Pavel & I (29 page)

And still I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, his face was there before me, that hollow-cheeked nobility that, once upon a time, I'd thought it my job to realign with fist and sole. It held my attention. The longer I faced his hooded stare, the more I felt my anger evaporate before it. It left something else behind I could not put a
name to. As dawn began to break behind the frost-shrouded window, I slowly came to realize that I was no longer much interested in the secrets that Fosko had bid me unearth. For all I knew the Colonel was looking at dishonourable discharge, at military prison, the firing squad. No, it was the man who had begun to move my imagination. Perhaps it was our prolonged proximity that had done the trick; perhaps it had been with me all along – the deep yearning to sound his soul. This was the thought that finally lulled me to a brief hour's sleep: that I had been trying to break a man where what needed doing was more akin to seduction.

‘Talk to me, Pavel,' I prayed. ‘Just talk to me, and I will make sure this all ends well for you.'

As I slipped into dreams it was as though I already knew the whole of him and had made a home in his heart. I woke up in a fabulous mood.

Day four or thereabouts: early morning, and dark out. The cold tugging at my fillings, my nose bunged up, every breath a pain. The car wouldn't start and I had to go back in to fetch two additional pails of boiling water; pour them over the hood. The paint cracked under the heat, but the engine caught amidst a plume of dirty smoke. I sat pumping the gas until it'd settled into a regular rhythm, then wrestled with the frozen handbrake. Wolves howling on my way to the villa, calling it quits on their night-time prowl. There were stories going around about the Russians shooting at them with machine pistols, for sport and for mittens; of soldiers crouching in the snow, peeling the fur off with their hunting knives and grinning like they were back on the parental farm. At the villa, no signs of portent: no news about Sonia, no word from the Colonel, Mrs Fosko uptight like a government seal, though her dressing gown was worn more carelessly with
every passing day. Her boy chasing her girl around the living room, and Fosko's chauffeur dropping off groceries, including three dead rabbits for the pantry. I took my time before I climbed down into the basement, nervous now not to screw things up. Pavel greeted me with the ghost of a nod, his chin dark with stubble and rings under his eyes. I ignored him at first, cleaned out his shit bucket, made a show of setting up my chessboard. He, too, was quiet, watched me launch into a solitary game. Black won twice in a row, then a remise. The two of us waiting, wondering who would break the silence first.

‘You don't seem to want to talk today.'

‘You didn't ask any questions.'

‘Questions or not, yesterday you could hardly shut up.'

He smiled at that, a new kind of smile, open and honest and acknowledging the truth of my words. Hoping that he, too, had decided to make a fresh start of things, I excused myself to make us coffee. I returned shortly and handed him his cup, along with a piece of chocolate still in its wrapper.

‘You should try this. It's from England. The Colonel's wife brought it.'

He slipped it between his lips, pulled a face.

‘It's awful.'

‘Isn't it now?'

I swear to God he nearly laughed out loud.

We sat silent for a while, our tongues busy dislodging shards of sticky chocolate from our teeth and gums. This time he broke the silence.

‘What's she like anyway, Frau Fosko?'

‘Oh, you know. Mousy. She doesn't have an easy life.'

‘I imagine not.'

‘If you ask me, Mr Richter, the whole institution of marriage has to
be rethought. It's somehow flawed. It isn't fair that one has to choose someone for life before one knows anything at all.'

‘One could marry late.'

‘That's what everybody says. And then they go and elope with their village sweethearts. Perhaps it's all those radio romances. Giving us the wrong idea.'

‘Peterson,' Pavel asked. ‘When are you going to stop screwing around and ask me some questions about the “merchandise”?'

There. He had to go and ruin the moment. I had just been warming to our banter, and he had to bring us back to the squalid real, and in such coarse terms, too. Still, now that I had him talking I didn't want to anger him. The best I could do was to be honest.

‘Would you tell me? If I asked.'

‘No.'

‘So what's the point? We'll get to all that later. There's plenty of time.'

‘How much?'

‘Oh, plenty.'

‘Fosko is away?'

‘I can't talk about that.'

‘And Sonia?'

I only shrugged and shook my head.

‘I wish you'd tell me more about your wife.'

Naturally, he sulked for a while before complying with my wish. Whenever he thought to punish me, he would get down on his hands and knees and search his cell for insects. Oh, I got the point. He preferred the company of roaches. It occurred to me that I could march in there and exterminate the lot. It might upset Pavel though, so I left him to it. Eventually, he relented.

‘Why do you care?' he asked.

‘Just curious,' I admitted. ‘Did you get along?'

‘By and large. There were disagreements, but no fights. She cried when I went off to war.'

‘And then?'

Pavel sat and thought it through, closing his eyes as he did so. His eyelids were very delicate.

‘I don't know.

‘I hope –' he started, then corrected himself. ‘Sometimes I hope she's found herself another man.'

‘You don't know? About the other man, that is?'

‘I haven't heard from her in a while.'

I knew better by now than to push him any further, so I busied myself sweeping out the basement's corners and checking on the heater.

‘Are you hungry?' I asked when I was done.

‘No.'

‘I know what you need. A spot of brandy. Let me just run upstairs and see whether I can find us some.'

He seemed pleased when I brought down not only a half-bottle, but also two finely made goblets. I poured him several fingers' worth and handed him the glass. Our hands touched ever so briefly.

‘She's okay,' I whispered. ‘Sonia is okay.'

He nodded and sipped at his brandy.

That afternoon Pavel and I played our first game of chess, his hand reaching through the bars of his cage in order to move his pieces. I insisted on playing white. He must have had me eight or nine moves in – all of a sudden I was in trouble and just trying to avoid his knights. When my queen fell he allowed himself the briefest of smiles.

‘Nothing's over before it's over,' I intoned, but two more moves and I had to concede.

‘Better luck next time,' he offered politely. I nodded as I packed away the pieces. I like a man who's a good winner.

‘Now tell me about Anders. I need to know he's okay, too.'

I tried to explain to him that I did not know. That I had never even set eyes on the boy. He wouldn't relent.

‘Is the Colonel looking for him? Surely you know that much.'

‘He thinks the boy's dead. Strung up to your curtain rod. The light was so glum he never noticed the mix-up.'

‘You didn't tell him?'

‘No. It must have slipped my mind.'

‘Thank you.'

I wondered whether he might be mocking me, but his physiognomy was fixed in its habitual sincerity. I felt touched and responded with a curt bow.

‘You're welcome,' I said.

I judged it too dangerous to reach out and offer him my hand.