The Secret Speech - Страница 10

Fearful, Nikolai turned and ran, wildly this time, as fast as he could. Tangled up in his coat, he fell over, crashing down into the slushy snow, his clothes soaking up the filthy water. Slowly getting up, his knee throbbing, his trousers ripped, he ran again, water streaming from his coattails. It wasn’t long before he fell again. This time he began to cry, exhausted, awful sobs. Rolling onto his back, he pulled himself free from his coat, now impossibly heavy. He’d bought it many years ago from one of the restricted stores. He’d been proud of it. It was proof of his status. He didn’t need it anymore: he’d never go out again, he’d stay at home, lock the door, and pull the curtains shut.

Reaching his apartment block, he entered the hallway panting and sweating — dirty water dripping from his clothes. Soaking wet, pressed against the wall, leaving an impression of his body, he checked the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. Unable to see anyone — they were too sly — he climbed the stairs, his feet slipping, then scrambling up on all fours. The closer he got to home, the more he relaxed. They couldn’t reach him through these walls, his sanctuary. As if he’d swallowed a soothing tonic he began to think rationally. He was drunk. He’d overreacted, that was all. Of course he’d made enemies over the years, people with grudges, bitter at his success. If all they could do was send him a couple of photographs he didn’t need to worry. The majority — society — respected and valued him. He breathed deeply, reaching his landing and groping for his key.

Outside his front door was a package, roughly thirty centimeters long, twenty centimeters wide, and ten centimeters deep, wrapped in brown paper, neatly bound with string. There was no name, no label, just an ink drawing on the paper, a crucifix. Nikolai dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he pulled the string free. Inside was a box. The top of the box was marked:

...

NOT FOR PRESS

He lifted the lid. There were no photographs. Instead, there was a stack of neatly printed pages, a substantial document, over a hundred pages long. On the top rested an accompanying letter. He picked it up, scanning the words. It wasn’t addressed to him: it was an official State letter declaring that this speech was to be distributed to every school, every factory, workers and youth group up and down the country. Confused, he put the letter down, taking up the speech. He read the first page carefully. He began shaking his head. This couldn’t be true. It was a lie, a malicious fabrication, intended to drive him insane. This could never have been published by the State: they would never distribute such a document. It was impossible.

...

INNOCENT

VICTIMS

TORTURE

These words couldn’t exist in black and white, printed, State-sanctioned, distributed to every school and factory. When he caught the perpetrator of this hoax, this well-informed hoax, he’d have them executed.

Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:

— It can’t be true.

How could it be? But it was here, with a State-stamped letter, containing information only the State would know, with sources, quotes, references. The conspiracy of silence, which Nikolai had presumed would last forever, was over. It was no trick.

The speech was real.

Nikolai stood up, leaving the papers scattered. He unlocked the door and entered his apartment, abandoning the papers to the communal hallway. It didn’t matter if he locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut, his home was no longer a sanctuary. There were no sanctuaries any longer. Soon everyone would know, every schoolchild and every factory worker would read the speech. Not only would they know, they’d be allowed to talk openly, encouraged to discuss.

He pushed open the bedroom door, staring down at his wife, asleep, on her side, her hands under her head. She was beautiful. He adored her. They lived a perfect, privileged life. They had two wonderful, happy daughters. His wife had never known disgrace. She’d never known shame. She’d never known Nikolai in any other guise than that of a loving husband, a tender man who’d die for his family. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a finger along her pale arm. He couldn’t live with her knowing the truth, changing her opinion of him, pulling away, asking questions, or, worse still, remaining silent. Her silence would be unbearable. All her friends would ask questions. She’d be judged. How much did she know? Had she always known? Better that he should not live to see her shamed. Better that he should die now.

Except his death would change nothing. She would still find out. She would wake to find his body and she would cry and grieve. Then she would read the speech. Although she’d attend his funeral she would wonder at the things he’d done. She would rethink the moments they spent together, when he’d touched her, when he’d made love to her. Had he murdered someone hours before? Had her home been bought with blood? Perhaps, eventually, she would even come to believe that he deserved to die and that taking his life had been the right thing to do, not just for him but also for their daughters.

He picked up the pillow. His wife was strong and she would struggle, but even though he was out of shape, he was confident of his ability to overpower her. He positioned himself carefully and she moved accordingly, sensing his body, no doubt pleased he was home. She rolled onto her back, smiling. He couldn’t look at her face anymore. He had to act now before he lost his nerve. He lowered the pillow quickly, not wanting to catch sight of her opening her eyes. He pressed down as hard as he could. Quickly she grabbed at the pillow, at his wrists, scratching. It was no good, he wouldn’t let go — she couldn’t pull loose. Rather than trying to break his grip, she tried to wriggle out from underneath. He straddled her, locking his legs around her stomach, keeping her fixed in position and unable to move while he kept the pillow in place. She was pinned down, helpless, weakening. Her hands no longer scratched, they merely held his wrists until they went slack and fell by her side.

He remained in the same position, on top of her, holding the pillow for some minutes after she stopped moving. Finally, he eased back, letting go, leaving the pillow across her face. He didn’t want to see her bloodshot eyes. He wanted to remember her expression as being full of love. He reached under the pillow so that he might shut her eyelids. His fingertip roamed her face, getting closer and closer until he touched her pupil — the faintly sticky surface. He carefully closed her eyelids and lifted the pillow, looking down at her. She was at peace. He lay beside her, his arms around her waist.

Exhausted, Nikolai almost fell asleep. He shook himself awake. He was not finished yet. Standing up, neatening the bedsheets, he picked up the pillow and walked out into the living room, turning toward his daughters’ bedroom.

SAME DAY

ZOYA AND ELENA WERE ASLEEP: Leo could hear the rise and fall of their breathing. Adjusting to the darkness, he carefully shut the door behind him. He couldn’t fail at being a father. Let the homicide department close, let him be stripped of his apartment and privileges, there had to be some way of saving his family, nothing mattered more. And he was sure that this family, despite its problems, offered the best chance for all of them. He refused to imagine a future where they wouldn’t be together. It was true that both girls were far closer to Raisa than they were to him. Clearly the obstacle wasn’t the adoption but his past. He’d been naïve in thinking that his relationship with Elena and Zoya merely required time and that like a trick of perspective moving far enough away from the incident would make it appear smaller and less significant. Even now he used euphemisms—the incident—for the murder of her parents. Zoya’s anger was as vivid as the day her parents had been shot. Instead of denial, he had to confront her hatred directly.

Zoya was sleeping on her side, facing the wall. Leo reached over and took hold of her shoulder, gently rolling her onto her back. The intention had been to ease her out of her sleep, but instead she sat up straight, her body tensing, pulling away from his touch. Without realizing exactly what he was doing he placed his other hand on her shoulder, stopping her from moving away. He did it for the best of reasons, for both of their sakes. He needed her to listen. Attempting to maintain a measured, reassuring tone, he whispered:

— Zoya, we need to talk, the two of us. It can’t wait. If I wait till morning I’ll find some excuse and I’ll delay till tomorrow. I’ve already delayed for three years.

She said nothing, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed on him. Although he’d spent at least an hour in the kitchen trying to work out exactly what to say, those carefully planned words disappeared:

— You were in my bedroom. I found the knife.

He’d opened on the wrong topic. He was here to talk about his failings, not to criticize her. He tried to turn the conversation around:

— First, let me make clear, I’m a different person now. I’m not the officer that came to your parents’ farm. Also, remember, I tried to save your parents. I failed. I will live with that failure for the rest of my life. I can’t bring them back. But I can give you and your sister opportunities. That’s how I see this family. It’s an opportunity. It’s an opportunity for you and for Elena, but also for me.