming to take his place. Gribov held up his hand to stop him. Rizhin paused and looked at him, puzzled.

Gribov motioned him back to his seat.

Rizhin hesitated, shrugged and sat down again.

'Colleagues,' said Gribov again, 'at this point the planned business of the Plenum is suspended. I require the public galleries to be cleared.'

There was a collective murmur of surprise. A burst of muttered protest.

Lom kept his eye fixed on Rizhin, who frowned and looked at Gribov, but Gribov was ignoring him. Then Rizhin glanced at Hunder Rond, but Rond was avoiding his gaze.

'Clear the room!' called Gribov. Plenum officials and officers of the VKBD began to usher the protesting amba.s.sadors and the press corps towards the door. Lom and Kistler moved to one side, half-hidden from the platform. The officials ignored them as Gribov had arranged.

The non-voting delegates were permitted to remain. Gribov called the room to order.

'The Central Committee by collective agreement in accordance with Standing Order Seven has resolved to bring before you an urgent and extraordinary resolution.' Gribov's voice was gravelly. He struggled to make himself heard. Took a sip of water. 'The resolution, in the name of Secretary Yas.h.i.+na is, ”To remove Osip Rizhin from all official positions, responsibilities and powers with immediate effect.” '

Silence fell in Victory Hall. No delegate moved. None spoke. None made a sound.

Rizhin sat back in his chair. He looked relaxed. Almost amused. A wry scornful smile on his scarred face.

'So it comes to this,' he said, scanning the line of faces, fixing the committee one after another. 'Well done then. Bravo. Of course it's all s.h.i.+t, it's nothing, but let's see what you make of it.'

You mustn't let him react, Kistler had said to Gribov when they made the plan in secret conclave at Yas.h.i.+na's house. Once you start, the momentum is yours, but you have to keep it. If he speaks, if he fights back, it'll be a battle between competing authorities and you could lose control. It'll turn into a shouting match. Don't get into a battle with him.