Love in Revolution Page 20

  ‘And he . . . he tried, the poor bloody kid tried to go on –’ Leon paused. He took a deep breath, as if the worst was still to come; then he bent his head, and started to weep. I’d never heard a man cry like that. I thought I knew what it was like to lose everything; but this was different. I should have gone to comfort him, but I was paralysed, repelled, as if he had some disfiguring disease.

  He was saying something else, or trying to, but his mouth was the wrong shape to form words and all that came out was noise. Then he said, ‘Mad . . .’ and I thought he was talking about Karl again, until he forced out more consonants. ‘Played with an imaginary ball, throwing and catching it, like he was desperate, like it was the only thing keeping him –’ The tears rose again, cutting him off.

  I found myself on my feet, stumbling to the door as if I could escape the sound of Leon’s weeping. I leant my forehead against the wood.

  ‘Thought he’d go on like that for ever . . . bashing an imaginary ball . . . watching it bounce . . . but he . . . he –’ A long breath in, as if there was only one thing left to say. ‘Killed himself, didn’t he? Only a kid. Drowned himself in his own p–’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up –’

  I’d spun round to shout at him. We stared at each other, shocked, trembling. There was silence, a kind of fragile, shivering silence that I was afraid to break.

  He opened his mouth. I said, ‘Please, Leon, please don’t . . . I don’t want to know any more.’ It felt like cowardice, but I couldn’t help it.

  Another pause; then he sniffed, with a great snort of snot, and wiped his nose. I remembered suddenly – irrelevantly – how he’d given Angel his shirt, that day when he beat the Bull. Poor Leon.

  ‘Est,’ he said, ‘you have to leave.’

  I stood up.

  ‘No, I mean –’ He shook his head, laughing a little. ‘Leave the country. Cross the border, over the mountains. I’ll give you the address of someone I know, who can get you out.’

  ‘But I –’

  I don’t know what I was going to say, but Leon smacked his hand down on the desk, making everything shudder. ‘Esteya. You are going to go. Do you understand? Everyone else in this family has ended up in prison, and I want – please, I just want one of us –’ He looked at me, and I saw that he was crying again; but this time his face was still, and only his eyes overflowed.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ I felt shivery and sick, as if I was ill. ‘Where would I go? I live here. This is my home. I can’t just run away.’ It was stupid, to be more afraid of starting again somewhere else, on my own, than I was of staying here and getting arrested; but I was. I thought about what it would be like to cross the mountains and live in a foreign country. I didn’t even speak the language. ‘Leon, it can’t be that bad . . .’ I had a sudden, unwelcome flash of memory: Papa, telling Miren’s father that we were safe.

  But if I ran away now, I’d never see them again; I’d be giving up on them . . .

  I shut my eyes, thinking of Mama and Papa in prison, in the death pits – no, that couldn’t happen, it couldn’t . . . Martin, in a cell underground or with a barred window, thinking of me, praying that I’d find a way to get to him . . . My breath caught in my throat, like a sob. There had to be a way, didn’t there? Surely . . .

  ‘Esteya,’ Leon said, and I heard him exhale. ‘Do you know how many people disappear every day? And most of them . . . most of them get put up against a wall straight away and . . . you can’t do anything. If you try to find them, if you stay here for another week, another day, it’ll be suicide. Do you think Mama and Papa would want you to stay and look for them? Do you?’

  ‘No, but –’ My voice was thin, unconvinced.

  There were footsteps, crossing the floor, and suddenly I felt hands on my shoulders, spinning me round. When I opened my eyes I was staring at the wall. The paint was grimy, institutional off-white, bubbling with damp. Leon was behind me; I could feel his breath on my neck. I tried to wrench away, but he was stronger than I expected. He said, ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a wall, isn’t it? Look. At the bloody wall. Suppose I told you that Mama and Papa were on the other side of it, and all you had to do was to knock it down and they’d be free. Suppose I told you that.’

  I twisted again, but he held me still. I said, ‘Then I’d – I’d knock it down, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Go on then. Knock it down.’

  I glanced at him. He was serious, his eyes blazing. I put my hands up and pressed against the cool rough surface of the paint. There must have been a metre of plaster and stone and mortar behind it. I leant my weight on it. Without looking at Leon, I said, ‘This is stupid, Leon, this is –’

  ‘You can’t do it.’ I felt the warmth of his hands on my shoulders disappear. He walked away. ‘You couldn’t do it, no matter what. There are some things you just can’t do. And getting Mama and Papa and Martin out of prison, even if you knew they were still alive, even if you knew where they were, Esteya, you wouldn’t have a hope in hell. You’d be arrested too. You’d be mad to try, you’d be mad . . .’

  I turned round. I raised my voice, and shouted at him, ‘Shut up! I can do it, I can try, at least. You’re just cowardly. It’s all your fault anyway. If they’re dead you killed them – don’t tell me what to do, I’ll do it, you’ll see, I’ll find them, I’ll get them out, I won’t just forget them, I can, I will, I bloody will, just you try to st–’

  Leon came towards me. He swung his hand back and slapped me.

  I fell back, and my skull hit the wall with a crack.

  Leon’s mouth opened. He reached for me, grabbing my arm to keep me on my feet. ‘Esteya – I’m sorry, I only wanted to – are you all right? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, really, forgive me, I didn’t mean –’

  I shook my head and my knees gave way. I slid down the wall, until I was sitting in a heap on the floor.

  And then I started to cry; and this time I was crying like Leon, without hope, full of grief and guilt and an awful shame, because I knew he was right.

  The sunlight had disappeared from the floor, and the wall outside the window was in shadow. I didn’t know how long I’d been here; I felt painfully tired, as if I might fall asleep and never wake up.

  There was a kind of scratching sound, like an insect. When I looked up, Leon was writing something on a scrap of paper. He caught my eye and pushed the paper in my direction. I didn’t move, so he walked over to me and put it on the floor in front of me. I let the words blur into a long line of black.

  ‘Memorise it,’ Leon said very softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Memorise it. The guards might search you, and he’s a friend of mine.’

  I blinked, and read what he’d written.

  Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja.

  I said, ‘Who is he?’

  Leon winced, and gestured at me to keep my voice down. He murmured, ‘To get you out of the country. Go and find him – be careful, you’ll probably be followed when you leave the prison – and tell him who you are. He runs people over the border. God knows, he owes me enough favours . . .’

  ‘Leon . . . are you sure –’ My throat clogged up and ached. ‘I mean . . . there really isn’t any chance . . . ?’

  Leon sighed, shook his head. ‘There’s nothing you can do, or me. But sometimes . . . Listen, Esteya. You should leave. I know that’s the right thing for you to do. Mama and Papa and Martin are almost certainly dead, or will be soon . . .’ His voice was matter-of-fact, but he broke off and ran his hand over his face. ‘Maybe there’ll be a miracle. But that’s no reason for you to stay and get arrested yourself. Do you understand? It’s horrible, and I’m sorry. But any kind of heroics would be suicidally stupid.’

  I nodded. I knew already that he was right; I just wished he wasn’t.

  ‘My brave little sister,’ Leon said, and tried to smile.

  For a second he looked like Martin. I felt grief punch into me. I looked down, s
taring at the address, pronouncing the words silently in my head, trying to distract myself: Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja. I said, ‘I don’t know where that is.’

  Leon leant forward without saying anything, and drew a rough map. ‘It’s easy,’ he said. He added writing: Behind what used to be the Royal Parade. Big building, all apartments. Ask him if he remembers his grandfather’s shed, when he kept contraband vodka in it.

  I nodded again. I wanted to think of more questions. I remembered how when I was small and Papa was helping me with my homework, I’d pretend to be stupider than I was, to delay the moment when he sent me away. He was always surprised when I got good marks at school.

  ‘Leon . . . would they really stop you, if you tried to leave?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and even though the silence went on and on he didn’t add anything else. In the corridor I heard footsteps, a quiet, cut-off laugh, and the clunk of a metal chair as someone sat down on it.

  ‘Esteya . . . you should go. If you go now, he might get you out by tonight, or tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Tonight?’ I hadn’t realised it would be so soon.

  ‘Have you got this by heart?’ He pointed at the paper.

  ‘Yes – but –’

  Leon picked it up and put it into his mouth, grimacing as he chewed. Black ink ran and stained the corners of his lips. He looked at me and grinned, shaking his head. ‘Yum yum.’

  For a second he was Martin again. I couldn’t speak. I suppose something must have shown on my face, because Leon’s grin died, and he chewed and spat the grey pulp of paper into a bucket in the corner of the room. Then he came and put his arms round me, the way he had when I first walked into the room. It made me feel strange – as if we were going to start again, say and do everything again, exactly the same.

  Leon gave me a final squeeze and then pushed me away, holding me by the shoulders to look into my face. He said, ‘You remember the address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re – you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No heroics. Promise me, Esteya. For Mama and Papa and Martin. Promise me you’ll survive, no matter what.’ The way he said it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think clearly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He kissed my forehead, the way Papa would have done; and then punched me lightly on the arm, the way Martin would have done. It was as if he heard the thought; he screwed up his face and added, ‘Call your first son Martin.’

  I stared at him, and a bubble of misery rose and burst in my throat.

  ‘Don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  He gave me a long look, and smiled. It was a warm, generous, affectionate smile, as if he wasn’t keeping anything in reserve. I wished I had a camera; but then, he’d never smile like that for a photo.

  ‘Go on. Stop dithering.’

  ‘Yes.’ I went on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The skin was rough and smelt sour, and I paused for a split second, breathing in the odour, not wanting to let go of him. ‘Goodbye, Leon.’ I turned away, and banged on the door. I heard Leon move behind me – I think he went to his desk and sat down – but I didn’t look; and when the guard opened the door and stepped aside to let me pass, I left the room without a backward glance, because I was afraid that if I looked back I wouldn’t be able to leave.

  Sometimes I dream about that moment. I dream I’m back in the cell, just after I’ve kissed Leon goodbye, and the guard opens the door to let me out. And in spite of myself I do turn to look at him, wanting to know for sure whether he’s at his desk, or at the window, or leaning his forehead against the wall with tears streaming down his face. In the dream, I’m glad I’m going to look – that when I leave I can take the image with me, that I’ll always know exactly what he was doing, the moment when I walked out of his cell for the last time.

  And I turn and look, and he’s gone. The cell is empty, and suddenly I know the only person in the prison is me.

  Sixteen

  Eli Apal, 2a, 144 Universal Brotherhood Street, Irunja.

  The guards did search me, half-heartedly. Their hands lingered on my buttocks and breasts, and the one who checked my pockets stood too close and breathed the smell of tobacco into my face; but they didn’t check my socks or my underwear or the fold of my collar. Their hands didn’t bother me. I thought they could have undressed me and pushed me up against a wall and I wouldn’t have felt anything. I stood there like stone, not caring what they did, and after a while they lost interest, or realised that I wasn’t hiding anything. When they stopped, I said, ‘Can I go now?’ as if I was at school talking to a nun, and they looked away, shrugging their shoulders.

  Leon had told me to be careful in case I was followed, so I left the prison and turned at random, walking the streets without taking any notice of where I was going. When I looked over my shoulder there was someone there – a dumpy woman with a shopping basket – and she stayed a street-length behind me, never catching up or dropping behind. I imagined a whole army of followers waiting at the prison, ready to nip out at a moment’s notice to track whoever seemed interesting. I felt a rush of anger, mixed with a kind of amusement: no wonder the country was so badly run, with so much energy and manpower spent this way. I wanted to call out to her, but I’d promised Leon no heroics. Instead I sped up, ducked round a corner into an alleyway, then sprinted to the other end of it and round into another alley that led to a wide quiet street. I paused, listening, and eventually heard the woman breathing heavily as she jogged a little way into the alley and then stopped and stood still, looking for me. She waited there for a long time – until I was almost sure she’d gone and I was imagining the rasp of her breath – and then I heard her footsteps go back the way she’d come, and a muttered stream of obscenity that got fainter and fainter. I took a deep breath, but I hadn’t been afraid; I was still in a grey, numb haze.

  I kept walking. I wanted to put off going to Eli Apal for as long as possible; while I was still wandering aimlessly, I could tell myself that there was still time to change my mind, to go and pound on the doors of every prison, asking for Mama and Papa and Martin. Or I could go to the guards’ headquarters at home, and give myself up. I felt myself smiling, without amusement, at the thought of what Leon would say. Promise me you’ll survive, no matter what.

  And suddenly I realised what it was, that had niggled at me, when he’d said that.

  Skizi. He’d reminded me of Skizi. As if she – as if her ghost – was speaking to me through his mouth, loving and fierce. As if I would be betraying her, as well as Leon, if I stayed.

  Call your first son Martin . . .

  I thought, I might have children, one day. I might have a son called Martin.

  I shut my eyes, and pictured the map Leon had drawn me.

  The building, when I finally found it, was a great soot-darkened apartment block, with balconies and shutters that had been grand, once. Now the windows were covered in cataracts of grime, and the stagnant air that met me as I opened the main door was damp and rancid. Outside the air was cool, with a cold bite to it when the breeze blew; but inside it was icy, and I started to shiver the moment I crossed the threshold. It occurred to me for the first time that I’d have to cross the mountains, and it was October already, and there’d be snow. I clenched my teeth together to stop them rattling, and went down the dark little passageway to find the door to 2a.

  I paused at the end, where the corridor turned a corner, and tried to read the plaque on the door in front of me. The light was thick and murky, like a soup you wouldn’t want to eat. 3a. I looked round, wondering if I’d gone past it, or if the numbers weren’t in the right order.

  A door opened at the far end of the passage, and a young couple hurried out, the woman tucking something into a little leather purse. The man was laughing nervously, in a kind of loose, hysterical voice, and the woman pushed him on the shoulder, propelling him down the corridor towards me. She
said, in a low voice, ‘Shut up! Let’s go. If we don’t make it to the car in time –’ Her voice had an odd kind of lilt, as if she was putting on an accent. It resonated in the narrow space and made my stomach clench.

  ‘All right, all right! I’m just . . . God, I hope he’s straight, don’t you? Or –’

  ‘Shut up!’ She hurried after him, clumsy in her high heels. She was wearing a flimsy dress with a red handkerchief around her neck, and her hair was so dark it blended in with the shadows.

  The man stumbled past me, still with that hiccupping laugh bubbling in his throat. He was younger than I had first thought; hardly older than me. He had the same impossibly black hair as the girl, and I wondered if they were brother and sister. I didn’t move, and he didn’t seem to notice me. He was very pale, with beads of moisture on his forehead, and he smelt of sweat and anxiety. He got to the doorway and turned to call to her. ‘Esta!’

  For an odd, dislocated moment I thought he was calling my name; then she said, ‘Yes, coming,’ and I realised it was hers. She was standing in the corridor, peering through the dimness. I started to follow her gaze; then I realised she was staring at me. I couldn’t see her properly, but there was something in the way she was standing, the angle of her shoulders . . .

  She opened her mouth, and said something; but the boy called again, ‘Esta!’ and whatever she said was lost in the echo.

  I said, ‘Go away. Go.’ My voice was small and childish. I didn’t know why I felt so strange, so quivery and afraid; but there was something about her. She reminded me –

  She took a little step backwards, then forwards again, wobbling on her high heels as if she wasn’t used to them. I despised her for her dress, her jet-black hair, the lipstick that was like a bruise in the dim light. She looked like she slept with Party members for black-market nylons.