The translator, p.21
The Translator, page 21
Fyodorov raised his glass.
“Did I tell you I knew your father? Here’s to his memory! A great patriot.”
My bully of a father is turning out to be useful after all, Marina thought, and she clinked glasses with the admiral. But her optimism was short-lived.
“And where am I supposed to sit?”
Mrs Fyodorov had asked the question in her most imperious tone, standing behind her husband, her finger with the emerald ring resting on the golden epaulette of his naval uniform. She was staring accusingly at Marina, not just for usurping her seat, but for being there in the first place: the president’s interpreter should have been at another table. After all, she was only staff.
Suddenly, a Gypsy ensemble burst into the tent, singing and dancing, and everyone started clapping, including the president. Marina had never seen Serov so light-hearted. When the show was over, and before the presentation of the birthday cake, an interval was announced and Marina took a walk across the lawn, feeling increasingly anxious. The day was slipping away. On the steps of the villa, she noticed her new friend, Captain First Rank Smirnov, talking animatedly to another naval officer. On seeing Marina, the captain stepped forward.
“Marina Andreyevna, could I ask a favour? I’m having a bit of an argument with my friend Denis here… How do you pronounce this word?” The captain produced a list of Cornish names scribbled across a piece of paper, with Pentewan at the top.
“I’m not sure,” said Marina, but I think the accent is on the second syllable, so that would be Pentéwan.”
“And these?” said the captain, stabbing at the scrap of paper.
Marina went through the list – Harlyn, Praa Sands, Polzeath, Perranporth, Pentewan – saying each one out loud, slowly and carefully. “I’m just guessing,” she admitted. “I could be wrong,” she added. “Maybe check with Google Translate?”
“I shall, of course,” said the captain. “I was just surprised to find such odd words… My English is fairly fluent, but I’ve never come across place names like this. They don’t sound anything like London or Manchester or Birmingham.”
“Cornwall has its own language. It’s part of the Celtic family, like Welsh and Breton.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Captain Smirnov. “Thank you.”
“Are you planning to visit these beaches, Captain?” said Marina, keeping her tone casual. “Or perhaps one in particular?”
Artyom shot a nervous glance at his friend. For a moment, the question hung in the air. Then he blurted out, “Maybe one of these days. Denis here is a serious surfer!”
Brick walls! She kept hitting brick walls. Marina felt the frustration mounting as she walked round the side of the lunch tent towards the main entrance. She stopped dead at the sound of Admiral Fyodorov’s booming laugh. He was standing three metres away with his back to her, smoking and looking out to sea. Beside him stood the president.
“Why not?” said Serov. “We can say it was the sharks!”
“That’s good,” Fyodorov roared. “That’s really good! Sharks are always biting into cables… Apparently they think they’re some sort of eel… It happens all the time.”
“Not on this scale,” Serov said drily.
“I would still go for seven if not eight. I mean, why hold back?”
“Plausible deniability. Six is quite enough,” Serov said emphatically, and the two men wandered into the lunch tent.
Back in her seat, Marina took stock. She was getting there, inch by inch. And time was on her side. The lunch would go on for six hours and the guests would keep on drinking. Indiscretion was on the cards. Just wait.
But the lunch did not go on for six hours. Suddenly, General Varlamov was by the president’s side, whispering something in his ear.
“What? You’re joking… That idiot…” Serov spluttered, shaking his head. He then got to his feet, summoned Lev and Marina, and left the tent. Meanwhile, the French pastry chef watched in dismay as President Serov hurried across the lawn towards the waiting cars in front of the villa, shouting and gesticulating to Varlamov. Lev loped behind with Marina by his side; neither had a clue what was going on. And what about the cake? Marina wondered. Would they light it and cut it in absentia?
It was midnight by the time that Marina got home from Vnukovo airport, and she tiptoed up the chipped marble staircase of Tverskaya 25 in order not to wake Oxana. But Oxana was not asleep, and the moment she heard footsteps, she turned on the light. The next moment, she was kissing Marina’s hand.
“Lyuba’s free!” Oxana said with tears in her eyes. “Thank you, thank you… Your friend is a miracle-worker… Please, thank her from me, from the bottom of my heart.”
“A miracle-worker,” said Marina, taking Oxana’s hand. “That’s a good name for Anna. I’m so relieved for you all. How is Lyuba?”
“I saw her only for a moment, but she seemed fine. She came straight here, to collect her backpack and to look for Vanya. Well, she didn’t have to look very far… He was here, on the bench in the playground. I tell you, Marinochka, it was fate! Those two… They seem very fond of each other. I wish your boy could make Lyuba see sense. She says she’s not going back to school… At sixteen she can make her own decisions, get a job. I didn’t have the energy to argue, but I told her to stay away from here… And I told that boy of yours the same thing!”
“Why did you say that?” Marina asked wearily, longing for her bed.
“They were here.”
“Who?”
“The FSB. I can tell them a mile off. They pretended to be from the insurance company and were here to install the latest security, but, when I asked for their ID, they didn’t have any, so I told them they’d have to wait while I called our administration, but they left. They wanted to install CCTV cameras front and back, and even on the first floor. Which is really odd, because on the first floor there’s just you and that tiresome Zlobina woman. Why would anyone want to have cameras up there? Marinochka, what’s all this about? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
It was bound to happen, Marina thought. Sooner or later, Varlamov was bound to put her under his spotlight, not because she’d made a mistake or slipped up, but because it was in his nature to suspect everyone. Snoop as much as you like, she thought. Just try and catch me out! It won’t do you any good, because I’ll always be one step ahead of you, General.
Marina took Oxana’s hands in hers and looked into her anxious eyes.
“Oxanochka, the FSB… they’ll be back.”
18
On Sunday morning Marina discovered why the president had cut short his own birthday party. It was all over the internet: North Korea had launched another missile test, which had misfired and landed in Russian waters less than a hundred kilometres from Vladivostok. Later that day, Marina watched the president’s televised address. Serov told anxious Russians that he’d received a full apology from the North Korean leader: the latest missile launch was a mistake, a regrettable accident that would not happen again.
That afternoon, Marina and Clive ran fifteen kilometres, ending up at Luzhniki Stadium. Marina checked her smartwatch, which logged everything she needed to know about her performance: heart rate, time, calories burnt. Clive was breathing fast. Too fast.
“You don’t look so good…” Marina said.
“Not as fit as you…” he said, gasping for breath.
“What is it?”
He waved his bandaged hand, unable to speak, while, at the same time, pulling out dextrose tablets from the pocket of his shorts and chewing on five of them.
“Sorry about that. Forgot to check my glucose level.”
Marina looked at Clive sympathetically; she had completely forgotten that he was diabetic.
They collected their backpacks from the lockers by the running track. The two FSB tails seemed taken by surprise when Marina suddenly hailed an old Renault and offered the student driver an insanely generous Sunday rate. Once inside the car, she asked the driver to turn up the volume on the music station. She switched her phone off and motioned to Clive to do the same, then she glanced behind. One tail was on his mobile; the other was flagging down a car.
“God, how I’ve missed you,” said Clive, resting his head against the seat.
Marina took Clive’s bandaged hand and kissed it. “Trust you to have such a poetic injury. Tell me what happened.”
He kept it short, leaving no one out, including Rose, whom he called a “one-off”, describing her exhausting energy, her painful Russian and her appearance: the unmissable red streak in her mess of blond hair, the three rings in each earlobe, the outlandish clothes. Then he glanced behind, saw no sign of his tail, took Marina’s face in his hands and kissed her. The kiss went on and on until Marina pushed him away and looked through the rear window. A Ford was coming up fast from behind. Meanwhile, the driver of the Renault was banging the steering wheel in time to music on the car radio, which was so insistent, so pervasive that Marina asked him what he was listening to. “Skryptonite,” he cried, grinning into the rear-view mirror. “Best rapper around… from Kazakhstan.”
Marina left the driver to it, thumping the steering wheel and shaking his head to the music. She spoke in English, quietly, trying to remember every detail of the past thirty-six hours.
“I’ve been trying to make sense of it all, but I think I understand… I saw a sea chart of the Cornish coast. I heard the admiral mention cables… We’re planning an attack on the underwater cables somewhere off the Cornish coast. And soon. Hyde probably knows all this. That’s why he’ll be disappointed. He needs more detail. I’ll get it… Tell Hyde I won’t let him down… I won’t let you down,” Marina said, touching Clive’s arm.
Clive glanced behind and saw that the Ford was caught behind a bus. He took Marina’s hand and kissed it. Moments later, they were passing a small park, and Clive suddenly asked the driver to stop.
“Wait here,” he said to Marina. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
From inside the car, Marina watched Clive as he ran towards a small crowd that had gathered under the chestnut trees, mostly women and children holding homemade banners: “MOTHERS FOR JUSTICE” and “SET OUR CHILDREN FREE”. Marina recognized Vera, small and fearless with snow-white hair, holding a placard: “KIDS BELONG AT SCHOOL, NOT BEHIND BARS!” Vera looked overjoyed to see Clive, and then she started laughing as she looked him up and down, and Marina understood that Vera was teasing Clive about his running shorts. It was then she noticed Anna surrounded by children under a tree, and she was about to go and thank her for her help with Lyuba, when Clive hurried back to the car. He had seen the riot police. They came out of nowhere. From the back seat of the Renault, Clive and Marina watched as Anna walked up to the riot police to remonstrate, but there was no dialogue; instead, a helmeted officer grabbed Anna’s arms and pulled them hard behind her back, forced her head down and pushed her into the back of a nearby police van. Two other women and several schoolchildren were also herded into the van, heads down and arms behind their backs. Then the door slammed shut, and the van disappeared.
Clive and Marina watched as the riot police moved in to disperse the remaining protesters, with their customary brutality. It was all so depressingly familiar, Marina thought, but Clive had his eyes on a tiny white-haired woman standing alone, holding a banner: “JUSTICE FOR ALL!”
“What can we do?” Marina murmured.
“Not a lot,” said Clive. “We have to stay out of this… I’ll call Vera later… But Anna, she’s on her own. God help her.”
Anna had nothing with her: no handbag, no mobile. Once or twice she banged on the door of the police cell, but no one appeared. There was a glass of water on a table and a bucket in the corner beneath a naked, flickering light bulb.
As usual in these situations, Anna recited poetry to herself. It calmed her down, steadied her nerves and gave her inner strength. She knew the whole of The Bronze Horseman by heart, and then she switched to Brodsky and Akhmatova, her two favourite poets, both of whom had lived under repression and survived.
Time dragged by. Minutes? Hours? She had no idea, but eventually she heard footsteps and the door swung open. A prison guard barked at her to come out.
“I need my mobile and my bag,” she said firmly, looking at the young man in a creased and dirty police uniform.
But she was not led upstairs to the entrance of the police station; instead, the young guard steered her along the corridor to another cell and pushed her in. Moments later, two men in plain clothes appeared. One was young, wore thick glasses and stood to one side; the other sat down at the table opposite Anna. She observed him carefully; he was middle-aged and wore a dark, expensive suit; his blue eyes were clear and unnervingly lifeless, as if made of glass. In fact, they were dead. His blue eyes were dead…
“Anna Lvovna, I’m getting tired of all your antics,” the man said, pulling out his vaporizer and puffing a plume of white vapour into the stale basement air.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Anna. She was familiar with this line of interrogation. “I’m a lawyer and my job is to uphold the law.”
“You’re a professional agitator.”
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you understand that I’ve had enough. The next time, you’ll go to prison for a minimum of five years.”
“On what charge?”
“Assaulting a police officer.”
Anna threw back her head and laughed.
“And the evidence is?”
The man turned and called out a name. The door opened, and the young man in the dirty uniform stepped inside, holding a photograph. The interrogator took it and laid it down on the table. It showed a young woman with long dark hair. She was holding a stone and trying to hit a policeman.
“That isn’t me! Anyone can see it’s not me… And look at the background. That’s the Winter Palace!… It’s not even Moscow!”
Anna sat back in her chair and looked straight at the man.
“What is this? What do you want?” she said.
The man barked again at the young policeman, who disappeared and came back with a second photograph. It was exactly the same photograph, except that this time the young woman was Anna, and in the background was the Bolshoi instead of the Winter Palace.
“Here’s your evidence,” said the interrogator. “Enough to keep you in prison for three, maybe four years. Possibly longer. Possibly much longer…”
He put his hands on the table and leant forward. Anna could smell an expensive cologne.
“A moment ago, you asked me what I want,” he said. “I want you to stop your disruptive, unpatriotic activities. This is a warning, Anna Lvovna. A final warning.”
Anna straightened her back and calmly placed her folded hands on the table, staring at the man in front of her. Her interrogator stared back at her with his dead eyes.
“Your mother… She’s quite an age, isn’t she? Still trying to cause as much trouble as she can… even though she’s in her eighties… We could arrest her any time, you know?”
“On what charge?”
“She does not comply with the new fire regulations. Your mother burns bonfires right in front of her dacha, in violation of new safety rules. She’s already been fined once. And her neighbours have complained.”
“Which neighbours?”
The interrogator ignored the question.
“Burning bonfires is against the law,” he said. “So, where does that leave you, Anna Lvovna?… You who are so keen on upholding the law? Let’s move on. I want to talk about your friend, the Englishman.”
“Which Englishman?”
“Franklin. Clive Franklin.”
“He’s not my…” Anna hesitated before continuing. “Clive Franklin was my mother’s student. He’s not really my friend.”
“Very odd… No one wants to be a friend of this man,” said the interrogator, drumming his fingers on the table and glancing up at the young man who stood silently in the corner. “I wonder why? In your case I find it particularly odd, since only a few days ago – Monday, to be exact – he came to your mother’s dacha in Peredelkino and you kissed him on the cheek.”
“I was being polite.”
The interrogator almost smiled.
“Is he interested in your… activities?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then why did he come to your illegal rally this afternoon?”
“Our rally was not illegal. We had permission to gather in that park. I can show you the documents.”
“You had permission for a peaceful demonstration.”
“It was peaceful until you sent in the riot police.”
“Answer my question. Why did the Englishman turn up?”
“He was there by chance… He saw my mother from the car window. He was still in his running clothes…”
The interrogator leant forward, his jaw tight, his blue eyes clear and cold.
“He was there.”
Anna held the man’s stare.
“I’ve been here for hours and I want to go home,” Anna said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You’ve no right to detain me any more than you have the right to detain children without charge. I repeat: children. Why are you so afraid?”
The man stiffened.
“Put out your hand,” he said. Anna did nothing. “Lay your hand on the table, your fingers splayed.” Still Anna did nothing. The man glanced at the silent man in the corner, who took a step closer. “Do as I say,” said the interrogator, taking out a knife and wiping the blade with a white handkerchief. He was smiling.
Anna did as she was told, laid her hand on the table, fingers splayed. Her whole body was tense, her jaw tight.
The interrogator raised the knife, looking hard at Anna’s emotionless face, and then down came the knife with terrible force, right in the V of her index and middle fingers. The point of the knife was embedded in the table, so close to her finger that she could feel the cold blade against her skin. Anna drew back her hand slowly and without tremor. The interrogator grasped the handle of the knife and jerked the blade free.
