Agent’s Revenge. Novel

9. Secret Agent

The coffee brewed in the cezve emitted a pleasant aroma; it clearly helped reduce nervousness and distrust, creating an atmosphere for communication. Or perhaps, as it seems now, it was thanks to Evgenia Petrovna’s skill in manipulating her interlocutor.

— Roma, I will speak with you frankly, as far as possible. Try not to ask unnecessary, much less stupid questions. I will tell you what I can. I won’t switch to «thou,» as we will talk today and then, I hope, never see each other again.

— And how I hope never to see you again! What possessed me to walk along the embankment that day!

— Yes, I suspect supernatural forces were involved, — Evgenia Petrovna smiled stiffly. — You know, even yesterday, the probability of us sitting here talking and sipping coffee was about the same as a meteorite flying through that window right now… and yet, here you are.

— You talk to me almost like an initiate, someone close to God. To what do I owe such attention — is it really just my broken nose?

— For boys like you, I am both an initiate and one close to the «Gods,» but that belongs to the realm of conscience and life philosophy. Today is not about me, however. Let’s have you listen to me and try to understand: the main thing in the life of a commoner is the ability to adapt, to mimic, if the goal is to settle in well. I have lived in this world and realized that for the people, «Gods» only change externally and hierarchically, while for the «Gods,» the people are always a gray mass — the material from which their well-being and greatness are molded.

It’s only at your age that young people are guided by the laws of gravity and relativity. It’s at your age that people believe all roads are open to them, that life is just beginning and one must live it so as not to be «excruciatingly painful»… it’s only at your young age it seems that if you only want it enough, everything you desire will be yours and there will be no consequences! No, my dear Roma, it’s not like that. Not all roads lead to Rome, and even fewer to the temple. Only businessmen make deals with partners to earn big money; ordinary people earn big money, usually, by making deals with their conscience. It’s only at your tender age that maximalism prevails over realism; only at your rosy-cheeked age that «a decent person» and «a decent swine» are not synonyms. It’s only you, lovers of fine food and sweet sleep, who believe that the presumption of innocence is a mandatory attribute of justice, and that confession is not the «Queen of Evidence»!

Believe me, Roma, what I’m saying isn’t just words. This is what broke the fates and lives of more than one generation. I’ve been through it, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Today the situation isn’t what it was during the Cult of Personality, before and after the war. If today you just got a broken nose and a clip on the ear, in those times, they would have driven nails under your fingertips. You would have confessed to being a member of an underground Trotskyist organization, and while you were being sent to the other world, someone would have received a regular promotion, bought his son a bicycle, and ordered a beautiful ring for his beloved wife made from your gold crown. To all the neighbors, that someone would be the kindest man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and his wife would often be upset that he had such a «nervous and high-pressure job,» because his nose would frequently bleed and stain his clothes or linens.

Why am I telling you all this? Because back then, everyone lived in a constant state of fear. In those times, to become an «enemy of the people» and subject your family to inhuman trials — at best — a random glance at a neighbor or a coworker was enough. And for them, in turn, it was enough to imagine that your glance was unkind, or that your apartment was a bit too spacious. Then, the one who imagined it would strive to be the first with a denunciation: that you are enemy filth, meeting with German enemies of the people on even days, American hirelings on odd days, and on weekends, at home with your wife and children, whispering the articles of Trotsky and Rykov.

I myself passed through the millstones of that human soul-crusher. I often had to make a choice. Truth and falsehood back then were completely abstract concepts. The truth was whatever gave the required result, and that result was achieved through medieval methods — minus the bonfires, perhaps. What I am today is not a conscious choice, but rather the opposite — an absence of any choice.

Let’s finish with the philosophy of mass terror, Roma. I didn’t bring you here for that. Let’s move on to Nino.

Evgenia Petrovna opened the sideboard, took out a bottle of cognac and two shot glasses, and placed them on the table.

— Will you?

— No, thank you.

— Well, I will.

Evgenia poured a shot and slowly drank it.

— Almost a year ago, Nino met a handsome young man — let’s call him Dato — who was born with a halo, as his parents were from the caste of «untouchables.» Nino, on the other hand, had only divine beauty and a mother who worked in a library. In short — no rank, no lineage. And while Nino’s beauty meant something to the young man, it meant nothing to his parents without the «halo.»

After some time, Dato introduced the girl he liked to his parents. That was the moment all the misfortunes of the poor girl began. — Evgenia Petrovna lit a cigarette; I lit one too.

— Evgenia Petrovna, you’re telling this like you’re reading a police report, except for the bit about the halo.

— Habit. You didn’t think I worked as a nanny in the psychiatric hospital, did you?

— I figured as much.

— You haven’t figured out anything. No one becomes a «seksoy» [secret informant] of their own free will. Some do it to save themselves, some to save someone else. But it doesn’t matter to anyone, because once you take one step, you take a second, then a third, and then those steps turn into sins. At first, you do something «for the greater good,» then a small — oh, such a small, almost unnoticeable — meanness, justifying it by saying you have no choice, and if you don’t do it, someone else will, and those you love might suffer. Note: you never tell yourself that you will suffer; it’s easier to justify when you’re warding off trouble from loved ones. Then you begin, timidly at first, and then with pride, to believe that the Motherland needs all this. Time passes, and you start to despise those you betray. You no longer deceive yourself, fully understanding that you serve the devil for a fat scrap — or some just for a bone. But unfortunately, there is no way back. There is no such thing as a «small meanness.» Meanness either is, or it isn’t, and you have to live with it. But sometimes, if the soul hasn’t completely turned into self-justification, if an angel like Nino suddenly crosses your path, you start to think: here is the chance to put something on the other side of the scale — the side of good.

I still couldn’t understand where this woman was heading, or why she suddenly needed to catch me at the power plant exit, drag me to her home, and pour her soul out.

— Evgenia Petrovna, I’m sitting here and I just can’t get it: why are you baring your soul to me? Maybe you’re planning to recruit me? By telling the institute that I peep at the mentally ill? Is this your special tag-team: Nino asks a passerby for a cigarette, then you spend a day in conversation finding out if the client is worthy of the title «Assistant to the Motherland» or not? If so, you call in the bone-breakers, they punch the poor guy in the face, and then you complete your dark deed — lure the beaten man home and tell the police, his workplace, or the dean’s office that he tried to rape you?

— You are either innocence itself, or a bigger scoundrel than I am! I’ve already told you: you should thank your stars that you hung on the window bars and got hit in the nose like a filthy voyeur, rather than ending up, at best, in one of the wards of the madhouse — or at worst, at the bottom of the Kura.

I felt somewhat uneasy. I was too far removed from the problems of true psychiatry, let alone «forced psychiatry.» This, in fact, reeked of «patriotic psychiatry!» It was some kind of schizophrenia; I felt my hair stand on end, and a chill ran through me. In general, I’m not from the breed of partisans, and I felt quite sick. Apparently, my facial expression fully reflected the horror and hopelessness of falling into the millstones of the punitive security structures, as Evgenia reacted instantly:

— Don’t be afraid. If you were in danger right now, I would never have met with you. It would most likely be either too late or useless. So, Roma, I shall continue. The family problems of the «grounded» and the «celestials» differ greatly. While the former marry mostly those who are prettier, have an apartment, or match their temperament, the latter marry mostly those who have a stronger «back» or a larger fortune. In short, a marriage among the celestials is more like a successful capital investment. Often, early betrothals are practiced, to «stake a claim» on the marriage. Of course, the betrothal is known mostly only within the circle of the initiates.

Well then, David Lezhava had been betrothed for several years to Lali Khutsishvili, a girl from a family of «celestials,» which imposed certain obligations on the families. While Dato’s mother could still tolerate her son sleeping with someone other than his future wife, the bride’s family was categorically against David meeting a «nobody.»

Since Merab Lezhava was the city’s chief of police and Irakli Khutsishvili held a position in the republic’s KGB apparatus, the «aura» of the bride’s family was significantly larger. It was clear that Nino had to vanish from the son-in-law’s horizon. The stupidest thing on David’s part was to show Nino off and brag about her everywhere, but Nino was so beautiful and kind that Dato’s entire circle adored her. If not for that ill-fated betrothal, they would probably have been one of the most beautiful and happy couples.

The Khutsishvili family and the bride herself became her first enemies.

For some time, Irakli tried to persuade Dato to leave Nino and stop appearing with her in public, since he was already betrothed to his daughter Lali. But David did not react to this. After yet another fruitless conversation with David, Irakli Nugzarovich decided to act.

The next morning, Khutsishvili asked his secretary to call in Lieutenant Zakharchenko.

10. Recruitment

A week later, Meliton Archvadze was relieved of many of his bandages and began to walk. During that week, Zhenya had literally breathed life into him. She hardly ever left the pilot’s side; she was filled with a new, unfamiliar feeling. Everyone around her had somehow become «good,» she worked with a smile, and she herself radiated joy and happiness. In the department, they noticed her inspiration and self-sacrifice in caring for the nearly dead major and barely burdened her with other work. Only the pilot — sullen, overgrown with stubble — noticed none of this. He remained constantly withdrawn, tormented by the fact that he hadn’t been able to prevent the accident and that his Mary had died instead of him.

Major Khutsiev visited the patient several times. He was extremely polite, drew up the accident report, and questioned Archvadze about the vehicle that had hit his motorcycle — whether he remembered the plate number or anything distinctive, as the driver had fled the scene and a search was underway.

After offering his condolences to Meliton regarding his wife’s death, he informed Zhenya that his assistant, Lieutenant Glonti, to the grief of all who knew him, had heroically perished in a shootout with enemies.

Meliton’s daughter, four-year-old Dali, was brought in several times. A plump little girl with a huge blue bow and eyes of the same color, she charmed Zhenya with her spontaneity. She read poems and hopped on one leg in time with them. It felt as though her presence alone filled the entire ward; she managed to smile at everyone and chirped incessantly like a sparrow. But sometimes she would suddenly stop, press herself against her father’s hand, and ask when Mama would arrive. Her grandmother — Meliton’s mother-in-law, Margo Pertaya — was someone Zhenya did not like. A thin Megrelian woman with a hooked nose and thin, almost colorless lips, she barely spoke to her son-in-law. When she caught Zhenya’s eye, Zhenya felt a very unpleasant, almost revolting sensation — as if she were being stripped and appraised like goods at a market.

Once, Zhenya accidentally overheard their conversation:

— It’s that letter of yours that’s to blame.

— What letter?

— You know perfectly well. Mary told me everything. She saw it all — that’s why you killed her.

— You’ve clearly eaten too much ghomi, woman!

— I hate you. They’ll shoot you as an enemy anyway, because Mary reported everything about you to the right place. I’ll be happy. And forget your daughter — she will never be an Archvadze; she will be a Pertaya, mark my words! And if you don’t happen to die, find a place to live at the airfield; you spent all your time there anyway, and Mary was a widow with a living husband!

After that, neither the mother-in-law nor the daughter appeared at the hospital again. Zhenya’s heart bled when she saw how much Meliton suffered and how he withdrew further and further into himself.

Nugzar Khutsiev paced his office, reading the head doctor’s note about E.P. Margelova. He understood that Zhenya was exactly the person he needed, and it would be simply foolish not to seize the moment to do a «good deed» with profit for himself. Since Lieutenant Glonti had died of heart failure after overindulging in alcohol, only he and Colonel Merabov knew about the letter to Stalin written by Archvadze. The death of yet another «Turkish spy» — of whom the basement was full — would bring no medals or ranks, only another sin on the soul. However, since the head doctor had reported Zhenya’s feelings for Meliton, a perfect game could be played to everyone’s satisfaction with minimal losses.

The major called on the internal line:

— Comrade Colonel, may I come in? I have a rather good idea.

From the colonel’s office, Major Khutsiev called the hospital and asked for Margelova:

— Evgenia Petrovna, I don’t want to send you a summons; our establishment is not the kind that inspires pleasant thoughts. Therefore, perhaps I’ll drop by myself at six this evening. We’ll sit on a bench in the hospital grounds and talk about life. Does that work?

Zhenya’s legs gave way; she felt a chill somewhere deep in her stomach.

— Very well, — she answered quietly and hung up.

During the time since Zhenya had hidden the letter in the boiler room, she had gone to drink tea several times with old Samvel — the stoker she had known since she first arrived at the hospital. She had moved the letter several times, and finally, she had burned it, throwing it into the furnace without ever opening it.

In the evening, when Zhenya stepped outside at six, Major Khutsiev was already sitting on a bench under a spreading maple tree. Zhenya was extremely nervous, as if sensing something terrible. She froze at the exit; her legs refused to move, but she pulled herself together — nothing here depended on her.

— Good evening.

The major stood up and gallantly kissed her hand. They sat on the bench; Zhenya twisted a fallen maple leaf by its stem. A heavy silence ensued. A slight tremor ran through her; she was terrified. She had long been used to living alone and relying on no one. Perhaps her character — somewhat unsociable and harsh — had developed because she hadn’t had the chance not just to cry on someone’s shoulder, but simply to lean on someone, to feel a sense of belonging, friendly closeness, or a shared worldview, let alone the feeling of being needed. Since childhood, since the moment she lost her parents, Zhenya had completely forgotten the feeling of love for another; she lived, as it were, with the flow, from day to day. She lived without sentimentality, without feminine melancholy, without men or love for them.

And now, it seemed fate had taken pity on her; her heart had thawed, and she had attached herself with all her soul to this pilot who had nearly perished. Zhenya had forgotten when she last cried, yet now she sobbed into her pillow almost every night from happiness — and she didn’t even particularly need his feelings in return. She understood that love had come to her, that for a week now Meliton had become the meaning of her life, her joy, and her hope. And now she was deathly afraid that because of this major, everything might sink into oblivion, evaporate like morning mist, or even drown in blood. She understood well that the «osobist» had clearly not come to sit with her in the fresh air; he was clearly carrying something ominous — such was his job.

— Evgenia Petrovna, I think it’s clear I didn’t come here to pay you compliments, though you deserve them. I am not Lieutenant Glonti, and laying hands on people is not my style — though I am by no means an angel. I must say that you, my dear, are very, very lucky that it was I who crossed your path, and not the lieutenant. I will be frank with you and hope not only for your understanding but for your sober judgment. I want to say again that you will have the opportunity to choose — but it will be a choice between something bad and something horrific. Others don’t even have that.

— What, do you want me to become your mistress? You’d better shoot me!

— No, don’t worry, you don’t interest me in that way, — the major smiled. — Relax and listen carefully to what I have to say. I won’t demand an answer from you immediately; think about it today, and I’ll come for the answer tomorrow.

The major lit a cigarette and continued:

— Evgenia Petrovna, everything I tell you here must, of course, remain between us. Otherwise, you might put me at risk, and I would be forced — forgive the professional slang — to liquidate you. I hope you understand?