He was observing her with shrewd eyes. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured softly. ‘Not much like a gypsy, are you?’
‘My father’s sister, who brought me up, was married to Rafik’s brother.’
Stirkhov picked up his gold-tipped fountain pen and scribbled a note on the pad in front of him, considered it for a moment, then placed his elbows on the desk.
‘Let me see your dokumenti, comrade.’
It was an offence not to carry identity papers at all times, papers that would state her place of residence, her date and place of birth and her father’s name. And to leave the kolkhoz without official permission to do so was a second offence. She recrossed her legs, slowly, and watched his eyes follow the movement.
‘Deputy Stirkhov, I have a suggestion to put to you first.’
He stood up, walked round to her side of his desk, perched his plump bottom on its edge and rested a hand on her knee. She refrained from slapping his wrist away.
‘What kind of suggestion?’ he asked.
‘It seems to me that you need someone new in Tivil. Someone… with fresh eyes.’
‘Someone like you.’
‘Exactly like me.’
His smile returned, a smile meant to charm, and the tip of his pink tongue popped out for a brief second. ‘You will report to me only.’
‘Of course.’
‘And in exchange?’
‘You pay me. Each week. One hundred roubles. Fifty now to seal the agreement.’
‘Hah! You must think me stupid.’ He leaned over her and she could smell French tobacco on his breath. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Comrade Morozova.’ His hand tightened on her knee. ‘You bring me information and then we’ll talk money.’
She laughed and stood up, tipping his hand off her leg. ‘An empty stomach dims one’s eyes and ears, Deputy Stirkhov. I do not hear well when my stomach growls.’
She held out a hand, palm upwards.
He looked at it, then at her. And licked his lips.
‘Very well. Ten roubles now.’
‘Fifty.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘Fifty,’ she repeated. ‘It will be worth it to you.’
‘It had better be.’
‘It will, I promise.’
He reached into his inside pocket and produced a fifty-rouble note which he placed in her hand. As her fingers curled round it, he stepped forward to kiss her but she swung her head, so that his lips barely brushed her ear. She hid a shudder, lowered her eyes demurely and escaped to the door.
‘Comrade Morozova,’ Stirkhov said sharply. ‘I expect much of you.’
She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘So do I.’
‘I saw you watching me.’ Zenia stepped out into Sofia’s path as she left the Raikom offices. ‘I’m supposed to be at work in the factory already but…’ her cheeks flushed and she looked away shyly.
The young gypsy girl’s wild hair was tamed under a bright yellow scarf tied at the nape of her neck, and her scoop-necked blouse, though old, was clean and showed more of her smooth olive skin than perhaps Rafik would approve of. A green cotton skirt swung from her hips. Sofia could understand why any soldier would come calling.
‘Zenia,’ she said, ‘you look lovely. Who was your friend?’
Zenia blushed deeper. ‘His name is Vanya.’
‘He works for OGPU, I see. The Security Police.’
Zenia’s black eyes darted defensively to Sofia’s face. ‘I haven’t told him anything. About you, I mean.’
Sofia stepped nearer and could smell the musky scent of sex on her. ‘Zenia,’ she whispered, ‘the Security Police are clever. You will tell him things without even knowing you’re doing it.’
Zenia tossed her head scornfully. ‘I’m not a fool. I don’t say…’ but she paused as though remembering something and her eyes clouded. ‘I don’t say anything I shouldn’t,’ she finished defiantly.
‘I’m glad. Guard your tongue, for Rafik’s sake.’
Zenia looked away again.
‘It’s all right, Zenia, I won’t say anything.’
The dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘I won’t say anything about Vanya. To Rafik, I mean,’ Sofia added.
Zenia smiled, a sweet, grateful smile that made Sofia lean forward and brush her cheek against the girl’s. ‘But be careful. They will be stalking Tivil village after what happened with the Procurement Officer and you may be their way in.’
‘He loves me,’ Zenia said simply and flounced away, young hips swaying and head held high, attracting glances from passing men.
‘He loves me,’ Sofia echoed, as if trying the words for size in her own mouth. Then she turned and retraced her steps through the shabby streets back towards the river.
26
Mikhail’s office was dark. Its small window let in a square patch of sunlight that was now sliding across the floorboards towards the door, as if trying to escape. He was often tempted to relocate to an office in the bright new extension he’d had built alongside the old factory, but always changed his mind at the last moment because he knew he needed to be here, overlooking the factory floor, visible to his workers each time they raised their heads from their machines. It discouraged malingering.
His office was up a flight of stairs that led off the vast expanse of the factory floor, so the incessant rattle and clatter of the bobbing needles were as much a part of his worklife as breathing. Nothing more than a wall of glass divided him from his workforce, which meant he could look down on the rows of hundreds of sewing machines and check the smooth running of his production line at a glance. He’d installed modern cutting machines in the extension but in here the machines were so old and temperamental that they needed constant attention, damn them. He had to watch them like a hawk because spare parts were like gold dust and the girls at the machines weren’t always as careful as they should be.
He stood looking out at them now, hands in his pockets, feeling restless and unable to concentrate. On his desk a stack of forms, permissions, orders and import licences awaited his signature but this morning he could summon up no interest in them. He loosened his tie and rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt. She’d unsettled him with her lies. With the challenge in her eyes, as though daring him to do something but refusing to say what it was.
He laughed out loud. At himself and at her. Whatever it was that Sofia Morozova was up to, he was glad she’d arrived in Tivil like a creature from the forest, wild and unpredictable. She made his blood flow faster. In some indefinable way she had altered the balance in his mind, so that he was left with the feeling that he was flying high in the air once more. He gave another laugh but then frowned and lit himself a cigarette, trying to breathe her in with the smoke. All kinds of memories were stirring, ones he’d thought were dead and buried but now were coming to life. They picked and prodded and chipped away at him so that he ached all over. What was it about Sofia that had set this off? Just because she was fair-haired and blue-eyed and had a fiery spirit like…?
No. He slammed the door shut on it all and firmly turned the key. What good did looking back do? None at all. He drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled over the glass, fogging it with smoke so that the women and their machines became an indistinct blur. He tried to imagine Sofia down there, working all day at one of the benches, but he couldn’t. It twisted his brain into shapes it refused to settle in. Sofia was a skylark, like himself. Too much of an individual in a country where individuality and initiative were stamped on by the relentless boot of the State. Conform or die. Simple.
A knock on the door distracted him.
‘Come in,’ he said but didn’t turn. It would be his assistant, Sukov, with yet another pile of endless paperwork for his attention.
‘Comrade Direktor, you have a visitor.’
Mikhail sighed. The last thing he wanted right now was an ignorant official from Raikom breathing down his neck, or a union inspector looking for trouble.