The first thing she noticed were his arms. Gossip had told her to look; she simply obeyed, and she was sure she was not the only one to risk a long sidelong glance at the man when he came, carrying a heavy box filled with stationary, into the office. Three-quarters concealed beneath his shirt sleeves, what little she saw might have been a disappointment, were it not for the dark lines which crept down past his his wrists like venal poison, spreading into shapes she could not make out across his hands.
Prison tattoos, Veronika had said. All over, said others, who had made out that Ilya Sobolevsky was a walking criminal canvas. Apart from what was exposed of his arms, however, she did not see anything to warrant the rest of the rumours that had been flying around about him.
She tore her eyes away, not wishing the be rude, and hoping to God he had not caught her staring. No, that sort of first impression was to be avoided.
Instead, she shot a brief glance at his companion, putting faces to the names that had played so prominent a part in the inter-departmental gossip of the past few months. Blake, she pegged in a moment, so well did his manner fit his reputation. She knew, too, that he was American, though there was little to suggest it in his appearance. Being Finnish herself, Anna had little of the prejudice shared by most of her colleagues toward people from different countries: they may have been dealing with the Russian national image, but at the end of the day, it was always just a job, and everyone needed to make their way somehow. American, then, but not in the way she had read about in the papers; no American fitting that description as unreliable at the best of times to work here. No, she thought, I will believe it when I see it.
It was not until after lunch that Anna saw them again. Ushered between the rows of files in the Open Room, with Nina spelling out the filing system in dogmatic detail, her voice that of an air-hostess, or a theatre steward, directing them towards their designated seats. It reminded Anna of her first day in the department; very little of the procedure had changed since then. All those numbers, hundreds and thousands of seemingly unconnected combinations of figures, the numerical map which came to dominate the life of the archivist.
Within a year, the pair of them would be able to bark out the reference number of any type of file on record, depending on its contents, departmental code and title. Once they had that down, she thought, the department would be their playground as it was hers; the shelves would acquire that special, musty familiarity she always felt when she passed into the Closed storage and they, too, would find their favourite sections and sub-sections. This would be their gift, also, regardless what they had or had not done in the past.
The initial confusion the system instilled in new archivists was as much an ice-breaker as it was a steep learning-curve. Nobody, not even the most stubborn or skilled rookie could get through their first week without asking someone for help. And helping-hands soon became close friends in a place like this, where gossip flowed as freely as coffee rounds from the kitchen.
As she returned to her typing, Nina’s words brought an idea to the forefront of her mind.
Prison tattoos, Veronika had said. All over, said others, who had made out that Ilya Sobolevsky was a walking criminal canvas. Apart from what was exposed of his arms, however, she did not see anything to warrant the rest of the rumours that had been flying around about him.
She tore her eyes away, not wishing the be rude, and hoping to God he had not caught her staring. No, that sort of first impression was to be avoided.
Instead, she shot a brief glance at his companion, putting faces to the names that had played so prominent a part in the inter-departmental gossip of the past few months. Blake, she pegged in a moment, so well did his manner fit his reputation. She knew, too, that he was American, though there was little to suggest it in his appearance. Being Finnish herself, Anna had little of the prejudice shared by most of her colleagues toward people from different countries: they may have been dealing with the Russian national image, but at the end of the day, it was always just a job, and everyone needed to make their way somehow. American, then, but not in the way she had read about in the papers; no American fitting that description as unreliable at the best of times to work here. No, she thought, I will believe it when I see it.
***
It was not until after lunch that Anna saw them again. Ushered between the rows of files in the Open Room, with Nina spelling out the filing system in dogmatic detail, her voice that of an air-hostess, or a theatre steward, directing them towards their designated seats. It reminded Anna of her first day in the department; very little of the procedure had changed since then. All those numbers, hundreds and thousands of seemingly unconnected combinations of figures, the numerical map which came to dominate the life of the archivist.
Within a year, the pair of them would be able to bark out the reference number of any type of file on record, depending on its contents, departmental code and title. Once they had that down, she thought, the department would be their playground as it was hers; the shelves would acquire that special, musty familiarity she always felt when she passed into the Closed storage and they, too, would find their favourite sections and sub-sections. This would be their gift, also, regardless what they had or had not done in the past.
The initial confusion the system instilled in new archivists was as much an ice-breaker as it was a steep learning-curve. Nobody, not even the most stubborn or skilled rookie could get through their first week without asking someone for help. And helping-hands soon became close friends in a place like this, where gossip flowed as freely as coffee rounds from the kitchen.
As she returned to her typing, Nina’s words brought an idea to the forefront of her mind.
