Part 12 (1/2)

-I refused to give them you.

-They weren't after me. They were after you. Arresting strangers, you were able to fool yourself that they might just be guilty. You could believe that what you were doing served some purpose. But that wasn't enough for them. They wanted you to prove that you'd do whatever they asked even if you knew it in your heart to be wrong, even if you knew it to be meaningless. They wanted you to prove your blind obedience. I imagine wives are a useful test for that.

-Maybe you're right, but we're free of that now. Do you understand how lucky we are to even get this second chance? I want us to start a new life, as a family.

-Leo, it's not as simple as that.

Raisa paused, studying her husband carefully, as though they were meeting for the first time.

-The night we ate dinner at your parents' apartment I heard you talking through the front door. I was in the hallway. I heard the discussion about whether or not you should denounce me as a spy. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to die. So I went back down to the street and walked for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. I wonderedwill he do it? Will he give me up? Your father made a convincing case.

-My father was scared.

-Three lives weighed against one? It's hard to argue with those numbers. But what about three lives against two?

-You're not pregnant?

-Would you have vouched for me if I wasn't?

-And you waited until now before telling me?

-I was afraid you might change your mind.

This was their relations.h.i.+p: stripped bare. Leo felt unsteady. The train he was standing on, the people near him, the cases, his clothes, the city outsidenone of it felt right now. He could trust none of it, not even the things he could see and touch and feel. Everything he'd believed in was a lie.

-Raisa, have you ever loved me?

A moment pa.s.sed in silence, the question lingering like a bad smell, the two of them rocking with the motion of the train. Finally, instead of answering, Raisa knelt down and tied her shoelace.

Voualsk 15 March Varlam Babinich was sitting cross-legged on a filthy concrete floor in the corner of an overcrowded dormitory, his back to the door, using his body to s.h.i.+eld from view the objects arranged in front of him. He didn't want the other boys to interfere as they had a tendency to if something caught their interest. He glanced around. The thirty or so boys in the room weren't paying him any attention; most of them lay side by side on the eight p.i.s.s-sodden beds they were forced to share. He watched two of them scratching the bug bites swelling up across each other's backs. Satisfied that he wasn't going to be pestered, he returned to the objects arranged in front of him, objects he'd collected over the years, all of them precious to him, including his most recent addition, stolen this morninga four-month-old baby.

Varlam was dimly aware that by taking the baby he'd done something wrong and that if he was caught he'd be in trouble, more trouble than he'd ever been in before. He was also aware that the baby wasn't happy. It was crying. He wasn't particularly worried about the noise since no one was going to notice another screaming child. As it happened he was less interested in the baby itself than in the yellow blanket it was wrapped in. Proud of his new possession, he positioned the baby at the centrepiece of his collection, among a yellow tin, an old yellow s.h.i.+rt, a yellow-painted brick, a ripped portion of a poster with a yellow background, a yellow pencil and a book with a soft yellow paper cover. In the summer he added to this collection wild yellow flowers, which he picked from the forest. The flowers never lasted long and nothing made him sadder than watching their shades of yellow fade, the petals becoming lank and brown. He used to wonder:

Where does the yellow go?

He had no idea. But he hoped he'd go there too some day, maybe when he died. The colour yellow was more important to him than anything or anybody. Yellow was the reason he'd ended up here, in Voualsk's internat internat, a State-run facility for children with mental deficiencies.

As a small boy he'd chased after the sun, certain that if he ran far enough he'd eventually catch up with it, s.n.a.t.c.h it from the sky and carry it home. He'd run for almost five hours before being caught and brought back, screaming in anger at his quest being cut short. His parents, who'd beaten him in the hope that it would straighten out his peculiarities, finally accepted that their methods weren't working and handed him over to the State, which had adopted more or less the same methods. For his first two years in the internat internat he'd been chained to a bed frame, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over several months he'd managed to break the bed frame, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He'd ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he'd been returned to the he'd been chained to a bed frame, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over several months he'd managed to break the bed frame, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He'd ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he'd been returned to the internat internat suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he'd been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time agothe staff trusted him now he was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn't run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby, which he'd stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn't been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he'd panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught, and so he'd taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant he noticed that the blanket made the baby's skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he'd stolen them both after all. suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he'd been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time agothe staff trusted him now he was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn't run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby, which he'd stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn't been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he'd panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught, and so he'd taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant he noticed that the blanket made the baby's skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he'd stolen them both after all.

Outside two cars pulled up and six armed members of the Voualsk militia stepped out, led by General Nesterov, a middle-aged man with the broad, stocky build of a kolkhoz kolkhoz labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill. labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill.

The administrative office was open: a radio playing on a low volume, a game of cards abandoned on the table, a reek of alcohol hanging in the air. There were no members of staff to be seen. Nesterov and his lieutenant moved forward, entering a corridor. The smell of alcohol gave way to the smell of faeces and sulphur. Sulphur was used to keep away bed bugs. The smell of faeces needed no explanation. There was s.h.i.+t on the floor and on the walls. The dormitories they pa.s.sed were overrun with young children, maybe forty to a room, wearing nothing more than a dirty s.h.i.+rt or a pair of dirty shorts but never, it seemed, both. They were sprawled on their beds, three or four layered across a thin, filthy mattress. Many weren't movingstaring up at the ceiling. Nesterov wondered if some of them were dead. It was difficult to tell. The children on their feet ran forward, trying to grab the guns, touching their uniforms, starved of adult interaction. The men were quickly encircled by clambering hands. Even though Nesterov had braced himself for terrible conditions he found it difficult to comprehend how things could have got this bad. He intended to bring it up with the director of the establishment. However, that was for another time.

Having searched the ground floor, Nesterov made his way upstairs while his lieutenant tried to keep the pack of children from following, communicating with stern looks and gestures which only caused them to laugh as though this were a game. When he gently pushed the children back they immediately rushed forward, wanting to be pushed back again. Impatient, Nesterov remarked: -Leave them, let them be.

They had no choice but to allow them to trail behind.

The children in the rooms upstairs were older. Nesterov guessed that the dormitories were loosely arranged according to age. Their suspect was seventeen years oldthe age limit at this inst.i.tution, after which they were sent out into the most back-breaking, unappealing jobs available, jobs no sane man or woman would want, jobs where the life expectancy was thirty years. They were coming to the end of the corridor. There was only one dormitory left to search.

With his back to the door, Varlam was preoccupied with stroking the baby's blanket, wondering why the child wasn't crying any more. He prodded it with a dirty finger. Suddenly a voice cut across the room, causing his back to stiffen.

-Varlam: stand up and turn around, very slowly.

Varlam held his breath and closed his eyes as though this might make the voice disappear. It didn't work.

-I'm not going to tell you again. Stand up and turn around.

Nesterov stepped forward, approaching Varlam's position. He couldn't see what the boy was sheltering. He couldn't hear the sound of a baby crying. All the other boys in the dormitory were sitting upright, staring, fascinated. Without warning Varlam sprang to life, scooping something up in his arms, standing and turning round. He was holding the baby. It started crying. Nesterov was relieved: the child was alive at least. But not out of danger. Varlam was holding it tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around the baby's fragile neck.

Nesterov checked behind him. His deputy had remained by the door with the other curious children cl.u.s.tered around. He took aim at Varlam's head, c.o.c.king his gun, ready to kill, waiting for the order. He had a clear line. But at best he was an average shot. At the sight of his gun some of the children began screaming, others laughing and banging the mattresses. The situation was getting out of control. Varlam was beginning to panic. Nesterov holstered his weapon, raising his hands in an attempt to pacify Varlam, speaking over the din.

-Give me the child.

-I'm in so much trouble.

-No, you're not. I can see the baby's OK. I'm pleased with you. You've done a good job. You've looked after him. I'm here to congratulate you.

-I did a good job?

-Yes, you did.

-Can I keep it?

-I need to check that the baby's OK, just to be sure. Then we'll talk. Can I check on the child?

Varlam knew they were angry and they were going to take the baby from him and lock him in a yellow-less room. He pulled the baby closer, tighter, squeezing it so that the yellow blanket pressed up against his mouth. He stepped back towards the window, looking out at the militia cars parked in the street and the armed men surrounding the building.

-I'm in so much trouble.

Nesterov edged forward. There was no way he could extricate the baby from Varlam's grip by forceit could be crushed in the struggle. He glanced at his lieutenant who nodded, indicating that he'd lined up a shot: he was ready. Nesterov shook his head. The baby was too close to Varlam's face. The risk of an accident was too great. There had to be another way.

-Varlam, no one is going to hit you or hurt you. Give me the child and we'll talk. No one will be angry. You have my word. I promise.

Nesterov took another step closer, blocking his lieutenant's shot. Nesterov glanced down at the collection of yellow items on the floor. He'd encountered Varlam in a previous incident, when a yellow dress had been stolen from a clothes line. It had not slipped his attention that the baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket.