The Sister

Maia reflected. The evening had been delightful. Something of the sensation of spring they all experienced in the early days of the regime had been re-kindled briefly. The friends had succeeded in pushing all sense of foreboding and threat they felt into the basement. They quarantined the practical, the political and, in their conversation, danced around them with hopes that could not be infected by present realities.

Maia and her sister Malgo had been hosting a dinner for their closest friends to celebrate the release of Elia, their brother, from prison and to express their thanks to Ernesto for his part in securing his freedom.

A few days earlier Ernesto had stood in the office of Bessario, the General Secretary. Picture windows on two sides of the room gave a panoramic sweep of the Plaça de la Republica but little light seemed to penetrate the pipe smoke, the gloom and the odour of decay in this man's lair. In the corner sat the ubiquitous Beria, head of La Seguridad. Like an oozing Buddha in rimless spectacles and brown pinstripe suit he silently observed their jousting. Ernesto knew that his currency had been devaluing as steadily as Bessario’s grip on power had been increasing. He held one of the main offices of state, Home Affairs. As the son of one of the leading thinkers of the new order and author of much of the new constitution, Ernesto’s star had outshone that of all his peers. It had a spectral quality which so far had defied Bessario’s normal methods of entrapment and disposal.

Ernesto was one of the few people – and the only one still standing – who had been aware of the contents of the missing testament. His father’s final instructions committed to paper before his death in which he warned that under no circumstances should Bessario be allowed into a position of control. His father had had his suspicions about a man of below average intelligence from a remote region who had ascended so far so quickly in the party hierarchy. He doubted his motivation, his methods and his integrity; and he feared the consequences of power being concentrated in such a person’s hands. But the testament had mysteriously disappeared without ever seeing the light of day.

Today they were fencing over a number of pressing practical issues of ministry business. Not particularly serious, this was a routine briefing where the minister would check his thinking was in tune with the Gensec’s and that decisions did not cut across actions by his colleagues. But it was also an opportunity for each to test the other’s strength and Ernesto could sense a confidence and determination in Bessario’s manner that had not been there before.

There was yet a morsel of fear of Ernesto in Bessario’s heart and through him of his father’s reputation and standing. He was consumed by a jealousy of a family that was held in high esteem and with love and affection. The only respect he could muster was the product of threat and fear and manipulation.

The protection afforded Ernesto by his name was slipping away. If he was to act on behalf of his friend it had to be now though the act itself might be the last thing he did. It would expose the fact that he was not Bessario’s man and force the latter’s hand in shutting him down before too many heads were turned.

Ernesto went straight from the meeting and issued an order for Elia’s release. In the directive he stated that the charges against him were specious and mischievous, deliberately pitting his reputation against that of Beria’s goons who had concocted the allegations, and stating he could vouch for the integrity of the prisoner. Then returning to his office at the ministry he began to assess what else he might achieve in the little time he knew he had left.

For the occasion the sisters had lit a fire in the grate using bits of timber and peat they had scavenged from derelict buildings in the neighbourhood and transported in an old pram back to their block. It was a cheery distraction in the vast rugless salon but, though it may have warmed the heavily ornamented plaster cornices and roses on the high ceiling, it made little impression on the temperature at floor level.

The sisters occupied an apartment partitioned out of an apartment on the second floor of what had once been a highly desirable complex in the professionals’ quarter of the old capital. In the manner of the Assyrians, the party generals had relocated tens of thousands of people from provincial towns, the colonies and satellite states; housing them in the decaying palaces of the beaten and exiled bourgeoisie and putting them to work in their factories. The neighbourhood was a melange of language, dialect and exotic poverty. The harmonious Haussmann tone and symmetry of the streets, buildings and parks had been marred and ghettoised. Classical facades were now obscured with partisan colours and washing lines. Stone pavements were clogged with the carts and stalls of market traders and the territorial markings of their dogs. Every green space was now tended and trimmed by grazing livestock. Chickens ranged freely in the entrance halls and courtyards of the buildings.

Malgo, the elder of the two sisters, had fussed anxiously over the preparations and the food for which they had queued and begged, bartered and sacrificed. She arranged and re-arranged the dishes on the dining table but gained no relief. The garnishes and the decorations were still not to her satisfaction when the first guests arrived and she was forced to abandon the buffet to their scrutiny.

Now, as they gathered in the doorway to say their farewells, Maia ran to the bedroom to retrieve the gift she had determined to make to Ernesto - her father’s great coat.  Gogol’s overcoat he used to call it. He had bequeathed it to her before he died. The family’s wealth had all been lost or appropriated under the regime. But he had stowed safely a number of articles of value which he gave to his children. “It will make a fine dowry,” he joked with Maia without foreseeing how much one might realise for such a coat a few years later. It had never been a fashionable item but rather one of enduring style.  A bespoke garment, light, durable but above all warm. At the time it was made the lining of marten fur was unaffordable to all but the most wealthy. It had been presented to Maia’s father by the grateful widow of a client whom he had tended through his final illness.

“That coat would keep you warm all winter in the Lubyanka ...”

“It may have to.”

“... if they let you keep it.”

The men joked. Gallows humour.

Maia flushed and smiled and looked down. Happily the background tutting and commentary about expense and waste and need passed her by among the rustling of coats, scarves and boots being donned.

Ernesto heard the remarks but said nothing. There would time for reprimands later. Now he did not want to embarrass Maia expressing his appreciation with a warm smile, a squeeze of her hand and tender kisses on her cheeks.

Whether he was taken prisoner or taken from this world. Maia knew she was unlikely to see him or to taste springtime again.