Authors: Robert Harris
Once he'd gone, Kelso shook a cigarette out of his half-empty pack and offered it to Zinaida. She took it and leaned towards him, looking at him steadily as he lit it for her, the flame reflected in her dark eyes. He thought: less than twelve hours ago you were going to go to bed with me for $200 -who the hell are you?
She said, 'What's on your mind?'
'Nothing. Are you all right?'
'I don't trust him,' she repeated. She threw back her head and blew smoke at the roof. 'What's he doing?'
'I'll tell him to hurry up.
Outside, O'Brian was sitting in the front seat of a four
wheel drive Toyota Land
Cruiser
, snapping a new battery on to the back of a tiny video camera. At the sight of the Toyota,
K
elso felt a fresh sweat of anxiety.
'You don’
t drive a BMW?'
'A BMW? I'm not a businessman. Why should I?'
The field was deserted. The old man who had been digging had gone.
'Zinaida thought we were follo
wed from the airport by a BMW
Seven series.'
'Seven series? That's a mafia car.' O'Brian got out of the Toyota and put the camera to his eye. 'I wouldn't pay any attention to Zinaida. She's crazy.' The pig emerged from its sty and trotted over for a look at them, hopeful of some food. 'Here, piggy piggy.' He began filming it. 'Remember what the man said? 'A dog looks up to you, a cat looks down on you, but a pig looks you straight in the eye"?' He swung round and pointed the camera at Kelso's face. 'Smile, professor. I'm going to make you famous.'
Kelso put his hand over the lens. 'Listen, Mr O'Brian -'
'And what does that stand for?'
'Everybody calls me R. J.'
'All right, R. J. I'm going to do this. I'll let you film me. If you insist. But on three conditions.~
'Which are?'
'One, you stop calling me bloody professor. Two, you keep her name out of it. And three, none of this is shown - not a second, you hear? - until this notebook, or whatever it is, has been forensically verified.'
'Agreed.' O'Brian slipped the camera into his pocket. Actually, it may surprise you to hear this, but I've got a reputation of my own to consider. And from what I hear, doctor, it's one hell of a sight better than yours.
He pointed a remote key at the Toyota. It bleeped and
locked. Kelso took a last look around and followed him into the garage.
O'BRIAN made Kelso put the toolbox back in its hiding place and drag it out again. He made him do this twice, filming him once from the front and then from the side. Zinaida watched them closely but was careful to keep out of shot. She smoked incessantly, one arm clasped defensively across her stomach. When O'Brian had what he needed, Kelso carried the box over to the workbench and brought the lamp up close to it. There wasn't a lock. There were two spring-loaded catches at either end of the lid. They had been cleaned up recently, and oiled. One was broken. The other opened.
Here we go, boy.
'What I want you to do,' said O'Brian, 'is describe what you see. Talk us through it.'
Kelso contemplated the box.
'D'you have any gloves?'
'Gloves?'
'If what's inside is genuine, Stalin's fingerprints should be on it. And Beria's. I don't want to contaminate the evidence.'
'Stalin's fingerprints?'
'Of course. Don't you know about Stalin's fingers? The Bolshevik poet, Demyan Bedny, once complained that he didn't like lending his books to Stalin because they always came back with such greasy finger marks on them. Osip Mandelstam - a much greater poet - got to hear about this, and put the image into a poem about Stalin: "His fingers are fat as grubs".'
'What did Stalin think of that?'
'Mandelstam died in a labour camp.
'Right. I guess I should have figured that out.' O'Brian dug around in his pockets. 'Okay: gloves. There you go.
Kelso pulled them on. They were dark blue leather, slightly too big, but they would do. He flexed his fingers - a surgeon before a transplant, a pianist before a concert. The thought made him smile. He glanced at Zinaida. Her face was clenched. O'Brian's expression was hidden by the camera.
'Okay. I'm running. In your own time.
'Right. I'm
opening the lid, which is... sti
ff as you'd... expect.' Kelso winced with the effort. The top wrenched up a crack, just wide enough for him to jam his fingers into the gap, and then it took all his strength to break the two edges apart. It came open suddenly, like a broken jaw, with a scream of oxidised metal. 'There's only one object inside.
a bag of some kind.., leather, by the look of it ... badly moulded.'
The satchel had grown a shroud of fungus - of different fungi - pale blues and greens and greys, vegetative filaments and white patches mottled black. It stank of decay. He lifted it clear of the box and turned it round in the light. He rubbed at the surface with his thumb. Very faintly, the ghost of an image began to appear. 'It's embossed here with the hammer and sickle. . . That suggests it's an official document pouch of some kind.. . Oil here on the buckle.. . Some of the rust has been cleaned off . . . ' He imagined Rapava's nail-less fingers, fumbling to discover what had cost him so much of his life.
The strap unthreaded through the pitted metal, leaving a floury residue. The satchel opened. The hyphae had spread inside, feeding off the dank skin, and as he lifted out the contents he knew, whatever else it was, that this was genuine,
that no forger would have done all this, would have allowed so much damage to be inflicted on his work: it went against nature. What had once been a packet of papers had fused together, swollen, and was covered in the same destructive cancer of spores as the leather. The pages of the notebook had also warped, but less badly, protected as they were by a smooth outer layer of black oilskin.
The cover opened, the binding split.
On the first page: nothing.
On the second: a photograph, neatly cut out of a magazine, glued down in the centre of the page. A group of young women, in their late teens, dressed as athletes - shorts, singlets, sashes - marching in step, eyes right, carrying a picture of Stalin. Parading in Red Square by the look of it.
Caption: Komsomol Unit No. 2 from oblast display their paces! Front row, I. to r. I. Primakova, A. Safanova, D. Merkulova, K Ti!, M Arsenyeva... Against the youthful face of A. Safanova there was a tiny red cross.
He picked up the notebook and blew, to separate the second page from the third. His hands were sweating inside the gloves. He felt absurdly clumsy, as if he were trying to thread a needle while wearing gauntlets.
On the third page: writing, in faint pencil.
O'Brian touched his shoulder, prompting him to say something.
'It's not Stalin's writing, I'm sure of that . . . It reads more like someone writing about Stalin. . .' He held it closer to the lamp. "'He stands apart from the others, high on the roof of Lenin's tomb. His hand is raised in greeting. He smiles. We pass beneath him. His glance falls across us like the rays of the sun. He looks directly into my eyes. I am pierced by his power. All around us, the crowd breaks into stormy
'applause? The next part is nudged. And then it
’s written,
‘Great Stalin lived,
Great Stalin lives!
Great Stalin will live for
ever
!
’
12.5.51 Our picture is in Ogonyok! Maria runs in at the end of the first class to show me. I am displeased with
my appearance and M chides me fo
r my vanity (She always says I think too much of
being
prett
y: it is not fitting
fo
r a candidate-member of the Party Fine
fo
r her to say who always looks like a tank!) All morning
comrades hurry up to us to offe
r their congratulations. The usual trouble of this time is forgotten
fo
r on
ce. We’re
so happy...
5.6
.
51 The day is hot and sunny The Dvina is gold I return home from the Institute. Papa
is there, much earlier than usual
looking grave. Mama is strong, as ever
with
them is a stranger a comrade from the organs of
the Central Commi
ttee in Moscow! I
am not afraid of
him. I know I have done nothing wrong. And the strang
er is smiling. A little man – I l
ike him. Despite the heat he is carrying a hat and wears a leather coat. This stranger is name
d
I think, Mekhlis. He explains that after
a thorough i
nvestigation
, I have been selected
fo
r s
pecial tasks relating to the hig
h Party leadership. He
cannot
say more
for
reasons of
security
If
I
accept, I must travel to Moscow and stay
for
one year perhaps for two. Then I may return
to and
resume my
studies. He offe
rs to come back the next morning
for
my answer but I give it now, with all my heart: But because I am nineteen, he needs the permission of my parents. Oh, please papa! Please,
please! Papa is deeply moved by the scene. He goes with Comrade Mekhli
s into the garde
n and when he returns his face is solemn. I
f it is my wish, and i
f it is the will of the Party he will not prevent me. Mama is so proud.
To
Moscow, then, for the second time in my
life
! I know His hand is behind this.
I
am so happy, I could die...
8.
6
.
51 Mama brings me to the station. Papa stays behind I kiss
her dear cheeks. Farewell to her,
farewell to childhood
.
The carriages are crowded
, t
he train moves off
and
Others run along the platform
,
but mama stays still and is quickly lost. W
e
cross the river I am alone. Poor Anna! And thi
s is the worst of days to travel but I have my clothes, some fo
od
, a book or two, and this journal
in which I shall record my thou
ghts - this will be my friend. We plunge south through the fo
rest, the tundra. A great red sunset blazes like a fire through the trees. Isakogorka. Obozerskiy And now I have written down everything that has happened until this time and I can no longer see to write.
11.6.
51 Monday morning. The town of Vbzhega appears with the dawn. Passengers alight to stretc
h their legs, but I stay where I
am. From the corridor comes a smell of
smoke. A man watches me write from the opposite seat, pretending to be as
leep. He is curious about me. I
f only he knew! And still there are eleven hours to Moscow. How can one man rule such a nation? How could such a nation exist without such a man to rule it?
Konosha. Kharovsk. Names on a map b
ecome real to me. Vologda. Danil
ov. Yaroslavt
A fe
ar has come upon me. I am so far from home. Last time there were twent
y of us, silly laughing girls. oh
, papa!
And now we reach the out
skirts of Moscow. A tremor of excitement runs through the t
rain. The blocks and factories
stretch as far and wide as the tundra. A hot haze of metal and smoke. The June su
n is much warmer than at home. I
am excited again.
430! Yaroslavskaya station!And now what?
LATER. The train halts, the man opposite, who had been watching me all journey leans
For
ward ‘
lnna Mikhailovna Safanova?' For a mom
ent I am too amazed to speak. Yes? 'We
lcome to
Moscow. Come with me, please.
He wears a leather coat, like Comrade Mekhlis. H
e carries my case along the platfo
rm to the station entrance on Komsomolskaya Square. A
car is waiting, with a driver We
drive
For
a long while. An hour at least. I don't know where. R
ight
across the city it seems
to me, and out again. Along a highway that leads to a birch forest. There is a hig
h
fe
nce and so
ldiers who check our papers. We
drive some more. Another f
e
nce. And then a house, in a large garden.