6
Lara
If we remain hostage to our past, then we will go nowhere.
Shehbaz Sharif
I hear the van zoom off with a screech of tires, and I pull the blindfold down off my eyes. The streetlamps seem blinding by comparison. For a moment I can only blink and rub my eyes, confused and disoriented.
My relief at being able to see again is immense. I hate, hate, hate the dark. It’s like falling into a pit with no bottom. Every time it happens to me, it feels like it will never end.
People are running down the steps toward me, mostly men in tuxedos.
One of them is Pavel. He shoves the other men away, stripping off his dress jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders. He rips the note off my shirt, reads it rapidly, then crumples it in his hand. His face is white with rage.
“Who did this?” he hisses at me through gritted teeth. “What did they do to you?”
“Nothing!” I tell him quickly. “They didn’t do anything to me. They broke into the station, though. Stole a bunch of—“
He silences me with a look, reminding me of all the people crowding around.
He mutters in my ear, “Is anyone dead?”
I shake my head.
Not that I know of, anyway.
“Yallin,” he says to the man standing next to him—about twenty-five, tall, with a military haircut. “Get Baranov and Borski. Get over to the station. I’ll be there momentarily.”
Yallin nods and hurries away to find the other men.
Meanwhile, Pavel still has a tight grip on my arm. He starts pulling me toward the street so he can flag down a cab.
As soon as one pulls up to the curb, he opens the back door for me.
“Go back to the apartment,” he tells me. “Go upstairs. Lock all the doors. Go to bed.”
“But shouldn’t I—“
He shuts the door in my face, telling the cab driver the address of the flat.
I lay back against the seat, highly annoyed.
I just got fucking kidnapped—tied up and thrown in the back of a van. No, they didn’t hurt me, but it would be nice to be fussed over just a little bit. Taken care of. Not shoved in a cab and told to go home all alone.
I don’t know why I expected anything else from Pavel. He’s the farthest thing in the world from nurturing. I doubt he could keep a cactus alive, let alone make me feel better about this whole thing.
He’s like an android. Once he ascertained that I was alive and uninjured, he checked me off the list and moved on to the next objective.
I know our relationship is transactional, not intimate. He didn’t bring me to St. Petersburg for the pleasure of my company, after all. He’s using me to achieve his objective, just the same as I’m doing to him.
Still, would it kill him to show a little kindness?
Maybe it would. After all, the last person who was kind to me ended up dead. And it’s all my fault.
Which is why I’m stuck here now, biding my time on this task that seems endless and impossible. That probably won’t even work in the end. That probably will get me killed as well.
And I wish, I wish, I wish . . . that somebody just loved me. Not as a daughter or a sister or a friend. Just as myself, Lara.
I’m so fucking lonely.
When I first made the decision to do this, I was propelled by this urgent sense of justice, my desire for revenge.
Now it’s all bleeding away. It feels hopeless and pointless. I feel like a grain of sand on the beach, howling at the ocean, while I’m tumbled end over end with every wave.
I’m not sleepy in the slightest. There’s no way I can actually go to bed.
When the cab drops me off at the flat, I head upstairs and pull out the new set of watercolors Pavel bought for me.
I want to make something beautiful. But all I can do is stare at the fresh palette. The colors are so bright and pristine—while I’m so dull and stupid.
I can’t think of anything I want to paint. My mind is blank.
I sit at the table for several hours, then I go lay down in my bed, to lie awake for hours more.
A week goes by in which I do nothing. Nothing at all. I stop showering or getting dressed. I don’t read books or draw anything.
Pavel dislikes this immensely. He tells me to get out of bed, to make the bed, make some food, clean the flat.
I ignore him.
Eventually his irritation turns into concern. Or at least, as close to concern as he can manage. He drags me into the kitchen and tries to make me eat a bowl of porridge.
“What’s going on?” he says. “What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You would think I’d be happy to be safe in the flat after the terror of being kidnapped. But actually, it had the opposite effect.
Those brief minutes of fear galvanized me. They made me feel something, really feel it, for the first time in months.
They made me realize how dull my life has become.
Returning to normal is intolerable.
“I just . . . can’t do this,” I tell Pavel.
“What are you talking about? I told you from the beginning that this is a slow process. It could take months, years even . . .”
“I don’t think I’m going to survive years of this. Locked up in a tiny flat like a prisoner. Unable to see anyone or talk to anyone. Barely any sunshine or fresh air . . .”
“You don’t seem to understand how dangerous these people are—”
“Of course I understand!” I laugh bitterly. “I know better than anyone. It doesn’t make any difference. I can’t go on like this. No matter what they might do to me. And what does it matter anyway? I got kidnapped from the police station! If they can find me there, they can find me anywhere.”
Pavel stands still, his mustache a straight line over his mouth. He hates this kind of talk: dramatic, emotional.
But also, he has to admit the truth in it.
“Alright,” he says at last.
I can’t believe he’s actually agreeing with me. It seems like a trick.
“Alright what?” I say.
“Alright, you can go outside.”
I stare at him, still not quite believing.
“Like one time you mean? Just today?”
“No,” he says stiffly, obviously hating every word. “You can go out every day. But only close by, and only in the daytime. Go to the library or the park. Be careful. Keep your eyes open. If you see anybody following you—“
“I will!” I say quickly. I’ll promise anything. “I’ll be so careful. I won’t talk to anybody.”
Pavel frowns. He’s already regretting this.
I quickly swallow down five or six bites of porridge, then jump up from the table and start clearing the dishes. I’m going to get dressed and go out before he changes his mind.
Pavel isn’t any more comfortable with my obvious joy than he was with my mopiness. But he does smile just a little.
“Be careful,” he says again. “If you see anything strange . . .”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “I’ll call you.”
He gives a curt nod. “I’m going to work. Be home by four o’clock. Text me when you’re home.”