The Secret Speech

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 naive 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.

Leo stopped, remaining silent, waiting to see if she’d ridicule the notion. She didn’t move or speak. Her lips were clamped together: her body was rigid.

— Can’t you… try?

Her voice trembled, her first words:

— Let go.

— Zoya, don’t get upset: just tell me what you’re thinking. Be honest. Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what kind of person you want me to be.

— Let go.

— No, Zoya, please, you have to understand how important this is.

— Let go.

— Zoya…

Her voice became higher, strained — desperate:

— Let go!

Stunned, he pulled back. She was whining like a wounded animal. How had this gone so wrong? In disbelief he watched as she recoiled from his affection. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was trying to express his love for her. She was throwing it back in his face. Zoya was ruining this, not just for him. She was ruining it for everyone. Elena wanted to be part of a family. He knew she did. She held his hand: she smiled, laughed. She wanted to be happy. Raisa wanted to be happy. They all just wanted to be happy. Except for Zoya, stubbornly refusing to recognize that he’d changed, childishly clinging on to her hatred as if it was her favorite doll.

Leo noticed the smell. Touching the sheets he discovered they were damp. Even so, it took him a second or two to understand that Zoya had wet the bed. He stood up, stepped back, muttering:

— That’s okay. I’ll clean up. Don’t worry. That’s my fault. I’m to blame.

Zoya shook her head, saying nothing, scrunching her hands against her temples, clawing at the sides of her face. Leo became short of breath, perplexed that his love could create such misery:

— Zoya, I’ll take the sheets.

She shook her head, clutching the piss-stained sheets as if they were protecting her from him. By now Elena was awake and crying.

Leo turned to the door and then turned back again, unable to leave her in such a state. How could he fix the problem when he was the problem?

— I just want to love you, Zoya.

Elena was looking from Zoya to Leo. Her being awake resulted in a change in Zoya. She regained her composure, calmly telling Leo:

— I’m going to wash my sheets. I’m going to do it myself. I don’t need your help.

Leo left the room, leaving the young girl he’d hoped to win over sitting in piss and tears.

* * *

ENTERING THE KITCHEN, Leo paced the room, drunk on catastrophe. While he’d tidied away the files, the sheet of paper from Moskvin’s printing press was as he’d left it:

Under torture, Eikhe

An appropriate companion: a reminder of his former career, a career that was going to shadow him forever. Picturing Zoya’s reaction in the bedroom, Leo was forced to contemplate something he’d only minutes ago dismissed as unthinkable. The family might have to be broken apart.

Had his desire to hold them together become a blind obsession? It was forcing Zoya to pick at a scab that would never heal, infecting her with hatred and bitterness. Of course, if she couldn’t live with him then neither could Elena. The sisters were inseparable. He’d have no choice but to find them a new home, one with no connection to the State, perhaps outside of Moscow in a smaller town where the apparatus of power was less visible. He and Raisa would need to search for suitable guardians, meeting prospective parents and wondering if they could do a better job, if they could bring the girls happiness, something Leo had so utterly failed to provide.

Raisa appeared at the door:

— What’s going on?

She’d come from their bedroom. She didn’t know about the bedwetting, the conversation, referring instead to Nikolai, the phone call, the midnight meeting. Leo’s voice was cracked with emotion:

— Nikolai was drunk. I told him we’d talk when he was sober.

— That took all night?