Amber (11 page)

I awoke in Tanya's bed the next morning just after dawn, and, unable to return to sleep, got up and made myself coffee. The sky was bright and cloudless, and over the tops of neighbouring buildings I could see the trees in Kalnu Park tossing in a strong breeze. I felt curiously calm after the events of the previous couple of days, as though, having slipped down a crevice, my fall had finally been broken and I was left on a ledge, regarding my position.

Sipping the coffee, I thought of Vassily, of the years we had spent together and all that he had done for me. I thought of Kolya, too, the young boy I had grown up with in the children's home, his bright face, his laughter. Of how he had blushed in shame when Liuba had declared her affection for him.

Tanya was sleeping still when, just before eight o'clock, I took her coffee. Sitting beside her, I brushed her dark hair from her face. She stirred and looked up and smiled sadly.

‘I was dreaming,' she said.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No,' she said, shifting, running a hand through her hair, taking the mug of coffee from me, ‘there's no need. I've been living in a dream since he died, before that even, since the time we finally admitted to ourselves he was ill, the evening he came home and told me it had been diagnosed as malignant. It's been unreal since then, a waiting, not daring to hope, not daring to think.'

‘I have not thought for years,' I told her. ‘I have existed. Each day a conscious act of will, to live without thinking. If I tried hard enough it almost worked. Daiva, the baby, the work with Vassily. It was enough. What cause was there to think of anything else, to remember that there had been anything else? But perhaps you were right, yesterday evening, maybe it's time I faced up to it.'

‘So what are you going to do?' she asked.

‘I think I should find Kolya.'

Tanya nodded and reached out to take my hand. ‘But how will you find him?' she asked.

‘I don't know,' I confessed. ‘I really don't know.'

The café on the bank of the Vilnia was closed. Scaling the high wall, I peered over into the beer garden. The chairs were upturned on the wooden tables and the glass doors closed and curtained. Squinting into the early sun, sharp and bright after the rain, I scanned the trees down by the water. Against the brilliant shimmer on the surface of the river it was impossible to see whether the letter was there still, balled in the mesh of twigs. For some moments I considered climbing over the wall to go and see, but the street was busy and I had no desire to involve the police in my search.

Disappointed, I wandered back across the bridge into the Old Town, heading along Bernadinu in the direction of the university. A large crowd of students congregated in the courtyard of the university, smoking and talking and laughing. Often Vassily would visit his old friend Gintaras Zinotis, a professor in the Department of Archaeology at the university. Zinotis knew everything there was to know about ancient jewellery and was an expert on the history of amber. He had served in Afghanistan in the very early eighties. Though he looked every centimetre the university professor, it was possible to see beneath the worn jacket and the spectacles, beneath the slight paunch and his pipe, the lean figure of the soldier he had once been. Zinotis belonged, I knew, to the Afghan Vets organisation, and it was possible, I considered, that through his contacts he might have heard something about Kolya, or would be able to direct me to somebody who might know where he was.

His small office was at the end of a long corridor. I had been to the university on only one previous occasion when Vassily had asked me to pick up a book the professor had promised to loan him on the jewellery of the Kushan Empire. Now I knocked on the door and waited, feeling out of place among the young students, folders tucked beneath their arms, waiting for their lectures.

When the door did not open, I knocked again, loath to be disappointed for the second time that morning. A creased face appeared at the door, staring furiously over the top of half-moon spectacles.

‘Yes?' Zinotis said irritably. He looked me up and down and, realising at once I was not one of his students, his frown eased a little. ‘Who are you looking for?' he added a little more pleasantly.

‘Professor Zinotis?' I asked, though I recognised him immediately.

‘Yes?'

‘My name is Antanas, I am a friend and colleague of the jeweller Vassily. We have met once before.' The professor opened the door a little wider. He took off his glasses and polished them absently on the sleeve of his pullover.

‘I heard the news,' he said. ‘I'm very sorry.'

I nodded. Zinotis stepped to one side and indicated I should enter his office. The room was small and oppressive. Books lined every wall and were piled in high, unstable heaps on the floor and desk. On the sill, beneath the small, dusty window, were various lumps of amber, some of them worked, displaying their inclusions, organisms trapped when the resin was still liquid, while others were dull, raw, milky pieces. There were two chairs in the room, one by his desk and a second by the wall, beneath a particularly wobbly-looking pile of volumes.

‘Please sit down,' Zinotis said, offering me his chair. ‘I would offer you a drink, but I'm afraid I don't have a bottle. Always when Vassily came he would bring one with him, but it has been a long while since he was last here.'

Zinotis perched himself on the edge of the desk, shifting a pile of folders aside.

‘What can I do for you?'

‘Vassily, I know, often came to talk to you about jewellery,' I said, not sure how to raise the topic or how much I should say.

Zinotis laughed. ‘Vassily and I always talked about ancient jewellery. He had a fascination with the history of amber and its spread around the ancient world. He had some wonderful stories about its origins.' I nodded and paused. Zinotis raised his eyebrows, waiting.

‘I'm looking for somebody,' I said, ‘and I thought there was the smallest chance you might be able to help me.'

‘I can try.' He smiled, a little bemused.

‘Kolya. Kolya Antonenko,' I said. ‘He served with Vassily and me in Afghanistan. Perhaps you have heard something about him through the veterans organisation?'

‘Kolya Antonenko?' Zinotis played with his half-moon spectacles. He thought hard, then blew out his cheeks. ‘No,' he said, ‘I don't think so.'

‘Have you any idea who might be able to help me find him?'

Zinotis twisted the spectacles between his fingers. His watery blue eyes examined me.

‘It's important, is it?' he asked.

I hesitated a moment, considering what I should tell him.

‘Before Vassily died,' I said, ‘I went to visit him. He was sick, but very lucid. He told me about a jewel. He wanted Kolya to have it.'

Zinotis followed my words with evident interest. When I paused he urged me to continue.

‘Did he describe the jewel?' he asked.

‘You know what he was like with his tales,' I said. ‘Perhaps this was no more than one of those. He said it was a bracelet. A filigree gold band which held an oval piece of amber. The amber was a large piece, I believe, and without flaws, but what interested him were the inclusions in it. There were two beetles, perfectly preserved, copulating.'

‘This bracelet,' Zinotis clarified, ‘it is something Vassily had? He gave it to you?'

I hesitated again. ‘No,' I said, ‘not exactly, but he wanted Kolya to have it.'

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Zinotis stood up. He looked across at the door and seemed to consider whether he should answer it. After glancing at me, he stepped over to it and, opening it, poked his head into the corridor. When, a few moments later, he closed the door and turned back to me he was once more polishing his spectacles on the sleeve of his pullover.

‘I don't know,' he said, shaking his head. He paused and fitted the spectacles back on to his nose and gazed at me through them, as if weighing me up. ‘I can certainly ask around. This bracelet, though… would be very interesting to see, if you were able to bring it to me. It might be worth quite something, if it's as good an example as you suggest.'

‘I'm not interested in the jewel,' I said. ‘Vassily wanted me to find Kolya. There is something he wanted me to hear from Kolya, something about the bracelet. I don't know, it makes little sense to me.'

Zinotis continued to stare at me. His gaze was at once penetrating and absent. ‘Kolya Antonenko,' he said, turning the name on his tongue. ‘Maybe I did meet him, with Vassily, now that you mention it – years ago. I will have to make some enquiries.'

I stood up, a little disappointed that he knew no more.

‘I'm sorry to have taken up your time,' I said, holding out my hand.

‘Not at all,' Zinotis replied. ‘You must pass on my deepest sympathy to Tanya. He was a great companion, he will be missed by many people.'

Despondently, I retraced my route back towards the bridge over the Vilnia. It was mid-morning and the traffic was a little quieter. The Uzupis Café had just opened when I reached it. A young woman was unfolding the glass double doors and securing them with bricks. Inside, the staff were wiping tables and arranging chairs. I ordered a coffee and took it out to the decked area at the back of the café. Glancing down towards the river, I saw the letter immediately, suspended in the tangle of twigs and branches where I had thrown it.

The land sloped steeply from the back of the café to the bank of the river. I slipped down the grass and, holding the wiry trunk of a young birch, hung out over the water to retrieve the ball of paper. It was damp. Delicately I eased it from its resting place without ripping it.

As I clambered back up to the café platform, I noticed the waiter leaning against the door jamb watching me.

‘Just doing my bit to keep the city tidy,' I said, taking my place back at the table where I had left my coffee.

He raised his eyebrows and turned back inside.

With care I straightened out the envelope, smoothing it gently with the palm of my hand. Untucking the flap, I pulled out the single sheet inside the envelope. The letter was relatively dry. Kolya's spidery handwriting ran down the page, a little faded but quite visible. My heart was pumping hard, I noticed, and my fingers trembled as I held down the corners of the page while I read.

On the back of the letter, when I turned it over, I found some scribbled instructions in Vassily's hand.

At the end of our first week in Kabul, junior officers flew in from around the country to take their pick of the new recruits. A tanned, wiry officer with blue eyes that seemed barely able to open in the startling sunshine chose a small group of us to replace the
dembels
from his platoon stationed near Jalalabad, east of Kabul, towards the border with Pakistan. Kolya and Vassily were posted with me. A small helicopter was waiting at the airport to transport us across the mountains. We were each issued a parachute as we climbed into the belly of the chopper. The helicopter was already piled high with goods. A
dembel
held out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Have a smoke,' he said with a laugh. ‘It's going to be your last.'

As the helicopter rose into the clear sky, we watched Kabul drop away behind us. Every few minutes flares whistled out from the sides of the helicopter.

‘The muj have got better equipment than we have,' the blue-eyed officer said. ‘They've got Stinger missiles. The CIA are funding the insurgents, channelling arms through from Pakistan.'

Deep mountain fissures ran between Kabul and Jalalabad. The rocks erupted from the earth as sharp as knives, baking in the intense heat. Gorges dropped away, hundreds of metres deep, so that they seemed like narrow channels into the very heart of the earth.

The sides of the mountains were clothed with ragged skirts of thorny bushes. Occasionally, in valleys, on the banks of bubbling torrents, there were willows and poplars and mulberry trees. On the plains, beside pockmarked roads, lay ruined villages, their dry mud bricks crumbling back into the ground they were raised from.

I gazed down at the passing scenery in wonder. Camels slumped sullenly beside a dusty track. On a plain by the river lean goats flocked around a large vaulted black tent and small children shouted and danced, arms flapping as we passed. Villages rose from the parched earth with narrow streets running between high-walled compounds. From the outside these family enclosures, with only small wooden doors opening out on to the world, looked barren and dusty, but inside were pleasant courtyards with flowers and vegetable patches shaded by large trees. All this was roofed by the sky, a tautly stretched cerulean awning, punctured by the towering peaks of the mountains.

As we flew east towards Jalalabad the day grew warmer, the vegetation more lush and the air heavier. Jalalabad was a large town, green and hot and lively. We were overwhelmed by the sudden sweet scent of ripe fruit, the startling blaze of colour and the frenzy of noise – donkeys, cars, parrots, stalls, monkeys, turbaned men, the blare of Hindi film classics; the dust rising in choking clouds, cars rattling and jolting along streets that were barely passable.