The Less You Know The Sounder You Sleep. Juliet Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ down in the trains that run through tunnels in the ground. Aunty Nadya says the Metro stations are like palaces, with sculptures and chandeliers and sparkling mosaics. Palaces for the People, she says. They’re lucky. I’d love to walk on a street and go on a train under the ground and be like everyone else.

      ‘What’s that, with the golden hat?’

      ‘Cupola, not hat, Masha. It’s a Russian Orthodox church where ignorant people used to pray to their god.’ I stare at it as we drive past, it looks all small and scared, squashed between the big grey blocks, but its gold cupola shines brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before.

      ‘Is it real gold?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes, yes, it is.’ She sniffs. ‘Very thin gold leaf.’ Then she shakes her head. ‘Pozor.’

      I don’t know what’s disgraceful about it, but I don’t say anything. The road’s wide but it’s empty, like the river, except for some lemon-yellow taxis and some other official black Volgas with chauffeurs like ours.

      ‘What’s that? What’s that with the spire? It looks like a fairy castle. Is it a fairy castle?’

      ‘No, Masha, of course not. Gospodi, you are about to join the Pioneers, do stop dreaming. It’s one of Stalin’s towers. There are eight of them. They’re the tallest buildings in Moscow. See, there’s another one over there.’ I stare out to where she’s pointing and see it for myself, all soaring and beautiful. I love Moscow! There are trees and islands and flowers and chocolate factories and People’s underground Palaces. Moscow must be the best city in the whole wide world.

      I just don’t really want to go to the Mausoleum.

      We drive down a cobbled side street near Red Square. There are still no other cars. My heart’s beating like a drum and I keep wiping my hands on the rug because they’re sweaty. I want to keep driving and driving and looking and looking and never stop.

      ‘Chort!’ Ivan Borisovich brakes hard and we nearly knock our heads on the back of his seat. There’s a militiaman standing with his hand up right in front of us, on the edge of Red Square. We look past him, across all the cobbles going on and on for ages and ages, across to the little black Mausoleum surrounded by crowds where Lenin is. Ivan Borisovich gets out to talk to him, but we can only hear bits, like only official cars and nyelzya. He gets back in the car and lights up a papirosa.

      ‘Won’t let us drive across. Now what?’

      ‘Nyetnyetnyet!’ I grab at Aunty Nadya. ‘I’m not w-walking, there’s a long, long queue, they’ll all be watching us g-getting c-closer! I’m not, I’m not!’

      ‘Of course not! Outrageous!’ says Aunty Nadya, and gets out of the car leaving the door open. ‘Now then, Comrade Militiaman, I have two girls here who are Defective, but they are about to join the Young Pioneers. You cannot deny them the right to visit the Mausoleum as part of their propaganda education. This car belongs to the Director of the Central Scientific Prosthetics Institute and as such is official. Everything is arranged. I demand that you let us past.’

      ‘Nyelzya,’ says the militiaman again. He spits on the ground and taps his baton on the bonnet. ‘Turn around.’

      ‘We will NOT turn around!’ storms Aunty Nadya. ‘These girls are invalids, they cannot walk across Red Square.’

      ‘Let them crawl then. And invalids should be locked away, not paraded across town for Healthies to see.’ He spits again.

      I want to cry but I can’t even breathe. Masha’s bobbing all up and down like a rubber ball trying to see him.

      ‘He looks like Gagarin in that uniform,’ she says.

      He doesn’t look like Gagarin to me. Not at all. I hate him. Why should I crawl? Aunty Nadya stamps her foot angrily and gets back into the car, but Masha jumps out of the other door dragging me with her and round to the front where he’s standing. I go bright red.

      ‘Please, Uncle Militiaman,’ she says in her little kitten voice, making big eyes at him. ‘We’re sick, see. Really sick.’ He staggers right back when he sees us, like he’s been punched in the face, and almost falls over. Masha takes a few steps towards him. ‘We’ve not got long to live, Uncle Militiaman, and all we want is to see Lenin’s tomb before we die … just like he has … died I mean … please …’ He keeps right on staggering back as Masha keeps walking towards him, his eyes popping out of his head and his mouth open. ‘And it says in all the slogans that Our Militia Protects Us. That’s what it says. I saw one on the way here. I did. I saw it.’ He doesn’t say anything at all, he just swivels his baton crazily at Ivan Borisovich, meaning drive on.

      ‘Hehe!’ laughs Masha, jumping back in. ‘That showed him.’ Aunty Nadya still looks cross, but Ivan Borisovich is laughing too. Sometimes I think Masha loves being Together.

      No one notices us as we get carried down to the tomb, getting darker and colder with each step. It’s silent. All I can hear are footsteps. I’m shivering so much my teeth are chattering. I don’t want to see a dead body, even if it’s Uncle Lenin. I really, really, really don’t. I can’t look, but I do, out of the corner of my eye. He’s lying down, dressed in a dark suit and tie, as if he’s just come out of a meeting. He’s in his own glass box, all lit up. I can see people’s faces all bright and white and ghostly as they shuffle slowly past him. His beard looks like it’s still growing and his eyelids are blue with blood and his hands have veins in them. He would hate to be there. He’d hate to be behind that glass, dead, being stared at by all those eyes. I can’t be sick here. I can’t scream. Can’t, can’t, can’t! Squeeze my eyes shut … hold tight to Aunty Nadya … put my head in her neck … swallow down the sick.

      ‘Zdorovo! Zdorovo! Can we go again? Can we?’ shouts Masha as we come up the stairs and out of the exit into the sunlight and I can breathe again.

      ‘Certainly not, Masha. Your sister is scarcely alive with terror.’

      ‘Mwaah! She spoils everything, she does,’ Masha whines. And pinches me hard under the rug.

      June 1964

      We’re saved from death by a new friend, and join the Young Pioneers

      ‘Aaaaaarghh!’ We’re both screaming our heads off because they’ve got us by the ankles and are dangling us over the windowsill, four floors up, just about to drop us.

      ‘See who’s Boss now, you little fuckers?’ It’s Boris. He’s back to have a new leg fitted and he wants revenge. They came up behind us. We didn’t see a thing. They’ll drop us, I know they will. We got dropped once before, and only survived because of the snow drifts. Now there’s only nettles. I can see them down there, I can, miles away. We’re going to die! My head’s all filling with blood, and I’m scrabbling at the wall, upside down.

      ‘Help! Help!’

      ‘Wrong. I’m the Boss. Bring them back up.’ I can hear a girl’s voice, but can’t see anything. Everything stops. ‘That’s if you don’t want your guts spilt on the floor like apple sauce,’ the voice goes on. Then slowly, we get pulled back up into the room and fall to a heap on the floor, all scraped and dazed. There’s a girl on a trolley with a great big knife. Its sharp point is touching Boris’s belly.

      ‘Crazy fucking witch,’ says Boris in a shaky СКАЧАТЬ