Amber (6 page)

I received a letter from Liuba the week before we left. ‘We all miss you,' it read, ‘please take care of Kolya for me, I don't know what I will do if anything happens to him.' I sat on my bunk and felt dark, lonely arms enfold me. There was nobody, I thought, who would miss me if I returned home in a zinc coffin. Nevertheless, I took a pen and wrote, ‘My dear Liuba, I miss you and your laughter. Kolya is with me still and we have been posted together to Afghanistan. Do not worry about us, we are strong. I will look after Kolya and bring him home to you.'

The political instruction we received increased as the day of our departure drew nearer. Grigov, our Political Officer, harangued us in hour-long sermons about our ‘International Duty', about the need to secure the Union's southern border, the need to defend the peace in the territory of our friends, to defend the citizens of Afghanistan against the bandits and counter­ revolutionaries funded and armed by America, to build houses and hospitals, schools and roads, to build mosques and sink wells to provide clean water supplies for our friends across the border. To continue, in other words, the brave and noble work of the soldiers who had gone before us, who had begun the struggle to bring peace and revolution to Afghanistan.

‘In the
kishlaks
, the villages, they had no clean water. We have dug them wells,' Grigov told us. His uniform was the neatest I had ever seen; everything about Grigov seemed well cut, neatly tailored, smart. A little thrill passed down my spine as I listened to him. The idea of giving myself wholly to some greater enterprise was exhilarating. ‘Before, the girls in Afghanistan were allowed no education,' Grigov continued, extolling the benefits of our international aid, ‘but in the spirit of the revolution they are now allowed to go to school. The women in the villages are given medical care by our army doctors. It is your patriotic duty to build the way forward for our comrades in Afghanistan.'

For the first time in my life, I felt I belonged. I was needed. I had my part to play in rebuilding Afghanistan. It did not matter that I was an orphan, or that I had not succeeded at school. In my bunk at night I lay in the darkness and thought of Grigov's words. I imag­ined sinking wells in remote villages, building schools, bringing food and medical aid to those in need. The images of the propaganda films we had been shown flickered through my head: Afghani farmers waving from the fields as the Soviet army passed; children running, grinning joyfully, to gather the sweets thrown by a soldier; young girls in smart blue uniforms bent studiously over their books in recently built classrooms. My International Duty. I whispered the words to myself, thrilled by their sound. My International Duty.

Wandering out from the apartment blocks on to Freedom Boulevard, I flagged down a taxi. The driver was an elderly Russian, smoking a cigarette that smelt so bad I was compelled to wind down the window a little. He seemed almost asleep as he steered the old Mercedes out into the fast-moving traffic heading towards the Old Town.

A thin light illuminated the crack beneath Tanya's door. Pressing the buzzer, I glanced guiltily at my watch. It was just after midnight. I heard the soft fall of bare feet on the parquet. I pressed my face close to the door.

‘It's Antanas,' I called quietly.

The lock turned and I heard the bolts being drawn back. When Tanya opened the door I could see she had been in bed; she was wearing a nightdress and her hair was rumpled. Her expression betrayed both concern and delight.

‘Is everything OK?' she asked.

She stood back, allowing me to enter, and took my jacket.

‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘to disturb you so late.'

We walked through to the sitting room, which was illuminated by the small lamp that had been on the last time I had visited Vassily at home. A cushion and sheet lay crumpled on the sofa.

‘I couldn't sleep in the bed,' Tanya explained. ‘It seemed too big.'

She rested her head against my shoulder and for some moments we stood in the doorway, silently, gazing into the room, empty without his bulky presence, his laughter and stories.

When finally Tanya spoke she said, ‘Shall we have a glass of brandy?'

The bottle was beside the sofa. Tanya fetched another glass from the kitchen and poured two generous measures. Sitting beside her I felt the warmth of her legs as she curled them up between us. She pulled the band out from her hair and ran her fingers through it, loosening it.

‘The place seems so empty without him,' she said. ‘I am so glad you came.' She paused then, seemingly struck by a thought. ‘But what about Daiva? Will she not…'

‘We had an argument,' I said.

‘Oh, Antanas.'

Tanya held my fingers between her own, caressing them softly. When I drained my glass, she reached down, picked up the bottle and refilled it.

‘Why did you argue?' she asked.

I shook my head. ‘Everything. Nothing,' I said. ‘The same things as always.' I found I was reluctant to mention what had happened. ‘My drinking. She can't stand it any more. I can't either.'

‘You're pale and your hands are shaking,' Tanya said, squeezing my fingers. ‘What's wrong?'

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. I felt the darkness bloom, felt its black petals uncurl, its gloomy scent fan out through my body, coiling around me like a snake, tightening around my chest.

‘I don't know,' I began.

Tanya moved closer and rested her head against my shoulder. Her hand lay on my arm. I stood up and went over to my jacket, which Tanya had hung on a peg in the hallway. I took the note Vassily had written just hours before he died and gave it to Tanya. She read it silently. When she had finished, she looked up, her brow creased in a frown.

‘What is this about?' she said. ‘Why did he need you to forgive him?'

‘I've no idea,' I said, walking over to the window. ‘I was hoping you would be able to explain a little more.'

Tanya shook her head. ‘I know nothing,' she said.

‘Did he not say anything more in the hospital?'

‘No.' She thought. ‘He was very agitated. He made me promise to make you find Kolya. That's it.'

Opening the window, I gazed down into the street, remembering how I had stood in this very place just a couple of days before, with Vassily behind me in the chair.

‘The other evening,' I said, ‘when I was here, Vassily insisted on telling me one of his tales. There was a jewel he discovered while we were in Afghanistan – a bracelet. It was a valuable one. Something happened – he did not explain – but when he got back after the war, for some reason he was consumed with guilt. He buried the bracelet.' I shook my head, unwilling, still, to be drawn into this story.

Tanya looked perplexed. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Neither do I,' I said. ‘He wants me to find Kolya to hear all about what happened, as if I don't know enough already. As if it hasn't haunted me too over the years.' I paused, my mind snagging on the memories, fluttering already, darkly, at the back of my mind. ‘I told Vassily,' I continued, ‘I wanted nothing to do with this. I have tried so hard to forget those years. I don't know why he wants me to remember now.'

Closing the window, I came back over to her. She took my hand.

‘I don't understand why he didn't tell me any of this if it has been eating away at him all these years,' Tanya said quietly, more to herself than me. ‘There were never secrets between us, there was never anything that was not said.' She paused. ‘Vassily never held anything back, he told me everything. You know him, you know what he was like.' She looked up at me. ‘He was unable to keep a secret, he was incapable of lying. Words just bubbled up out of him. That was the way he was.'

I nodded.

‘Why don't I know, then?' she said again. ‘Why did he say nothing to me if it caused him so much pain?' ‘I think there were things Vassily didn't say for my sake,' I said. ‘When he took me from the hospital I tried so hard to forget those years. At first it was easy. The medication I was given at the hospital closed my mind down, cauterised it. But as the years passed the dreams began to return. I have them still. There are times I am afraid to sleep.'

‘What do you dream?'

‘Of fire. Of a girl. Faces. Fear. Anger. Of unspeakable things.'

‘What is it you are afraid of?'

‘I don't know. There was a time I thought it had gone – the fear, the dreams. For months, years even, they disappeared, and I thought I had finally beaten them. When Daiva became pregnant it was as if I myself had been impregnated with a seed of light. It grew inside me, filling me with hope. But they have come back. I'm afraid of them. I drink, because the drink holds back the darkness. But the drinking isn't helping me; it's driving Daiva away, it's ruining every good thing I have.'

Tanya reached up and touched me. She pulled me close and we embraced. I looped my arms around her and felt the warm give of her body, like a ship drawing up against the harbour wall, the gentle thud as it impacts and is drawn tight, fast, by the ropes that are flung out, curling through the cold air, to waiting hands.

‘What are you going to do?' Tanya asked a little later.

‘I don't know,' I confessed. ‘Vassily wanted me to find Kolya. Said Kolya would tell me whatever it was he had not been able to and in return I would give Kolya directions to find the bracelet. I told him I had no interest in hearing Kolya's stories, but he got angry, said it was important.' I shook my head. ‘Kolya wrote Vassily a begging letter, saying he needed money for hospital treatment. For drugs, more likely!'

‘What could it be that Vassily kept so secret?'

I shrugged.

‘How would you find Kolya? Is he here in Vilnius?'

‘Vassily gave me Kolya's letter. It seems he is back in the city.'

‘What did you do with it?'

‘I threw it away,' I said. ‘I want nothing to do with it.'

We sat then, together, for some time in silence, each pondering the events that had unfurled over the last few days.

‘I feel betrayed in some way,' Tanya said. ‘As though I've just discovered there was more to him than I knew. As though he hid a part of himself from me.'

When I returned to our apartment the next day Daiva was in the hallway, taking her coat from a hook. ‘We need to talk,' she said, when I opened the door. I paused on the threshold. She stood in the shadows, making it hard to see the expression on her face: to judge whether her eyes were red-rimmed with tears again. Perhaps it would have been better if I had turned then arid gone back out, but I could not think of anywhere I might go.

I shrugged off my own coat and hung it on a peg. She stood, arms folded, against the wall.

‘I'll just change,' I said, indicating my crumpled clothes, wanting to avoid the conversation for a few more moments. She nodded. The baby was not in the bedroom, her cot was empty, and I could hear no sound from the sitting room. I opened the cupboard to get some dry clothes and noticed that the small pile of baby clothes was gone.

‘Where's Laura?' I asked, once I had changed. ‘I've taken her to my mother's,' Daiva said.

We stood in the kitchen in silence, looking out from the window down at the street below, dark already though it was only late afternoon. Daiva filled the kettle and put it on the hob.

‘I'll make you a drink,' she said. Her voice was soft and there was concern there, but not a bridge. I nodded and sat down at the table. I fiddled with some of my daughter's toys while she boiled the water and made the coffee.

‘I can't go on like this,' she said suddenly, her back to me, pouring the steaming water into the cups.

I did not reply. She turned and put the coffee before me. The steam curled up and dissolved in the gloom. She sat lightly in a chair on the other side of the table, her hands folded in her lap. Her legs were close enough for me to reach out and touch. I could, I knew, get up and go round to her, put my arms around her, and perhaps it would have worked. Perhaps, after all, there was still a path by which I could have gone back to her, a bridge that remained standing while all the rest smouldered.

I spooned sugar into my coffee and stirred it slowly, deliberately, not raising my eyes from the cup. I sipped it, but it was too hot and it scalded my lips. She raised her hands to her face and for a moment I was afraid she was going fo start crying again. I looked up sharply. She rubbed her hands across her eyes and looked at me.

Her hair fell around her face. I noticed she had made herself up. Her eyes were not red-rimmed, they were lined with mascara. Her cheeks were flushed a little, and she was wearing lipstick. She looked more beautiful than I remembered seeing her in months.

‘I'm going,' she said. ‘I'm leaving.'

‘Yes,' I said a little too quickly. I looked back at the steam. Put my fingers into it, feeling the drops condensing warmly on my skin. Maybe I should have said something more. A thick pain had gripped my chest and a sense of sorrow overwhelmed me. I said nothing. I did not know what to say, did not know any more which words would take me to her, which words I could use that had not already been used, that might open up some line of communication rather than lead back into the same argument.

I should, I knew, explain that it was not Tanya but the past which was pulling me away from her. I should tell Daiva that, after protecting me for so many years, her cool indifference to my past was failing me now.

That the ghost of a love was seducing me once more from the grave. But I could not explain because I did not want to face up to the pain myself. Did not want to remember. Because I struggled still against the dark hole opening up beneath me.

It had, anyway, been to Tanya that I had always turned with my fears. As the years had passed, especially after Daiva became pregnant, the natural closeness between Tanya and me had became more of a strain for Daiva. Occasionally her cool pride broke and . she would fly at me in fury. Though it was Tanya who had introduced us, Daiva rarely saw or spoke to her or Vassily now.