Somewhere East of Life Read online

  “Jim!” Burnell exclaimed. Immense relief filled him to see James Irving again. However, Irving’s friendly face was altered for the worse by a ripe dark bruise which had closed his right eye.

  Irving gave Burnell a kind of smile. “Little misunderstanding here, Roy, as you Britishers would say.” His arms were bound behind his back. He groaned. “You OK?”

  “So far so good.”

  Burnell also recognized the other occupant of the improvised room. Wedged behind the small table was Ziviad Orpishurda, his back to the auditorium. His large hands rested on the table. Under one of his hands was a service revolver, its black muzzle pointing towards his captives. He smoked a cigarette without removing it from his lips even when he spoke. As usual he was wearing a black SAS jacket, on which insignia showed that he had been promoted to the rank of captain.

  Orpishurda accorded the new arrival no recognition. Speaking formally, he said, “Roy Burnell, you are arrested for acts of espionage, carried out against the people of the West Georgian Republic. The penalty for such acts is death.”

  The milling about of prisoners in the auditorium sounded through the thin boarding at his back.

  “I told you this is all crap,” Irving said. “You know it’s crap. Can we stop this farce? Burnell is completely innocent.” Orpishurda rose. So small was the room, he could hit Irving across the face without coming around the table.

  “I am no spy,” Burnell said. “My credentials were thoroughly checked before I was allowed anywhere near your country. And I intend to leave as soon as possible.”

  Sighing, Orpishurda indicated a piece of paper on his table and said, “You have sent a cable to the American General, Augustus Stalinbrass. Do you deny it is so?”

  “Is that the action of a spy?”

  “We believe it is. And we hold other evidence of your subversive activities. Quite sufficient to have you shot. You understand that you are not on trial. I am appointed your judge, by authority of the officer commanding this city, General Kaginovich. Do you understand?”

  “This is lunacy. I demand a phone call to the British Embassy in Tbilisi.” He was struck from behind by the guarding officer.

  Orpishurda ground out his cigarette underfoot, as if to show how greatly he respected the spark of life. “You have no rights here. I am afraid you can demand nothing. You have only a chance to view the evidences we hold against you. Do you wish to take it?”

  “What evidence?”

  Orpishurda rested his elbow on the table and his forehead in his hand. He gave another sigh. Without looking up, he waved his free hand at the lieutenant by the door. The officer snapped into action and lifted a plastic box from the floor, to place it in front of Orpishurda. Sighing again, Orpishurda turned the box upside down. Photographs slid out across the table. Negligently, he pushed them about with one finger until five were arranged in a row, like playing cards.

  The photographs were immediately recognizable. Burnell saw that they were the shots he had taken of the mosque where he and Irving had first met Lazar Kaginovich, and of the surroundings nearby, and of a group of West Georgian officers taken outside the mosque, including Ziviad Orpishurda.

  “You took these?” As he asked the question, Orpishurda shuffled a cigarette out of a packet and applied it to his mouth without lighting it. “Our agent appropriated your cameras from a certain notorious house where you visited since a few nights. As you see, Mr. Burnell, the films are developed. So I ask, what do you see here?”

  “Shit, you know what these are. What’s the problem, for God’s sake?”

  “Yes, it’s rather a heavy problem, in fact.” He laughed. “The photographs are evidence that you have photographed our military installations. A military headquarters. Some of our officers. And the grounds in which we see open of our camouflaged field mortars.” He flicked his fingers at the pictures.

  “Mortars? I saw no mortars…” He remembered he had seen a mortar, and continued hastily, “I’ve no interest in your mortars. I photographed the mosque simply because it was a mosque.”

  “You lie. It has not served as a mosque many years. These photographs provide true evidence of your spying activities. This man Irving is your accomplice. The penalty for spying is death.” Then he lit his cigarette.

  Irving said, this time without force, “I tell you, that’s all a load of crap.”

  “I’m sorry. This is a Christian country but the penalty for espionage is everywhere the same. Burnell, do you deny you took these photographs?”

  Burnell put both clenched fists against his forehead, protesting at the madness of the whole thing. “Of course I took the photographs, I don’t deny it. You saw me. You posed for the camera. Look at this picture. You and your pals grinning at the lens… Besides, I have written permission to photograph for World Antiquities and Cultural Heritage.”

  “Only is to photograph religious structure. No military installations.” Shaking his head, he repeated. “No military installations. You are guilty. I formally declare you guilty. You foreigners should stay in your own countries. That’s the end of your trial.” He banged an open palm on the table.

  Raising a hand, he snapped his fingers at the lieutenant by the door. “Now you will be taken to a cell. You’ll get a meal. I’ll see to it. You will be executed by a firing-squad some time soon.”

  Irving exploded with rage, shouting that international law was being defied. To Burnell he said, “There was an uprising against Kaginovich by the town garrison. The Dead One put it down. That’s why they are all still in Bogdanakhi. They don’t quite know how to proceed. But Captain Ziviad Orpishurda is an honorable man. He understands that the outside world will give no aid to the West Georgian Republic while madmen like Kaginovich are in charge.”

  More severely, Orphishurda repeated that foreigners should stay in their own country, minding their own business.

  Taking a deep breath, Burnell gained control of himself. Although he had never particularly wished to be sentenced to death, he had wanted to be a warrior, brave in battle. Here at least was his chance to be brave in a theatre.

  Throughout the hours of his imprisonment, he had kept his pack slung over one shoulder; it had become a part of him. Drawing himself up, he said, “Captain Orpishurda, I have one request. That you will let the innocent man, Father Nolin Kadredin, go free immediately. He is a priest pure and simple, ignorant of military or political matters.”

  When Orpishurda said nothing, and did nothing beyond staring fixedly at a point ahead of him, Burnell continued. “Furthermore, I request you to hand over this pack to Father Kadredin, since it contains items belonging to him. Will you do this?”

  With equal gravity, Orpishurda replied that he could grant nothing. Since they were at war, he must obey orders as well as to give them. He added in a low voice, with a guilty look. “I regret this situation has developed…”

  His tone encouraged Irving to speak again, glaring through his good eye. “Listen, Captain, you know we are both here for the good of your country. Before dusk, a helicopter will arrive from Tbilisi to take Burnell away. It’s all fixed. Let him go. Keep these harmless photos, if you must, but—”

  Orpishurda lifted a hand, scowling at Irving, but the latter continued, shouting, “Be positive, man. Why try to frame Burnell? Why give your new republic a bad name? If you shoot either of us, you’ll have the whole EU against you. What’s more—”

  The captain stood up. He swelled until he appeared to burst from his black jacket. His bristling presence seemed to fill the little makeshift room. He spat out the stub of his cigarette, seizing up his revolver. “One more word, I will shoot you dead, Moonman! I do only my job. I’m a soldier, no bloody politician.”

  As he lifted the gun, Irving stiffened. He moved back a pace, but the lieutenant pushed him forward. The space suddenly boiled with frustration, fear, hatred. Seeing Orpishurda’s face, purple with fury, the lieutenant also drew his revolver.

  The door opened and Lazar Kaginovich entered
.

  Kaginovich moved not hastily: almost at a funeral pace, in the manner that Nemesis arrives to mortals, in full confidence that resistance is in vain.

  Two husky brutes accompanied Kaginovich. They were ordered to remain outside the box, and to see that nobody intruded.

  The Dead One was transformed since last Burnell had seen him. His uniform was heavy with medals. He bore the rank of general, with a crimson flash on his military epaulettes. His large sheepskin hat still crowned his narrow head.

  Orpishurda immediately stood to attention and saluted, executing these movements with such vigour that his papers went flying.

  Burnell saw Kaginovich’s face in profile. It was almost fleshless. Tension had drawn back the skin as if it were a sheet, leaving tight white lines of strain. Little cups of yellow had formed under the eyes, where a nerve throbbed. His eyes were black, staring. They were never still—such life as there was in the face was in them, an independent darting life.

  Taking in the situation, glaring from one to another, the Dead One drew back his narrow lips. He showed his teeth as if about to bite. Every movement was under rigid control. Orpishurda was drained of color, at sight of his superior.

  Kaginovich let the tension build before speaking. He held out a hand. “Captain Orpishurda, surrender your revolver. You are under arrest for propagating subversive opinions during the mutiny.”

  The captain obeyed without a word of protest, lowering his head in submission to his general. Without another word, Kaginovich accepted Orpishurda’s revolver. His head turned from one side to the other as he surveyed Irving and Burnell.

  “Captain Orpishurda, you were interrogating two foreigners known to be spies. Why is only one of them bound? Has this other man been searched for weapons? Why has he been permitted to retain a pack?”

  In a low voice, Orpishurda said, “He was searched below. So I was given to understand. He is unarmed. Sir.”

  “You ‘were given to understand…’ What kind of an officer are you?” He turned his glare on Burnell. Again the hand came out, demanding. Burnell did not understand Kaginovich’s order, but its meaning was clear.

  Yet for a second he hesitated to slip the pack from his shoulder. The little lieutenant rushed forward, eager to curry favor with his superior. He snatched Burnell’s pack, unzipped it, and spilled its contents on the table. The ikon fell out, still wrapped in its cloth.

  Kaginovich turned the bundle over with the muzzle of the revolver. At his order, the lieutenant unwrapped the cloth. The ikon lay revealed under the light.

  In an even tone, Kaginovich said, “You are a thief as well as a spy, Burnell.” Irving translated the remark. “You will be shot at once.”

  Deepening his voice to keep it from shaking, Burnell said, “This is the lost Virgin and Child, ascribed to Evtihije and known as the Madonna of Futurity. Far from being a thief, I am the discoverer of a precious cultural item of Old Georgia. Acting on behalf of WACH, I intend to remove it for safe-keeping, away from the present conflict.”

  He knew from Irving’s tone of voice as this was translated that he had said something unlikely to be well received by the madman who stood nearby. He felt icy, despite the heat in the box of a room.

  The eyes of the Dead One remained fixed on the ikon. He did not move as he spoke. “You are aware why this ikon bears the name it does. The Mother of God looks away from her Child. She appears to stare gloomily into the future. There she sees the fate destined to befall her Son.

  “Maybe she foresees also the fate of Georgia—to be over-run by enemies of Christ, by Muslims, and by foreign thieves and spies like you.”

  The melancholy calm of the Madonna’s face gave Burnell courage.

  “Perhaps more than that, General. The Holy Mother may indeed look towards the future. Maybe she sees the bloodshed that will blemish the religion to bear Christ’s name. And the bloodshed still being committed in the name of religion.”

  The Dead One fell into a rage at Burnell’s words—or else he feigned a rage. Foam and spittle burst from his mouth. He seized up the ikon from the table, to raise it above his head.

  Grasping his superior officer’s intentions, Orpishurda—who had been standing motionless at attention—cried in a loud voice, “No!”

  With a ghastly grimace, Kaginovich brought the ikon down and smashed it over the edge of the table. He tossed the shattered pieces away into a corner of the room.

  While the fragments were clattering to the ground, he flung himself at Burnell. As he did so, he pulled his own revolver from its holster. His free arm went about Burnell’s neck, so that face was pulled against ghastly face. He thrust the muzzle of the gun hard up under Burnell’s ribs.

  Burnell emitted a shriek of pain and anger. Momentarily, he was bereft of conscious thought.

  13

  Richard and Blanche

  The light was a dove, soft and gray, filling the dining-hall with inaudible music. All along one side of the room were locked windows reaching to the floor. They gave a pleasant illusion of freedom, looking out on parkland and a line of beeches almost too near the walls of the institution for comfort.

  The trees were supervising the long glissade from summer into autumn. While most of their leaves remained green, the more forward-looking had already slipped into a less demanding yellow, while the really venturesome were trying out a scarlet-tipped approach to September.

  In the dining-hall, much the same applied to the patients, male and female: the lees of summer were clearly read on their countenances. Some resembled anybody one might meet outside the institution, except maybe that their gaze was duller, their pace slower. Less forward-looking ones had slipped into a more valetudinarian mode, forgetting to shave or apply make-up. And the least venturesome were bundled into gray dressing-gowns and slippers, shuffling in their blank-eyed approach towards a kind of mental September.

  One of the last patients to enter the dining-hall and queue at the cafeteria for his wiener schnitzel defied these gradations. He had been delayed by a nurse after his daily session with one of the resident psychoanalysts. Younger than the other occupants of one of the tables at which he now dutifully sat, he walked at a proper pace, wore a gray dressing-gown, and had forgotten to shave. He ate his meat and potato with properly controlled movements of knife and fork, but without appetite, pausing every now and again to stare out at the parkland in which the Institute was set. His gaze was alert for the sparrows flitting about the boles of the trees.

  On the tray beside his main plate was a dish containing yogurt, muesli, and honey. He ignored this when he had finished his schnitzel, put his knife and fork together, and rose to leave the table.

  A woman sitting opposite his place reached out a detaining hand, calling his name. He smiled, but did not pause in his retreat. Leaving the hall, he walked a short way down the corridor, ascended the curving stair, and entered his ward on the first floor. The ward was decorated in cheerful colors and partitioned, so that each of its six beds enjoyed some privacy. He went to his bed by the window. To his partition was affixed his name: ROY EDWARD BURNELL, together with a series of graphs designed to show at a glance the state of his health and mind.

  In the bed next to Burnell, hidden by the partition, lay a man who whispered to himself in a language one of the nurses had informed him was Finnish. He had been an operative for Behavioral Dynamics SA until he blew a transponder. It was difficult to keep the slight noise of his whispering at bay. Sometimes in the night, meaningless words seemed to Burnell’s tired brain to writhe into fragments of sentences in German or English. “…nothing before her but the tiresome inexorable…” “… speaks considerably with a smile…” “the mischievous chateau leans to the right…” Once, he thought he heard, perfectly enunciated, “creeps in this petty pace…” Such was the effect of random Finnish phonemes, Burnell lay in dreadful anticipation of hearing an entire Macbeth recited by accident.

  Burnell picked up his edition of Montaigne’s Essays but did not read
. He stared out of the window, one finger tucked snug among the pages to make his place in the “Essays on Experience” (“A man must do wrong in detail if he wishes to do right on the whole…”). He waited, with a convalescent’s listless patience. Eventually, his sparrow—well, be honest, Richard’s sparrow—came and sat on the window sill. He could distinguish it from all the other sparrows. It perched on the sill only for a minute. In that time, it opened its beak and chirped. Then it was gone, lost among the leafy branches of the beech. The thickness of the glass was such that Burnell could not hear its note. But he knew the bird always came and cried “Richard! Richard!” at this particular window.

  A patient called Richard had once occupied the bed on which he now sprawled. Richard had been one of the world’s victims, too good, too kind, too gentle, for the workaday struggle. And so he had ended up here in the institution. All the attempts to befit him for what passed as normality had failed, and indeed were exquisite torture for the unfortunate youth.

  Richard had had no human friends. The other inmates feared his innocence. Like St. Francis of Assisi, he had made friends with the birds, or rather with one bird: the visiting sparrow. That sparrow had learned to come to Richard’s hand. Its small avian aorta had expanded with love of him. It was the only creature in the world to recognize the true beauty of Richard’s soul. So ran Burnell’s sick fancy, part amused, part disgusted.

  Endless sessions of heavy Freudian psychoanalysis had finally proved too much for Richard. He passed away one night without a struggle, and a male nurse—probably from Lithuania—wheeled his body away at 2:25 a.m. Next morning at sunrise his faithful little sparrow fluttered up to the sill to be with his friend, only to find him gone. Now every morning still, back the sparrow flew, his avian aorta breaking, catting for ever, “Richard! Richard!”

  Determinedly though Burnell tried to banish this ludicrous piece of sentimentality from his head, he could not forget it. It rolled before his inward vision like a detached retina. The sparrow frequently perched on his sill to remind him of its tragic story. As often as it came, he would thump on the window to drive it off.