No Safe Place (10 page)

It felt wonderful to have a trumpet back in his hands. He hadn't been able to hold one since coming to Moscow. The general had ordered him to keep his talent a secret so that everyone would be overwhelmed at his debut.

The First Tier Band had completed its number and the general started to speak.

“We will finish off this assembly with a special treat. I am about to bring out a boy I discovered in an academy in Irkutsk. He is our newest cadet, a boy of extraordinary talent. He is living proof that the Russian people are great, even in the most far-flung corners of the Motherland.”

“So,
that's
your friend, is it, dolly?” whispered the cadet in charge of pulling back the curtain. “You're the general's dolly? Better fix your tie before you go out there.”

Cheslav put down the trumpet and went to the small mirror at the side of the stage to make sure his uniform tie was straight. Then he picked up the trumpet again and stood ready to go on.

The cadet opened the curtain and gave Cheslav a rough push that had him tripping his way onto the stage in his too-large uniform. A bit of laughter came from the audience.

Cheslav didn't care. He stood alone in the middle of the stage and raised the trumpet to his lips. But when he took a breath and started to play, no sound came out.

The snickering grew louder. Cheslav raised the trumpet again and took another deep breath. He put his lips to the mouthpiece, but again, no sound came out.

He looked inside the trumpet. In the short moment he had put it down to straighten his tie, someone had stuffed his horn with putty or chewing gum.

The laughter from the audience didn't matter. The anger on the general's face didn't matter. All that mattered was that someone had interfered with his ability to make music.

His body began to shake. He flung the damaged trumpet far out into the audience, ran back to the band and grabbed the first trumpet he saw from one of the band members.

Back on the center of the stage, Cheslav planted his feet, raised the trumpet in front of him and blasted out “Flight of the Bumblebees” by Rimsky-Korsakov — as loud and as angry as he could make it.

Not a sound could be heard when he finished playing. Cheslav remained on the center of the stage, holding the trumpet. A tall cadet with a trombone in his hand took his arm and led him offstage, through the halls and into the music room. He closed the door.

“My name is Kolya,” the cadet said. “Have you ever heard jazz?”

And then Kolya lifted his trombone and started to play.

A whole new world opened up for Cheslav.

During the day it was marches by Borodin and Kozlovsky. But at night it was Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie and Louis Armstrong.

There were six cadets in an informal jazz group. They were all seniors except for Cheslav. The age difference disappeared when they played music.

“Throwing your trumpet was a very jazz thing to do,” the older boys told him. “Jazz is about making your own rules. It's about feeling things and living by the off-beat, not marching in step.”

Their days were so full of classes and military training it was hard to find the time to play. Or a place.

They were thrown out of the mess hall when they tried to play jazz during their lunch break. They were banned from playing jazz in the senior boys' common room, and when they tried to play outside on good days, they were told it interfered with close-order drill.

“You have not been brought here to waste your time playing such music,” the headmaster told them when they were all summoned to his office. “You are corrupting our youngest student. I order you to stop.”

Cheslav was forbidden to associate with them. He did it anyway, and walked punishment tours back and forth across the assembly yard.

One night, Cheslav was awakened in his dorm by Kolya, who pressed a hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out in surprise. Throwing on a sweater over his pajamas, he followed Kolya through the quiet halls to the music room. The clarinet player had stolen the music master's key. They all crowded into one of the soundproof practice booths and played until first light came through the music room windows.

After that, they played jazz together every night. Cheslav stayed awake until the other boys in his barracks were quiet before sneaking out to the music room. He often fell asleep in class. He didn't care.

“We need to go to America,” Kolya said. “We should all go to New York or New Orleans or Chicago. These are cities that appreciate jazz. We will get jobs playing the right kind of music. And we won't have to sneak around as though we were criminals.”

“Let's go now,” Cheslav said. “Let's leave right away.”

“Oh, we are going to go,” they all said. “We will leave Russia behind and cross the sea to the United States. What good lives we will have!”

“I'm ready,” Cheslav said.

Every night they talked about their plans. They talked about how they would steal things from the school and sell them at pawnshops to raise the money for their trip. They talked about the vodka they would drink, the women they would get and the music they would make. And every night Cheslav said he was ready to go.

Until one night a cadet from his dorm followed him down to the music room and brought a prefect with him.

The music academy had a brig just like the academy in Irkutsk, only this one was larger and cadets had to stay there longer.

Cheslav was given a punishment of two days for being out of his barracks after hours. It took six senior cadets to get him into the cell and shut the door.

“We will put your bad behavior behind us now,” the headmaster said when Cheslav was brought before him after serving his punishment. “The older boys have been a bad influence on you, but you have an incredible talent. With proper guidance you will grow to be a true credit to Russia.”

“What about Kolya and the others?”

“They will no longer bother you. There is a great need for new young officers in Chechnya. You can be proud of them. They are on their way to becoming heroes.”

Cheslav tried to leave that night but his dorm-mates stopped him.

“We've been ordered to watch you,” they said. “We'll be in trouble if you leave.”

“I don't care about you,” Cheslav said.

“Then care about this.” A fist went into his stomach.

Night after night it was the same thing. Cheslav showed up at each flag raising with fresh bruises. Finally the music master had him placed in the infirmary. He was afraid Cheslav's face would be injured and he wouldn't be able to play the trumpet.

“I'll make you a deal,” the music master said. “You stop trying to leave and I'll let you play any kind of music you want when there is no one else in the music room.”

“I don't want to stay here,” Cheslav said.

“You are a cadet,” his teacher reminded him. “The school is in charge of you. If you leave, the police will bring you back. So it would be better for you if you learn to like it.”

The music master kept his word and let Cheslav play jazz and rock solos when the music room was empty. Cheslav shut himself up in a practice booth, turned off the lights, shut his eyes and played. He missed the others, but it helped him get through the days.

He moved back to the dorm. The other boys were ordered to leave him alone.

Three months after the jazz band left the academy, it was announced at the morning gathering that Kolya had been killed by a sniper while on patrol in Chechnya.

The academy flag was lowered to half-mast and a memorial service was held in the assembly hall. Everyone wore full-dress uniform.

After Kolya's name was entered into the Book of Honor, joining the other graduates who had been killed in battle, Cheslav stood up to play.

He'd been assigned to play Chesnokov's “Keep Peace in Our Souls.” When that was done, he was supposed to return to his seat and the assembly would be dismissed.

Instead, when the piece was finished, he kept his trumpet raised and blasted out “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

A cadet in the rhythm section was the first to join in, then two from the brasses and a few of the woodwinds. Kolya had been their friend, too. They let Cheslav play the lead and when he took them off into dazzling flights of improvisation, they backed him up solidly.

That night, Cheslav put a spare pair of socks in his jacket pocket, grabbed his trumpet and walked away from the school.

He headed west, walking as far as he could. He stole food from street vendors and traveled by night, avoiding the police. He stole civilian clothes off a clothesline and buried his cadet uniform in a forest. He crossed the border into Belarus hidden in the back of a truck that took him all the way to Minsk.

By the time he got to Stuttgart, he hadn't eaten for four days.

He found a pawnshop and walked inside.

“How much?” Cheslav held out the trumpet.

“No good.” The pawnshop owner pointed out all the marks and dents on the trumpet. It had been well used at the school and had traveled roughly with Cheslav.

He slapped fifty Euros down on the counter.

“More,” said Cheslav.

“You steal it?”

“No!”

“Identification.” The pawnshop owner held out his hand.

“Never mind,” said Cheslav. “I want my trumpet back.”

“My trumpet now,” the shop owner said. “Go ahead. Call the police.”

Cheslav threw himself at the pawnbroker, but the man was ready. One punch landed Cheslav on the floor. Before he could get to his feet, the pawnbroker picked him up and shoved him out the door, locking it behind him.

Cheslav yelled and rattled the bars that covered the glass.

A police car drove by.

He backed away. He felt bitter and hollow inside.

His mood had not improved by the time he got to Calais.

The yacht inched along in the darkness and the fog. Abdul had no idea where they were, if they were closer to shore or farther away from it. He stood at the front of the boat and kept watch.

The fog started to lift as the wind came up, and daylight found the boat rising and falling in big rolling waves.

“Are we heading northwest again?” Abdul asked Cheslav, popping his head into the wheelhouse on his way to the kitchen to make more tea.

“Unless you've changed your mind and would rather go back to France.”

Abdul left him to it and went below to put water on to boil. He thought about changing into dry clothes, but decided that could wait until they got to England. Surely it couldn't be long now.

It was tough keeping his balance on the rocking boat while carrying a tray of tea things, but he managed, only spilling a little. Rosalia, keeping watch at the front of the boat, lowered the binoculars and accepted a mug, along with a slapped-together sandwich of cheese and bread.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You're welcome. Long night.”

“Long journey.”

“I hope it's almost over.”

Rosalia nodded toward the sky. Dark storm clouds were sitting like boulders in front of them.

“It's going to be rough,” she said, after swallowing a mouthful of bread and tea.

“We have a bigger boat now,” Abdul said. “It won't be like last time.”

He finished his tea, collected the cups and took everything below. Then he got out the lifejackets. He put his on first, then took one out to Rosalia. She put hers on without an argument. He woke up Jonah and helped him into a vest, securing the straps for him.

“Put this on,” he said to Cheslav.

“You think I can't swim? You wear two if you're scared.”

Abdul put his hands on the wheel. “There's a storm coming. I'm not having you end up like the Uzbek. You are going to put this on or I am going to put it on you. You'll probably beat me bloody in the process, but you will end up wearing it.”

Cheslav relented. “Just to save you a beating.” He put on the life vest and fastened it.

“I think I see land!” Rosalia called out.

It took a moment. The swell of the sea had increased, and Abdul had to wait for the right balance of rise and fall and the right clearance of a fog patch, but then he saw it.

Land. Unmistakably, land.

His fingers rose to the thin chain around his neck, to be sure it was still there.

“It's England,” he said.

“Or Greenland. Or Newfoundland,” said Cheslav. “Or maybe we've sailed right through the Beaufort Sea and are looking at Siberia.” But he sounded cheerful. “I'll take us in.”

Certain there were things that should be done on a boat before a storm, Abdul tried to figure out what those things would be. He made sure the portholes were closed and locked tight. He crammed anything that was loose in the kitchen into cupboards and secured those. And he shoved Cheslav's parcel of treasures back down the stairs, along with his own bundle of spare clothes, a bag of things Rosalia was taking and Jonah's old clothes, now clean and dry. Then he secured the staircase door.

The wind was getting stronger and the waves were getting bigger. They made the yacht rise high, then drop like an elevator.

He saw Jonah on the back deck, gathering cushions off the benches. The wind blew him flat to the floor. Abdul made his way over to the boy by clutching anything nailed down.

“Get into the wheelhouse,” he yelled.

“I want to help.”

“You're too small. You'll end up in the water.”

“I'm not useless!”

“I didn't say you're useless. I said you're small.”

“I can — ”

“Be quiet!”

A sound reached Abdul's ears through the roar of the sea and wind. It was a sound that was far too familiar.

“Listen!”

Then Jonah heard it, too, and then they all saw it.

A helicopter, coming closer and closer. It got close enough for Abdul to see its red belly and read the word “Coastguard” on its side.

“What is a helicopter doing out in this storm?” Rosalia asked.

“Maybe they're looking for us.”

“What should we do?” Jonah asked.

“Go faster,” Abdul yelled.

The boat gave another lurch as Cheslav ramped up the speed. Jonah was thrown back onto the wet deck. A dip in the waves sent him sliding to the other side of the boat. His hands flailed about as he tried to find something to grip onto, but there was nothing. He slipped through the railing.

Abdul could see Jonah's hand clutching the base of the railing, white-knuckled. With a great yell, Abdul heaved himself across the slippery deck. Waves of seawater pushed him back. He dared not take his eyes off Jonah's hand.

He tried again to get to the boy, his eyes stinging with salt water until he could no longer see anything but a blur. And then he made contact with someone.

It was Rosalia. She had thrown herself face down on the deck and was gripping the railing, reaching through the smacking waves to get a hold on Jonah. Abdul held onto her until he could get his own grasp on the railing. He shoved his free arm out the side of the boat and attached his hand to Jonah's arm, the one arm that was keeping Jonah with them.

Jonah was still hanging on, but the swaying of the boat bounced him and knocked him hard against the hull.

On his own, Abdul would not have been able to do it. Jonah would have slipped through his hands and into the water, and then they would have lost him forever.

But Rosalia was there, and the two of them grabbed whatever parts of Jonah they could get a grip on, and pulled. Bit by bit, and then in one final yank, they got him back up through the railing and into their arms.

They slithered along the deck with Jonah still face down into the shelter of the wheelhouse.

Jonah cried out in pain when they turned him frontside up.

His face was a bloody mess. His nose had been knocked hard against the side of the boat. Abdul couldn't tell if it was broken.

A bigger cry came when they tried to move his arm.

The noise of the helicopter drove Abdul crazy. He went back out on deck just as a flash of lightning struck like a spear into the sea, followed by a huge bang of thunder.

“Get out of here!” Abdul yelled. “We're just a bunch of worthless kids! Get out of here!”

The helicopter lifted up and away. Abdul knew the pilot hadn't heard him, that it was the storm that sent it away, but he couldn't help feeling a sliver of victory.

Now all they had to do was find a safe place to land the boat.