The Man Who Was Saturday

They were courteous but uncommunicative. Katerina conducted herself with dignity but she wanted to weep.

The cell was painted dark green. It contained two bunks, one above the other, a scrubbed deal table and two chairs, a washbasin, a slice of red soap and a galvanised bucket.

The door shut with jarring finality.

She sat on the bed. Concentrate on the logic of it, she thought, otherwise you’ll break. Humiliation. Question: why? Three days ago I was useful to them; suddenly I’m disposable, garbage.

A shiny cockroach as big as a thumb made a run across the wall opposite her.

She wondered if she would be expelled from the Soviet Union.

A key turned in the lock and Svetlana was pushed through the door.

She held out her arms and they embraced. Katerina felt courage pass between them.

Svetlana said: ‘Let’s call room service and have a drink.’ She wore an emerald two-piece, a leftover from the reign of the pilot, and looked stunning. ‘Are you looking forward to life in New York?’

‘You think they’ll throw us out?’

‘We had one yellow card. This is the red.’ She sat beside Katerina and put her arm round her.

From the corridor they heard scuffling. A woman with a Ukranian accent shouting: ‘Get in there, you fucked-out old iron.’ A cell door slammed.

‘One of the girls,’ Svetlana remarked. ‘Railway station material by the sound of it. We’re in good company Katerina Ilyina.’

The key turned in the lock. Katerina smelled spicy brilliantine. Spandarian came in carrying a document headed MINISTRY OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS.

He handed it to Katerina. ‘Your expulsion order,’ he said.

‘But you said ….’

‘That was three days ago, this is now.’

Svetlana stood up, a little taller than Spandarian. ‘And mine?’

‘Yours? Who said anything about you being kicked out?’

Katerina froze. To be expelled without Svetlana, that was worse than a death sentence.

Svetlana said: ‘Listen you Georgian prick, if Katerina goes I go.’

Spandarian hit her across the face with the back of his hand but before she could throw herself at him an immense wardress invaded the cell and pinioned her arms.

‘If you don’t behave yourself,’ Spandarian said mildly, ‘we’ll have to lock you up with the old whore next door.’ He bowed to Katerina. ‘Read this document and digest it. If there’s anything you don’t understand I’ll be happy to explain. As we cross the border,’ he added. He lit one of his yellow cigarettes. ‘And now the contents of your handbag. A formality, you understand.’

He picked up Katerina’s handbag and pillaged it. Compact, lipstick, crumpled one-, three- and five-rouble notes, a few kopeks, tissues, punished wallet, ballpoint pen. A nondescript mess.

Spandarian opened the wallet. Flipped through the plastic-sheathed ID cards hinged inside. A couple of ten-rouble notes, photograph of her mother and step-father at a camping site at Adler on the Caucasion coast road, a few visiting cards and a couple of invitations. Spandarian examined one of these. Frowning, he asked: ‘Where did you get this?’ He was surprised, and that with Spandarian was a small victory.

Realising that it was the card the young man on the bus had given her and realising that Spandarian was impressed, she said: ‘From its owner, of course.’ She wished she had read the card.

‘I wasn’t aware you knew him.’ Him. Who? Spandarian was patently furious that the name hadn’t featured in the blue folder. Someone would fry! ‘Have you known him long?’

‘Since childhood.’ They would boil!

Spandarian timed his revenge nicely. ‘By the way, your mother and father – apologies, step-father – are quite comfortable in their jail.’ He slid the invitation back into the wallet.

‘You bastard. What have they done wrong?’

‘Let’s think. Harboured a known hooligan?. How about that?’ He gave a stage bow and walked out of the cell.

When he had gone Katerina allowed herself to cry. ‘A good man … my mother, always hardship … What right?’

Svetlana sat beside her again. ‘Never mind, pussycat. They won’t come to any harm. It’s us they’re gunning for.’

Me, Katerina thought. ‘I never dreamed they would expel me without you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there too. ‘And curiously: ‘Who was that invitation from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Kata, I’m not a Georgian bandit.’

‘Honestly.’ Katerina extracted the card from her wallet. ‘My God!’

‘Hand it over.’ When she did Svetlana whistled. ‘How did you get to know him?’

Katerina retrieved the card. It was an invitation to a pop concert. A personal one with the star’s name embossed on the bottom right-hand corner. Leonid Agursky. Pop idol, sex symbol …. And I met him on a bus!

Spandarian returned the following day. Picking up the expulsion order, he said: ‘You have read and understood it?’

‘I realise I’m being expelled for preaching Leninism.’

‘Ah, the rights of women. A worthy cause, Katerina Ilyina.’ He stroked his moustache downwards and outwards. ‘But you do understand the document?’

‘I’m not an imbecile.’

‘Good, good.’ He was pensive for a moment; Georgian spice reached Katerina strongly. ‘By the way you will be pleased to know that your mother and step-father have been released from jail. After all, why hold them? I’m sure you’re not going to be a hooligan any more.’

He tore up the expulsion order.

Striding past Petrovka’s shops in the direction of Sverdlov Square metro station, Svetlana said: ‘So it’s a different game from football. Two yellow cards and we’re still on the pitch.’

‘My parents … the son of a bitch.’

‘We were being given the treatment,’ Svetlana said. ‘The expulsion order – a phoney.’

Judas counselled Katerina. Would it really harm Calder if I processed what he told me and passed on innocuous trivia?