Nanowrimo Winner

There’s something a bit melancholy about working on a Nanowrimo novel on the first of December, like sitting writing in the classroom when everyone else has run off to play. But Chapter 24 is the last, so not long now. Anyway, are you sitting comfortably? Ahem.

23. Stilin’s advice

There was more, lots more sheaves of paper, but I could not read it all. In the end I decided it was time to see Stilin again.

But first I had a long conversation with my mother. She apologised for having deceived me about my father and said she wanted me to see the best side of him. She was still sure that he was essentially a good, well-meaning man, devoted to the precepts of socialism and actively struggling for a better society; but a man who had been led astray by Ursin and others; including Stilin, who in her view was responsible for many of the worst things that had happened. She said she wished I could talk to Juri Hofstadt; in the past he had told her that my father’s interventions over the Battle of Sescastri appeared to have been dictated by Stilin. He said that my father would be speaking and then Stilin would cough and they would withdraw; when they came back, my father was always taking a harder line. She asked me again not to believe uncritically what Stilin said, and I reassured her that I was far from doing so.

I told her about my visit to Felicia, and she looked troubled. Our flat must look infinitely worse by comparison? Perhaps, she suggested, I felt badly about being trapped in such an inferior place. Did I want her to ask my father for a better flat to live in? She did not want to be indebted to him, but perhaps it was unfair to impose her scruples on me – there was no reason why I should not accept my father’s help. I reassured her, though to be completely honest, not without a little regret. Felicia’s place was very nice.

I made an appointment and set off for Tabula House. Once we were settled in Stilin’s little office again, I put the box containing his manuscript on his desk.

“Thank you,” I said, “I haven’t read it all, but I’ve read enough. I don’t believe it’s the truth, but I believe there’s some truth in it.”

Stilin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced suddenly at the surface of his desk.

“You spoke to D’Issigny,” he said, “You tricked him into telling you about poor Obertin.”

Of course he knew. Probably D’Issigny, too scared to tell my father, had hedged his bets by telling Stilin. Or perhaps his flat was bugged, why not? Probably Stilin could listen to every conversation I ever had.

“Yes. That was all I got out of him, though – that and a copy of Mischkoff.”

“And you went to see Felicia. I can’t think she shed much light on things for you, though, did she?”

“I learned a few things. I didn’t know until then that she was the one at the Mayday parade, the little girl on my father’s shoulders. My mother had always let me believe it was me.”

Stilin shook his head sympathetically.

“Oh. Well, you know, Lucia, that may not be such a great thing as you suppose. They talk about the parade as if it were some splendid thing – that’s partly my own doing, of course, I wrote a lyrical account of it for the newspapers – but in truth it was really one of the low points of your father’s career.”

“How can that be?”

“You see,” said Stilin, settling back, “Your father was very unpopular at that stage. He had betrayed Sescastri and subjected it to a terrible slaughter. So many people had friends or relations who had died in a struggle for freedom which, they thought, would have been successful but for your father’s intervention. And all so that your father, as they saw it, could put the country under the domination of his friends the Russians. Many people also resented the way he seemed to have taken it on himself to rename the country after himself and his friends: why not call it ‘Larvartinia’ and have done with it, they said.”

“At any rate, your father believed, with some justification, that he was hated, and when the Russians announced that they were pulling out, he was panic-stricken. He literally begged poor Ostrovsky, on his knees, to get Stalin to agree that the Russian soldiers could stay. He was convinced that as soon as they left he would be murdered. But of course it was no good. Ostrovsky told him that they had other priorities. I wonder whether Ostrovsky secretly hoped that your father would be killed or overthrown – he certainly didn’t like him much.”

“The Mayday parade, without the Russians, filled him with special dread. He would have to appear in public and his life would be in danger. In fairness, there was some real danger; on the day there were six assassination attempts, though none of them were very well-planned. I believe D’Issigny told you about the Sons of Obertin. Poor Obertin would have been embarrassed by their clumsiness if he had been alive.”

“When the day came, there was more bad news. The Russians had provided us with a handful of tanks and other equipment, but on the day most of them broke down. It was clear that sabotage was involved, although you could say that that was merely the last straw, given the age and condition of the vehicles. Then the news came that one regiment was refusing to leave its barracks. Ursin said that the loyalty of the others could not be counted on in these circumstances, and he advised leaving them where they were until he could deal with them, to minimise the risk of a protest turning into outright mutiny. It was beginning to look as if the parade would consist of a detachment of CPV men.”

“When the time came to start, your father refused to go out on the balcony with the rest of the Council of Twenty: he was afraid he would be picked off by a sniper. Then he saw that besides the CPV men, there were still civilians in the parade: athletes, academics, and schoolchildren, He decided that the only way for him to be safe was to walk in the procession, among the schoolchildren: that way no-one could shoot him without hitting innocent kids. To make himself even safer he grabbed his own daughter and put her on his shoulders.”

“The people who had come out to see the parade were puzzled: up on the balcony I said some words about how Comrade Larvartin had our futures in his hands; I meant it as a glib rationalisation, but I’m afraid that to many of those present, who could see their children surrounded by secret policemen, it must have sounded like a threat; whatever you think of us, you’d better do what we say because we’ve got your children. At any rate, your father survived, and Ursin was able to purge the army officers who had caused the trouble and replace them with men of his own. After that, there was never quite the same problem again. But you see what I mean: Felicia should not be too pleased about being used as a shield.”

“My God, Stilin,” I said, “You are a horrible man.”

“Yes, I am,” he acknowledged, “Though I think you mean that was a horrible story. But now, Lucia, this is the point. I think you are in danger. This business has reminded your father of your existence, he has become interested in you again. Just as he used Felicia – I might say, as he has used me – he will use you if he gets the chance. You are not safe any longer. Now, I believe you wanted to go to Italy. I have managed to obtain for you a passport and all the necessary paperwork, including tickets. But you must leave immediately, because your father will soon find out what I have done, and then it will be too late.”

“Stilin, I am not afraid of my father,” I said, angrily, “He may have done dreadful things in his career, but I am not in danger. You are more dangerous to me than he would ever be. He may have put Felicia in danger once, but only in extreme circumstances, when he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Stilin merely inclined his head, not exactly nodding. He sat very still, and spoke into his chest.

“Lucia,” he said, “Did you know that Felicia has a young son? Oh yes, you saw him, didn’t you? Young Grigori? I wonder: did you ask who his father is?”

“His father?”

Stilin raised his eyes and stared at me.

“What are you implying? My God, you’re vile. No, Stilin, no. I don’t believe that. No.”

“Your mother,” said Stilin, with a spark of what seemed like genuine anger, “says I am a liar, though as God is my witness if I were to tell you as many lies as she has, we should be sitting here until winter came. Take these papers, take them with you, and make up your own mind. I wash my hands of it.”

He took out his cigarettes and tried to light one, but his hands were shaking too much. I had thought nothing could upset him, but he was trembling: with anger? Fear?

“Stilin, really…”

“I’m sorry, that is my last word,” he said, primly, “I’ve done what I was asked to do: tell the truth. I have warned you of the danger you are in, since it was my duty. I’ve put my own life in the gravest danger in doing so, and I will go no further. The story is ended. You must leave my office now; if you are wise you will leave this country too; but that is your concern.”

I took the papers, the tickets – there was money too – and I left.

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