Love in Revolution (29 page)

‘My brother Leon says do you remember your grandfather’s shed when he kept contraband vodka in it?’

He’d shut the door halfway through the question; but now it opened again, and he gave me a long look and slipped the chain off. I had to squeeze past him to get inside, and I felt his eyes on me, assessing me. He said, ‘Name?’

I wondered if I could trust him; then I decided it was too late to worry about that. I said, ‘Esteya Bidart.’

‘Another Esteya,’ he said, with a short laugh, and then went silent, as if he’d been indiscreet. I knew already that I
didn’t
trust him. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to get out of the country.’

He narrowed his eyes, considering me. ‘Can’t do that.’

‘What?’

He shrugged. ‘I have a friend who might be able to help. If you’ve got enough money. A thousand should do it. More if you want papers.’

‘I don’t have –’ I stopped, and swallowed. ‘My brother said you took people over the border. He said you owed him.’

He sighed heavily. ‘He’s wrong. I don’t.’

‘But –’

‘I don’t take people over the border. More than my life’s worth.’ He paused, rooted in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, and lit one. After a long pause, he added, ‘I occasionally conduct business with the Communists in St-Jean-Pied-le-Mont. I’m authorised to do that. It involves a short drive over the mountains – my petrol is all legal and accounted for, by the way – and I tend to stop to have a piss just after the marker stone. The lock on the boot of my car is broken.’

I stared at him. I said, ‘So . . .’

‘Can’t stop people getting in and out, you see. It’s in a garage, on Red Street. Number sixteen. Big green motor car, with a Party flag on the bonnet.’

I nodded slowly. I said, ‘Is that the same car that – those people, who just left – I suppose they won’t be in there as well?’

He held my gaze, and then the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘No, sweetheart. I don’t know where they’re going. Rich little kids like that don’t get the personal touch. But my friend’ll look after them. Now they’ve got their papers, they’re all set up.’

I nodded. They hadn’t seemed rich; I thought of the girl’s cheap scent and flimsy dress, her dyed hair and lipstick . . . No, she’d been working hard for that money, and I could guess what she’d been doing. I felt a pang of something that hurt too much to be pity; a mix of pity and resentment and jealousy, as if I was pitying myself. ‘Well then. Now I’ve explained that I can’t help, you’d best clear off.’ He gave me a level stare, and a wink. I wondered how he’d managed to survive this long, and if that would change, now that Leon was in prison.

He sat down noisily at a desk in the corner of the room, dismissing me. There was faint light spilling from the window behind him, catching the things on the desk: no papers or books, only a bundle of banknotes – American dollars, I thought, green and white – and a mess of little trinkets. Payment for the false papers and the introduction to his mysterious, useful friend . . . I imagined the couple I’d seen, emptying their treasures out in front of him, hoping it would be enough. A string of bumpy pearls, a gold-plated cigarette lighter, a crucifix, a little heart-shaped silver box –

A little heart-shaped silver box.

It must be really hard
, a voice said in my head,
fighting to survive in a world where you don’t even have a gold crucifix or a little silver box shaped like a heart
. . .

I stared at it. Eli followed my gaze, and started to scrape the treasures off the desk into the drawer. I took a step forward, without thinking. ‘Wait –’

He frowned, and paused, his hand cupped protectively over the heap.

‘That box – I – please – let me see –’

He gave me a suspicious look, but he held it up, between finger and thumb, so that I could see it. I knew that if I reached out for it he’d jerk it away, but that didn’t matter. I didn’t have to see it more closely. I knew it by heart: the filigree, the lacy shell of silver over silver gilt, the flaw on the straight edge above the hinge. I even knew the inside: the cushioned red velvet, worn and soft, like the core of a rose. I had dreamt about that box, when I was little. It was the thing of Mama’s I had wanted most of all.

And when Skizi had stolen it, there had been a part of me that was glad she had it: as if it had been mine, after all, and I had given it to her. Even if she never knew how much I’d wanted it. As if it was a gift.

A gift to Skizi. That box.

I looked and looked. I couldn’t move. The world blurred and ran with water.

‘Are you all right? Look, if you’re going to throw up, there’s a WC in the corridor . . .’ He got to his feet, putting the box down. ‘Or – deep breaths, there’s a good girl, don’t worry, you’ll feel better in a sec, always gets a bit close in here . . .’

‘That girl,’ I said, forming the words thickly with my teeth and tongue, as if they were lumps of clay. ‘That girl, she brought you that box . . .’

He looked sideways, then at me, licking his lips. ‘Not for
me
, nothing dodgy, just for . . . safekeeping . . . Course, I’ll check with the authorities that there’s nothing . . . dubious . . .’

I felt myself smile, because I didn’t care what he said. I knew that she
had
brought it to him. The girl I’d seen in the corridor, with the dyed hair, the high heels, the lipstick . . .

Skizi.

I started to laugh.

Skizi. She’d walked right past me, and I hadn’t realised. Skizi was alive. She was alive. She –
Skizi
– was
alive
. I said, ‘She’s
alive
. . . Oh thank you, thank you . . .’ The giggles rose and rose, taking control, until I bent over, unable to speak, and tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. Skizi, my Skizi, was
alive
. . .

‘Look, you can’t stay . . . I’ll get you a glass of water, and then you’ll have to go . . .’

And I’d seen her and not known. I’d seen her hair and her lipstick and nothing else – but no, I’d seen the way she moved, I’d heard her voice. Part of me
had
known, hadn’t it? My heart had turned over when I heard her speak, even with that fake accent . . . I shook my head, laughing, crying, as if she was in front of me. I would’ve wanted to kill her, if I hadn’t been so glad that she was alive. I should have known, I should have known . . . She’d said, hadn’t she?
I survive
. I should have trusted her.

And she’d recognised me. She’d called my name, hadn’t she? And then something else, something more – that name, that girl’s name . . .

The giggles subsided. I straightened up, and suddenly the room was cold, the damp settling on my skin.

She was leaving. They’d been running for the motor car, to cross the border. I’d never see her again.

What had she
said
? But all I could remember was the first consonant, the lightness of the word on her tongue . . . Madeleine, Miren, Miriam, Maria . . . But she knew my name, didn’t she? So what was she trying to tell me? It could have been
her
new name – but she’d called herself Esteya, hadn’t she? That gave me a tiny flush of pleasure; but it wasn’t important.
Madeleine. Miren
. But they didn’t mean anything, or nothing that made sense. I felt the tears rising again. If she was alive, but I never saw her again . . . Why hadn’t she said something
real
?

If I’d only listened. If I’d only let her speak to me . . .

I swallowed. Eli was just coming back into the room with a cloudy glass of water. I already knew what it would taste like: metallic, like blood. He said, ‘Ah, you feeling better now?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Shut the door on your way out.’

I nodded. I had to move, or I’d die here, frozen, on my feet. I turned and opened the door. I felt as if there was something I had to ask him – a prickling, niggling feeling that there was a question, the
right
question, that would tell me what Skizi had meant to say . . . But whatever it was, it was gone. I couldn’t think. I said, ‘Goodbye.’

‘Garage sixteen. Nice car. Green, with a Party flag. There’s a little bit of twine on the inside of the boot, to hold it shut. Otherwise it rattles like mad, going over the pass.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’ I felt as if the top layer of my skin had been removed, and everything hurt. I wanted to be numb again, the way I’d been when I said goodbye to Leon.

I went out and shut the door behind me.

I think perhaps I should have been afraid, walking through Irunja that afternoon, looking for the garage on Red Street. I might have been in more danger than I realised, wandering alone in the gathering dusk, making myself hurry, even though I knew, somehow, that I was going to find the garage, that everything was going to work like clockwork. There were burnt-out motor cars on the corners, and smashed windows, abandoned buildings . . . but I don’t think I saw any other people, and I felt strangely safe, as if all of this had happened before and I already knew how it ended. Or, I suppose, I just didn’t care. If a car had driven down the pavement towards me at seventy miles an hour, I might not have bothered to get out of the way.

I found Red Street almost by accident. It was a narrow little mews, with a row of garages but only one that had a door. I thought for a moment it would be locked, but when I pushed it the damp wood groaned and creaked open. The car was there – green, with the red flag on the bonnet – and I picked my way around it to get to the boot. It was like getting into a coffin, and for the first time since I’d left Eli’s rooms I felt a deep stab of fear. But when I hesitated, I thought it would be worse
not
to get in and have to go home again. There was a torch and a bottle of cheap wine sloshing in the corner, and a length of twine trailing from a little metal thing on the inside. It looked as if Eli had done this before. I checked that it didn’t lock; then, when I’d run out of things to look at, I got in. I pulled the lid of the boot down, until it was almost closed, and once my eyes had adjusted to the light coming through the crack I managed to tie the two ends of twine together to stop it bouncing open again. The line of dim light coming through was comforting. I lay there, curled up, and although I should have been excited and afraid I just felt empty and quiet. I think I might even have slept.

When I woke, it was because the engine was roaring and the car trembling underneath me. The car moved, pressing me against the awkward corners of the boot. The line of paler darkness flickered and re-established itself. After only a few metres the car stopped again; I heard a door open, footsteps come round the back of the car, wood scraping on the ground, and then the slam of the car door as the driver got back in and accelerated again. He must have closed the garage door, I thought. I realised with an uneasy feeling that I didn’t know who was driving the car. It might not be Eli; it might be a guard, driving me to prison . . .

But we drove for a long time, so I was sure we’d left Irunja. The road curved and the momentum dragged me from side to side. We were climbing, and I heard a sibilant patter on the metal over my face. It was cold in the boot, and my whole body was aching. When we went over bumps in the road, the lid of the boot jerked and pulled against the twine, banging loudly. There was an icy draught blasting through the gap. I took deep breaths, but my stomach was full of a mixture of hope and terror, fizzing and sickening. I pressed my hands against the bottom of the boot, shut my eyes and tried not to panic. If this was a trap, if something went wrong . . . I felt tears of frustration prickle in my eyes. What was I doing here? How could I have been so stupid? I reached out, fumbling in the dark, until my fingers touched the jerking piece of twine. If I untied it, I could jump out of the boot, while the car was moving; I’d hurt myself, probably, but anything was better than staying put, not knowing where I was going – almost sure now that it was all a trap. I said, ‘It’s all right, calm down, it’ll be all right . . .’ but the noise of the car drowned out my voice. The car slowed, grumbling, and I thought it was going to stop; but it accelerated again, and I gritted my teeth, half relieved, half disappointed. I felt the car go on climbing, and wondered whether we’d passed a checkpoint. If we had, it wouldn’t be long before we were safely over the pass . . . I waited, feeling my pulse in my mouth, counting the heartbeats. I’d count to a thousand, and then I’d jump out, whatever happened . . . But my heart was racing so fast that I kept losing count. I went back to five hundred over and over again, until I thought I’d lost the ability to think. Soon, I’d jump out soon . . . before it was too late . . .

Suddenly the car slowed again; and this time it stopped, and the engine cut out.

There was silence. I heard my own breathing, fast and irregular, and the world swayed underneath me as if the car was still moving. The door slammed.

The air squeaked sharply in my throat. But nothing happened. My skin prickled with tension, waiting for someone to open the boot and drag me out. But no one came. The twine was slack between my fingers, and the outline of light around the lid of the boot was silver, and steady. The air coming in through the gap was cold and smelt of earth and snow.