Solo. Rana Dasgupta
I didn’t.’
‘As ever, Ulrich, you don’t know anything. The police took him in and strangled him in a basement. That’s how we treat our great men in Bulgaria. Did you get any news in Berlin? You know the Agrarian government was overthrown by the fascists? And now it’s war?’
‘I know all that.’
‘In their immense wisdom, the Bulgarian Communist Party decided that their sibling feud with Stamboliiski and the Agrarians was more important than opposing the fascists. They didn’t raise a fingernail to help Stamboliiski when the fascists took over. They bear a lot of the guilt for his murder. He was a decent man.’
‘His head was sent to Sofia in a tin,’ added Georgi simply.
‘So then they realised – quelle surprise! – that things were much worse now than they had been before. With epic dullness they decided they needed some heroic offensive against the fascists – better late than never! – so they planned this bomb, which any fool could have seen was pure suicide. Now the government is purging the entire country. When they can’t find the person they’re looking for, they just destroy whole towns. Remember Petar, the one in your class who played football? Shot down yesterday in the street while he was out with his mother. Just like that.’
Boris’s fingers moved as he talked, but his body remained still. He was in complete command of his words, which lay at rest until needed, then formed themselves into deadly beams of coherence. Ulrich realised he would now go to great lengths to avoid an argument with him.
‘On top of all this, the Macedonian revolutionaries are going crazy. Assassinations every week. We all sympathise with their cause but they’re making things much worse.’
On the wall was a framed sketch of Boris. The artist had drawn only one continuous line, but in its charcoal loops and zigzags it captured exactly the way he looked. There were a number of photographs of Boris and friends in theatrical make-up.
‘You saw this?’ said Boris, noticing his gaze. He passed the photograph down to Ulrich. ‘That’s me playing a Balkan shepherd. I was acting in this theatre group until it became too dangerous. Geo Milev designed the stage set full of skyscrapers. The shepherd wanders in among the colossal geometry with his stubble and his flute, and the sky is the only thing he can recognise.’
In another part of the house, Magdalena began to play the piano.
‘The prime minister has told the British, French and Americans that the whole problem is caused by communist terrorists, which is just what they want to hear. They’ve given him seven thousand extra troops to murder us with. I suppose we should be flattered, eh, Georgi? You see what firepower they need to defeat the thoughts in our heads?’
Georgi said, with a thin-lipped smile that Ulrich found condescending,
‘How is it you don’t know all this, Ulrich?’
‘He’s been in Berlin for three years,’ said Boris. ‘Studying chemistry. He doesn’t like politics.’
‘Chemistry?’ said Georgi. ‘Do you know how to make bombs?’
Boris glared.
‘I said he doesn’t like politics.’
Georgi said, not looking at Ulrich,
‘Your friend doesn’t have that choice any more. There is no life outside politics now. There’s not space enough for the toes of one foot. People like him will be mad in the streets one day, talking to themselves.’
In the other room, Magdalena paused in her music. Boris said,
‘She’s playing for you, Ulrich. Ever since she heard you were back she’s been asking me when you are coming to see us. We’ve talked about you often, these years.’
Ulrich considered Boris’s face. He felt it had acquired new expressions since he last saw him, and at times it could look entirely unfamiliar.
Boris said,
‘Georgi and I have been involved in several operations. He’s a forger. He makes visas for people going abroad. They go to Paris to learn how to make bombs and they come back having learned only how to write poetry, which they think is more explosive. I write for some of the underground newspapers. I’ll show you some of my articles some day. You’d be proud of me. Many important people have made it known that they admire my analyses!’
He laughed.
‘But the imbalance of forces is too great at present. Everything is aligned against us. At this point, the greatest service I can render to the world is to stay alive. My parents are suffering with all this, and Magda too. It’s time to get out and let someone else deal with these bastards.’
He drained his vodka.
‘By the way – you’ll like this story – my father sold an invention to your Germans. Have you heard of a company called BASF? They bought a compound he invented. You’ll have to ask him – he loves talking about it.’
‘What was it?’
‘Some kind of resin. He’s been messing around with trees for years, and we never took any notice, and finally he’s come up with something that people want. It’s a new material that’s useful for electrical insulation, apparently. They paid him quite a lot of money for it!’
Georgi yawned inimically, showing his teeth.
‘I should leave,’ he said. ‘Getting late.’
Boris thought for a moment.
‘Let’s all go,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a drink to celebrate your return, Ulrich, and then I’ll go home with Georgi. He has an apartment on his own; no one knows the address. I try not to sleep here, because they often come at night.’
They made to depart. Magdalena was still playing the piano, now some modern work that Ulrich did not know. It was strident and brave, and he looked towards the closed door. Boris smiled.
‘Let me call her.’
She came out of the room, her shirtsleeves rolled up.
‘Goodbye, Magdalena,’ said Ulrich, and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Goodbye!’ she said. She came to the door as they stepped out into the street, and she called after Ulrich,
‘We are all so happy to have you back.’
They wandered through the square around the Alexander Nevski church, whose vastness made it tranquil in spite of the remaining trinket sellers, and the packs of roaming youths. The golden domes were lit up, and the moon shone overhead, almost full.
‘Do you remember this, Ulrich? Berlin hasn’t crushed your memories?’
‘It’s coming back.’
Boris carried an umbrella, the same one from the old days.
‘I haven’t been to Berlin. Or anywhere very much. But I think nowhere else has this altitude. I still love the way that you can look down our streets in the afternoon and see them walled off by cloud. That’s when you feel that the city lives up to its name. A city called Wisdom should float on clouds.’
‘What about a city called Murder?’ offered Georgi. ‘That would need a veil around it.’
Boris sniggered boyishly.
‘Georgi pretends he’s a revolutionary,’ he said. ‘But look at the quality of his suit. His father owns coal mines: you should see the house they have. Even the flies wipe their feet before they go in there.’
Georgi scowled.
‘Have you seen the police?’ Boris asked. ‘Lining every street? That must be new for you. Everywhere you go they’re watching. You should see them when they give chase on horseback. I never realised what