Love in Revolution Page 12

  While I was standing still, no one had noticed me; but as soon as I moved, I heard someone shout and fire, and there were bullets filling the air like little whining wasps, pinging off the walls. But it didn’t seem real. The police didn’t shoot at people like me: I hadn’t done anything, I was only here for the King’s Cup, I was a nice middle-class girl, it was all a mistake . . . I kept running, feeling unreal, like one of those dreams where you can’t move properly. My feet hurt.

  ‘Hey, you! Stop! Stop running right now!’

  Part of me wanted to stop, because surely they wouldn’t shoot me, if I stopped and told them my name and address and just explained . . . but I’d have to explain why I was there, behind the barricade, and give them Leon’s name, and Karl’s, and –

  I kept running. Now everything hurt, and my heart was hammering in my head, as though it might spill out of my mouth. If only they’d give up, and forget about me . . . but they didn’t. I could hear them running after me, panting with exertion, and the occasional rattle of bullets off the walls on either side. The man with the machine gun must have gone after someone else. That was something; if he hadn’t, I’d have been dead by now.

  But I couldn’t last much longer.

  I got to the end of the street, flung myself round the corner and looked desperately for somewhere to hide. But the doors were all closed, and the windows were all shuttered, and the street stretched out wide and empty in front of me. I went on running, keeping as close to the wall as I could. Behind me there was more shouting, and then a pause. With a surge of relief I stopped and looked over my shoulder, thinking I’d lost them, but the policemen were in a cluster, the one in front raising his rifle . . .

  I spun round and ran. My back prickled with anticipation and fear. They were going to shoot me. They were going to –

  I heard – no, felt – a movement behind me. I’d gone past another turning – I should have turned, but I was running too fast to think clearly, and now it was too late – and now there was someone else chasing me, someone –

  Someone between me and the policemen’s bullets –

  Someone calling my name.

  I looked round.

  And at the same moment whoever-it-was caught up with me, grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways, down the next street and into an alleyway, half pushing, half dragging me, and the hand on my arm was so tight it hurt, as though I really had been shot. I had time to see a grimy grass-stained shirt, a blur of skin, and then we were running together down the alley and left and left again and right and there was a door that was mostly boarded up and she pulled at the corner with one hand and we fell through into the dark and –

  And I fought for breath, gasping, and when I managed to fill my lungs again it came out as a sob, I thought it was a laugh, and then she had her arms round me and I was still sobbing and I couldn’t stop.

  ‘Esteya, you idiot,’ she kept saying, over and over again, like she was hushing a baby. ‘You bloody idiot, what were you doing . . . ?’

  ‘Looking for you,’ I said. ‘What else?’

  And then I gave in to the tears and just let myself cry.

  When I stopped crying, the last of the light had faded and we were sitting in complete darkness. It was cold, and I was glad of the warmth of Skizi’s body next to me. Through my sniffles I could hear her breathing, and the soft sound of her hand stroking my back.

  She said, ‘All right now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I leant my head into the hollow between her shoulder and her neck, smelling her musty indoors–outdoors smell, and the tang of sweat. More tears came, and I let them run down my face silently. If something had happened to her . . . I swallowed. ‘I was scared for you.’

  ‘You should’ve been scared for you. Idiot.’

  ‘What happened? Martin made us leave the arena, and you were still there, and I thought –’ I stopped, because I didn’t trust my voice to hold out.

  ‘I ran away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  I felt her shrug, and she blew her breath out impatiently. ‘Oh, come on, Esteya. I know trouble when I see it. I’m used to having to keep an eye out for myself. Not like you, you –’

  I said, ‘Idiot.’

  ‘Porridge-brain,’ she said, at the same time, and I caught the glint of her teeth as she smiled. ‘But honestly, Esteya . . . What were you thinking? Martin was right, you ought to have gone somewhere safe and stayed there. You could’ve got yourself shot.’

  I shrugged. ‘I wanted to find you.’

  She shook her head, and I felt her face burrowing into my hair, just above my ear. The warmth of her mouth made me shiver.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘what were you doing there? How on earth did you get –’ I checked myself. ‘I mean, how did you manage to get –’

  ‘How did I get a ticket?’ she said, mocking my tone. She shifted, so that she was sitting up straighter and I had to move my head. ‘How did a dirty little Zikindi like me get hold of a –’

  ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Does it matter? How I got the ticket?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t! Forget it.’

  There was a silence. She said, ‘I sold one of your mama’s things, if you must know.’

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was so tired I wanted to close my eyes and never open them again. I said, ‘You’re right, it doesn’t matter.’

  The silence came back, cradling us, rocking us, like the sea. I closed my eyes and drifted. I was almost dreaming. But faces kept surfacing in the blackness: the boy in the royal box, the man in the doorway, Elena . . . I remembered Leon, with a jolt of guilt. Please, God, let him have stayed in the cellar, hiding . . .

  ‘What a game, though,’ Skizi said.

  For a second I thought she meant the fighting. Then I understood, and started to laugh.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it amazing? Angel Corazon – what a player . . .’

  I kept on laughing, so hard I could hardly speak.

  ‘What? Esteya, what’s wrong? Are you all right? What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’ve seen three dead people – no, more than that,’ I said. ‘Today. I’d never seen anyone dead, and then today . . . I was chased, and shot at, and I’ve never been so scared in all my life. And you sit there and say – you – you say . . .’ I took a deep breath, and forced the words out through my giggles. ‘And you – you’re still talking about the pello game . . .’

  There was a pause. Then she said, ‘But it was amazing, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded, still spluttering, and I felt her start to laugh too, as if it was contagious. I said, ‘Yes, yes, it was. It was amazing. You’re right. What a game.’

  She leant her temple against mine, and I felt the vibrations in my skull as we laughed, helplessly. I turned my head so that my mouth was resting against her cheek, and I could feel her breath on my neck.

  She kissed me, and then shifted, as if she was going to get to her feet. She said, ‘Where’s Martin then? Did he find somewhere safe?’

  ‘Leon’s rooms, opposite the Royal Museum. Martin’s probably . . .’ I stopped. He’d be furious.

  ‘Better take you back then.’

  ‘But . . . I want to stay here, with you. I mean – you can’t – I can’t tell Martin about –’

  ‘Yes, I know, Esteya, but I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I’ll take you back, and then you must get the first train home as soon as you can. I don’t know what’s going to happen here.’

  It felt good, to have her looking after me – as if she really wanted to keep me safe, as if she really cared . . . I nodded, too tired to reply.

  ‘Come on then. On your feet.’

  She pulled at my wrists, taking my weight, as I stood up. Then she let go of me, and I heard her move to the door and open it. A faint trace of light shone through the gap, just enough to make her eyes gleam. I could smell smoke again.

  ‘All right,’ she said, peering out into the street. ‘Can y
ou find the way back to Leon’s rooms, if I go with you?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, and giggled. I felt light-headed, dizzy with fatigue.

  She looked back at me and shook her head. ‘This is serious, Esteya. Honestly, try to concentrate . . . I suppose it’s in the university quarter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded, and held out her hand, as if I was a little girl. I took it, loving the familiar cool, dusty feel of her skin. I wanted to stay here with her, for ever.

  ‘I can smell burning,’ she said, turning her head from side to side.

  ‘Can’t we stay here?’

  She pulled me forward into the street. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I thought you might be dead,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’

  She glanced at me, without smiling. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘And Esteya . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What have you done with your shoes?’

  I thought I’d be able to find my way back to Leon’s rooms without too much trouble; but in the dark the city looked different, and the streets were full of a strange, heavy silence that made me too uneasy to concentrate. Twice we retraced our steps to avoid the shouting that we could hear in the distance. My feet hurt, and Skizi walked too fast, holding my hand so I had to keep up with her.

  After an hour, I thought we were lost. We were at the corner of a little street, opposite a church; it had scuffed, wonky pello lines painted in the little square in front of it, and the wobbly bits looked familiar, even in the dark. I said, ‘Skizi . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  We looked at the church in silence, and she took a long, deep breath. She said, ‘Do you have any idea at all which direction we should be going in?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ She sighed again, and looked from one side to the other, as if she was trying to remember which way we’d gone last time. ‘If I knew where we were, I could probably work out where to go. But . . .’

  There was a silence. I thought I ought to help her, but I was so tired.

  She glanced at me, and rubbed her face with the palms of her hands. ‘All right. We’ll walk in one direction until we get to something you recognise.’

  She set off, without looking back, and I stumbled after her. I was afraid I’d fall asleep on my feet, or start to cry. But after a while I went into a sort of dream, and the tiredness faded into a sort of trance. I stared straight ahead, at the golden, flickering sky, and let my thoughts drift.

  I woke up, with a start, because Skizi was doubled over, coughing. I ran the last few steps towards her. ‘Are you all right?’

  She caught her breath, nodded and spat. The spittle gleamed reddish in the light. ‘It’s the smoke, that’s all.’

  The smoke. Of course, the smoke. I’d been smelling it for so long I’d stopped noticing; but the air was thick with it, itching in my throat, and when I swallowed I could taste it. And that was why the sky was glowing, why the windows in the street gleamed orange at the edges . . . I said, ‘What’s burning?’

  ‘A barricade?’

  ‘No.’ I took a step forward, as if it would help me to see more clearly. I could hear shouting, and the faint crash of glass, and shooting, and screams . . . I said, ‘No. It’s a building. They’ve set fire to a building. A big one.’

  ‘But . . .’ Skizi narrowed her eyes. ‘If we’re where I think we are, then there’s nothing in that direction but the Queen’s Park, and the –’

  ‘The Palace,’ I said, and we looked at each other.

  Skizi opened her mouth, and then started to laugh. She said, ‘Come on,’ and grabbed my wrist and started to run.

  It hurt to go with her – my feet stung every time they hit the pavement – but my tiredness was gone. It was stupid, it was mad, to run towards the fire; but that didn’t matter. The Palace, on fire . . .

  We stopped at the gate to the Queen’s Park. There was no need to go any further: through the railings we could see the flames on the Palace roof and pouring out of the windows, throwing sparks upwards. And against the fire there were black figures, standing still and watching, rifles slung across their backs. There seemed to be hundreds of them. I thought I could hear screaming, but no one moved, beyond passing a bottle or lighting a cigarette; and I might have been imagining it.

  I heard Skizi say, ‘The Palace . . .’ She made a noise like a laugh, full of disbelief and admiration.

  I said, ‘They said they were going to attack the prison.’

  Skizi leant her forehead against the railings, and I saw the gleam of her teeth. ‘Maybe they already did. Or maybe the guards just gave up and let everyone out. Better than being shot.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do you think the King is still in there?’

  ‘Of course not. If he was in there, he’d be –’ I stopped, but the word hovered in mid-air. I didn’t even need to say it. I swallowed.

  Skizi turned to look at me. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I sat down, without meaning to. I wanted to be sick. Everything was . . . They were burning the Palace, and everything was . . . I closed my eyes. It wasn’t just a bread riot, it was . . . I said, ‘I’m scared.’ It was almost the right word, but not quite.

  ‘We’re safe here. No one’s seen us.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’ I thought of Martin, asking me if I thought there’d be a revolution. I understood how he felt now. ‘What’s going to happen, Skizi? It’s all going to be . . . different . . .’ But I couldn’t explain how I felt. It was like trying to describe vertigo.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and I felt her crouch down next to me. She stroked my hair. ‘It’ll be different. But don’t worry – once the fighting’s over, it’ll be good. Equality and freedom and no more hunger or people being dragged away in the middle of the night. That’s what Leon says, isn’t it? And men and women being equal, and gypsies and Jews and Zikindi all being equal too . . . Don’t be scared. It’ll be all right, I promise.’

  Her voice had the same dreamy tone that Leon’s did. I tried to laugh. ‘I didn’t know you were a Communist.’

  I felt her stiffen and stand up. I opened my eyes and she was glaring at me.

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? You don’t have a clue. I’m not a Communist, I just don’t like being hungry and cold and having to run away from people because I’m Zikindi. I don’t like knowing the police could take me away and no one would ever see me again and no one would care. I don’t like it that you’re ashamed of me –’

  ‘I’m not ash–’

  ‘I don’t like it that people would hate us both if they knew! Why can’t you understand that? Do you want things to stay as they are?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘So stop being so weak.’ She spun round and pointed at the flames. ‘That’s the old world, burning! And it deserves to burn! Can’t you see what it means – for everyone, for us? I don’t want to have to hide any more, I don’t want you to have to hide –’

  I stared at her. I’d never seen her like this. I said, ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

  ‘Of course I bloody care!’ She held my gaze, and slowly the anger went out of her face. ‘Of course I care.’

  I got to my feet unsteadily, and took her hand. She didn’t move.

  I said, ‘I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you –’

  She turned and ran, tugging at my hand. I stumbled after her, cursing my bare feet. She pulled me into an alcove, and pushed me up against the wall, in the shadows.

  I said, ‘I lov–’

  She kissed me, cutting off the words. Her hands slid round and dug into my back. She was pressed against me so hard I could feel the stones in the wall behind me, and the cold seeping through my shirt. I was shivering. I felt a drop of water land on my forehead, and another and another; it was starting to rain.

  She broke away, slid her mouth down over my chin, burrowed her face into my neck, and then kissed down my col
larbone to the neckline of my dress. I said, ‘Skizi . . .’

  ‘Stop talking.’

  ‘D’you think this is the revolution? Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Right here, just us, together. Me and you, against a wall.’

  ‘No, I meant –’

  Somehow I knew she was smiling. ‘I know what you meant. Stop talking.’

  And then she moved her hands, and I stopped thinking about the revolution, and the smell of smoke and the rain on my face faded into nothing, and all I could think about was her, her, her.

  Winter

  Nine

  It was cold the day we came home from Irunja, the rain pelting against the windows of the crowded train. The sky was as grey as the ash that was still settling, days after the Palace burnt to the ground. And the rain went on and on, until it turned into sleet, weeks later, and then snow, as if winter had arrived early the day of the revolution and refused to go away. Martin said it was because the Communists had forgotten to appoint a Minister for Weather, but he never said it very loudly.

  Christmas was cold and muted – Leon stayed in Irunja, too busy to come home, although he spent the afternoon of Twelfth Night with us, and he didn’t talk about bourgeois religiosity with the same venom as normal. He looked tired, and he didn’t mention politics until Papa asked him how his new job was going; then he smiled without using his eyes and said, ‘Papa, we’re building a new world from scratch, how do you think it’s going? It’s –’ he hesitated – ‘hard work.’

  ‘What do you do all day?’ Martin said. ‘I mean, it’s all very well, building a new world, but what do you actually do?’

  ‘Paperwork, mainly,’ Leon said. ‘I’m in the Ministry for Information. Well. I suppose I am the Ministry for Information.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Mama said. ‘A pity you had to give up your studies, though.’

  There was a silence, and she stroked the teapot with the tip of a finger. It was an English teapot, blue and white, that Teddy had given her because he didn’t have room for it in his suitcase when he packed to go home, just before Christmas. He’d come to say goodbye, cradling a cardboard box in his arms, with the teapot and the cups to go with it. I’d been standing at the top of the stairs, and I saw him fumble and drop it as he tried to put it into Mama’s arms. The teapot was the only thing that survived the smash, and when Teddy had crouched down to sort out the wreckage he’d started to weep into his hands, desperately, as if someone had died. I’d never seen a man cry before, and now whenever I looked at the teapot all I could think of was Teddy, sobbing on his knees in our hallway.