Pavel & I (42 page)

Whatever his mindset – and his worth as a man – the Colonel drove the few miles to the city centre in record time and parked the car a good block away from Franzi's ground-floor apartment. It would be wrong to say that he
slunk
down the sidewalk towards the house's door; he certainly did not run. He walked up, in slow, girthy self-assurance, past the half-house's rubble, and rang the bell same as any visitor would have done. There was no gun in his pocket, and he clutched neither truncheon nor sap. All he had with him was his smile, fat on those lips, and the fury of having been betrayed.

Sonia opened the door at once. Afterwards, she reasoned that it was because the monkey gave a chatter of joy as though it had recognized the coming of a friend, and also because she was glad that the boy had made it back from his errand. Fosko slipped through the entrance and pushed his bulk past the apartment door with astonishing speed. There was no time for Sonia to cry out. The door slammed into its lock behind him.

Pavel stood in his cell shouting for his captor. Stood, brow knit, jaw raised, a vagrant's stubble on the stretched-out throat.

‘Peterson!' he yelled up towards the ceiling. ‘Come back.

‘Come back, Peterson!' he yelled. ‘Tell me what's going on.'

It would have been difficult for him to explain his agitation. He had been alone for perhaps an hour. There was no indication that anything was amiss: no sounds that had travelled down the stairs, nothing to go by other than his knowledge that Fosko was back, and was hunting for Sonia. And yet he was certain that she was in danger while
he clamoured helplessly behind bars. He yelled again and felt himself getting hoarse.

There was no answer.

She had forgotten how fat he was, and how quick. Sonia had been packing when the bell rang, arranging her possessions by importance, one suitcase full of essentials, the second for her luxuries. Folding and re-folding her blouses, nervous for the boy's return. Then the bell. Mechanically, she'd folded over one more collar, then stepped out from behind the kitchen table and opened the door. Her hand was still on the doorknob when Fosko burst in; stood looming in her living room.

Good God, he was fat.

Dripping in mink and jewellery.

The monkey gave a cry of delight and scrambled over to hug his leg. The Colonel bent to pick it up by the scruff.

‘You haven't been feeding him,' he complained. ‘He looks scrawny.'

She'd forgotten about his voice, too, the wet of his lips; his hands chubby like a choirboy's. Sonia backed away from him. She wished he'd skip the talking and start hitting. It would be easier that way.

‘My, my, the trouble you've caused me. You and your dreamy-eyed lover. First Söldmann, then Boyd; the whole long dance to see who's got the merchandise. Now I've got a Russian general up my arse over a dead soldier, and a Yank in my basement who's eating me out of house and home.'

He dropped the monkey onto her bed, and took another step towards her.

‘Is he still alive?' she chanced. ‘Tell me. Is Pavel alive?'

He smiled; fat lips smiling. There was spit in their corners.

‘Alive and well. Making eyes at my dear Peterson. Another week or so, and they'll go and elope. Of course, now they won't have a week. Romance cut short. The year, it starts in tragedy.'

‘What will you do with him?'

He shrugged and stepped closer. ‘You have other things to worry about.'

He was almost touching her now. She stood pressed against the kitchen table. There should have been a knife on the table. There wasn't a knife. There was a pair of panties, Parisian lace; mending in the gusset. She noticed him noticing.

‘The film, Sonia,' he whispered. ‘Give me the microfilm.' He stretched out one hand. His fingernails were filed and painted with a subtle gloss. ‘Please.'

She handed it over. What the hell else was she going to do? Got it out of the cupboard drawer, and placed it into his fat-fingered palm: not a word of protest, resigned to it now, her skin crawling with his presence. He reached up and stroked her cheek with the other hand.

‘There. That wasn't so hard.'

All of a sudden she felt dizzy. She stumbled, and he had to steady her by the armpit to keep her from falling over. Up close he smelled of talcum powder. They stood like this for long minutes while the monkey played under her skirts.

When she had regained her balance, he helped her close the suitcases and tied a piece of string around the animal's throat. The Colonel stuffed both cases under one arm, and wrapped the leash around his wrist. ‘Let's go home,' he said. He did not bother to wait for her as he stepped out the door.

Sonia followed him out and over to his car. Somewhere along the line her nose had started bleeding and she dabbed at it with a tissue until the blood clotted and dried.

Anders woke upon a hardwood floor. He fought to open his eyes. The left one wouldn't obey. Something pressed down on it, from the general direction of his brow. His legs hurt, and it was difficult to breathe. When he tried to move his arms, he realized they were bound. He had no feeling in his hands.

‘He's awake,' a voice announced. The blood was pounding in Anders' ears, and it was hard to be sure who had spoken. Nor could he see much of anything. Anders lay on his side, the good eye close to the floorboards, a broken tooth rising jaggedly out of its grain. He tried to turn his head but was stopped by a jabbing pain that ran from crotch to gut. He wondered whether he'd been stabbed.

‘Go on,' he croaked, struggling to get the words out of his swollen mouth. ‘Hit me again. I won't say nothing.'

‘It's over, Anders. We found the phone number. Now, it's all up to the Colonel.'

Anders retched. Something was wrong with his stomach. It felt lumpy and bloated, like a sack of mouldy spuds.

‘You gave it to Fosko?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Why?'

He didn't receive an answer. Instead, he felt someone crouch next to him; felt a hand in his hair. Anders couldn't tell whether the gesture was meant to appease him, or announced another beating.

‘Forget about it,' the voice said, not unkindly. ‘It's out of your hands.' The boy thought it might be Paulchen.

‘I have to go warn her. We were going to rescue Pavel.'

He tried crawling, pushing his body along the floor with the strength of his knees. The hand in his hair turned into a fist. It shoved him back into the floor, right on top of the broken-off tooth.

‘You're staying here.'

A blanket was thrown over him, and someone – Gunnar? – pushed the corner of a pillow under one cheek.

‘There's water if you want some.'

‘Fuck you,' said Anders, searching his vocabulary for terms of abuse. ‘Arsehole-sackrat-bastard-pig. I fucking hate the lot of you.'

Not one of them bothered to answer his curse. He listened to them lounge about, smoking, drinking, playing marbles, arguing about whose turn it was to cook dinner. It was as though Anders was eavesdropping on his own past. In his mind he went around and stuck a knife in each of their chests; watched them bleed. It made his gall rise within him, and he lay there coughing, choking on its juice.

The Colonel drove a Beetle. At another time she might have laughed about it, the way he sat, his stomach trapped behind the wheel, and the gear stick snug against his thigh. It was a clear night, inky, the moon so low in the sky it seemed to balance on the treetops. Berlin was a glow at their backs. It was the sort of night Pavel might have liked. She grimaced and opened the glove compartment to look for a cigarette. The monkey jabbered behind her and clambered over the Colonel's shoulder down onto his stomach's ledge. It hadn't been able to keep its paws off him ever since he'd returned into its life.

‘What are you looking for?'

‘Cigarette.'

‘There's a pack in my coat pocket. I can't get to it in this sardine tin.'

She reached over and ran her fingers through the mink until she found his pocket. His elbow brushed her face as he shifted gears.

‘Excuse me.'

She straightened up, opened the packet and lit a smoke. The monkey wrinkled its nose in disgust.

‘I talked to your wife,' she said abruptly.

‘When?'

‘I don't know. A week back. She called me your “
hoor
”.'

‘Did she? What a splendid word. She must have it from a novel. It's shocking what women will read these days.'

‘Is she still in the house?'

‘No. She left before I got back. I hardly saw her at all.'

He turned to her then with half an eye. Let go of the gear stick and placed his hand upon her thigh, gently, almost shyly, one chubby hand, and the monkey jeering in his lap.

‘I missed you, Sonia,' he whispered. ‘It's been ten long days and I haven't had a single fuck.'

Here we go,
she thought and didn't move.

‘I won't,' she said, her voice level.

He removed his hand, put it back on the stick.

‘We'll see.'

It was hard to tell whether or not he was angry.

‘I haven't seen Pavel since I got back. We should say hello to him later. Peterson tells me he's taken to my wife's cooking.'

She didn't reply, and he gently steered the car off the road and down his villa's driveway.

‘Quite frankly, I can't believe you fell for him. I thought you were immune to such folly. Counted on it, to be frank.' He got out, cradling the monkey, and walked around the car to open the door for her. ‘It's been ever so disappointing.'

Sonia didn't respond. He walked her to the front door, then up to his study. His words turned in her. The thing was, the disappointment was not altogether his. Once upon a time she had thought she was immune to folly as well.