The Betrayal Read online

  ‘Killing the rabbit first, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  She’d found the idea faintly obscene – it was something to do with the confusion of human and animal – but as it turned out they’d never needed to make use of the knowledge.

  It must be past three in the morning. Everything happens slowly, surely, as if it has always been destined to happen in exactly this way. Andrei is on top of Anna, entering her. Suddenly he smiles, unguarded and childlike, so that her whole body seems to melt with love for him. She has never felt so undefended, or so safe.

  Later, after he’s fallen asleep, she lies awake for hours. She feels as if she has reached the top of a mountain from which she can see the whole world. She is certain that she has conceived.

  12

  Anna holds the hands of two little girls while several more cluster around her legs. Some of the littlest ones find outdoor play overwhelming, and even on the coldest days the children are outdoors for at least an hour. In summer they spend much of their day in the courtyard or on the verandah. They’re very lucky to have so much outdoor space – grass, and asphalt too for rainy days – but today, in a cold, blustery October wind, Anna will be glad enough when it’s time to take the children indoors. In a minute she’ll get them going with another game of tag, or a race. Little Masha needs to run about; she must be frozen. Not only is she clinging to Anna’s hand, but she’s also rubbing her face against it. She’s a nervous, sensitive child who looks on with dread at the bigger children with their flaring red cheeks and pounding boots as they rush across the yard.

  ‘Mashenka, do you want to run a little race with me? How about you, Tanya? Shall we see who can run fastest over to the silver birch?’

  They are so lucky. They have trees for shade, and a concrete pool (empty now) for the children to splash about in during the hottest days of summer. Anna has to hand it to Morozova: she has a genius for extracting ‘special funds’ for the nursery and is forever on the alert for new initiatives of which they can be at the forefront …

  ‘Have you heard?’ demands Irina. Irina isn’t braceleted with children; she packs her ‘clingers’ off with a sharp word, and they soon learn not to come to her. Anna suspects that even Irina disapproves of her softness. These children need to be socialized, for goodness’ sake, and they won’t learn by holding on to Anna’s skirts.

  But they learn this way too, Anna believes. The shy or fragile children grow more confident if they’re allowed to take things slowly. They start off silent, then they’re talking to me, then I can get them talking to one another. Soon we can play a little game, and then other children come along to join in and there you are. They’re all playing together.

  ‘Just a minute, Irinochka, let me give these little ones a race and then I’ll be with you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be running in your condition.’

  Anna feels a warm flush of pleasure, but answers, ‘It’s fine. Come on, Mashenka, Tanya – and you, Vova, I bet you’re good at running. Let’s see who can get to the silver birch first. One, two, three, GO.’

  She drops her arm, and they’re off. Anna jogs with them, keeping the pace. Nervy little Mashenka, to everyone’s surprise, covers the ground first. She hangs her head as they all clap her, but Anna catches a glimpse of a smile.

  ‘What were you going to tell me about, then, Irinochka?’ she asks when she comes back. What fresh horrors are in store for us? But of course she doesn’t ask this question aloud, not even of Irina.

  Irina frowns. ‘It’s no joke. Morozova’s latest is that we’ve got to mark the kids’ drawings. Just think of what that’s going to mean. Every single one’s got to be graded and put in a file so we can do a progress assessment every six months. How much time’s that going to take?’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘ “Oh dear”? Anna, just think about it, it’s worth a bit more than “Oh dear”.’

  ‘The last statistics lecture I went to, one of the group was telling us they’ve started marking the artwork at their place. Some of the parents don’t like it apparently. But they’ve got different parents from ours. Theirs are all teachers and university professors. Ours probably wouldn’t complain.’ Because they’re cowed by Morozova, she doesn’t add, who represents to them the voice of the high-ups themselves. You can laugh at her behind her back, you can grumble all you like, but you know she’ll get her way.

  ‘It’s not the parents I’m bothered about, it’s us,’ declares Irina. ‘Every week it gets worse. More boxes to tick, more things to get wrong. You’re so lucky, you’ll be getting a break from it soon. My God, if I were in your position I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t, you’d be bored to death. Look at all the freedom you have.’

  ‘Freedom to work all my life until I’m one of those poor old half-crazy women bargaining over the price of chicken feet? What kind of freedom is that? Sometimes I really think that’s what’s going to happen to me. I’ll work until I’m worn out. Can you imagine still lugging these kids about when you’re coming up to sixty? There’ll be a hundred times as many forms to fill in by then. I won’t meet anyone. I’ll never have children of my own.’

  How angry and bitter she sounds. ‘Irinochka, don’t. You’re lovely. Someone will snap you up, just wait.’

  ‘Who will? The men who should have married me are dead. The younger men – the ones who weren’t in the war – they want the really young girls, not old hags like me. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anna, how many kids do you want hanging off your arms? Tell them to shove off and play!’

  ‘They will in a minute. Vova, can you start the race for us this time? Just say, “One, two, three, GO,” and bring your hand down like this. All you others, don’t move until Vova says, “GO.” I’ll watch and see if you’re all running your very hardest.’

  Irina and Anna watch as Vova holds up his hand proudly, ready to give the signal just as Anna gave it. The little ones jostle themselves into a line.

  ‘One, two, three, GO!’ shouts Vova in his thin, clear voice, and the children surge forward. But Masha doesn’t make it. She trips and falls forward on to the asphalt as the others pelt away towards the birch tree. Anna hurries forward to pick her up.

  ‘No, you idiot, let me!’ shouts Irina. ‘You can’t go picking up these kids now.’

  Masha is all right once she has got her breath back. Fortunately she is so thickly wrapped in her padded jacket, scarf and woollen helmet that her face has not even touched the ground. She doesn’t cry.

  ‘Good girl! Now off you go to the others and see who’s won. Thanks, Irinochka, I know I shouldn’t be lifting them, but sometimes you can’t help it.’

  ‘Yes, you can help it. You’ve got to put yourself first. Morozova’s not going to care if you have a miscarriage in the cause of picking up some snotty kid.’

  ‘I should be all right now,’ says Anna. ‘It’s past four months.’

  ‘All the same, you’ve got to be careful.’

  Irina is so interested in Anna’s pregnancy. It’s almost as if Anna were having the baby for both of them. Three weeks after she heard Anna was pregnant, she brought in a beautifully wrapped paper parcel. In it was a cobwebby white knitted jacket.

  ‘Did you make that yourself, Irina?’

  Irina shook her head, laughing. ‘No chance. I bribed my sister. She knits so fast you can’t even see the needles.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. He can wear it on special occasions.’

  ‘Do you think it’s going to be a boy?’

  ‘No, not really. I suppose I only say “he” because I’m used to Kolya.’

  ‘I expect your husband wants a boy,’ said Irina, nodding her head and looking wise.

  ‘I don’t think he cares, as long as it’s healthy. That’s the trouble with being a doctor. They see so much disease and suffering that they forget a normal child is really quite common.’

  Irina fingered the delicate wool. ‘You put it on over the wa
rm layers. It’s decorative, really.’

  ‘It’s perfect. You could never buy anything like this in the shops.’

  The two women embraced. As they separated, Irina asked with apparent casualness, ‘What does it feel like, Anna?’

  ‘You mean being pregnant?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t feel very pregnant yet. In a way nothing’s changed, but at the same time everything’s changed. Also, I feel hungry all the time but when I start eating I wonder why I’m putting the food in my mouth.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat.’

  ‘Well, of course. It’s just that everything tastes different.’

  Irina sighed. ‘Isn’t it strange? A few weeks ago you were just like me – except you were married, of course – and now everything’s completely different for you. All your future, and everything.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She couldn’t tell Irina about the crazy, fearful exultation that sometimes came over her in the dead of night, long after Andrei had fallen asleep. Her waking self told her not to be too confident. She might easily miscarry; these were early days. But her secret self was sure. She would hold her own child in her arms at last. Those were things you couldn’t say to anyone else, especially not to Irina.

  The wind is growing colder, and swinging round to the north-east. Snow will come soon. The last ragged leaves will be swept off the trees, and the children will squeal with excitement when the first flakes drift past the windows, and then thicken, resolving themselves into a true snowfall, the first of the year. For the children, it’s so long since last year’s snows melted. They stare with wide, startled eyes at the new world, and then fling themselves out into it.

  ‘The real trouble with Morozova,’ grumbles Irina, ‘is that she’s absolutely determined to get this nursery on to “the cutting edge of early-years excellence”. “Cutting edge”! I ask you. She’s so sharp she’ll cut herself one of these days.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that, Irinochka.’

  ‘Only to you. You’re so calm, Anna, I don’t know how you do it.’

  Anna feels a stab of shame. She is always cautious, even with Irina, but Irina trusts Anna enough to share indiscretions with her. Anna wishes she could be more open, but it’s impossible. Only with Andrei; and even then there are thoughts she keeps to herself. It’s the way she was brought up, no doubt.

  ‘I expect there’ll be a course on criteria for early-years drawing assessment,’ she says, deadpan, to make up.

  ‘And you’ll be sent on it. Morozova always sends you. She thinks I’m thick as a brick.’

  ‘She most certainly doesn’t! That’s ridiculous. You’re our resident hygiene expert, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Theory and practice of scrubbing hands and bums, that’s me.’

  ‘That’s all of us. Come on, it’s nearly half past, we’d better get them in.’

  *

  Andrei has a meeting about sanatoria quotas. It’s a subject dear to his heart. Thalassotherapy, in particular, has a proven record of success with certain types of rheumatism. The problem is getting the beds for the children who really need them: those whose joint articulation is so impaired that they are developing compensating abnormalities of gait and flexion.

  In theory, the main criterion for the sanatorium beds is need; in practice, there’s a hierarchy, which not only excludes many who could benefit from treatment, but also vigorously defends its own interests.

  It’s a long, bruising meeting. Sometimes he wonders if he’s doing more harm than good to his patients by arguing for them.

  ‘I hope you understand, Dr Alekseyev, that we have to apply the most rigorous and impartial selection procedures.’

  ‘Naturally I understand that.’

  ‘We cannot allow the slightest appearance of special pleading. Your patient group is only one of many that have strong claims to the forty-day-treatment allocation at the Red Star sanatorium. You are aware that there is pioneering work under way with children who suffer from recurrent pneumonia. The climate of the Yalta region is considered particularly beneficial to these patients.’

  ‘And who is the clinician in charge of the pneumonia cases?’ asks Andrei blandly. He knows the answer, and they know that he knows it.

  ‘Dr E. V. Denisova is in charge of the research project.’

  I bet she is. One of the most single-minded careerists he’s ever met. An average doctor, but as an operator her style verges on the brilliant. Between him and Denisova, there’s no contest. But all the same, just for the hell of it, he’ll fight it out.

  ‘How many beds are available to us?’

  Rustling of papers. Sideways glances. ‘For the forty-day treatment, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘According to my latest information, we have been offered a package of twenty-eight beds for the period 1st May to 10th June next year.’

  ‘Twenty-eight beds! But that’s exceptionally generous, surely. We’ve never been offered so many at the Red Star before. Couldn’t we divide up the beds between our specialities?’

  ‘But you must understand that this is a block allocation. The purpose of the allocation would be most satisfactorily answered by sending a cohort of patients under the care of a particular specialist.’

  ‘I am sure I could find twenty-eight patients, if that’s what’s required.’ He’s determined to push this one to the limits. His only weapon is an assumption of naivety, so that they are forced to explain themselves. But he feels weary. Maybe he should give in, and let Denisova have those beds.

  More rustling of papers. Impatient, irritated looks. Doesn’t Alekseyev have the sense to understand that the deal is already done?

  ‘I believe’ – stiffly, with an air of reproof – ‘that it is chiefly due to the initiative of Dr E. V. Denisova that this very significant and satisfactory allocation has been made to us. It seems only reasonable, therefore, that her excellent pioneering research work should represent the hospital in the therapeutic setting of the Red Star.’

  And Denisova hasn’t even had to turn up and alienate people. Those Red Star places have rolled on to her plate like fat, sweet dumplings. No doubt she’s worked hard enough for them, though, behind the scenes.

  ‘I fully understand the importance of sanatorium provision in the case of children with recurrent pneumonia,’ he says quietly. ‘That is not the issue. Equally, I’m sure that Dr Denisova’s work is of high quality and deserves support. But all the same, I’m obliged to make the case for my own patients. I think I’m right in saying that twenty-eight beds is an exceptional allocation. Early intervention is vital for my patients. Otherwise, frankly, the benefit that they can derive from rehabilitation decreases sharply. We end up with severely disabled patients. In some cases – not in all, I’m certainly not saying that – early, intensive physical therapy and thalassotherapy have been proven to be beneficial. I’d like to cite the research of Dr I. S. Makarov, published in Moscow last year. I’d be glad to provide copies to this committee. I’m not asking for twenty-eight beds, or even half that number. Even five beds would make an enormous difference to patient outcomes.’

  He has much more to say. He would like a great deal more detail about the patients involved in Denisova’s research, her treatment outcomes to date, and what other resources she has already managed to secure. But no. The whole thing is tied up already. Either they are discussing this provision disinterestedly and professionally, or they are not. Why bang on a closed door?

  He’s getting cynical. He never thought that would happen to him. Sometimes he just wants to say: Enough. Have it your way, and see what comes of it. But he can’t. The system, for all its faults, is a million times better than what was there for these children before. His little Tanyas are entitled to treatment, and on the whole they get it. Things are not perfect, but every system has its committees, its Denisovas, Russovs and Retinskayas.

  You have to remain hopeful. You have to believe that what you do makes a difference
.

  ‘You are very eloquent on behalf of your patients, young man,’ says old Gerasimov, who has been silent until now. He’s one of the old school. He must be close to sixty now. In his youth he was a medic with the Red Army, during the Civil War. He’s a Party member who has somehow survived everything and remained a decent man. There is a glint of sympathy in his stern face. He won’t like Denisova’s machinations – or her backers – but he will believe that ‘for the greater good’ the committee must show a united front.

  ‘I hope I am,’ replies Andrei.

  ‘But in this case, I am afraid we must disappoint you.’

  Andrei looks around the committee members. They regard him – or avoid his glance – with an air of faint annoyance. Some scribble busily on their memo pads. Others stretch exaggeratedly, as if to emphasize how physically taxing it is to sit in a chair for hours and make decisions. These committees are certainly burdensome, but one has to do one’s duty. Andrei knows them all, and yet he has a sudden certainty that if he were drowning, not one would reach out a hand. Except old Gerasimov, perhaps.

  He nods, gets up from his chair, thanks the committee and makes his exit.

  It’s good to go straight to Radiology and the consoling presence of real work. He needs to talk to Sofya about a couple of X-rays that have to be redone. If she’s got a minute, maybe they can get some tea and have a quick chat about how things are going. She’s always asking after Anna these days. Funny how all the women are so interested in Anna’s pregnancy, whereas the men, after initial congratulations, say nothing. It’s natural enough, he supposes. In fact, now he looks back, plenty of his colleagues must have become fathers without more than a conventional word from Andrei.

  But everything changes when it’s your own. Once or twice he’s even said the words aloud: ‘my son’ or ‘my daughter’. He felt like an imposter, but he supposes that once the baby is born, it will seem quite natural. A child; their child. His child. When she first told him, tears came to his eyes. He knew then how much he’d wanted this without daring to realize how much he wanted it. He had almost given up hope. He and Anna were young and strong and it was years since they’d used any form of contraception. If they were able to have a child together, it would have happened by now. He’d never wanted to drag her into the misery of clinical investigations. Nothing was more likely to ruin their happiness. He knew enough; gently, he tried to make sure they did everything that would give them the best possible chance of conception.