‘It’s all right, drink this.’ She must have said those words a hundred times before morning came.
Sasha’s fist crept to his face. He crammed his knuckles deep into his mouth, as if to silence himself. Nothing moved.
You had to stand in line, in the House of Orphans. When they were walked to church, the line had to be perfect. The little ones stumbled out of line sometimes, because they were cold or tired, but they learned not to.
And then it was over. Sasha’s face jumped into shape, bright and mocking. ‘You believed me, didn’t you?’ he jeered. ‘You were fooled, weren’t you? You girls are too soft to live. My father knew all about that. He used to say that the way my mother brought me up, I would be too soft to live. My father did me good, don’t you understand? He made a man of me. But even that wasn’t enough for him. He was like all fathers, he had ambition. I was his only son, and he had big ideas for me.
‘He didn’t stop at making one man out of me. He made two, Eeva my darling, he made two. Two men for the price of one. Isn’t that one of God’s most holy miracles, as my mother used to say? But she was weak, she was no good.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said stonily. But she did know. He thought he was dangling something just out of her reach. Teasing her with knowledge that he was going to twitch away before she could seize it. But she knew more than he realized. He thought he was acting, but he was telling the truth, and now she knew what all the Sashas added up to. She wouldn’t stay for this. She would go home.
‘No, you don’t know anything, do you?’ he went on, cocky again, full of swagger. ‘Poor little Sasha, is that what you were thinking? You went all soft, didn’t you? I saw you!’
She watched him in silence. Magda was right. One face pulled off to show another underneath, and then another face pulled off, but you never got down to the flesh. And why even try, when it was always going to be for nothing.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Eeva?’
She could turn her back on him now. She moved towards the door.
32
Bobrikov
Very slowly, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and shuffled them into his slippers. A moment’s pause, to gather himself. There was no shame in that. The body stiffens in sleep and has to come back to life slowly. It was important to follow doctor’s orders. You must take your time, sir. Give your circulation time to get going, or that leg might buckle under you again. We don’t want to risk another fall.
Doctors talked like that, as if your body belonged to them. He was a young whippersnapper, but all the same he’d known what he was about. He wasn’t a butcher, like most of them.
But it was nonsense to talk of caution and taking things slowly. A man couldn’t start being soft with himself at this late stage. He was a soldier and proud of it, with a body he’d used as hard as if it were a block of varnished wood, or a metal trunk taken on campaign. It’s this damned prostate trouble that’s woken him again. How many times has it dragged him out of the warmth of bed to pee interminably, a thin dribble forced past a stone.
How he used to piss when he was a young man! Up against the wall, or into a bush on an icy morning. A jet of urine that steamed proudly as it fell into the snow. That was him. Even his urine had had his signature on it. Bob-rik-ov.
But now he was stiff, and slow. He had an old man’s shanks, mottled skin and pot belly. Knots of varicose veins on his legs. All right, you had to expect it. His body had done the work it had been made to do. The old horse was willing, but he couldn’t push it much farther. If he wasn’t careful it would stop altogether, head down, hooves planted apart, flanks heaving with exhaustion. And then it would be time for the knacker’s yard…
But not yet. Not at this time of threat to all that we hold most dear, Bobrikov told himself. Not when there is vital work to be done.
There were ways of helping the old horse. A walking stick, a little more wax on the ends of his moustache, so the hair didn’t droop and draggle, a military overcoat that pulled his shoulders back and braced his spine. Put on a pair of pince-nez and he can see again, well enough to read papers and weigh up the man sitting opposite him. He’d always been an excellent judge of character.
Ugh, it’s taking so long. An old man’s pee is a miserable thing.
But all the same, the young don’t know everything, thought Bobrikov. It’s something to have used up your life in the service of the Tsar. To labour, and not to look for any reward… no, not even the chestful of medals, important though they are. They are not what really counts, in the end. Duty to God and to the Tsar, that’s what counts. The Tsar’s confidence. His faith that I will do whatever is required. Unquestioningly, unswervingly With gladness.
The path is hard, but that’s only how it should be. Dissidents, activists and mischief-makers are everywhere, but even though it’s necessary to handle them with the utmost firmness, it’s also necessary to remember that they are like children. They do not and cannot understand the quality of the Tsar’s vigilance over his people. They throw up their petty leaders without realizing that leadership has nothing to do with giving the people what they think they want.
Petitions! People’s addresses! The will of the people! Yes, they are like children in the nursery, thought Bobrikov, shaking the last drops from his flaccid penis. Dangerous children. And as such they must be dealt with harshly, for their own good, and so that one bad apple does not corrupt the barrel. Elements that threaten Russia’s imperial unity must be extirpated. In Manchuria, in Central Asia, in Persia, here in the Grand Duchy of Finland, the dangers are exactly the same, although they take different forms. And the solution is exactly the same. Like children, they must learn that defiance only breeds punishment. Like a good father, the Tsar must chastise.
Those who deny the will of God’s anointed, thought Bobrikov, letting the folds of his nightshirt fall over his shanks, they deny the will of God Himself.
And now back to bed. Maybe not to sleep any longer, but to lie in the warmth of the bed and review the day to come. That’s another thing they don’t know, these young ones who believe that a shuffling pace, inflamed joints, grey hair, milky eyes and an ear-trumpet will never come their way. They never guess that it’s just as good to be alive now, as then. Inside yourself, you don’t change. A dish of roast partridge tastes just as good – no, better – and love is stronger. Because love is a principle, not an emotion. And love is not a soft thing that can be blown away, but is as hard as iron. They don’t know that yet.
He groped towards the bed. He knew his way in the dark, always had. It was an old soldier’s trick. You had to know where you were, even when you were asleep, and be able to orientate yourself instantly on waking.
He lay back, grunting with pain as he straightened his legs. And now that damned cramp was beginning in his thigh. Always the same. He set his teeth and hissed through them as if he were quieting a recalcitrant horse. The cramp rose to a peak and slowly faded, as he’d known it would.
February. Not too long now before winter ends. Even though the years rush by so fast, the winters somehow seem longer. Spring, that’s the ticket. A stroll in the June sunlight across Senate Square, taking a few minutes’ break from the long day’s duty that begins at six in the morning and won’t end until dusk. A glance up into the perfect sky, a glance at your watch and it’s time to get back to work. You’re expected in the Economic Division.
A last deep breath of the delicious late-morning air, knowing that you deserve it, you’ve done your duty, you haven’t closed your eyes.
Thomas
Thomas held his fingers to Ida Runeberg’s pulse.
‘I don’t know why you’re doing that,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m not ill.’
‘If you’ll allow me.’
He’d known Ida since she was a baby herself, although he hadn’t delivered her. He wasn’t qualified then. She was always a strong child, racing about with the older brother who’d died of meningitis when he was twelve
. He’d almost forgotten his name: Bo, that was it. And yet they’d all felt it so much at the time. ‘A terrible tragedy for the family,’ Johanna had said, pulling Minna to her and hugging the child close until she wriggled and protested, ‘Mama! You’re squashing me, I want to get down.’
He could see them now, as clear as clear. Johanna, Minna. Even now, the air echoed with Minna’s impatience.
‘You’re doing very well, Ida,’ he said, ‘but it’s my job to be vigilant.’ He smiled. ‘Even if it’s rather annoying.’
She almost smiled back, then something caught her and her face darkened. She placed her hands on her belly and rolled sideways in the bed, drawing up her knees. Then, with a convulsive movement, she scrambled up until she was kneeling, knees apart, hands braced on her thighs. She breathed shallowly and rapidly, then gave a groan. It was over.
‘The pains are getting worse,’ she said accusingly.
‘It’s normal. It’s natural. You’re doing well.’
Her husband, Nils, had asked Thomas to attend Ida’s labour almost as soon as he’d known she was pregnant.
‘You see… she’s delicate.’
Thomas didn’t agree. Ida was as tough as a pony, and would have done perfectly well with a midwife alone. But it would do Ida no good to have a husband who was beside himself with anxiety for nine months.
‘Perhaps you should lie down,’ he suggested now, gently. ‘Nils will come in and sit with you.’
‘I can’t lie down, it feels terrible,’ she said. ‘Everything presses on my spine.’
‘Where? Show me.’
‘Just here.’
He examined her carefully. As before, the foetus was in a normal longitudinal lie. The head was engaged. He took out his stethoscope and timed the heartbeat. Yes, all was well.
‘I need to stand up!’ said Ida fiercely. Another pain was coming. Clumsily she began to clamber off the bed.
‘My dear child! You’ll fall, you’ll hurt yourself –’
‘Don’t touch me.’
She bent over, clutching the bedpost and panting. Her long white nightdress clung to her sweating body. Suddenly he thought of his mother, walking in the birch grove, waiting to give birth. She hadn’t let anyone come near her but old Katariina.
And when the time came you just slipped out like a fish.
‘Get Nils,’ hissed Ida. ‘I want him, fetch him here.’
Thomas crossed to the door. As he’d thought, Nils stood behind it, his face pale.
‘Why didn’t you come in, man?’
‘Is she… Is it very bad?’
The worst thing is your wife’s temper, thought Thomas, but he said, ‘It’s a completely normal labour. Ida’s making excellent progress.’
Nils glanced timidly towards his wife, and saw her sweating, contorted features. His own face froze.
‘But she’s in agony! You must help her! Do something for her!’
‘Nils! Don’t be… such a baby!’ gasped Ida. The contraction was easing. She straightened, and wiped her face.
‘How long will she go on like this?’ whispered Nils, horrified.
‘It’s hard to say,’ answered Thomas. ‘Maybe three hours, maybe four. Her pains are quite regular and frequent now. With a first baby, everything takes longer. But Ida, don’t you want to lie down?’
‘No.’
Ida reached to her bedside table and sipped from the glass of water that stood there. Her lips hurt. They were cracking. She took another sip of water. The two men were both staring at her.
Useless, her face told them. Neither of you can help me. It would be more comfortable for you if I were lying down and covered up so that what I’m suffering is hidden from you. But I’m not going to lie down.
‘Let me help you to put on your wrapper,’ suggested Nils.
‘It’s too hot.’
‘All the same,’ said Nils, advancing towards her with the blue silk wrapper in his hands. He wanted to hide his wife from himself, but did not realize it.
‘No,’ she said, putting out her hands to ward him off, and then seizing hold of the round ball at the top of the bedpost. ‘Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, it’s coming again,’ she muttered, as if to herself. Her stomach was tightening, lifting. She put her hands on the hard flesh and felt it rise as pain came over her.
As soon as the contraction finished, Ida pushed herself away from the bed and walked to the window. She rested there, leaning against the heavy velvet, and then with an effort she hauled aside both inner and outer curtains, to reveal the black space of night.
But it wasn’t true night any more. Not long now until dawn, Thomas thought, glancing at his watch.
‘It’s still snowing,’ said Ida. Now that she spoke, they could see the thick hurrying snow which came at the window and then retreated.
‘Wind’s in the east,’ said Thomas.
Nils moved towards his wife. Now they were standing side by side, looking out of the window. She leaned against him, resting, and his arm came around her. Her breathing seemed to fill the room.
At the next contraction Ida turned from the window.
‘It hurts me,’ she said thickly, fighting with the folds of her nightdress. ‘Take this off, it’s too heavy’
Even the fine lawn was a weight on her. She couldn’t bear the constriction of the cloth. Thomas heard the fabric tear, and Nils’s protest, ‘Ida! Ida, don’t do that.’
Her was afraid of her nakedness. But it was her nakedness that had made this baby, Thomas thought. How strange people were. How strangely they lived. Ida stopped struggling with the nightdress. She and Nils were face to face now, like lovers. He was holding her up, taking her weight as she fought her way through the pain.
The bulk of the child between them made him hold her clumsily, but all the same the sight of them stung Thomas’s eyes and made him turn away. By morning they’ll be a family, God help them, he thought. Another family, and it would all begin again.
She rested, her arms around Nils’s neck. He had his feet planted firmly apart now, braced to take her weight. He was beginning to look like a man, Nils, instead of the boy who had fallen in love with strong-willed Ida because he had no choice: she wanted him, and that was that.
Again, Ida broke free and began to pace up and down the room, turning at the same spot each time, as if there were a line there that no one else recognized.
He had been wrong to want Ida to lie down. Her pain seemed less than it had when she was writhing on the bed, although her labour was now further advanced. He must remember this.
He had only one concern with Ida. He always took a careful family history, and it had emerged that Ida’s mother had bled heavily between the delivery of the child and the afterbirth. She’d survived, but had taken more than a year to recover her health. There had been no more children. Ida knew all about it; he supposed that mothers and daughters often talked about such things, though he couldn’t imagine that Minna and Johanna had ever done so. But then, if Minna had become pregnant while her mother was alive, things might have been different. Minna, pregnant. Perhaps it would happen one day. For the first time, recently, she had said, ‘If I should ever have children – not that it’s very likely –’
He hadn’t dared answer; had hardly dared let her know that he’d heard what she’d said. But his face must have given him away. She’d coloured, and looked down. A child, Minna!’ he had said, but not aloud. ‘Is it really possible?’
Haemorrhage was the thing he feared most. It became a battlefield, sleeves rolled up, the bed a swamp of blood. He had ordered ice packs to be made ready, without specifying their use. Ida was a strong girl, but she had an imagination, and he knew from experience that fear was the enemy of a successful delivery. But very probably nothing would go wrong. Physically, Ida resembled her father’s family rather than her mother’s. She was very like her aunt Birgit, in fact, who’d had her six children with only her old nurse as midwife. Like his mother. How close the dead seem some days, as if their
planet is swinging close to the earth.
He had done his duty. He had done everything possible. He could meet his mother’s gaze, if the dead have eyes to see with and hands to reach out to those they once loved. He very much doubted it. He had done what he could for Eeva, about that boy. He had stood old Magnus Bergström a handsome dinner, listened patiently to hours of self-satisfied pratings from ‘the ear of the ear’, as he now always thought of him. Old Magnus had drawn his brows sharply into a frown when Thomas at last ‘brought up the subject’. Instantly, Magnus had changed and become alert but distant. Really, he could say almost nothing.
‘Discretion, you understand, my dear Thomas – although of course in your neck of the woods, in your enviable state of bucolic peace and quiet, it’s hard for you to understand the pressure of affairs under which we labour here in Helsingfors – discretion must be our watchword. But I can without the slightest indiscretion inform you that there have been a number of arrests – call them pre-emptive – call them speculative – which are highly unlikely to result in significant convictions. Small fry, my dear Thomas, small fry. And you know from your fishing days what we do with small fry. We simply assess its maturity and then throw it back into the lake.
‘It is all purely and simply a question of whetting the knife. And once the knife is whetted, it can be put back in the drawer.’
‘Small fry? Whetting the knife?’
‘I ask you to use your imagination a little, my dear Thomas. Obviously the knife is… ah – a figure of speech.’
And old Magnus sat there, looking so quietly and solemnly satisfied with his mixed metaphors that Thomas wanted to flick a pellet of bread in his eye.