18. Witnesses
My mother found Stilin’s manuscript. I don’t know how much she read, but she was unbelievably angry.
“… and Stilin of all people!” she shouted, waving her glasses at me, always a very bad sign; “You would ask Stilin? I don’t know how you could bear to be in the same room with him. Like some horrid corpse; like being in the catacombs with dead people. He makes my flesh creep. Lucia, I know I kept things from you, but would you rather trust Stilin? Are you mad?”
“How dare you?” I shouted back, “Do I read your letters? Do I search through your things? Well, do I?”
“I’m your mother,” she said, “Lucia, I’m worried about you. Don’t you understand?”
The truth is, in the tiny flat we now inhabited, nothing could possibly be kept private. I went out and sat on a wall overlooking a vast, oily puddle between three of the blocks. When I was calm again, I could see that there was a grain of sense in what she said. I knew Stilin was a liar; by his own account he had lied all his life. I could not rely on his version. There must be other people I could talk to.
For some reason the person who came to mind was the person I must now think of as my half-sister, Felicia Pertari. She was a little older than me, she had always known where she stood in relation to my father – our father. Perhaps she would have a better perspective. The idea of meeting her was fascinating and frightening at the same time. I resented the position she seemed to hold as my father’s favourite, and yet at the same time I could not help nurturing a small hope that she would be my ally, that if I explained to her what was going on she would somehow make everything go right again. But how could I contact her? I spent hours wondering whether I could somehow get access to my father’s address book or whether I could pluck up enough courage to ask him – or even my mother. Then I found that she was listed in the phone book.
Dialling the number was terrifying, but luckily she answered at once, and when I told her who I was, she knew about me. She knew who I was, she wasn’t all that surprised to get a call from me; my father – our father – had often talked about me, she said. I had half-expected to astonish her, but she did not seem in the least surprised..
“Sweetie!” she said, “You want to come and see me? Of course, I’d love to meet you. Tomorrow afternoon? Come round to my place – do you know where it is?”
I did know: it was in one of the new luxury blocks down by the river. I can’t say it is a beautiful building – somehow we seem to have lost the art of making buildings that look good, instead of simply robust – but inside it was spacious, with high ceilings, and carpet everywhere as though it were an hotel. I took the lift to the top floor, stepped out into a little ante-room (not a corridor; there were other doors, but no other apartments), and there was Felicia’s apartment: number one. At that point I think I would have lost my nerve and gone away again, but she opened it herself without my knocking.
Meeting her was the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. Her face had something familiar about it – it wasn’t exactly that she looked like my father, or like me, though I suppose she did, apart from the pointy little nose which must have been her mother’s, and the blonde hair which had nothing to do with heredity. It was more that when I looked at her I could see that she looked somehow like a member of my family, like someone I vaguely knew already but had forgotten about. She looked no older than me, an impression reinforced by the gum she was chewing. I had somehow expected her to look slightly vulgar, but she wore a well-cut blouse and skirt; simple clothes but expensive quality and showing off a good taste I rather resented. I couldn’t afford such good taste. We hugged enthusiastically. To my surprise she was a couple of inches shorter than me.
Inside, in a huge room with a magnificent view of the meandering Indumina I was taken aback to find a small boy, about four years old, and a uniformed nanny – a stocky, square-shouldered figure.
“Say hello, Grigori,” said Felicia to the boy, “This is your Aunty Lucia.”
“Hello,” he muttered, twisting a small toy in his hands – I think it was a vehicle of some kind, “Look, it doesn’t work.”
“Nanny Van Velzen, will you take him for his walk now?” asked Felicia firmly, ignoring Grigori’s toy problem. The business of putting on coats and preparing for the walk took some time, but eventually Felicia and I were left alone with a cup of tea. She placed her chewing gum in a saucer of its own.
“Is tea alright?” she said, solicitously, “Or would you like something stronger?”
“Tea is fine.” I said, “Look – Felicia – I came to see you because, well, several reasons, but… You know, until, well, quite recently – it’s embarrassing, but I didn’t even know my, our father… I didn’t know he had more than one family… You see I went to see Lucas Stilin…”
“Stilin?” she exclaimed, “You went to see him? That was brave. I shouldn’t like to be alone with Stilin. Such a horrible man. What was it Daddy said? ‘Really, you know, Felicia, working with that man all the time, I should ask for some kind of bonus, don’t you think? He’s like Goebbels without the gemütlichkeit.’”
It was so strange and disturbing to hear her reporting my father’s words, and in a passable imitation of his voice.
“Stilin told me some dreadful things,” I said, annoyed by how childish I suddenly sounded. Then, worse still, I began to cry.
She sat down beside me and put her arm around me.
“Bastards!” she said, with sincerity.
Who knows what she meant: people like Stilin, people like our father, men in general; it didn’t really matter. In cold fact we were the bastards; but just then it seemed the most perfect expression of sympathy.
I told her all the dreadful sex things Stilin had related to me. She listened calmly, attentively; but somehow under her gaze the terrible stories began to seem ridiculous. She began smiling cautiously; she chuckled at the joke about Jakoubian’s mother that I had found so horrifying.
“Really that is most absurd,” she said when I had finished, but not unkindly.
“So you don’t think it’s true?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that!”
She took out a new piece of gum as though to assist her thought processes. “I don’t think it can all be true though, do you? I must say I don’t think Daddy would have accepted Mrs Faratrin in exchange for Georgia. It’s not much of a deal. Do you know Mrs Faratrin? She has big, sticking-out rabbit’s teeth.”
She chewed for a moment or two.
“Then again, so has Georgia,” she conceded. “But all the same – absurd! I can quite well believe, though, that Mrs Faratrin might have had a go at Daddy and then made up some fantastic excuse.”
“Had a go at him? Really?”
“Yes, of course. You see, sweetie, you have to make some allowance for Daddy being our Alpha Male, you know? Famous, rich, powerful, and still quite handsome – yes I know he could afford to lose a bit of weight, I always tell him, but still. All the other men admire him, they’re afraid of him. That’s attractive, don’t you think? He’s the Top Man. Most of the women of Mrs Faratrin’s age in this town would drop their knickers like a shot if they thought there was any chance. The other thing honestly is, poor Daddy, I mean he had my mother, and your mother, and Esmeralda to keep happy – how many women can the poor man deal with?”
“He, he told me he hadn’t slept with Esmeralda for years.”
“Well that’s a fib,” said Felicia decidedly, “He has to perform his duties once a month, on the last Friday. Check with the diary secretary if you don’t believe me.”
She saw my face and giggled.
“No, of course he hasn’t got ‘Service Esmeralda’ in his diary, I mean the secretary can tell you that he is always busy on the last Friday evening of the month and cannot be out of Sescastri at any cost. It’s true. Everyone knows about it. Poor Daddy. He told me it was like when I was young and had to brush my hair – you know, one hundred strokes before you can go to sleep?” She laughed delightedly, and I smiled politely, although the idea of my father sharing jokes about his sex life with her was not very pleasant to me, and the clear evidence that he had lied to at least one of us was not welcome, either.
“But all the other… mistresses? The junior Minister of Trade…?”
She shook her head dismissively.
“Those were all just little flings, not ongoing, you know? You have to remember how generous Daddy is. Some secretary sleeps with him at a conference, and she’s set up for life, even if they never get together again. No: Esmeralda, my mother, your mother: those are the only serious ones. Don’t worry about the rest.”
I told her about the other things Stilin had told me, about our father’s terrible treachery and lack of principle, but her interest receded immediately.
“Oh, politics,” she said, “Uh, yeah.”
She listened courteously as I explained it all, but offered no comment.
“I wouldn’t know about all that,” she said, without concealing a small yawn, “Look the thing is, Lucia, with Daddy being what he is all sorts of dreadful things are said about him. I’m sure you’ll hear many more. You must just ask yourself: is this really what Daddy would have done? We know he may be a little naughty in small ways, but he’s a good man. He’s done so much for our country, and he had so many enemies, you know, horrible people. He wouldn’t do anything really nasty. Just remember that when you hear terrible things. Don’t listen. Come and tell me about it if you’re upset, I’m always here, you can always come to me, really.”
“Felicia,” I said, “Please promise me you won’t repeat any of this. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, not even Stilin.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said frankly, “All that political stuff – I’ve forgotten it already. I might have a little joke with Daddy about Jakoubian’s mother if that’s alright? No? Don’t worry, sweetie, I wouldn’t really. You can trust me. I’m your sister, after all.”
She reached out and stroked my cheek.
“Gosh, you’re so cute!” she said in English, and then, lapsing into Dubitanian, “I always wanted a little sister. I’m so glad.”
On the way out, I saw she had a framed copy of the famous poster: my father at the May Day parade. Only his head and shoulders are visible; he is laughing jovially and is just a little dishevelled. Felicia was right, he was handsome; square-shouldered, masculine, his eyes deep and thoughtful. On his shoulders, the delighted little girl has her fist raised triumphantly in the air. Behind them in huge letters are the words “Seize the Future!”
It was her. The little girl was her. I had always thought it was me that rode on his shoulders at the May Day parade, but there was no doubt; now I had met Felicia I could even recognise her features in the poster. It was a shock for me; it hit me in the stomach as hard as any of the other, far more serious revelations I had suffered recently. I tried not to show it; I hope I didn’t seem subdued as we kissed and parted on the doorstep.
It was obvious that talking to Felicia about my father’s alleged treachery would get me nowhere; even if I could get her to pay proper attention, she wouldn’t know any more about it than I did. I now resolved, therefore, to speak to one of the survivors of the Twenty. I did not expect them to be as open as Felicia, but surely their responses would tell me something, if I asked the right questions.
Unfortunately, there were not that many to choose from any more: a lot of them died in the war or soon afterwards, and many more had gone since then. Of those that I knew were still alive, Hofstadt lived in Livorin and never came to Sescastri; Tabula had returned to Aldershot and Ventarin to New York. My best hope seemed to be D’Issigny, the former anarchist, recently retired from his Ministerial career but still living in Sescastri. He was not listed in the phone book, but as it happened I thought I knew where he lived. A few years ago my father had given me a lift down into the centre of town, and D’Issigny was with him: we had dropped him off, I recalled, at a block only a few streets away. I took a chance and got the bus back to our old neighbourhood; once there I could walk to D’Issigny’s block, if he still lived in the same place.
Inside, the concierge looked at me suspiciously.
“I have come to see Comrade D’Issigny.” I said, trying to sound authoritative. Reluctantly the concierge picked up the phone; it seemed that I was at least in the right place and that D’Issigny was at home.
“He says he’s not expecting anyone,” said the concierge, holding his hand over the phone, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m Lucia Fabrin,” I said, and added, with a strong sense of being back in the playground, “I’m the daughter of Comrade Larvartin.”
The concierge paused for a full five seconds over this, and then spoke on the phone again.
“He says to go straight up. Floor ten, flat 7.” He pointed to the lifts.
D’Issigny’s flat was built to exactly the same plan as the one my mother and I had previously lived in , which was oddly disorientating; far less luxurious than Felicia’s place, and simply furnished, but an enviable dwelling none the less. D’Issigny was a small thin man with pure white hair and a fastidiously trimmed beard and moustache; he bowed and kissed my hand ceremoniously.
He took me into a small study and sat behind a polished wooden desk – clearly an antique; French, I thought. No refreshments were offered.
“Now then,” he said briskly, “What can I do for the daughter of our beloved Leader?”
“Comrade D’Issigny,” I said, “I have been working on a little memoir of my father’s life. Nothing scholarly, you understand, just a little personal thing. I’ve spoken to a number of people and I thought you might be able to help correct some of the facts that have been passed on to me.”
“What facts?”
“Well… For example, I have heard that my father actually visited Dacsvillin only briefly during the siege.”
“False,” said D’Issigny, “First there, last to leave. He actually drafted the Hoffmann Declaration, long before the rest of us arrived. It was your father’s energy and foresight throughout the siege that led to his being recognised as the real leader of the Left in this country.”
“But wasn’t the Hoffmann Declaration written in German?”
D’Issigny flapped his right hand disdainfully.
“Don’t know – I didn’t arrive until later. I imagine it was translated. The point is, your father was the hero of that episode. The supplies he brought in with him were crucial; we should have had to give in without them.”
I noted silently that my father must have been foresighted indeed if he had brought in supplies before the Hoffmann Declaration was drafted, long before anyone realised that there would be a siege.
“Look,” said D’Issigny, “I can give you a bit of help here. I have an account of your father’s career which covers all this ground… Let me see…”
He rummaged in one of the desk drawers and took out a book which he handed to me.
“It’s all in there,” he said, “You’re welcome to keep it if it will help at all.”
It was, of course, ‘Marki Larvartin: Father of his Country!’ by V.I.Mischkoff.
I feigned pleasure and gratitude as best I could and D’Issigny seemed to relax a little.
“One other thing I’d like to check,” I said, cunningly, “I’ve been told that my father sometimes lacked resolution.”
“Nonsense. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well,” I said nervously, and decided to gamble “One person told me that when the Russians caught Obertin, my father lost his nerve and asked them not to execute him.”
“Who told you that?”
“I haven’t got my notes here… I think it might have been Controller Ursin. He said my father agreed to the execution but lacked the resolution to see it through.”
“Hah. Well, that’s utter nonsense. False.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. I don’t know what Ursin thinks he knows about it, anyway: he wasn’t even there.”
There was a short, pregnant silence.
“Your father had a stronger stomach than any of us,” said D’Issigny, admiringly. “Some of the Russians wanted to keep Obertin alive. Your father said that after the revolution decadents like him could be reformed, but in wartime they had to take the shortest way. It wasn’t a pretty sight, what a machine gun at close range does to a human body, but your father never flinched. Never. I can assure you of that.”
I tried to look calm, happy.
“That boy who tried to assassinate my father, was he really Obertin’s son…?”
“No, no, that’s garbled, don’t you see? There was a group of Royalist terrorists for a while who called themselves the Sons of Obertin. Didn’t last long.” D’Issigny grinned for the first time, “Obviously not his real sons.”
“Weren’t they?”
“Well hardly. Obertin was as queer as a three-bit note. That was the point. That was why he got the machine gun. The old Archbishop, you know, Forobdin, he used to say, what was it, Julio, he used to say, I understand that this homosexuality is in your nature, but do you have to express it quite so strenuously?”
He paused again and I could see he was suddenly regretting everything he had just said.
“I think it would be better if you didn’t quote any of that, though,” he said, “In time of war, you know… these things don’t always get taken in their right context… and now I’m afraid I must end the conversation. I have to go to a meeting. Miss Fabrin, excuse me, I hope the book is useful… stick to what it says, it’s all there. I endorse it unreservedly.”
I found myself on the street outside again in no time. I was a little worried that D’Issigny would ring my father and tell him about the conversation, but I thought that fear of revealing his own indiscretion about Obertin would probably stop him from doing that.
What a horrid revelation, and what a vile man! Lucas Stilin didn’t seem so bad to me now; he was honest with me, at least. I was convinced now that everything he had told me was the truth. When I got home I took out the memoir again.
49,538 – and the weekend ahead of me! It’s in the bag. Unfortunately the story isn’t finished.
Hmm. Yes. Rather.