His mobile had heated his ear and he put it down on the seat away from him as the driver slowed for the traffic again. And here they were crawling beneath mighty Lenin’s arm. “That failure,” she always said, “is our failure, Gabriel, is the failure of all of us. Such dreams expired. More dreams than we can imagine—all extinguished by that failure. Not just in the past but in the future too: and that’s the real sadness, the real tragedy. We have—all of us, the whole world—we have all lost our belief in our better selves. And the great told-you-so of capitalism will roll out across the earth until there is no hiding place. And every day that passes, Marx will be proved more emphatically right. And all the men and women waking in the winter to the slavery of their wages will know it in their heart.”
He stood for an anxious moment by the iron railings of the canal embankment, putting away his wallet and glancing up at the second-floor balcony. The tall windows were closed. But the curtains were not drawn. The driver struggled with the lock of the buckled trunk, the gusting wind causing his jacket to billow. Rain was coming. Gabriel could smell the dampness in the air. He took his bag and hurried across the street.
He reached the gates that blocked his way to the courtyard—like most in the old part of town, the flats were accessed from the various staircases within. And only now he remembered the need to punch in the security code. What was the number? He couldn’t recall. He pressed the buzzer and waited. Maybe she had been in the bath when he rang. Or maybe her phone wasn’t working. He simply hadn’t thought about this. He’d assumed she would be home. And if by some strange chance not, then he had all the keys to let himself in… but the security code? No. He’d forgotten all about the bloody security code.
He tried a few combinations at random. He jabbed at her buzzer repeatedly. Nothing happened. And there was no voice from the intercom. The first twist of rain came and he leaned against the gate to get beneath the shallow arch. Water began to drip onto his bag. Maybe he could try one of the other buzzers and explain… But even if they spoke English—unlikely—there was no way on earth they’d let him in; crime had seen to that. He pressed her buzzer again. He did not know what else to do.
No answer.
Abruptly the full force of his panic returned—a tightening in his throat, a clamping of his teeth at the back of his jaw, the sound of his own blood coursing in his ears. (The fear—yes, that was what it was—the fear in her voice on the telephone.) He looked around, face taut now, hoping for a car or another resident approaching. Someone to open the gate. Where was everybody? The whole of the city had vanished. This was insane. Over on the other side of the canal, two men were sprinting for shelter. They ducked down the stairs into the café opposite.
Yana. Of course. Yana would know the code. Yana’s mother was in and out all the time—cleaning, officially, though mainly consuming expensive tea and gossiping. Oh please Christ Yana’s working today. He picked up his bag and dashed across the bridge. The Kokushkin Bridge on which poor Rodya stared into the murky water to contemplate his crime—Gabriel, can you imagine it?
He was across. He dived down the café stairs, slipped on the wet stone and nearly fell, reached out for the door to stop himself, and somehow bloodied his knuckle as he crashed inside. But he cared nothing for the eyes that were on him as he walked over to the bar cursing under his breath.
“Is Yana here? Do you speak English?”
“Yes, I do.” The girl at the bar had a staff T-shirt: “CCCP Café: The Party People.”
“Is Yana here? Yana.”
“Yes. She is. What—”
“Can you get her?” He had not seen this girl before; he tried to ameliorate his manner, but to little effect. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Can you tell her Gabriel is here? It’s about Maria—she’ll know.”
“Okay.” The girl had registered his urgency and locked the till as quickly as she could. “Please. Wait here.”
“Yes. I’ll wait.” He glanced at the walls, which were pasted with lacquered old editions of Pravda: Khrushchev kissing a dead astronaut’s son, Andropov, Old Joe himself—always a shock to see that, yes, he was a person of flesh and blood and conversation—leaning forward to say something to the woman seated beside his driver as the state car processed down Nevsky Prospekt. How many times had he and Isabella tried to read these walls and recreate in their minds what it must have been—
“Gabe. Hi. Hello. How are you? I did not know you were coming back. Katja says you are a man who lost it.”
“Sorry. Yana, I’m just—I can’t get in.” He raised his thumb to indicate behind himself. “What’s the combination? The security gate. Do you know it?”
“Yes, of course.” She told him the number, becoming conscious of the alarm in his eyes. “Is everything okay? How long you here? I didn’t know you were coming back. It’s lucky you came today, though—I am going to Kiev tomorrow. I have to—”
“It’s a flying visit.” He interrupted her. “I just got in. But I’ll be back later. Promise.” He was already turning for the door. “We’ll go out. Definitely. You can tell me about what is really happening—the news isn’t clear.”
The rain had soused the cobbles but this time he crossed the bridge at a flat sprint, all the while keeping his eyes on the window above the balcony. Nobody paid him any attention—the random autumn flurries of wet weather that came squalling in off the Gulf of Finland often caused old and young alike to scurry and dash. A woman holding a magazine above her head left the shelter of the hairdresser’s canopy and scuttled to her car door.
He was back at the security gate. He pressed in the numbers. The metal doors began to swing open jerkily: a moment to marvel at how the simple fact of knowing the right combination was all the difference and then he was through, into the courtyard.
The rain was slicking his hair onto his forehead and causing him to blink. The cars within looked more numerous than the last time. He was unashamedly thinking with her voice now: There you go—capitalism’s pubescent little triumphs on every hand, see how they vaunt it. Water was gushing down the side of the building where the guttering was broken. His mind would not focus. But his heart was pestling itself mad against the mortar of the present, suffering now from some inarticulate dread—a terrifying feeling that came at him as he reached the staircase in the corner of the quadrangle, grinding his very quick to powder.
The stench of cat urine assailed him, slowed him, as he hit the stairs. She was a little demented, perhaps. Admit it. That’s why he couldn’t get at what she meant, what she was really saying to him. She contradicted herself twelve times a day, twelve times an hour, and who can believe someone who… Distraction, though, distraction, he breathed: back to now, back. Up we go. Up we go. Why wasn’t he running anymore? Maybe she was refusing to answer the entryphone on purpose. And the telephone. In two minutes she would be taking her perverse Petersburg pleasure in telling him how the criminal gangs were now calling door to door in the afternoons in the hope of being admitted without the need for time-consuming breaking-and-entering procedures. It’s not as bad as Moscow, but it’s very dangerous sometimes here, Gabriel. And there was another murder just over in Sennaya…