Agent 6

  Leo stood over him as he wiped the grease from his face. He looked at the men who’d laughed. They hated him but not as much as they feared him. He sidestepped out of the row, returning to the front of the stage. After thirty minutes of shuffling, the seats were filled. There were workers standing, crowded at the back. The orchestra was onstage. The concert was ready to start.

  It was then that Leo saw Raisa, being escorted into the auditorium by an officer. He’d only ever seen her dressed in her work clothes, practical and sturdy outfits, her features hidden beneath a warm hat, her hair tied back – her skin pale and without makeup. Misunderstanding the nature of the concert, she’d dressed smartly. She was wearing a dress. Though her clothes were hardly extravagant, they were dazzling when contrasted with the workers. Among the dirty shirts and ragged trousers worn by most of the audience, she walked nervously. She felt exposed, out of place and overdressed. The eyes of the workers followed her, and for good reason. Tonight she seemed more beautiful than ever before. Arriving in front of him, Leo dismissed the other officer.

  — I’ll take our guest from here.

  Leo guided her to the front, his throat dry.

  — I’ve saved you a seat, the best in the house.

  Raisa replied, a hint of anger in her voice:

  — You didn’t tell me the concert was so informal.

  — I’m sorry. I was flustered earlier. But you look lovely.

  She registered the compliment and her anger seemed to dissolve.

  — I wanted to explain why I lied about my name.

  He noted the tension in her voice, politely cutting her explanation short.

  — There’s no need to apologize. I’m sure men ask for your name regularly. It must be a nuisance.

  Raisa remained silent. Leo added, keen to stop the silence from becoming too long:

  — Anyway, it’s I who owe you an apology. I surprised you today. Austin wanted to see a school. I put you on the spot. It was unfair. You could have embarrassed me.

  Raisa turned her head away.

  — It was an honour to have such important guests.

  A formality had crept into the way she spoke to Leo, no longer brusque or dismissive. She glanced about the auditorium.

  — I’m looking forward to hearing Mr Austin sing.

  — So am I.

  They arrived at the front.

  — Here we are. Like I said, the best seats in the house.

  Leo stepped back, faintly amused at the incongruity of her radiance among the exhausted factory workers.

  The warehouse lights were switched off and bright stage lights turned on, flooding the structure in a yellow glow. The cameras began to roll. Leo took position on the steps to the stage, looking out over the audience. Austin entered from the other side, striding up the stairs in huge bounds. His energy was remarkable. Onstage he seemed even taller and more impressive. With a small wave of his hand he modestly requested the applause to come to an end. Once there was silence he took the microphone, speaking in Russian.

  — It is an honour to be here, in Moscow, to be invited to sing in your place of work. The welcome you give me is always special. I don’t feel like a guest. The truth is, I feel at home. At times, I feel more at home than I do in my own country. Because here, in the Soviet Union, I am loved not only while I sing, not only while I’m onstage and while I entertain you. Here, I’m loved offstage. Here, the fact that I’m a singer makes me no different from all of you even though our occupations could not be more different. Here, regardless of whether I am singing, regardless of my success, I am a Communist. I am a comrade, like all of you. The same as all of you! Listen to those sweet words. I am the same as all of you! And that is the greatest honour of all . . . to be different and yet treated the same.

  The orchestra began to play. Austin’s first choice was the Friends’ Song, written for the Communist Youth with lyrics that called for the building of new cities and the laying of new roads. It had been modified for orchestral backing, transforming it from little more than a propaganda hymn into a musical performance. To Leo’s surprise, the performance overcame the rigid polemic of its lyrics. Austin’s voice was powerful and intimate at the same time. It filled the cavernous space. Leo was sure that if he’d asked anyone in the audience they’d have stated that Austin appeared to be singing directly to them. Leo marvelled at what it must be like to have a voice that could move men to tears, a voice that could hush and soothe a room filled with athousand tired workers. Among the front row, he sought out Raisa. She was concentrating on Austin, under the spell of his voice. He wondered if she would ever look upon him with the same admiration.

  As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protégé.

  Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:

  — Leave me alone.

  Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.

  — Pull yourself together. What are you doing?

  Grigori replied:

  — Get out of my way!

  — Listen to me—

  — Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.

  — What has happened to you?

  — To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page . . .

  Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.

  — Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!

  He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:

  — Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.

  — She’s dead!

  He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:

  — They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart . . . a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.

  Leo felt sick.

  — Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me—

  — You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.

  Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.

  *

  Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect the
ir lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic – it would be a bitter blow to the regime, a suitable revenge for Polina’s murder. But looking into Austin’s kind eyes he realized that this man did not want to know the truth either.

  Austin wrapped an arm around Grigori’s shoulder, announcing to the audience:

  — I don’t know if he’s a fan, or someone telling me to shut up! There was laughter. Grigori slurred the words, drunk, but exhausted, defeated:

  — Comrade Austin.

  Grigori pulled out the diary page:

  — What does this mean to you?

  Austin took the page, examining the doodle. He turned to the audience.

  — Our friend has shown me a drawing of the most important symbol of our time. It is the Statue of Liberty, in New York. There in my country, that statue is a promise of things to come – a future of liberty for every man and woman, regardless of background, or race. Here your liberty is real.

  Grigori was crying, surrounded by people and yet alone. He repeated Austin’s words, speaking up, projecting to the back of the warehouse:

  — Here our liberty is real!

  *

  On the steps to the stage an agent grabbed Leo’s arm.

  — Do something! Fix this!

  — What can I do? You want me to go up onstage?

  — Yes!

  Leo edged closer but Austin shook his head, indicating that he’d deal with it. He began another song. It wasn’t due to be performed until the very end, as the finale, but Austin had brought it forward, sensing that he needed something to finesse the interruption. It was The Internationale – the anthem of Communism.

  Arise, you branded by a curse,

  You whole world of the starving and enslaved!

  Many in the audience stood up immediately. The rest quickly followed and Leo understood why Austin had chosen this song to mask the disturbance. The audience knew the lyrics. Though their singing was tentative at first, it was only because they were unsure whether they were supposed to join in. As Austin encouraged them, they became louder and louder, until each man and woman was singing as loud as they could, perhaps fearful that their loyalty to the State might be measured by their volume, perhaps fearful that if they didn’t sing until they were hoarse they would become like the strange sad figure of Grigori. Leo was also singing, but half-heartedly, preoccupied with his doomed trainee. There were tears in the young man’s eyes, glistening in the bright spotlights. He too was singing:

  We will destroy this world of violence

  Down to the foundations, and then

  We will build our new world!

  Austin ended the song after the first verse. As the calls for a new world died down, vigorous applause broke out across the auditorium. Agents stepped up onto the stage, clapping, false smiles on their faces, closing around Grigori, edging nearer, trying to disguise their murderous intent. Oblivious, Grigori stood, waving at some distant point, towards imaginary friends, biding the new world goodbye.

  Leo felt another tug on his arm. It was Raisa. She’d left her seat, taking hold of him. It was the first time she’d ever touched him. She whispered:

  — Please, Leo, help that man.

  Leo saw fear in her eyes, for Grigori certainly, but also for herself. She was afraid. That fear had brought her to him. Finally Leo knew what he had to offer – safety and protection. It was hardly a great talent. But, perhaps, in these dangerous times it would be enough, enough to create a home, enough to satisfy a wife, enough to make a person love him. Putting his hand on top of hers he said:

  — I will try.

  FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

  Moscow

  Novye Cheremushki

  Khrushchev’s Slums

  Apartment 1312

  24 July 1965

  Climbing the stairs, Leo Demidov’s shirt became damp with sweat, clinging to his back and stomach in transparent patches. His socks seeped with each squeeze of his toes. On the ground floor the elevator was broken: the door jammed half open, the light inside flickering like the eyes of a dying animal. Despite having to climb thirteen flights of stairs he encountered no other people. It was eerie for an apartment block to be silent in the middle of the day. No children played in the corridors, no mothers with shopping, no doors slamming shut or neighbours arguing – the bustle of ordinary life muffled by the heatwave now in its sixth day. In housing projects constructed in this fashion the concrete hoarded heat with the greed of a miser collecting gold. At the top of the stairs Leo paused, catching his breath before entering apartment 1312, unseen by the other occupants of the floor.

  Surveying the cramped surroundings, he pinched the shirt off his torso as though it were a series of leeches feasting on him. He crossed the living area into the kitchen and ran his face under the water. The pressure was weak, the water disappointingly tepid. Nonetheless the sensation was pleasant and he remained underneath the stuttering flow with his eyes closed allowing the water to run over his cheeks, lips and eyelids. He turned the tap off, water dripping from his face, snaking down his neck. Opening the small window, he found the hinge stiff even though the building was only a few years old. The air outside was still, not a trace of wind, a block of heat wedged around the building. Opposite him the identically designed residential tower shimmered like a mirage: the vertical lines of thousands of windows quivering in the sunlight.

  The apartment was typical in almost every way. There was only one small separate bedroom and consequently the living room had been crudely partitioned to create an additional sleeping area. This makeshift division was common in many households, a line hung from wall to wall with a sheet draped for privacy shielding two narrow single beds from the kitchen area. Leo moved to the borderline between the communal space and the designated sleeping area. Bags had been packed, one beside each bed, ready to go. He tested their weight. They were heavy, one notably more than the other. Over many years, having searched hundreds of apartments, he’d developed an acute sense for anything out of place. A person’s home revealed secrets in the same way that a suspect revealed their guilt, through the smallest details. In apartments, clues could be the amount of dust on a surface, tiny scratch marks on the floorboards or a single sooty fingerprint on a desk. Leo’s eyes were drawn to one of the beds. With the intense summer heat there were no blankets, just a thin sheet, enabling an easy view of the mattress. It displayed a small bump, like a headless pimple, almost imperceptible, hardly worthy of attention except to someone trained by the secret police.

  Guided by these instincts, Leo crossed into the sleeping area and squeezed his hand under the mattress. His fingers touched the edge of a book. He pulled it free. It was a notebook with a hard cover. There was nothing written on it, no title or image. It was not one of the cheap flimsy books used by schoolchildren. The paper was expensive. The spine was stitched. He turned it over, checking to see how many of the pages were creased. Half the journal had been filled with writing, perhaps two hundred pages’ worth. He tipped it upside down, shaking the contents. Nothing fell out. With the preliminary examination over, he flicked to the first page. The handwriting was neat, small, precise, written in pencil, the tip of which had been kept pinpoint sharp. There were several faint smudges where words had been rubbed out and written over. Time and care had been spent on it. He’d examined many diaries in his lifetime. Often entries were written in haste, scrawled, words flung down without much thought. Careful redrafting was a promising indication that the diary contained valuable admissions.

  The first entry was dated a year ago and Leo wondered if that marked the beginning of this volume, or the beginning of the author’s first diary. His question
was answered by the opening sentence:

  For the first time in my life I feel the need to keep a record of my thoughts.

  Leo shut the book with a snap. He was no longer an agent: he no longer firstd for the secret police. This was not the apartment of a suspect – it was his home. And this diary belonged to his daughter.

  About to return the diary to its ill-considered hiding place, Leo heard the key in the front door. With a flush of panic, he calculated that he didn’t have enough time to return the book – he’d be caught in the act. Instead, he placed his hands, and the diary, behind his back. He took a step towards the door, away from the bed, looking up, like a soldier coming to attention.

  Raisa, his wife, regarded him from the doorway, a bag by her side. She was alone. She shut the door, stepping into the apartment and disappearing into shadow. Even in the dark, Leo could feel her eyes judging him. His cheeks turned hot with embarrassment, different from the heat of the day, a burning sensation under his skin. Raisa had become his conscience. He could not lie to her and rarely made a decision of any importance without imagining how she’d react. She exerted a moral force, a pull upon his emotions as powerful as the moon on tidal forces. As his relationship with Raisa had developed, his relationship with the State had weakened – he wondered if he’d always suspected that would be the case, that by falling in love with her he knew his marriage to the MGB would end. Leo now worked as manager of a small factory, overseeing shipments, processing receipts, with a reputation among his staff as being scrupulously fair.

  She took a step closer, coming out of the shadow and into the sunlight. To Leo’s mind she was more beautiful today than she had been as a young woman. There were faint lines about her eyes and her skin was no longer as taut and fragile as it had once been. Softness had crept into her features. Yet Leo loved these changes more than any ideal of youthful beauty or perfection. These were changes he’d witnessed: changes that had occurred while he’d been by her side, the marks of their relationship, the years they’d spent together, reminding him of the most important change of all. She loved him now. She had not loved him before.