around, her large brown eyes alert, ready for danger. He’d asked her name. She’d assessed him in a glance, checking the passengers passing by, before telling him it was Lena and making an excuse about being in a rush. With that, she was gone. There was not the slightest trace of encouragement, nor the slightest trace of impoliteness. Leo hadn’t dared follow her. He’d sheepishly backtracked to the platform, waiting for the next train. It had been a costly endeavour. He’d turned up to work late that morning, something he’d never done before. It was some consolation that he had finally found out her name.
Today was the first time he’d seen her since that awkward introduction. He was tense as she moved down the aisle, hoping she’d take the seat beside him. Rocking with the motion of the tramcar she passed him by without a word. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him? Leo glanced back. She took a seat near the rear of the carriage. Her bag was on her lap, her eyes fixed on the snowfall outside. There was no point in lying to himself: of course she remembered him, he could tell from the way she was studiously ignoring him. He was hurt at the distance she’d placed between them; each metre was a measure of her dislike for him. If she wanted to talk she would’ve sat closer. On consideration, that would have been too assertive. It was up to him to go to her. He knew her name. They were acquaintances. There was nothing improper with striking up a second conversation. The longer he waited the more difficult it would become. If the conversation fell flat, all he would lose was a little pride. He joked to himself that he could afford such a loss: perhaps he carried around too much pride in any case.
Standing up abruptly, committing himself to a course of action, he de towards Lena with a false air of confidence. He took the seat in front of her, leaning over the back of the seat:
– My name’s Leo. We met the other day.
She took so long to respond that Leo wondered if she was going to ignore him.
– Yes. I remember.
Only now did he realize that he had nothing to talk about. Embarrassed, hastily improvising, he remarked:
– I heard you say just now that it’s as cold on this tram as off it. I was thinking the same thing. It is very cold.
He blushed at the inanity of his comments, bitterly regretting not having thought this conversation through. Looking at Leo’s coat, she commented:
– Cold? Even though you have such a nice coat?
Leo’s status as an agent provided him access to a range of fine jackets, hand-crafted boots, thick fur hats. The coat was tantamount to a declaration of his status. Not wishing to admit he worked for the secret police, he decided on a lie.
– It was a gift from my father. I don’t know where he bought it.
Leo changed the topic of conversation.
– I see you around a lot. I wonder if we live close to each other.
– That seems likely.
Leo puzzled over the response. Evidently Lena was reluctant to tell him where she lived. Such caution was not uncommon. He shouldn’t take it personally. He understood it better than anyone. In fact, it appealed to him. She was shrewd and that was part of her appeal.
His eyes came to rest on her bag, filled with books, notebooks – school exercise books. Trying to strike a pose of easy familiarity, he reached out, taking one of the books.
– You’re a teacher?
Leo glanced at the information on the written on the front. Lena seemed to straighten slightly.
– That’s right.
– What do you teach?
Lena’s voice had become fragile.
– I teach…
She lost her train of thought, touching her forehead.
– I teach politics. Sorry, I’m very tired.
There was no ambiguity. She wanted him to leave her alone. She was straining against her desire to remain polite. He returned the book.
– I apologize. I’m disturbing you.
Leo stood up, feeling unsteady, as if the tramcar were travelling across a stormy ocean. He walked back to his seat grabbing the bar for support. Humiliation had replaced the blood in his veins, the sensation pumped around his body – every part of his skin burning. After several minutes of being seated, jaw locked, staring out the window, her soft rejection ringing through his head, he noticed that his hands were clenched so tight there was a series of curved fingernail impressions embedded in his palms.
Moscow Lubyanka Square The Lubyanka, Headquarters of the Secret Police
Leo hadn’t slept last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sting of the humiliation to fade. After several hours he’d got up and paced his empty apartment, moving from room to room like a caged animal, full of hate for the generous space appointed to him. Better to sleep in a barracks, the proper place for a soldier. His apartment was a family home, the envy of many, except it was empty – the kitchen unused, the living space untouched, impersonal, no more than a place to rest after a day’s work.
Arriving early, he entered his office and sat at his desk. He was always early except for the day he’d stopped to ask Lena’s name. There was no one else in the office, at least not on his floor. There might be people downstairs in the interrogation rooms, where sessions could run for days without interruption. He checked his watch. In an hour or so other staff would start to arrive.
Leo began to work, hoping the distraction would push the incident with Lena from his mind. Yet he was unable to focus on the documents in front of him. With a sudden swipe of his arm, he knocked the papers to the ground. It was intolerable – how could a stranger have such an effect upon him? She didn’t matter. He was an important man. There were other women, plenty of them, many would be thankful to be the subject of his attention. He stood up, pacing the office as he’d paced his apartment, feeling caged. He opened the door, walking down the deserted corridor, finding himself in a nearby office where the reports on suspects were held. He checked that Grigori had filed his report, expecting his trainee to have forgotten or to have neglected the duty for sentimental reasons. The file had been submitted, languishing near the bottom of a low-priority stack of case files, many of which would not be read for weeks, dealing with the most trivial of incidents.
Leo lifted Peshkova’s file, feeling the weight of the diary inside. In a snap decision, he moved it to the highest-priority pile, placing it at the very top – the most serious suspects, ensuring the case would be reviewed today, as soon as the staff arrived.
Back at his desk, Leo’s eyes began to close as if having completed that piece of bureaucracy he was finally able to sleep.
*
Leo opened his eyes. Grigori was nudging him awake. Leo stood up, embarrassed at being caught asleep at his desk, wondering what time it was.
– Are you OK?
Pulling his thoughts together, he remembered – the file.
Without saying a word, he hastened out of the office. The corridors were busy: everyone arriving for work. Quickening his pace, pushing past his colleagues, Leo reached the room where active cases were held for review. Ignoring the woman asking if he needed any help, he searched through the stack of files, looking for the documents on the artist Polina Peshkova. The file had been on the top. He’d put it there only sixty minutes ago. Once again the secretary asked if he needed any help.
– There was a file here.
– They’ve been taken.
Peshkova’s case was being processed.
