The Russian Affair Part 9

"You have some feelings for the Deputy Minister. At the same time, you believe you're deceiving him. Moreover, you have to hide your actions from your husband and your son, and you even lie to your father."

It seemed to Anna as though she were sitting with the Colonel in a movie theater where the film of her life was being shown. Kamarovsky spoke softly, as though he didn't want to disturb the other people in the audience. "I don't shy away from calling things by their names," he said, "because I know that your mission will soon be concluded. We're just about ready to close the Deputy Minister's case."

"Case? I thought I was doing all this for his protection."

"Of course you are." Kamarovsky made a soothing gesture. "The aims we're pursuing will enable us to avert a specific danger that threatens Bulyagkov. Soon, very soon, Comrade. And that's why your report is of such great significance."

He pressed a hand against his brow and fell silent for a moment, during which Anna watched his head sink. His hand fell, too, and landed as though lifeless on Anna's thigh. It looked to her as though Kamarovsky had dozed off in the middle of his explanation.

"Comrade Colonel?"

His breathing appeared to have stopped. Then, as though he'd suddenly regained consciousness, Kamarovsky jerked his head up and heaved a deep sigh. When he noticed his hand on the young woman's leg, he stiffened his fingers and got immediately to his feet. "You were saying that your conversation with the leader of the theoretical physics section came about by accident." He reached the desk in three steps, leaned on its edge, and opened a file. "How so?"

A rush of blood flooded Anna's face. From one second to the next, the Colonel had yanked her into the place where he wanted her. She said, "Because I didn't find Lyushin, he found me."

Kamarovsky unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and gazed at the nib. "I had the information that Lyushin likes to ski at night pa.s.sed on to you. Why didn't you act on that tip?"

Finally, Anna had the solution to the mystery of the second agent: The skinny orphanage director, so intent on ingratiating himself with her, had been on the job. He, at least, had carried out his a.s.signment brilliantly.

"I considered it unlikely ... actually, I thought-"

"You didn't act purposefully because you had a bad hangover," he said, interrupting her. "You needed to be clearheaded, and you weren't." In the light of the desk lamp, Kamarovsky looked older. His eyes blinked behind the lenses of his spectacles. "Please describe your meeting with Lyushin in detail."

As an outward sign that she was ready to give a sober report, Anna left the sofa and sat in her usual place. She outlined the situation on the afternoon in question and described Lyushin's sudden appearance in Bulyagkov's borrowed house.

"Did you have the impression that the relationship between the two is of such a kind that would permit unannounced visits?"

After a brief hesitation, Anna answered that the situation had not seemed unusual to her. The two men had quarreled the previous day, and she'd looked upon Lyushin's appearance as an offer of reconciliation.

"In your opinion, what was the quarrel about?"

"Money. Lyushin referred to setbacks in a research project. He wants more money so that the research can continue."

"Setbacks?" The nib of the fountain pen was pointing at her. "Are you completely sure about that?"

"That was the word he used."

"How did you come to be talking about that?"

Anna recalled the crazy afternoon, remembered how she'd sat there in her underwear with the scratchy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "I had done a little research and learned something about the basics of quantum mechanics," she answered. "Lyushin was quizzing me. It was a kind of teacher-student situation." Aided by her notes, she gave an account of the conversation, used Lyushin's own technical language to describe his problem, and ended with a reference to the series of equations in which the scientists proposed to achieve greater accuracy by leaving out lower-order terms. "At this point, Lyushin conceded that he had been forced to take some steps backward." Anna lowered her notepad. "His department must revise their work all the way back to an equation that was constructed a year and a half ago."

The Colonel nodded. "Lyushin's Stationary Law," he said. "A fabulous breakthrough, or so it seemed at the time." He turned to a fresh page and wrote a few lines. "How did Bulyagkov react to Lyushin's revelation?"

"He knew about it. Apparently, the main issue was the continued financial support."

"And the lost time." Kamarovsky licked his lips like a thirsty man. "Dubna is dependent on Lyushin's results. There's a whole series of construction projects in the works, all based on his revolutionary methods."

He stopped talking and opened a drawer. She expected him to take something out of it, but he laid an empty hand on his writing pad. "I'd like to thank you, Comrade. You've fulfilled your a.s.signment more thoroughly than you seem to know. For several reasons, we've had doubts about whether or not the theoretical physics section was being cagey about its successful results. Your information, Anna, gives us concrete clues."

She responded to his unexpected thanks with a nod and shoved her chair back, thinking that her report was at an end.

"I've had this on my desk for the last two weeks."

Looking up, Anna saw that Kamarovsky was holding a doc.u.ment in his hand. "I wanted to give it to you personally." He inverted it and pushed it over the desk to Anna. The doc.u.ment was ent.i.tled "GLAVLIT-Summary Decision."

"I acknowledge that it's taken a long time, but the result warrants the delay."

Her eyes flew over the printed lines. She couldn't immediately grasp the sense of what she was reading, obscured as it was by convoluted official language.

Kamarovsky ended her uncertainty: "It looks as though we shall soon be holding a new volume of Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin's poetry, fresh from the press," he said. "The committee has arrived at the view that the submitted poems are morally and politically conducive to the formation of the Soviet character and to the elevation of the citizens' social consciousness. The committee accordingly authorizes without reservation the publication of the collection and undertakes to have the volume printed by the government press with the help of public funds."

Anna kept her eyes fastened on the paper. It was dazzlingly clear to her that she was, once again, on the point of letting herself be bought. Her first reaction was the wish that the price would be sufficiently high. Her words of grat.i.tude were succinct, she rose to go, and the Colonel accompanied her to the hall stand. While she slipped into her coat, she asked, "How did you get over it when your wife left you because of your work?"

"Ah, that." He turned toward the piano and smiled. "I still had music. It unites the things we've been talking about today. It's a.n.a.lytical in construction, yet it makes an immediate connection with our emotions."

"Do you play often?"

"Every free minute I have." He walked her to the door.

As A. I. Kamarovsky listened to the sound of Anna's footsteps fading away down the stairs, he imagined what she would say if she knew that there had never been a Mrs. Kamarovsky. The Colonel was sure: The subtle affliction that would bind Anna to him from that day forward, his tragic submission to his sense of duty, and his calculated display of an almost erotic relationship with the Party would serve to motivate this particular female agent. His lie, therefore, was in a good cause. He sat at the piano and clumsily played a few bars. Neither his abilities nor his strength sufficed for more. He felt the vague presentiment returning, and this time, concentrating on music making wouldn't help him out of the crisis. Breathing heavily, he closed the score and waited. He was waiting to see whether the atonic seizure would set in a second time and overcome him before he could do anything about it. When it failed to materialize, he dared to stand up and move toward the desk with cautious steps. As he did so, he made sure not to come too close to furniture and other objects. He opened the drawer, took out the little envelope, suppressed his horror at verifying that a single tablet was all it contained, and swallowed the tablet. In the interval before the medicine began to take effect, he sank down onto the chair and concentrated on the thing lying closest to hand, which was Anna's report.

TEN.

In the morning, mother and son snuggled behind the curtain for a long time. Petya told her about a new teacher who was in the habit of sitting on her desk; when she did so, you could see under her skirt. Anna listened to the sounds he made when he breathed, checked his eyes for redness, and asked when the last time he'd taken his temperature was. Eventually, she made breakfast. The boy liked having a holiday from school; he got dressed cheerfully and was eager to go outside.

They reached the building across from the Lenin Library right on time. The policeman on duty told Anna how to get to Doctor Shchedrin's Inst.i.tute for Histamine Determination. The receptionist there explained that the doctor was with another patient and suggested that she and Petya have a seat. With every minute that pa.s.sed in the pretty waiting room, Anna's fears grew. She let Petya play with a toy tank.

"I'm sorry, my treatment room is still occupied," Shchedrin said by way of greeting. His white coat was b.u.t.toned up, and he'd been to the barber since their last consultation.

"Does Petya have to go to the hospital?" Anna blurted out.

"Only for the adjustment," the doctor said, nodding. "Please follow me."

"What adjustment?" Taking Petya's hand, Anna went with Shchedrin into the little kitchen that adjoined the waiting room.

"As you see, we're overbooked." He closed the door. The windowless room gave Anna the impression that she was about to receive some news of a particularly confidential nature.

"Your son has asthma," the doctor said. "The original cause may have been the carbon monoxide pollution in the capital, but that alone wouldn't account for his most recent symptoms. Petya's suffering from a very strong reaction to a particular allergen."

Since the muscular structure of the bronchi in children is not yet fully developed, Shchedrin explained, asthmatic symptoms can arise, and he would give Petya medicine to remedy those; it was more important, however, to identify what was triggering the boy's attacks. "In your son's case, it's a question of dust allergens, so it may be difficult to restrict his contact with them."

"How do you mean?" Anna asked. She was sitting on a stool and holding Petya on her lap.

"Dust is an integral part of daily life." Having searched the cabinet in vain for a clean gla.s.s, Shchedrin rinsed out a used one and poured himself some tea. "Do you have rugs on the wall at home?" he asked. Anna nodded. "Take them down," he said, wrapping his aristocratic-looking fingers around the hot gla.s.s. "Pictures, knickknacks, mementos are all dust collectors. Keep them away from Petya. How about books?"

"My father ..." She interrupted herself, thinking it unnecessary to mention that she lived with a writer. "We have many books."

"Put them in the cellar. Along with stacks of newspapers, decorative cushions, horsehair mattresses, embroidered tablecloths, and woolen blankets."

She was surprised to hear him describe her apartment so precisely.

"Even if it means a big change for you, get yourself some smooth, synthetic materials. They aren't very popular with dust mites." Shchedrin drank and grimaced. "When will they finally learn to make tea in this place?"

Anna considered how she ought to inform her father that his four walls, the very walls within which he'd so generously welcomed her and her family, were partly responsible for Petya's illness.

"Still, there has to be something else," Shchedrin said, pouring the rest of his tea into the sink. "You told me that Petya's condition gets worse when he's asleep. There must be an allergen source in the immediate vicinity of his bed. Do you have down pillows or duvets?"

What he meant was suddenly clear to her. "A year ago, we ... my father, Petya, and I sleep in the same room. For the sake of privacy, we've hung a velvet curtain in front of the sleeping alcove."

"Velvet!" Shchedrin exclaimed, laughing. "The dust mite's paradise, the allergy sufferer's h.e.l.l!"

Petya understood that the conversation was about him but gradually lost interest in it; Anna looked around for something he could play with. Shchedrin showed the boy into the children's waiting room and stepped out into the corridor with Anna. He announced that he would start treating Petya's asthma with medication to dilate his respiratory pa.s.sages. No medicine could cure the dust allergy itself, he explained, and therefore a gradual desensitization would be necessary, which Shchedrin would initiate with allergen injections.

While he was explaining his diagnosis and the treatment he proposed, Anna became increasingly aware of a nagging discrepancy. On the one hand, merely gaining access to such methods had to be considered practically miraculous; on the other, it entailed a new dependence. "Doctor," she began. Through the open door, she could see her son. "I don't know how I can pay for all these things."

"That's the least of your problems." He nodded to a nurse who was calling him to the telephone.

"What does that mean?"

"It's already taken care of." The nurse held out the receiver to him. "Everything's been arranged."

Observing the doctor's composure as he spoke on the telephone, Anna wondered what kind of agreement Kamarovsky and Shchedrin had reached. A little later, as she and Petya were heading for the exit, she had the Colonel's image before her eyes. Despite Anna's confidence in the physician, Kamarovsky's involvement in Petya's recovery filled her with anxiety.

On the way home, she considered how she should reveal to her sensitive father the special privilege Kamarovsky was granting him. Father and daughter's pact of silence, Viktor Ipalyevich's resolute overlooking of the obvious, required a complex ritual, with whose help he was able to justify to himself his double way of thinking. Anna bought meat, vegetables, and-even though it exceeded her household budget-a can of peaches in syrup.

"I have a pork shank for us," she called out when she entered the apartment. "I'm going to cook it to celebrate this day." She went into the kitchen and set about putting her words into action.

Although Viktor Ipalyevich had contempt for the economy of privilege in a state whose foundation was equality, he accepted Anna's privileges, through which he lived a comfortable life free from material cares. He smoked cigars that couldn't be found in any ordinary Moscow shop, and he wore arch supports in his shoes; under normal circ.u.mstances, he would have had to wait until his splayfeet became chronic before his application for such a luxury as shoe lifts would have been approved. The box of pills that Anna had obtained from Shchedrin's private dispensary was not a mere convenience, it was a distinction; such a gift couldn't be dismissed as a bribe, like real coffee or cotton towels. Her little boy's life was about to undergo a vast improvement.

Now Viktor Ipalyevich started trying to figure things out: It was an ordinary weekday, and in a few hours, his daughter's afternoon shift would begin. There had been nothing in the mail that could explain Anna's words. What reason was there to celebrate? He went through the family birthdays; none of them fell in March. "So what's the occasion?" he asked, as mildly as possible.

"Be patient!" Anna called out, relieved to find that he was playing along without resistance, but still searching her imagination for a way to avoid bruising his cla.s.s warrior's pride. She boned the meat, tied it around a bundle of herbs and vegetables, seasoned it, browned it with garlic and onions, and put it all in the oven. After scrubbing the onion smell off her hands, she took the bottle of Soviet Champagne out of her shopping bag and gathered up two large gla.s.ses and a shot gla.s.s for Petya.

"That's all for today," she said by way of inviting her father to remove his writing materials from the table, which she then began to set.

"Smells great," Viktor Ipalyevich declared. He went to the sofa, sat down, and paged through his notes, all without looking at her. After she returned to the kitchen, he followed her movements through the open door. She added tomato puree and caraway seeds to the roasting meat, cuddled with Petya, who had come running into the kitchen, sat him on the work surface, and let him watch as she cut up the pork. After arranging it on the porcelain dish with the violet pattern, she called to her father to open the Champagne. Viktor Ipalyevich popped the cork. The wine spilled over the rim of Petya's little gla.s.s, and the boy contorted himself to lick it.

"To the health of a distinguished poet-my father."

"I'm not going to respond to you until you explain the reason for this mysterious announcement."

She served father, son, and herself some meat, put the rest on the stove to keep warm, and came back into the room with one hand behind her back.

"You've got mail, Papa." She laid the Glavlit decision on the table next to his plate.

For a moment, he considered challenging her lie-he knew their mailbox had been empty-but his curiosity was too great, and it was followed by disbelieving amazement. With his fork in one raised hand and the doc.u.ment in the other, the poet read the news of his pardon.

"This is almost three weeks old," he said, pointing to the issuance date and trying to cover up his emotion by being gruff.

Anna, too, had noticed that Kamarovsky had apparently held on to this reward for her work until he thought the proper time had come to reveal it. "You know how bureaucrats are," she said.

"Good G.o.d," her father murmured. He pressed his lips together, but his agitation, hot and irrepressible, overcame him. He stood up, laid the doc.u.ment on the middle of the table, and took off his cap. Gray, frizzy hairs stuck up in all directions, and his white pate contrasted with the brown skin of his forehead. Shaken, his shoulders slumping, the poet stood over the table, supporting himself on its top and muttering while a thread of saliva dripped from his mouth. His grandson gave Anna a perplexed look as his own small lips began to tremble. Happy though she was, Anna wouldn't give in to sentimentality; instead she cried, "But that doesn't mean the food should get cold!"

Viktor Ipalyevich sank down onto his chair as though a hand had been laid on his shoulder. He cut himself a bit of pork and took a bite. Tears ran down his cheeks. After a while, he spoke. "I must ... before anything else, I have to ..." he said. "The proper sequence!" He raised his head. "The proper sequence is very important. Will you help me, Petya?"

"With what, Dyedushka?"

"We have to get our poems out. We'll look at every single one of them-no, even better, you'll read them to me. What do you think? And after that, we'll decide which one should come first, which one second, and so on. And in the end-you understand, Petya?-we'll have a whole book full of poems."

The boy nodded and said, "I'll read them." Then, to give himself strength, he said it again: "Yes, I'll read them. When do I start?"

"This very evening!" His incredulity mingling with the recognition of what a profound and thorough change that piece of paper signified for him, Viktor Ipalyevich renewed his a.s.sault on the pork, chewed a mouthful, and emptied his gla.s.s in one gulp. In his excitement, he dunked one corner of the Glavlit doc.u.ment in tomato sauce.

Anna recalled that there was something else she'd intended to do that evening. The reason behind her intention lay in the last question Shchedrin had asked her: "Has there been any family incident that might have distressed Petya?" As she sat there in confused silence, the doctor had explained his query: "Allergy sufferers need a calm, secure environment. Distress or anger can intensify their allergies or even cause allergies to break out. Have you and yours undergone some sort of change that has disturbed Petya? It could be something that happened months ago."

Anna had begun to perspire, and the floor had seemed to be shaking beneath her. "My husband's a soldier," she'd answered. "He was transferred out of Moscow almost a year ago."

"Did father and son have a good relationship?"

Anna had done some mental reckoning: Petya's symptoms had manifested themselves after Leonid's departure. The relationship between the two of them was not merely good, but intimate, playful, filled with deep trust. One heart and one soul-that's what they actually were. A telephone call is expensive, Anna thought, basically beyond our means, but this evening, she would call Leonid and tell him about Petya's illness. She'd put the boy on the telephone and let them chat with each other. It was the least she could do.

ELEVEN.

Leonid hung up. For a long moment, he stood still, his back to the desk in the military guard post. The soft voice still sounded in his ears. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and therefore midnight in Moscow; if Anna let Petya stay up so late, the thing must mean a lot to her. Leonid thanked the sergeant for having notified him, b.u.t.toned his overcoat all the way up, and left the central barracks. The windstorm was so strong that it pressed him against the wooden hut's exterior wall. Leonid pulled down his ear flaps and fastened them under his chin. Bent forward, holding his arms tightly to his sides, he struggled on. There was n.o.body else on the parade ground; most of the barracks had wooden planks across the windows, screwed into place to keep the gusts from bursting the gla.s.s panes.

Leonid shivered. In this weather, he was supposed to a.s.semble a technical squad and see to the cutter that had gone aground with its cargo of sc.r.a.p iron during the night. Here, at the southernmost point of Sakhalin Island, most ships anch.o.r.ed at a respectful distance from the coast, for the sea was treacherous. The Three Brothers, three jagged reefs thrusting up out of the water, became invisible in heavy seas. The coastline consisted of dark inlets whose rock formations had formerly been exploited for their coal beds. In the winter months, the sharp-edged forms were veiled by storms and snow flurries, and the cold temperatures burst the sewer pipes that emptied into the sea at this point. Waves as black as night broke over the decks of the patrol ships; that morning, they had been unable to sail because the cutter was blocking their pa.s.sage.

"How did the boat even get into the prohibited area?" the major had asked Leonid at morning roll call.

"The southwest drift turned east overnight," Leonid replied. "When the ship became disabled, the captain let it be driven into the bay and stranded so it wouldn't sink in the open sea."

"Check the ship's papers, the nationalities of the sailors, and their Party membership, if any, and examine the bill of lading and the cargo," the major had ordered. "I don't want to be fooled by some d.a.m.ned j.a.p."