23

A shaded lamp burns in Gorya Volkov’s room. He is propped high on his pillows, so that he is almost sitting upright. Beside the bed there is an oxygen cylinder. A mask covers Gorya’s mouth and nostrils. Tumours have swallowed most of the space inside his lungs. Each day they take away more of his breath. They have moved so fast from invasion to conquest that they have already surrounded his heart. This morning the doctors drew more fluid from his pleural cavity, to ease his breathing.

The child is full of morphine. If it depresses the automatic functions of his body, that doesn’t matter now. His face looks peaceful, as far as it’s possible to judge through the mask. On the other side of the bed from the oxygen cylinder, his mother sits upright on her chair, although her head droops. Her sleep is very light; she would wake at the slightest sound from her son. Just ten minutes, she tells the nurses, is enough to keep her going for hours.

She isn’t wearing any make-up. Once again she looks like the peasant woman whom Volkov married all those years ago.

The door handle turns very slowly. Someone pushes the door and it opens without a creak. Volkov steps into the room, wearing a civilian overcoat and a fur hat. He stands by the door for a few moments, surveying first his son and then his wife. Perhaps he’s waiting for the cold which he’s carried in from the winter night to dissolve into the warmth of the room. He wouldn’t want the boy to feel that chill.

Now he moves to the foot of the bed. The oxygen cylinder hisses. Volkov stands there for a long time, looking down at the boy. His face shows no particular expression. At last he leans forward to touch his son’s foot through the covers. His hand stays there, on the thin cotton coverlet, for more than a minute. The boy doesn’t stir. His mother’s head slips down a little further, towards her chest. Volkov straightens himself again, goes noiselessly to the door, opens it and leaves without looking back.

Once he’s outside, he squares his shoulders and frowns at the empty corridor. For some reason there is no one guarding his son’s room tonight. His hand goes to the right-hand pocket of his overcoat and pats it lightly, as if for reassurance.

Outside the hospital, his car is waiting. Volkov looks as if he’s about to get in, but then appears to change his mind. The driver has already sprung from his seat to open the passenger door. Volkov says something to him. The driver looks surprised, even a little alarmed. He seems as if he might be about to argue with Volkov, but he thinks better of it, gets back into the driving seat and puts the car into gear. Slowly, he rolls away down the street. His winter tyres cut a sharp pattern in the snow, but within a minute the swirling flakes have blurred it.

Volkov watches the car until it is out of sight, and then glances rapidly all around him. He appears to see nothing that disturbs him. He hesitates a moment longer before seeming to come to a decision. He sets off, walking north at a brisk, confident pace. Soon his hat and shoulders are covered with snow, but he keeps going. It’s not until there’s the rumble of a militia truck behind him that his pace falters. However, he does not look round, and the truck goes by, churning up old and new snow. Volkov slows to walking pace, and then stops. It is now about two in the morning and he is conspicuous in the empty street. He seems to realize this, because suddenly he speeds up, moving more erratically now, and plunges into the entrance of a narrow alleyway on the left. The snow is even thicker here. He keeps close to the shelter of the wall, but stumbles on something that is hidden by the snow. A piece of rubble perhaps. He saves himself from the fall with surprising agility, takes a couple more steps and then stops and leans against the wall.

The noise of his breathing is loud, and in spite of the cold he has sweat on his forehead. He pulls off his fur hat, shakes it, and drops it into the snow. He pats his overcoat again. There’s the sound of an engine on the main road. Perhaps it’s the truck again. Volkov looks to his right. Yes, it is the militia truck, but it passes in the opposite direction this time, slowly and steadily, as if on patrol. There is a possibility, of course, that it might be a different truck.

Volkov appears to consider for a while, and then he takes off his leather gloves, puts them together carefully and drops them into the snow close to his hat. It is very cold; his breath smokes. He reaches into his pocket, takes out his Makarov service pistol and pushes the safety lever to the ‘fire’ position. He opens his mouth and puts the muzzle inside. He seems to know which is the correct angle, because he makes a small adjustment with his other hand. His hands are shaking, but not enough to interfere with what he’s doing. His breath comes hard. He seems to taste the metal of the gun and a mask of anguish and disgust comes over his face, as if he has tasted poison. For a few seconds he remains still, apart from the shaking of his hands, and then he leans forward, as if about to vomit, and pulls the trigger.