Companions in Solitude
It was a chilly autumn night in Berlin. Gilbert turned up the collar of his trench coat as he stepped out into the cool, crisp air, pausing by the door to fish from his pocket a packet of cigarettes. He tapped out a stick, pulled it with his teeth, and dove back into his pocket for a box of government-issued matches, swiped earlier in the day from the Stasi offices. A light breeze rustled the trees as he struck the match alight, forcing him to cup a hand over the small, struggling flame. He had the cigarette lit with a few quick puffs, and as he stowed the matches back into his pocket, he exhaled a cloud of smoke which dispersed immediately into wisps in the wind.
For a few minutes, Gilbert simply stood smoking and savouring the night air, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back loosening with each hit he took.
Just as he was about to finish his cigarette, a gleaming black car purred to a crunching halt in front of him. He knew who it was before the rear window rolled all the way down; it could only be him.
"Good evening, comrade," a familiar figure greeted him in a soft voice.
Gilbert nodded brusquely. "Braginski," was his curt reply, not meeting the bright, violet eyes fixed to him.
"You are going home, yes? Let me take you home, it is on the way."
Something about the lilting, stilted manner in which Ivan spoke told Gilbert that he would not take no for an answer. The chauffeur was already stepping out and opening the door in invitation. Suppressing a sigh, Gilbert took one last pull on his cigarette, dropped and grounded the stub to the floor, and ducked in.
The interior of the car was spacious enough to comfortably accommodate the two men in the back. Gilbert settled into the creaking leather a little stiffly, unused to the luxury. He cast a glance at Ivan, who had thrown his head back and shut his eyes, his face a deathly pallor. The chauffeur settled into his own seat and reached to adjust the rear view mirror with a white-gloved hand. For a brief moment his eyes met Gilbert's. They were a pale shade of blue that was almost grey, Gilbert noted. The mirror fixed into place, the chauffeur dropped the handbrake, and steered the car out into the road.
"Your address, comrade?" he asked in a thickly-accented voice. Gilbert started.
"What? Oh, uh..."
"But Pyotr, you know where Comrade Weilschmidt lives," Ivan interrupted, sitting up and pinching the bridge of his nose with a dark-gloved hand. He had slipped unthinkingly into lyrical Russian, much to Gilbert's suspicion who caught only his own name.
The chauffeur nodded once and said nothing more for the rest of the drive.
Gilbert watched as Ivan drew a small canteen from his coat and unscrewed the cap.
"Do you work so late into the night often, East?" Ivan asked, before taking a deep swig from the canteen. From the scent that drifted his way, and the way Ivan's brows pulled together as he swallowed, Gilbert deduced it was doubtless the vodka the Russian was so partial to.
"No, not often," Gilbert muttered noncommittally.
The interrogation room flashed suddenly to mind, and he had to clasp his hands at the fabric of his trousers to keep from shaking.
Ivan silently offered the canteen to Gilbert, who hesitated for only a second before accepting it. He took a sip and grimaced; he had never liked that taste. Steeling himself, he took a bigger gulp, and willing himself not to choke, he swallowed what felt like cold fire pouring down his throat, thrusting the canteen blindly back to Ivan.
"What do you want?" he said at last, a little hoarsely. Ivan tucked away the alcohol.
"Just to see you," was Ivan's reply.
Gilbert studied him from the corners of his eyes. Some colour had returned to his cheeks from the vodka, but his face remained the same maddeningly calm and unreadable mask of wax. Gilbert swept his eyes away from him, and looked out of the window to the road.
The streets of Berlin were deserted at this hour of the night, dimly lit by street lamps that threw more shadows than light. There was no traffic, and there was hardly a sound above the quiet, powerful purr of the car gliding down tarmac. They turned a corner into a residential area lined with broken brick walls and converted apartment blocks, every one of them old and in desperate need of a lick of paint. The trees were shedding their leaves, and as the wind rose, they were sent dancing and skittering across the pavement.
All of these Gilbert observed without seeing, as his thoughts were occupied with the man he had just broken in the interrogation room not an hour ago.
"Let me sleep, please just let me sleep… just for an hour…"
The car began to slow, the brakes whining slightly, and they came to a stop in front of a cheerless block of flats Gilbert called home. The chauffeur pulled up the handbrake with a creak that cracked the silence, and cut off the headlights as the engine rumbled to a still.
The silence heightened to a whine.
"Thanks," Gilbert said mutely, but made no move to disembark.
There was a light rustle of clothes. Gilbert turned to see Ivan leaning over to bridge the distance between them, his hand reaching to cup the side of his face. Violet burned into red, fixed in a vacant stare that was both anguished and void of emotion. Gilbert stared resolutely back, and did not falter when their mouths pressed in a kiss, staying mute and passionless as Ivan hungrily devoured his lips. They parted just as quickly as they met, and Gilbert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Goodnight, East," Ivan said mildly.
"...Braginski."
The engine started again the minute Gilbert stepped out of the car. Ivan took out his canteen once more, and signalled with a nod of his head for the chauffeur to pull out. He watched Gilbert receding in the rear view mirror as he emptied the canteen, licking the cool metal of the rim where Gilbert's lips had touched.
"Take me home now, Pyotr."
"Yes, High Comrade."