‘I know, it’s a little over the top, but I had some business to take care of.’ She felt uncomfortable under Ratna’s continued scrutiny, but was definitely not going to tell her about the encounter with Popov. ‘So why was your day so tough? Is it Legault? What’s he like? Is he a tough boss?’
‘He’s not easy, that’s for sure. Despite the gentlemanly manners and all that. Quite demanding, to be honest. I don’t think he’s used to fending for himself much. There’s always something that he needs to have done.’ Ratna shrugged. ‘You seemed to have a useful conversation with him the other day, though.’
Something in Ratna’s tone gave Amelia pause. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, watching Ratna closely.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Ratna shrugged, her gaze fixed on the glass in front of her. ‘You just seem better, calmer since your meeting with him.’
‘It was a short meeting, but he seems a kind man,’ Amelia said, puzzled by the odd note she could still hear in Ratna’s voice.
‘It looks like everyone is being pretty kind to you.’
For a bewildered second Amelia stared at her. Was it her imagination or had she actually heard a hint of venom in Ratna’s voice?
A waiter appeared, saving her from an immediate response. She ordered a glass of wine and sat back, uncertain of how to continue the conversation.
‘Sorry,’ Ratna mumbled once the waiter had left again, her head lowered over her glass, a dark flush visible in her neck.
‘Hey, are you all right? You seem unhappy these days. Can you tell me what’s bothering you?’ Amelia asked as gently as she could, feeling like a bad psychologist, but not knowing what else to say. Ratna seemed upset with her, but she couldn’t figure out why she would be, after a year’s absence and when there had been such limited contact between them.
Ratna didn’t reply immediately, but when she did, it wasn’t the kind of response Amelia was expecting.
‘You have no idea, you know, Amelia . . .’ On the surface she seemed calm, but her neutral tone didn’t quite manage to mask an anger that was only barely visible.
‘No idea about what?’ she asked when Ratna didn’t elaborate.
Ratna scoffed. ‘You have a comfortable life in London, you have a house of your own and you have more than enough money. I just don’t understand you.’
By now the flush had spread to Ratna’s cheeks and her hand was twirling the wine glass around and around. A slight tremor was detectable in her body, as if she was about to physically erupt.
Her heart pounded at the sound of Ratna’s obvious anger, but Amelia decided to remain silent. She had no idea what was wrong, but whatever emotions Ratna was feeling, they were clearly directed at her.
‘You’ve come back here,’ Ratna continued, gesturing around the room where more people were now drinking their own after-work soothers, ‘and what for?’ A brief glance in Amelia’s direction failed to conceal an almost feverish resentment.
‘You and your cushy, privileged life . . . You’ve come here again out of some sort of self-indulgent compulsion, probably to make yourself feel better or maybe to get some attention. Why didn’t you just stay in England? You have everything you could need there.’ Abruptly Ratna stopped, as if she’d suddenly become aware of the intensity of her words. With obvious effort she swallowed whatever else she was about to say.
Amelia watched her agitated face. ‘Money isn’t everything.’
Ratna sneered. ‘No, it isn’t. Not everything. Just
most
of what makes life go on, just
most
of what makes hardship tolerable.’
‘You of all people should know that money means little to me without Robert.’
Ratna ignored Amelia’s last statement. ‘You should’ve stayed home.’ Her words were hard, dismissive and Amelia could find no words of her own to respond with. Her heart continued to pound and she could feel that her cheeks were on fire. At a loss, she took a sip of wine, wondering what to do to defuse the situation. This could turn into a scene, not something she would welcome.
In silence she watched as Ratna’s chest rose and fell for several agonising minutes. Then, visibly, as if emerging slowly from a world that only she inhabited, Ratna came out of her dark mood, embarrassment immediately noticeable in her face. Neither said anything and several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence.
When the waiter appeared for the second time, Amelia gestured that they needed the bill. This drinks date was clearly over.
As she dug in her bag for money, Ratna spoke again, her voice subdued.
‘I’m having a bad day. Obviously. I apologise, Amelia, I don’t know what possessed me to speak to you like that.’
‘I wish you would tell me what’s really going on.’
Ratna shook her head. ‘Sorry, again. I should go before I make things worse.’ Without pause, she started collecting her things, not looking at Amelia.
Should she reach out again, try and get her to unburden? The hard lines on Ratna’s face stopped her. Wordlessly she watched as she started to leave.
Then, to her surprise, she felt brief pressure from Ratna’s hand on her shoulder as she passed behind her. In a moment she was gone, leaving Amelia with a feeling of dark unease in the pit of her stomach.
Moscow – Noon
It had been a few days since the last call, but he had known the caller would be anxious to speak again.
‘How long is this going to go on for?’
‘This?’
‘This situation with
. . .
’
‘Our visitor?’
‘What the fuck else would I be talking about?’
‘As long as it needs to.’
‘The longer she stays, the worse it gets. She’s digging everywhere!’
‘I’ve told you before, all bases are covered.’
‘She went to see
. . .
’
‘I’m aware of who she has seen.’
‘Well, I’m warning you – this has to stop.’
‘You’re warning me? There are quite a few things that disqualify you from issuing warnings and ultimatums, my friend, not to mention your frequent visits to a certain young woman.’
Silence.
He decided to end the call. He was tiring of the game. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I have an urgent matter to attend to.’
‘And this isn’t?’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s important, yes, I never said it wasn’t.’
‘We both have a hell of a lot to lose here!’
‘I haven’t forgotten, but it’s not urgent.’
‘Yet.’
‘I really have to go now.’
‘I’ll stay in touch, just in case things do become urgent.’
The caller’s sarcasm was lost on him. He detested theatrics, but privately he had to agree. Things couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.
U
nsurprisingly the mental institution was in a typical Soviet building. An ugly, squat brown cube from the outside, with no apparent attempts at lessening its starkness. Not even a tree in sight. Only piles of dirty snow occupied the narrow, bare piece of land that lay fenced in between the institution and the outside world. A massive painted grey steel door was the only obvious way of gaining entrance.
The women had arrived in three cars. There were only eight of them, expat women bored or unfulfilled by their privileged lives, attempting to do some good while their husbands worked long hours at the countless multinational firms in Moscow.
After another restless weekend in Moscow, during which all she could think about was her frustrating lack of progress, Amelia felt the pull of anticipation to get into the gloomy building. Something simply had to come out of her visit to the institution. Her need for a measure of success was almost feverish and she wasn’t sure she could handle another failure. The meetings with Kiriyenko, Jennings and Popov had all been dead ends. And then there was Ratna. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse, not only in her search for information, but also in her relationships with people who’d always been on her side. Hopefully something would go her way today.
When the appointed time came, the women got out of the cars gingerly, hugging themselves, unwilling to expose their skins to the bitter morning air. They did not, however, seem uncomfortable with their surroundings. It was clear that they’d all been here before at one time or another. Amelia joined the little group as they stood huddled together, waiting for a guard to let them into the institution.
During the trip, Mara’s friend Sally, a small, neat woman in her early fifties, had explained to her that this institution was an ordinary psychiatric hospital as opposed to special psychiatric hospitals and that patients housed here were not considered a danger to society. Amelia expressed surprise that authorities would let foreigners in to do volunteer work, but Sally explained that there had been recent attempts to reorganise mental health in Russia and that there was an ongoing drive to create more open institutions where patients enjoyed more freedom.
Apparently volunteers did not typically interact extensively with the patients and their purpose was mainly to offer relief to over-worked staff. Volunteer work could mean helping with food preparation, handing out reading material or games, and occasionally watching over patients while the staff took a break.
Amelia glanced at the sign on the wall –
No. 1 Psychiatric Hospital, Krasnogorsk
– as the security guard let them in. She was aware of his eyes on them, but to her relief he didn’t check their passports. The last thing she needed was for her name to be noted, or worse, remembered. In all likelihood the guards considered the women volunteers harmless. Or even foolish, because who in their right mind would want to interfere with the crazies inside, anyway? Amelia kept her head down and stuck to Sally’s side as they entered the grim building.
The inside of the
psikhushka
as Sally told her psychiatric hospitals were informally known, was even more depressing than the outside. The dark, oppressive foyer made her wonder about the so-called freedoms patients were supposed to enjoy, but before she could take it all in, a stout woman appeared in a doorway to their right. Short, bleached hair framed her harsh face and disdainful expression. She walked a few heavy steps towards them, acknowledged the women with a curt nod and then spoke a few rapid words that were too fast for Amelia to understand. Sally replied in fairly good if slightly hesitant Russian. After a few tries, some consensus was apparently reached, because the fat woman turned on her heel and gestured for the eight women to follow.
They walked past what appeared to be an office area and staff room where a few nurses were taking a break, most of them making an effort to increase the density of the blue fog of smoke already hanging in the room. Nobody acknowledged the foreigners. Despite her knowledge of Russia and the well-known facts about the dire conditions in orphanages, hospitals and other health institutions, Amelia was still dismayed by what she saw. Apart from peeling paint, wonky furniture and tattered curtains, the place looked downright filthy. The real shock, however, came after they had followed the waddling supervisor through a set of locked doors.
Once the doors had been locked behind them again, Amelia could see a passage stretching ahead into the distance. Scattered along it were patients in various states of composure and dress. The few chairs that had been placed randomly along the corridor held hollow-eyed patients. Others sat or lay on the floor. What struck Amelia most was the silence. None of these haunted souls spoke a word. Their eyes simply followed the small group as they made their way down the corridor.
‘Now you know why we come,’ Sally whispered to her.
The fat woman heard the whisper and stopped sharply. Her eyes roamed over the patients, but then rested on Sally. She nodded in Amelia’s direction and barked a few words. Amelia wasn’t entirely sure, but to her unpractised ear it sounded like the woman had asked who she was. She watched the two women with bated breath, afraid that the supervisor would hear her loudly pounding heart.
Sally replied calmly, and after a moment’s hesitation the woman continued walking. Amelia was about to ask about the brief conversation, but Sally gave a little shake of her head, after which Amelia clamped her mouth shut and followed the others in silence.
The odour of boiled vegetables became stronger and stronger as they walked down another passage until finally they entered the institution’s kitchen. The large room, badly lit, held huge, old-fashioned stoves, counters and what appeared to be the institution’s cook, who was seated in a corner, engrossed in a tatty magazine. The fat woman moved away for a minute and Amelia glanced at Sally, raising her eyebrows.
‘She said she hadn’t seen you here before.’
‘What did you say?’ Amelia asked carefully, not wanting to give any hint of the worry behind her question.
‘Just that you were new. She bought it. For now, anyway, so try not to give her any reason to wonder about you again.’
The fat woman called them over to a long counter on which empty bowls and a tray with a motley collection of spoons were laid out. She addressed her instructions to Sally and it soon became clear that they were to serve the patients lunch. Amelia glanced at her watch – barely 11:15. Rather an early lunch, she thought, but obediently followed the example of the others as they started filling bowls, putting them on trays, taking a handful of spoons and walking back to the wards.
‘Stay with me,’ Sally said. ‘I’ll show you what to do.’
Amelia nodded and wondered how she was to set about her real mission undetected. She followed Sally and started handing out bowls to the patients. Many didn’t respond, and some didn’t even seem to notice the unappetising brown broth being placed in front of them.
As they returned to the kitchen to fill more bowls, Amelia and Sally were alone for a moment.
‘Do you have a name?’ Sally asked.
Surprised, Amelia stared at her. ‘Do you have a name?’ Sally repeated, this time more urgently.
‘Eh, yes. Sergey Alyoshen,’ she whispered as they heard footsteps approaching.