Today I have so much to do:

I must kill memory once and for all,

I must turn soul to stone,

I must learn to live again

ANNA AKHMATOVA

It was a sullen, unsettled morning as the plane prepared for landing. It looked as if all the gloating ghosts had gathered on the clouds and were gleefully sticking out their tongues at the arriving passengers.

He had promised to pick her up. He would support her if she fell; he would stretch out a net of feathers for her to land softly, or simply spread his wings and fly away with her if she thought she were in a trap; if she suffocated, he would give her the kiss of life.

He had promised her all this in the long summer months in London, and in her house near Seven Sisters, which Kitty had finally visited, with him, in the sultry July heat.

Those had been days full of words regained. She felt safe; not safe in a physical sense, but in a much deeper one, as if before their meeting reality had been just one great threadbare backdrop, as if she had always been suspicious of this backdrop and had now finally learned to look behind it. A reality behind reality. Words behind which stood whole armies of other words. Sentences that drew countless others after them, and didn’t trickle away into emptiness and insignificance.

Since that never-ending night, which went on long after the sun had risen, their first night without telephone or time limits, he had never spoken of his work again. The things he had to hide were ugly — the things he could not speak of, the things that frightened him — and she, too, was unwilling to jeopardise this fragile construct they both suddenly found themselves prepared to build. She just wanted him to stay. In her life. By her side. She sometimes wondered whether she would be prepared to receive all his secrets as the price for his years of loyalty. But she dreaded it; she didn’t want to know what price he had paid in order to be able to support her. What worried her most of all, though, was — paradoxically — his decision to stay by her side. Why was he ignoring all his precautions, the agreements that governed his reality, and taking an inconceivable risk? Why wasn’t he afraid that his double life might end in a prison cell? That his well-made play would be exposed as a farce?

She didn’t ask him about it. Just welcomed him. Whenever he came to her; whenever he decided that it was time to come to her, and stay. Only formal, obligatory security measures were still maintained: the night became their day. They never left the flat together. They never met in public. They took different trains from the city to their cottage. Sometimes, as she watched him making her an omelette or flicking through her record collection, she would go rigid with fear. The thought that he might disappear again paralysed her. And thinking about the impossibility of a normal life together paralysed her, too. And sometimes, when he turned away from her, insisted on going for a walk alone, or skilfully, slickly, evaded a question, she thought it would be unbearable for her, impossible for her to live with, if ever she were compelled to despise him. For things he had done, for things he embodied, for things he concealed from her.

But then she consoled herself with the terrible thoughts that had haunted her all her life, the thoughts she had always tried so resolutely to suppress: the murder, Mariam, and the shadowy house on the Mtatsminda mountain. At moments like this, she meekly accepted that she was a murderess, and persuaded herself that she, a murderess, a traitor, had not the slightest reason to despise another, irrespective of what that person might have done.

They never touched. He seemed unused to physical contact: she was too overwhelming for him.

That was all right with her. She, too, needed to relearn how to be close to someone, if indeed she were ever to permit such a thing again. Their days on the English coast were filled with long, damp walks and the sound of the sea. Days full of sentences sucked like sweets. There, for the first time in ages, she was seized by the need to pick up her guitar and create something new. And when he set off for London, leaving her behind on her own, she unplugged the phone and sat down in the window seat, creating new melodies, teasing them out from deep within. She always kept some elderflower cordial ready for him in the fridge. She learned to hold back her memories of the red-haired woman and not let them ruin the atmosphere. Because things were good as they were.

And then one afternoon he travelled down from London, burst into the kitchen like an excited little boy who’d surpassed himself in his audacity, and planted himself in front of her, grinning.

‘I think I’ve found a solution. At least, I hope I have.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, confused.

‘I think I’ve found a way of getting you to Tbilisi.’ He smiled his despondent smile, which for some reason always made her feel sad. ‘I spoke to your manager. I explained to her that the authorities in Tbilisi would be interested in having you play a concert there, but that the request had to come from her. She seemed very surprised at first, but she responded well and said she was sure you’d be delighted to be able to travel back to your homeland. So I explained to her in detail whom she had to call and what she had to say, so there wouldn’t be any suspicions, and afterwards she called our embassy and requested a concert in Tbilisi. As a sort of sign of peace on both sides. That was five days ago, and afterwards I had a meeting with the Culture Department that went on till midnight. I spoke to the ambassador, and he called Moscow. You should know you’re famous in the Soviet Union; young people in particular listen to your songs. Since Replacement and the Prague photo you’ve been very popular there. So, anyway, they thought about it, and realised it wouldn’t be such a stupid idea to take this opportunity and use it for their own purposes this time. Take a nice photo of you in your hometown, a gesture of reconciliation, so to speak, a sign that you have nothing against the Soviet Union, that what happened in Prague was a kind of silly misunderstanding. They need these gestures of reconciliation; for young people in particular, they need proof that we’re not monsters.’

As he spoke, she stared at him in disbelief, incapable of processing there and then the information he was giving her, incapable of believing that her wish to go back could soon become reality.

‘And what about you?’ she asked later, over dinner.

‘What about me?’

‘Are you coming with me?’

‘My plan is this: they won’t give Amy an entry permit; she’s far too British and capitalist, and she can’t keep her mouth shut. If all goes smoothly, they’ll assign me to take over Amy’s job while you’re in Georgia. And if that’s approved, then for the two weeks they’ll give you I’ll be your official minder.’

‘Ha! If they only knew you’ve been that for twenty years.’

*

Now the past was getting alarmingly close to the present, approaching at the speed of the Aeroflot plane.

Her legs were swollen. She had balled her hands into fists. Patches of sweat had formed under the arms of her white shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get her breathing under control. Strangely enough, now, of all times, she found herself thinking of Fred. Now, when she was furthest away from her, and getting further with every kilometre. But she couldn’t help imagining how Fred might find, experience, see the country that, after an absence of almost two decades, was unfamiliar to her as well. Where was Fred right now? What was she doing? Was someone protecting her, or had she already bartered all her guardian angels for the needle? She pressed her forehead against the seat in front. She had changed planes in Moscow and had had to endure endless checks, but the biggest test still lay ahead of her.

He was there, though. He had flown to his homeland ten days before her to organise everything on the ground. He would pick her up, and she would be able to breathe again. He would prevent her being buried entirely beneath the cascade of memories. She was sure he would.

*

The crowd began to cheer as soon as the plane doors opened and the stairway was brought over. They were all waving bunches of flowers, calmly and in time, as if carefully choreographed and synchronised; no one stepped out of line, no one screamed excessively, no one was insufficiently enthusiastic.

Even the journalists who did get a little out of line, running up to her and holding out their best wind-protected microphones, were polite and smiled at her encouragingly.

She allowed herself to be photographed, and responded politely to the vacuous questions their editorial departments had approved, as the crowd lapsed into reverential silence. She accepted the flowers, thanked people, and afterwards allowed herself to be led to the second floor of the airport building where a large group of editors, KGB agents, security men, and so-called programme directors, all in suits, were gathered around a long conference table. They gave ceremonial speeches, spoke of the significance of her concert, stressed her homeland’s interest in her, the dangers of western propaganda and manipulation, and explained to her the programme she was to follow over the course of her two-week visit.

They were on the third speech before he entered the room. She recognised his footsteps even before he came in. He walked straight up to her and gave her a formal handshake. His gaze was calm, as if to convey to her that everything was going to be fine.

Once the official part of the reception was over, the delegation drove in several cars to an elegant banqueting hall somewhere in Krtsanisi, where they had laid on a lavish Georgian buffet and lots of Saperavi. The officious speeches continued in a slightly more relaxed tone. She was finding it hard to even swallow. Only Alania’s knee, which kept brushing against hers beneath the floor-length tablecloth, gave her a sense of security. Yes, if she were to fall unconscious on the spot, he would revive her. Before her turn came to propose a toast thanking the minister for his speech, Kostya appeared in the doorway.

He was still tall, a formidable presence, moustachioed, uniform dripping with medals as he entered the room. She didn’t dare stand up, rush over to him (did she want to? Was she allowed to?). She didn’t know what was expected of her in this situation. But then people around her suddenly started clapping, and in the midst of this bombastic, artificial scenario her brother embraced his traitor of a sister whom he had lost to the evil imperialist world such a very, very long time ago, and for whom this almost biblical return of the prodigal daughter had been staged. All we need now is a marching band, she thought, and hugged Kostya tightly.

*

Kitty sat between Alania and her brother, eating delicious fresh river trout in pomegranate sauce and trying not to faint as people told her, with obvious pride, about the sold-out Philharmonia where both her concerts would take place, about the press interviews lined up for her, and the state banquet she was to attend along with a few other Soviet musicians. Three hours later, when she was finally allowed to leave the room at her brother’s side and get into his Seagull — throwing Alania a look that was both grateful and a cry for help — she sank into the passenger seat and closed her eyes.

‘You were very lucky. He managed it brilliantly. A very clever man,’ said Kostya, when they had driven for a while in silence. She was incapable of saying anything in reply.

After they had crossed the city and were on the narrow, winding roads heading north, he told her there was some bad news as well.

‘Is it Stasia?’ she murmured. Her mouth was dry and cracked. Every word was painful.

‘Oh, no; believe me, she’ll outlive us all. It’s about Eristavi.’

‘Andro?’

‘He’s in hospital. His liver’s about to give out; no wonder, given his passion for all things alcoholic. I mean, after the death of …’

‘Of?’

‘His son.’

‘I didn’t know he —’

‘Drank? Drank is an understatement.’

*

Stasia wept, and had to sit down. Nana was so excited she dropped one of the cups from her most expensive Czech tea set. Daria laughed and performed a little dance for Kitty. I … I don’t know what I did, probably nothing remarkable; a bit of prattling, a bit of tottering about. But what was most peculiar was Elene’s reaction to Kitty’s arrival. When she spotted her father’s car on the drive she ran up the hill as fast as she could and hid.

Elene only returned to the house later that evening, when the tears had stopped rolling down Stasia’s cheeks. Shamefaced, she slunk onto the terrace where the long table had been laid. The similarity was immediately apparent to all the family. It really was astonishing: the same thick hair, the same eyes, the same high cheekbones, even the same full lips; only Elene’s body seemed slightly heavier and softer than Kitty’s.

Kitty got to her feet and slowly approached her niece.

‘It’s all right, Elene.’ She spoke in English. The girl was clearly intimidated, and she hoped the foreign language would make their meeting easier, as Kostya had told her Elene had learned English from her records. ‘Where were you all this time? We’ve all been waiting for you.’

Elene finally raised her head; she seemed relieved. The girl with the two fatherless children looked so lost, so far removed from any notion Kitty had had of Kostya’s daughter.

‘I was afraid,’ Elene said, also in English. The foreign language enabled her to be honest. No one else around the table would understand them.

‘What of?’ asked Kitty, shielding Elene’s face with her body from her family’s inquisitive looks.

‘I don’t know. That you might not be how I imagined.’

‘How did you imagine me, then?’

‘Different from all the others.’

‘And are you disappointed?’

‘No.’

‘What are you two whispering about there, like a pair of schoolgirls? Elene, let Kitty come back to us — and will you come and sit down please, you’re being rude!’ called Kostya, irritated and disconcerted in equal measure.

‘Andro has a photo of you in his house,’ Elene continued, as if she hadn’t heard her father. ‘A photo from one of your concerts. But he’s in hospital now. After Miqa’s funeral, all he did was just keep drinking.’

Elene’s eyes were wide open and locked on to Kitty as she spoke. As if the two of them were completely alone; as if the whole family weren’t sitting a few metres away, keen to have a joyful celebration. Kitty’s eyes widened. Miqa. Miqa. So that was the name of Andro’s son. Now both his sons were dead, the born and the unborn.

‘Elene’s English is excellent!’ Kitty called to the others, without turning round, without taking her horrified gaze off Elene.

‘I wanted to tell you that before they serve up all the lies, and I know my father probably won’t let me be alone with you. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that it’s our fault, all of ours, that Miqa isn’t with us any more. Mine above all. I don’t know you, but I know a lot about you. They never told me anything, but I found out about you, as much as I could. You have to visit Andro. They’ll follow you everywhere you go, but if you want we can try and shake them off. I drive to the hospital every day.’

‘Thank you!’

Kitty cleared her throat. Then she put on the lightest and most carefree smile she possessed and turned to face the others.

*

Christine hadn’t been able to bring herself to come to the Green House and welcome Kitty. She had visited the cemetery every day since Miqa’s funeral. And she had looked after Andro, but had made no more attempts to stop him drinking. All too often he would drink himself unconscious, so that Christine had to call an ambulance, or he would end up in the drying-out cell for shouting abuse and breaching the peace.

Finally, two weeks before Kitty’s return, Andro was admitted to the city hospital with advanced cirrhosis of the liver. As she sat beside his bed, Christine realised that in his death throes, bloated and no longer lucid, Andro actually seemed peaceful. Much more peaceful than before, when he had struggled with life instead of death. Lana and little Miro went back and forth between Christine’s apartment and Lana’s mother’s place. The boy was sickly, morose, and highly strung, and Lana was finding it very hard to cope. In the past few weeks, Elene had been almost fanatically helpful. She had driven into town every day, gone shopping for Lana and Christine, taken Lana’s little boy to the day nursery, picked him up again, and above all she had sat at Andro’s bedside, held his hand, read to him, and told him all the latest gossip, even though he didn’t really give the impression that he was listening or was able to understand what she said.

In those weeks, Elene made worrying about Lana her top priority. Lana was still stubbornly, desperately clinging to her pain, for fear of glimpsing the unforgivable fact that might lie beyond it: that she could have saved Miqa’s life if she had given the film back in time. And that meant Elene could be certain she wouldn’t have to encounter Lana’s self-loathing, which would certainly be equal to her own. Because this, she was sure, would have pulled the already shaky ground from beneath her feet.

She let Lana play the role of grieving widow. Let her pain take centre stage. This, too, was a way of not having to deal with herself, with all that lay behind and before her. She joined forces with Lana in maintaining the bogus myth she clung to so persistently, the myth of the unwavering idealist who went forth to fight against the rotten, corrupt system, to drag its filth into the light, and had laid down his life for this great objective. In her own memory, Lana wanted to remain the brave fighter at his side, the custodian of his secret, the mother of his son, the woman to whom he had entrusted his heart and the most precious thing he ever owned: his film, his confession of faith. They both knew, of course, that they were lying to themselves, each in her own way. But this lie could be lived with, whereas the truth was uncertain, gave no clear answers, and left nothing but hatred and self-loathing. No — the truth paralysed; the lie liberated.

Kitty’s return must have seemed to Elene like a sign from heaven. Bringing two lovers together: her last chance to make paltry atonement. She couldn’t bring the dead back to life, but perhaps she could accomplish one small good deed; one small, sad, good deed. Andro’s sickbed, and Kitty, a photograph personified.

Yes, perhaps this western resistance fighter, this anarchist, this goddess of music would find peace in Elene’s stead, here at the deathbed of her childhood sweetheart. And she, Elene, would be able to watch her and learn how to accept things that came to nothing, that simply vanished into thin air. Things, feelings, hopes … people.

‘He doesn’t love you.’ That was what she had said to Lana, in Andro’s house — but it was herself she had meant. And she had not prioritised Miqa’s life over her inability to live with that fact. Now Miqa was dead. And Elene was still here. Just as godless as before. Just as alone. Just as confused.