She noticed the wrinkled skin on her fingers; her bath had cooled. Since she couldn’t get any warmer water to flow out of the faucet, she reached for a bath towel. She’d just finished drying her legs when the telephone rang. Of late, most calls had been for Viktor Ipalyevich; the government press had questions about setting the poetry volume, and the poet was under pressure to deliver the completed manuscript. Expecting that she would have to apologize for her father, she picked up the phone.
The man at the other end of the line spoke Anna’s name without introducing himself. “I’m in Moscow,” he said, as though this piece of information alone sufficed to explain his call.
Had she not seen that television program a few days previously, she wouldn’t have had the remotest chance of identifying the caller by his voice.
“Don’t you know who I am?” Nikolai Lyushin asked, practically insulted.
“How did you get this number?”
“You can figure that out yourself, Comrade.” He laughed harshly. “I know hardly anybody in Moscow, and I have no plans for this evening. Therefore, I’m taking the liberty of inviting you to come out with me.”
“Why would you ask me out?”
“During our little quantum chat, you showed that you were a gifted student. And so I thought you might wish to delve into the subject a little more deeply.”
The safest answer would have been a no, but Anna’s time in Kamarovsky’s service had taught her to sense, behind every event, the presence of another event. Lyushin’s proposal had a deeper meaning, and it was her duty to fathom that meaning. Therefore, she said, in a slightly friendlier voice, “It’s already pretty late.”
“Don’t they say that the Moscow night never ends? I’m sitting in the Ukraina hotel, and I’m bored to death. Just a little drink, Comrade—what do you say?”
“I have to wait until my son comes home. Can you call back in half an hour?”
Delighted by her apparent change of heart, he said, “I’ll reserve the best table!”
She stood before the sofa, lost in thought. Although the floor was wet under her feet, she didn’t go back into the bathroom, but instead opened her telephone book. There was only one person she could ask for advice. Anna looked up the number of the Moscow Times. She hadn’t talked with Rosa since Dubna, and so some flowery greetings would have been in order, but Anna skipped all courtesies and went directly to Lyushin’s offer.
Rosa asked, “Has he said what he wants?”
“At first, I thought he’d come here on account of this television program, The Open Ear. Don’t you and your colleagues know why he’s in Moscow?”
“So Lyushin turned on the charm for you, did he?” Rosa asked, ignoring Anna’s question. “But he knows about you and Bulyagkov.”
“Should I turn down the invitation?”
“Well, he can hardly start fumbling with your underclothes in the restaurant of the Ukraina hotel.”
“It’s not so far from the restaurant to his room.”
Rosa laughed. “You mean you’d like to go there?”
The question was a provocation, and still it caught Anna off guard. At that moment, it became clear to her that she had a real desire to put a few scratches on Nikolai Lyushin’s dandified facade. She asked, “Shall I inform Kamarovsky?”
“I’ll take care of that,” came the immediate reply. “You should go to the Ukraina. Wouldn’t you enjoy turning one of the most brilliant heads in Russia? Order the most expensive things on the menu, bleed the fellow dry, thank him for a pleasant evening, and leave the restaurant.” She hesitated, as if there were still something she wanted to say. “Call me up afterward, no matter how late it is.”
While Anna, now dressed in a bathrobe, was wiping up the wet floor, she heard the light footsteps and the heavy footsteps mounting the stairs together. She went to the little vestibule, opened the door for father and son, and looked for her blue dress in the wall closet. Petya told her about a dog that had almost been run over. When Viktor Ipalyevich saw that Anna was making preparations to go out, he turned ostentatiously to his poems.
SIXTEEN
The physicist was wearing a light gray suit inappropriate to the season and a blue shirt that set off his burnished hair. He’d secured one of the much-requested alcove tables. As Anna approached, he stood up and offered her the seat next to his on the upholstered banquette. She noticed that he had unusually small ears and a liver spot on his chin. Anna sat on the wooden chair across from him.
“The band’s behind you if you sit there,” he said, trying to change her mind.
She looked over her shoulder. The little stage was empty. “How did you get my telephone number?”
He laughed. “The hotel in Dubna keeps complete lists of its guests. There was only one house painter in your delegation. Riddle solved.”
Although a glass of wine was in front of him, Anna got a whiff of stronger liquor. She spread her napkin on her lap.
“It’s wild game week in this restaurant. They have Manchurian venison. Or would you prefer capercaillie, or maybe some hazel grouse?”
“What are you having?” she asked, ignoring his display of esoteric culinary information.
“We could start with snipes’ eggs. The red wine is outstanding.”
She consented to the wine but wanted no appetizer. There was noise behind her as the musicians came back from their break and took up their places. Their stage was a semicircular platform thrusting out from the back wall and festooned with flower garlands. Above the stage hung a chandelier.
“Tell me about your father,” Lyushin said, opening the conversation. “What’s he writing at the moment?”
“How do you know who my father is?” Anna had been happy to learn about the hotel guest list, because it meant that Alexey had nothing to do with Lyushin’s information, but now mistrust was reawakened.
“You gave yourself away!” Lyushin plucked happily at the corner of the tablecloth. “Your name was on the delegation’s list as Anna Tsazukhina. Even in Moscow, Tsazukhin’s a rare name. Can we expect a new volume of verse from your father soon?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music, which began as he was speaking.
The band launched into a lively tune, and the sudden volume of sound put an end to the conversation. The waiter came and took their order, bending down and bringing his ear close to Lyushin’s mouth. “We’ll have Manchurian venison,” the physicist said. Then, addressing Anna again, he asked, “Did you by any chance watch The Open Ear the other afternoon?”
They discussed the broadcast and the interview until the waiter brought a new carafe of wine and filled their glasses.
“You have a perfect neck,” Lyushin said. As he leaned forward, she smelled the alcohol on his breath again. “I’m glad you came.”
She drew away from his touch and asked, “What brings you to Moscow?”
“I have an appointment with the Minister tomorrow,” he answered. His casual tone failed to mask his desire to impress her.
“Are you going to meet Bulyagkov, too?” Now that Lyushin had brought up the Ministry, Anna was certain that Alexey knew he was in the capital.
“Of course. Without your friend, no research project gets off the ground.” He clinked glasses with Anna and drank.
“Will the Ministry give you the resources you need?” she asked, daring to probe a little deeper.
“I like to think about our afternoon in Dubna. When you were wearing nothing but a woolen blanket.” His hand played with Anna’s knife. “You were a joy to behold. For those of us who live in barren isolation, such sights are rare.” Seeking an excuse not to look at him, she turned around and faced the bandstand, where the portly fiddler was beginning a passionate solo. “What shall we do afterward?” Lyushin asked. “Will you show me Moscow?”
“I work the early shift tomorrow.” Even though Anna hadn’t expected anything different, she was disappointed at the predictable course the encounter was taking. How nice it would be to be cuddl
ed up with Petya in their sleeping nook right now, listening to Viktor Ipalyevich’s sardonic commentary on the television offerings. She drank some of the heavy wine and let her eyes wander over the room, where every table was occupied.
“Is this your first time in the Ukraina?” Lyushin asked, interrupting her gazing. “Frightfully baronial, but still impressive, don’t you think?”
All of a sudden, the situation appeared so grotesque to her that she stood up and excused herself. On the way to the ladies’ room, she crossed paths with the waiter, who was bringing Lyushin’s order of snipes’ eggs. She hurried past the band and up some stairs; the female washroom attendant eyed her, calculating what sort of tip she might be likely to give. Anna leaned on a sink, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and washed her face with cold water.
A strange scene awaited her upon her return. Something had flown into the violinist’s eye. He stood at the front of the bandstand, helplessly holding his instrument at arm’s length, while his colleagues tried to remove the offending speck with their handkerchiefs. Entranced, the diners stared up at the stage, as though they were watching a group of acrobats performing a difficult trick. The fiddler cried out in pain and begged his comrades in God’s name not to be so rough; then he sprang backward, fending off the others with his bow and shouting that he required medical attention. After a moment, he stepped forward again and began to speak, just as if his speech were part of the performance. “Please excuse me, but my pain is too great,” he said. “Is there a doctor in this esteemed audience?”
Nobody responded to the violinist’s appeal, whereupon he actually bowed and then, with both eyes tightly shut, staggered off the stage. The bassist took over as announcer and informed the public that it would unfortunately be impossible for the group to continue without a violin. The members of the band formed a row, faced the audience, bowed as their injured colleague had done, and left the bandstand, accompanied by irritated applause. They marched past Anna, who then returned to her table and found Lyushin eating with apparent delight.
“Most delicious,” he said, holding out a skewered snipe’s egg to her. A half-full glass of vodka was on the table in front of him; between bites, he tossed down the remaining half. “It’s not only poets who are poetic,” he declared in a surprisingly loud voice. “Some sort of lyricism is granted to every creative person. We scientists, for example, possess as much imagination as writers do.”
The waiter brought another glass of vodka.
“How else could we have named the streams of cosmic elements ‘proton showers’ or ‘electron sheaves’? In order to characterize the quantum numbers of particles that have existed only in theory until now, we ascribe magical properties to them. Theoretical physics is the poetry of the sciences!”
Anna looked on as her companion got steadily drunker.
“The poetic in us is the longing to see into the depths of things, to comprehend their connections, to call out to the passing moment and say, Stay awhile! Do you understand that, Anna?” It was obvious that he needed no encouragement to go on. “And I have succeeded!” He reached for his glass. “I have brought the moment to a halt. And I needed no Mephistopheles to help me do it!” He spoke the last words so loudly that a couple at a nearby table turned around. “Similar projects are under way in Japan and the States,” he continued more softly. “But they haven’t got as far as we have. Not even close. They can’t come up with any conclusive formula.” He pointed at himself with his fork. “I can.”
Anna’s initial irritation had turned into amusement, which now gave way to curiosity. “The last time I saw you, you said you’d failed.”
“It depends on how one fails,” Lyushin said. He pushed his plate away and treated himself to another swallow of vodka. “I need more time, more time! But the dogs are breathing down my neck. They’re after me like hyenas.”
“Who’s breathing down your neck, Professor Lyushin?”
A man in a black overcoat approached the part of the restaurant where gilded columns screened off the recesses containing individual tables from the rest of the dining room. His upper body leaned forward from the waist as he headed toward his goal. Anna noticed him first. While she was still wondering why he hadn’t handed in his outer garments at the cloakroom, he entered the circle of light shed by the chandelier. With his hat on his head, Alexey looked to Anna like a Party leader from the provinces. In the shadow of the hat brim, his eyes were invisible, but his nose and cheeks were red from the cold.
“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he said, coming to a halt in front of the table.
At first, Lyushin had trouble reconciling Bulyagkov’s presence with that time and place. Holding his glass in his right hand, he pointed at the newcomer with his left as if he’d forgotten the newcomer’s name. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you,” Bulyagkov said to Anna.
She felt as though she’d landed in a scene from some anachronistic farce. There sat Lyushin, the charmer, too drunk to function; there stood Alexey, the lover, who seemed to have caught Anna red-handed; and here she crept, the crafty serpent, getting what she deserved.
“How did you find me?” Lyushin asked.
“My Ministry pays your expenses,” Alexey answered.
“Let’s drink to that!” With irrepressible self-assurance, the physicist gestured toward an unoccupied chair.
“I must speak to you alone,” Bulyagkov replied, glancing sidelong at Anna.
“Don’t we have all day tomorrow at the Ministry for that sort of thing?”
“I was just about to leave,” Anna interjected.
“Imagine, this is Comrade Anna’s first time in the Ukraina,” Lyushin said, switching to a conversational tone.
The waiter appeared behind Bulyagkov. “Your coat?”
“I’m not staying,” the Deputy Minister replied.
A second waiter came up, pushing the serving cart. A silver platter was laden with steaming slices of meat, dressed with a greasy sauce and garnished with bay leaves and bilberries. The waiter began to distribute the portions.
“I’d rather not eat,” Anna said.
The waiter paused with uplifted serving utensils.
“Please fetch the comrade’s coat,” Bulyagkov said, indicating Anna.
Whatever was behind Alexey’s sudden appearance, she didn’t like the way decisions were being made on her behalf. “Maybe I’ll have a little taste, after all,” she declared.
The waiter placed a plate in front of her, and for the second time she laid her napkin on her lap. Then she cut herself a piece of meat.
“We were discussing The Open Ear, the TV program,” Lyushin said, trying to get a conversation going. “A nerve-racking interview. The subject was too much for the woman who moderates the show. She was in over her head.”
Upon hearing this assertion, Bulyagkov took a seat. “You talked about your project on television?”
“Perhaps a bit, in a popular-science sort of way.”
Anna saw the two exchange looks.
“The Minister will want to hear details from you tomorrow,” Bulyagkov said.
“I have the documents with me.” Lyushin stabbed his fork into a morsel of venison, brought it to his mouth, and chewed. Meanwhile, Anna, inexplicably ravenous, cleaned her plate.
“I’d like to go through the papers with you,” said Bulyagkov, unbuttoning his coat and leaning back.
“Now?” Lyushin patted his forehead with his napkin.
“How are you getting home?” Alexey asked, tapping the back of Anna’s hand.
“On the subway, naturally.”
“Don’t be silly. Anton will give you a ride.”
“And what about you?” She didn’t understand his sudden change of mood.
“I’ll be here for a while yet. I’ve got some things to do.”
“The three of us!” Lyushin said with a laugh. “Like the Three Musketeers! We should all go to a bar.”
B
ulyagkov gazed at him with cold eyes. “Comrade Anna surely has to get up early. And as for you, Nikolai, you’d best go to bed soon so you can sleep off your liquor.”
“I find Moscow even more provincial than Dubna,” Lyushin said with a sigh; however, when Anna stood up and accepted her coat, he didn’t protest. “It was a pleasure, Comrade,” he said. “Too bad we didn’t have more time together.”
“Thanks for the invitation.” She wrapped her scarf around her head.
After he’d walked a few steps with her in the direction of the exit, Bulyagkov observed, “I believe you should thank the Ministry for Research Planning.”
“I’d rather go home on the subway,” she announced. The moment alone with him was disagreeable to her. Halfway to the door, he took her hand, squeezed it, and turned back without a word.
The Russian Affair Page 19