The Gradual

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Down to the next village. I – don’t know what the name of it is.’

  ‘Then what do you want there?’

  ‘Nothing. Just walking. I will go back now.’

  But the other one had moved around to stand behind me. He looked even younger than the first.

  They were both wearing a strange kind of cap, or helmet – it was difficult to see exactly what it was, but the size and shape of it was bizarre. It looked wrong, not only on these youths, but also in the gently green surroundings of this country lane. The caps were narrow and tall, made of, or covered in, some kind of intensely black matt material. The cap was four-sided, worn straight on the top of the head with one of the angles over the forehead. There were no marks or tags to identify which unit they were from, and the caps looked impractical for armed soldiers engaged in some kind of operation. The rest of their uniform was much as I thought military fatigues should be, but the strangeness of the tall caps they were wearing was unnerving. What was signified by them?

  ‘Show your papers,’ the first one said.

  ‘I’m on vacation – I’m not carrying identity.’

  ‘Then who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I have this,’ I said, suddenly remembering the stave. I pulled it out from my holdall, and both soldiers momentarily tensed, as if I was producing a weapon. I also froze, mentally cursing myself for making an unexpected move in front of armed soldiers. But the moment passed – they obviously recognized what it was.

  ‘Put that away. We’re not bothered with it.’

  Greatly relieved, I said, ‘Can I go on, or should I walk back?’

  The two young men glanced at each other. One of them nodded and then the other did too. The first one signalled with his rifle towards the village. The other walked around to the weighted end of the barrier and raised the pole. I went through quickly, stooping so that I went underneath even as the pole was still being lifted. I walked on without looking back.

  Once I had gone through the sloping bend in the road I came into the main part of the village, where small houses were built along both sides of the lane. The place was deserted: there were no cars parked anywhere in sight, and no pedestrians were moving around. The only vehicle that was visible anywhere was a large truck with closed sides and a solidly constructed rear access. It was painted in dark camouflage colours.

  None of the other villages I passed through had been empty, or had seemed so silently abandoned. It was as if I was alone. I thought at once of turning back, so uncomfortable was the vacant feeling of the pretty, prosperous-looking place, but the two young soldiers would still be manning their barrier back there along the road.

  I slowed my pace, looking ahead and around me, wondering what was happening here, what I should do.

  I walked slowly down the main street, hoping things would seem more normal further along. Perhaps there was some kind of village celebration somewhere on the road?

  A sudden burst of loud bangs! I spun around in horror then crouched desperately in the shelter of a low brick wall that happened to be there. I had never heard the sound of close gunfire before, but that is what the noise sounded like. They were nothing like the detonation of bombs, which I had grown up with, but sharp, repeated, deadly. Was the gunman, whoever he was, firing at me? I was terrified of what I had walked into.

  I pressed myself against the ground, feeling prominent and defenceless. What if I was on the wrong side of the wall? What if the gunman were to change position?

  Nothing in my life had prepared me for this. Now voices were shouting: loud but indistinct, not fearful but ordering, commanding. I was certain they were yelling at me, but I kept still and silent. I began to realize I was not the target of the words being shouted, but I stayed put. Then another shot – I pressed myself harder against the surface of the road.

  A minute went by in silence, then I heard a commotion. From the house close to where I was hiding came the sound of a door being booted open. Wood splintered, the door crashed against a porch pillar. I heard another voice crying out – this time it was with fear and hurt. Another shouting voice silenced it, or mostly.

  I ventured a look, peering over the wall at the house. I saw a group of men struggling violently. Four of them were in army uniforms, but the fifth was clad only in a singlet and underpants. He was being dragged, forced along, fighting to get free, but the soldiers had him in a fierce hold, both arms pushed hard up against his back, his head held down with a soldier’s clamping arm.

  The fourth soldier took no part in the struggle but was shouting instructions to the others. He was carrying a machine pistol. The other three had automatic rifles but they were slung across their backs. Two of the soldiers were wearing the tall black caps I had seen earlier but the other two, struggling with the victim, had lost theirs.

  The officer detached himself from the fight, strode quickly away and went to the truck parked in the street. He wrangled the rear door open: I glimpsed a filthy interior, a cage, boxes, ropes, other junk. A mechanical ramp lowered itself automatically from the rear, and it reached the ground just as the captive man was brought up to it. They kicked and pushed him up the ramp and he sprawled on the floor of the truck.

  I looked away. I wanted to see nothing more of what they were going to do to him, but as the ramp closed again I could not help but hear the sound of a continuing struggle. I was appalled, feeling helpless, terrified.

  Were they going to kill him? Now? Here?

  And what if the soldiers saw me? I was not concealed by the wall – I simply squatted beside it. I believed that if I tried to run away they would attempt to stop me, perhaps by shooting, but they would find me anyway if I stayed where I was.

  I stood up, my knees trembling as I put my weight on them. It reminded me of the fear the Generalissima had struck in me, the knowledge that all these years of close work with music was no preparation for the more sordid, threatening aspects of real life. I had sheltered myself all through my years, and I sheltered myself even now – my gentle voyages across the shallow seas between islands were no way to confront reality. I was engaged with the finer problems of gained or lost time – the man held inside the truck was immeasurably worse off than I would ever be. Even though I did not want to I could still hear the muffled sound of shouting voices coming from inside the truck’s closed compartment.

  The fourth soldier, the man I presumed to be the officer, moved away from the truck. He glanced in my direction – he must have seen me but gave no sign of it. He was sure of himself, certain of his power over me. He headed slowly back towards the house, staring from side to side as he strode in a measured way up the narrow path to the door that had been kicked out. I saw him bend down and he scooped up one of the caps that had been knocked off during the scrap. Then he found the second one.

  At the door he checked inside the house by leaning in through the door: it was hanging open, its lock surrounded by broken wood. He turned around and with a swing of his hip he shoved the door back more or less into place. He returned towards the road.

  He came towards me, his machine pistol held ready for use but aimed at the sky, not at me.

  I raised my hands defensively, dreading the worst. He walked slowly, with precise steps, a military stride, the product of discipline and training. His face was masked with a thick green-coloured fabric and he was wearing close-fitting dark glasses. He wore the tall black cap on his head, square and upright. The two caps he had picked up were hooked over his belt. I could not see any of his face, or read his expression. I was shaking with fear.

  He came to a halt two or three metres away from me, then brought down his weapon so that it was pointing straight at me. He did something to it and there was a terrible noise of metallic readiness as it was armed. It emitted a brief electronic signal.

  ‘This is a closed military zone. Explain what you are doing here!’

  ‘I—’

  I found I could not draw en
ough breath to speak. I tried again, but this time the only sound I could make was a sobbing noise.

  ‘I am authorized to eliminate witnesses. Explain!’

  ‘Please!’ I shuddered another breath into my lungs. ‘Please!’ I said again abjectly. ‘I saw nothing.’

  ‘You saw. Explain why you are here.’

  ‘I’m on vacation – a short walking holiday. I came by accident. I had no idea this was a military zone. The men on the barrier let me through.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sussken, Alesandro Sussken.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Alesandro Sussken.’

  ‘Why do you use that name?’

  ‘It’s mine. I have had it all my life.’

  ‘Sussken – that’s a Glaundian name. Is Glaund where you are from?’

  ‘Yes. I’m on holiday—’

  ‘I heard that. Be silent, sir.’

  There was some kind of electronic device strapped to his forearm. While he kept the weapon trained on me he changed his stance with the same military precision as before so that he could access it. With his gloved fingers he punched a panel, looking intently at the display, while managing to keep me in view.

  His sudden use of the word ‘sir’ had startled me. It partly defused the threat I felt from him. It appeared to acknowledge, for instance, that I was a civilian, beyond his area of authority. Even so the pistol was still being held unwaveringly towards me. His stance was aggressive, ready for violent action, but his concentration on whatever he was looking for on his wrist device again tended to mitigate that. He continued pressing his fingers to the keypad, reading whatever response it was he was getting.

  I noticed that an identifying number was sewn into the shoulder of his armoured jacket: 289.

  Under the bulky fatigues, the panels of body armour, behind the packs and accessories strapped to his belt and webbing, under the mask and the shades, he was a slight figure. There was something youthful about him, even boyish. His voice was that of a young man. He spoke with what I knew was a Glaundian accent.

  I felt a surge of irrational certainty.

  ‘Sussken,’ I said. ‘Is that the name you’re searching for?’

  ‘Be silent, sir.’

  ‘A lot of people spell it Suskind,’ I said.

  ‘I know about that. I can spell it.’

  ‘Sussken,’ I said. ‘Are you Jacj? Jacj Sussken?’

  ‘Please be silent.’ But he had looked up from the device. He stared at me along the barrel of the pistol. I was certain who it was, certain. ‘The report I have read about you is that you, Alesandro Sussken, formerly of Errest in the Republic of Glaund, have absconded with thirty thousand gulden of public money. You are a fugitive, hunted by the police and the armed forces. I have downloaded a warrant for your arrest.’

  ‘Jacj! It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Please be silent.’

  51

  He lowered the machine pistol slowly, but he held it ready and I noticed that he did not reverse whatever he had done to arm it.

  ‘Jacj, I am your brother, Sandro!’

  ‘I have no brother. I am not who you think.’

  I wanted to rush to him and embrace him. ‘Let me see your face!’

  ‘My identity is of no importance. I am a serving officer. Keep your distance!’

  ‘We thought you were lost, killed, injured. It’s been so many years!’

  ‘I am not who you think. I know no one called Sandro.’

  ‘You were called Jacjer but everyone in the family called you Jacj. Surely you remember that? Please, let me see you.’

  ‘You must address me as Captain, sir.’

  ‘Captain Jacjer Sussken? Do you still play music, Jacj? You must have time off from your duties sometimes. Do you still have the violin you took with you when you were drafted?’

  ‘I am not who you think. I have no violin.’

  His voice remained controlled, steady, revealing nothing. But it was his voice, Jacj’s adolescent voice, the familiar sound of my elder brother, heard all through childhood, my closest friend, the boy I looked up to, admired, tried to emulate. My partner in a hundred duets of piano and violin. The sensitive teenager, easily frightened, who abhorred violence and military might.

  ‘You refused to avoid the draft notice, said you would try to subvert the military from within by being part of it.’

  ‘That would be illegal. I am proud to serve my country. You are a criminal, a thief, a wanted man.’

  I thought of the young man they had captured, pulled violently from the house half-dressed, defenceless against the combined strength of these troops. Was I about to follow him, thrust helplessly into the closed truck with the cage, the shackles?

  With his free hand the captain reached up and removed his dark glasses. He slipped them into a pocket on his chest. Then he unhooked the piece of cloth that covered his nose and mouth, and at last his face was revealed to me.

  He stared directly at me, expressionless, neutral, unshielded.

  ‘Jacj, why won’t you admit who you are? I have been searching for you for nearly forty years.’ He showed no reaction. I said, ‘May I look at you more closely?’

  ‘Keep your distance.’

  He did not try to prevent me from approaching, though. I took one cautious step, then another, then three or four more, until I was only an arm’s length away from him. Still he stared blankly at me, not avoiding me, but not acknowledging me either. His eyes were pale blue, as Jacj’s had been. Was that enough so that I could be certain? His nose, mouth, his whole countenance … he could have been Jacj, he might not be. I looked and looked at his young face, still a teenager it seemed, not much older in appearance than he had been that day he walked down to the town centre and boarded the army bus. It was forty years since I had been with him, but he looked the same. I did think he looked the same. Maybe he was fuller-faced now, tougher, more determined? I was sure he looked the same. I was certain it was him. I thought it was him.

  I could not be sure.

  ‘Don’t you recognize me?’ I said quietly in the silent street, while the sun beat down on us both. ‘Do you remember me, Jacj?’

  ‘Please address me as Captain, sir.’

  ‘Captain, I am your brother, your younger brother, the kid you played with while we were trying to shelter from the bombing. We used to sing together, and when the raids were over we would take out our instruments and play for a few minutes. We used to say it was our way of defeating the enemy. You must remember our parents – Mum and Dad? You’ve been gone so long … it’s hard to tell you, but they have both died. They never gave up hope of you coming home again. They loved you, Jacj. We all loved you. They were waiting, we were all waiting, for your battalion to be shipped home. So many years have passed—’

  His gaze remained level, steady, but I noticed that he was longer looking straight at me, but somewhere in the distance, somewhere behind me.

  Then a cat emerged from one of the houses, moving gingerly around us, its body low. When it glanced up at us I saw it had large green eyes. It was long-haired, mostly white.

  Jacj looked down at it.

  I said, ‘Djahann is dead, Jacj.’

  If I had struck him physically he would not have reacted more. He stepped back, half-turned away from me, the hand holding the weapon sagged for the first time. He stared at the white cat as it scuttled away from us, dashed across the street, leapt into some bushes and disappeared.

  ‘You promised to look after her,’ Jacj said.

  ‘I did – I thought you were coming home and I think she waited too. Djahann had a long life, a happy life. She often slept in your bedroom, on your bed. She seemed always to miss you. She became old and at the end she died peacefully. She was never in pain. I buried her in our garden and I marked her grave.’

  He exhaled, and I heard an intermittence, a controlled sob.

  But the weapon came up again, and he tensed his shoulders.

&n
bsp; ‘If you leave now, sir,’ he said. ‘I need not arrest you.’

  He swiftly clipped the fabric mask over his face again, but he did not replace his opaquely dark glasses. His breathing was still unsteady.

  The other three soldiers had left the truck and were moving up the road towards us.

  ‘The deserter has been secured, Captain,’ one of them said. ‘We have given him water, according to regulations.’

  Jacj took the black caps he had been carrying in his belt, and handed them over. The two soldiers replaced them, straightening the stiff fabric, settling them exactly over their foreheads.

  ‘Jacj – may I contact you again?’ I said. ‘Tell me how, tell me where you’ll be.’

  ‘If you leave now, sir,’ he said. ‘I need not arrest you.’

  The machine pistol was pointing straight at my chest. With his other hand the Captain took the pair of dark glasses from his pocket and slipped them back on.

  ‘I am not who you think,’ he said. I backed away from him, frightened again of the deadly weapon. He went on, ‘I have no brother. I carry no violin. I have a warrant for your arrest and if you resist me any longer I will be forced to restrain you physically. I am an escouade leader, I have an open brief to apprehend deserters and a statutory order that enables me to detain or eliminate witnesses. You are such a witness and a fugitive from our country, at risk of instant death, but if you leave now, sir, I will not arrest you.’

  His enigmatic face, hidden, hiding. His light stature. The voice.

  I turned away from him, then looked back. He remained poised, the weapon trained directly at my chest.

  ‘Jacj?’ I said.

  ‘No. Leave now, Sandro!’

  I stumbled away. I hurried back up the road. I did not look back. As I rounded the curve in the road, the two soldiers on the barrier saw me approaching and one of them raised the pole. I went quickly through, then once I was away from them, when the village was no longer in sight, I started to run. I ran in the merciless sunshine, through the hot still air of the country lane, dense with flowers, busy with birds, running until I had to stop at last to collect my breath. I leaned over, clasping my knees with my hands, staring down at the gravel.