‘So why,’ she asked with just the right touch of impatience, ‘have you asked me here?’
‘Because you are an outsider. You are not yet a part of that close-knit community. Instead of shitting all over each other to gain extra privileges for themselves like other villages do, the Tivil bastards keep their mouths shut and stare at you with stone-hard eyes as if you’d crawled out from under a dog turd. Yet I can’t…’ frustration made him fumble for words, ‘I can’t find the crack in their shell that will…’ He shook his head from side to side and lifted his glass to his lips.
‘A man like you would keep a Party spy in their midst,’ Sofia said amiably, ‘I’m certain.’
‘Of course.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But the bedniak is worse than useless except for petty tittle-tattle. Spends too much time inside a bloody vodka bottle.’ He seemed oblivious to the irony as he knocked back his third vodka of the morning.
‘So why have you asked me here?’
‘To warn you.’
‘To warn me? Of what?’
He smiled smoothly. ‘Of danger.’
‘What kind of danger?’
‘Word is going round that it was you who started the fire.’
Her breathing grew tight. She gave a light laugh but Stirkhov wasn’t smiling now.
‘That’s absurd,’ she said. ‘I had nothing to do with it. Why on earth would I set fire to the barn?’
‘A grudge?’
‘No, Comrade Deputy Stirkhov, I assure you I bear no grudge against the village. My uncle has kindly taken me in and I am grateful to him and to Tivil. Who is spreading such malicious rumours? Tell me. Is it your spy? Because if so, you should get rid of the fool. Believe me, I wouldn’t ever commit such a criminal act against Soviet property or…’ She stopped and released her grip on the edge of the desk. Her knuckles were white. ‘Thank you for the warning, Comrade Deputy. I will take care. It’s obvious that whoever torched the barn is trying to shift the blame on to me.’
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.