The Russian Affair

  “Papa, it’s a volume of poetry. Of course it’s thinner and lighter than a three-hundred-page book.” She laid it in the center of the table.

  “Precisely, and that’s why it has to have a solid cover! Poems are the compressed experience of life. They should be in books you can carry around with you and take out when you’re ready for them. But this thing … !” He opened it and immediately closed it again. “It looks like a map of the Moscow subway system!”

  “You’re exaggerating. See how good the title looks? They made a real effort.” She pointed to the handsome, slanted script, the letters red against the black of the sun.

  “The engraving’s by Khlebnikov,” he said, nodding gently. “I think he’s the right choice. His art’s harmonious with mine.”

  “What does it mean—the birds, the girl’s hair?”

  “What does it mean? Don’t have a clue,” the poet growled. “Khlebnikov always was a pretty woolly-headed artist.” Viktor Ipalyevich picked up the book a third time, as if it were gradually gaining in value. “They’ve used high-quality paper.” He ran his eyes over the imprint, the title, and the foreword, which had been written by the director of the Conservatory.

  Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin’s legacy comprises thirty years of Soviet lyric poetry and is the expression of an epoch rich in hard-won victories as well as painful losses. Tsazukhin is a man produced by the Revolution; his striving toward the Soviet ideal, the longing in his work for justice and moral perfection, his fraught thought processes, which reflect his heart’s joys and sorrows, and above all, the melody of his verses, which are attuned to harmonize with the times …

  “When will the fellow finally learn how to construct sentences that make sense?” Viktor Ipalyevich flipped past the foreword, came to the first poem, read it in silence, and in the end held the book out at arm’s length away from him. He said, “I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it must be worth something.”

  “Of course it is! My compliments.” Anna removed the packing paper and as she did so discovered a second copy of her father’s poetry volume. “Papa …,” she said, taking up this second volume. “You could do me a great favor.”

  Viktor Ipalyevich gladly accepted the idea of giving his poems to the physician who’d cured Petya. “I’ll write a dedication, of course. I’ll think it over tonight and inscribe the book tomorrow.”

  Satisfied with the happy solution to her gift problem, Anna departed for the afternoon shift. Interior work on the building in Karacharovo should have been completed long since, but nondelivery of materials had caused delays, and now there was an additional impediment: the impending ceremony to inaugurate the building. Since the date of the opening festivities couldn’t be postponed, it was decreed that the workers would concentrate all their efforts on finishing the section of the building that bore the official memorial plaque, which was to be unveiled by the Party secretary for Moscow. In order to avoid detracting from the visual effect of this ceremonial act, all scaffolding had to be dismantled, removed, and then, immediately after the event, put up again—a piece of stupidity that was the subject of lively discussion on the workers’ bus.

  “Couldn’t we just hang white tarps over the scaffolding?” a worker cried.

  Another comrade answered her: “Where are we going to get white tarps from?”

  “And would someone please tell me where we’re supposed to hide the scaffolding so the Secretary won’t trip over it?” said a third. Several of the women laughed.

  The bus turned into the briskly moving traffic of the Garden Ring near Taganskaya Square, the city gradually sank behind them, and the suburbs came into view. Anna was sitting next to a male colleague, a friend of hers, reading over his shoulder as he perused his copy of Izvestia. When he came to the foreign affairs section, her interest was sparked, and she sat up straight. She’d spotted a picture of the Minister for Research Planning, surrounded by a group of smiling male and female comrades; Alexey was not among them. LEADERS OF SOVIET SCIENCE TRAVELING TO STOCKHOLM, the headline read. When Anna’s friend started to turn the page, she asked him to let her finish the article. It declared that the Swedish Academy of Sciences was most eager to learn about the recent successes of its Soviet colleagues. Scientists from the fields of chemistry, medicine, and mathematics would form the main contingent, the article stated; the group of researchers would be completed by leading physicists from the atomic cities of Dubna and Novosibirsk. Anna tried a second time to find Alexey’s face among all the strange heads. Hadn’t he hinted at his travel destination? “A city where it’s never hot, not even in summer.” Wasn’t that an allusion to Stockholm? Maybe, she told herself, the original plan had been that Bulyagkov would make the trip to Sweden as the leader of the scientific delegation, and then that plan had been changed. She read the next article, which described the icebreaker Kalinin as she sailed out on her maiden voyage. Anna imagined the ship on its long journey east and thought of Leonid, who was serving in the Siberian wasteland. After her friend turned the page, Anna raised her eyes and looked out at the impressive series of residential developments that had been produced in recent years, living space for some fifteen thousand comrades.

  The bus’s hydraulic doors opened with a hiss, discharging Anna and the others, who went to complex number 215 and took up their work. Why would Alexey announce that he was traveling to Stockholm and then not do it? During the past minutes, the question had kept itself hidden, but now it surfaced again and filled Anna with an uneasiness that wouldn’t go away, not even when she bent over the bucket and stirred the thickened paint.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Anna handed her gift to Doctor Shchedrin in person and was disappointed by his reaction. Such a man, she’d assumed, would be able to appreciate contemporary poetry. However, Shchedrin held the book awkwardly in his hands and said he didn’t have much time for reading. Even though the ensuing examination confirmed Anna’s optimism as far as Petya was concerned, she was still disappointed to discover that the person to whom she attributed “the miracle” wasn’t interested in anything outside of his specialized field. The doctor scrutinized the boy’s eyes, fingernails, and back and was far from stingy with the candy rewards. And yet, Anna couldn’t rid herself of the impression that the physician’s interest was flagging; Petya, no longer a gasping, sickly child but a normal boy who was already participating in school sports again, had become for Doctor Shchedrin one patient out of many. He completed the examination quickly, lowered the dosage of Petya’s medications, and dismissed Anna with the words “All’s well that ends well.”

  She and the boy stepped out into the sunny April day. The trees in front of the Lenin Library were not only covered with green fuzz, they had also put out their first leaves, which quivered in the breeze. Petya’s interest was attracted by the washed and polished limousines on the Kropotkin Quay; the beginning of spring seemed to dip even the automobiles in brighter colors. A man in a dark green suit came walking toward them. Anna was about to cross the street, but something in the man’s gait brought her to a stop. He raised his head, and his eyeglasses sparkled. Anna got a better grip on Petya’s hand.

  “Comrade Nechayevna?” Kamarovsky acted surprised, but Anna didn’t believe for a second that this was a chance meeting. “Is this your little Petya?” the Colonel asked with a smile.

  She encouraged Petya to give the stranger his hand, which the boy did without shyness.

  “We should have another talk soon,” Kamarovsky said. “Would tomorrow after work be all right with you?”

  In that case, Anna thought, I’ll have to fix dinner ahead of time. She nodded in assent.

  “Good, then.” The Colonel wished them a good day and walked on in the direction of the Lenin Library.

  “Who was that?” Petya asked.

  Anna made up a lie and set out for home, depressed. Her anxiety continued into the evening, while she sat silently on the sofa and watched the chess game between grandfather and grandson. It took her a long time
to fall asleep. After the Colonel’s announcement that the Bulyagkov dossier would soon be closed, and especially after her discussion with Alexey, she’d hoped that she was entering a final, calm stage, which would last until the men took up their inscrutable game again, but without her. In the darkness of the sleeping alcove, she thought about her meeting with her case officer, scheduled for the following day: For the first time, she would be reporting to Kamarovsky in the knowledge that Alexey, the man under observation, had turned the tables on the Colonel from the beginning. Even though the past two years had taught Anna to lie routinely and keep her camouflage in place at all times, she was afraid she might not be able to deceive Kamarovsky’s searching eyes. She cast about for excuses not to go to the building on the quay, yet at the same time, she knew that such a move would only arouse the Colonel’s mistrust. With a sigh, Anna put an arm around her sleeping child.

  “For the mission I have in mind this time, I’m counting on your special intuition.” In contrast to the other occasions when Anna had been in this apartment, for this visit the samovar was singing. Kamarovsky, who’d never offered her anything to drink before, busied himself with dishes, apologized for having only four sugar cubes in the house, and served her a glass of tea. Not immediately accepting his invitation to sit on the couch, she stepped over to the window and took a few sips. The room was flooded with light; for the first time since Anna had been making reports here, the curtains were completely open. The magnificent bridge soared over the black river, which was swollen by snowmelt and flowing with a mighty surge through the steel arches. The windows of the Comecon building reflected the sun in a rainbow of colors; the Hotel Ukraina was a gleaming silver tower.

  “We need information about the Bulyagkov couple’s divorce.” The Colonel was standing behind her. His words penetrated Anna’s consciousness so gradually that she held her breath for a moment. Kamarovsky stared at her attentively. He wasn’t mistaken; Anna was surprised by the news. “So you didn’t know?” he asked.

  She slowly shook her head.

  “He didn’t drop any hints? Never talked about insurmountable difficulties at home? You never had to listen to the complaints of a frustrated husband, seeking solace with his young lover?”

  Kamarovsky’s sarcasm alarmed Anna; normally, he limited himself to asking questions and evaluating data.

  “I can’t believe he wants to separate from Medea,” she said truthfully.

  “I want you to get to the bottom of this … discrepancy.” He was a dark silhouette in front of the glittering balcony door.

  “What discrepancy?”

  “Alexey Maximovich has a wife who’s one of the most influential people in Moscow society, a woman to whom he owes his entire political career. How does he let her go? How, after so many years of reciprocal tolerance, have they come to a point where ‘insurmountable obstacles’ make it impossible for their marriage to continue?”

  To avoid having to answer at once, Anna took a swallow of tea. “Maybe the divorce is to Medea’s advantage. Maybe there’s another man in her life.”

  He went to his desk and leafed through the notes that Rosa Khleb had turned over to him. The interview with Medea Bulyagkova had been unproductive. Moscow’s cultural secretary had adroitly limited the conversation to cultural affairs and thoroughly described her concept for Voices of the Soviet Republics; in answer to personal questions, however, she’d added nothing to what was already in the mutual divorce petition.

  “I need background material—some incident, some point of contention that makes this seem like a reasonable step.”

  “When it comes to love, not everything is reasonable.”

  How could she let herself be so carried away that she’d mouth a statement like that? Kamarovsky gave her a derisive look, whereupon she turned her back to the window and sat down.

  “How’s your husband?” the Colonel asked, unerringly.

  “He’s started his tour of duty at his new station.”

  “And how’s he getting on there?”

  “Well, I think.”

  “He applied for the five-year stipulation, right?” Kamarovsky leaned forward, hands on his desk.

  “He did, but he hasn’t signed it yet.”

  “How do you feel about this prospect?”

  She shrugged.

  “Five years is a very long time,” the Colonel said. “And I want you to know,” he added empathically, “we have nothing to do with it.”

  “What am I supposed to do with Alexey?”

  “Meet him and talk about his divorce.”

  “With what justification?”

  “You’re the partner in Alexey Maximovich’s longest-running affair.” The Colonel tilted his head to one side. “Shouldn’t you be getting your hopes up, now that he’s going to be a free man again soon? In the meantime, he’s moved out of the conjugal residence.” Noticing that Anna’s thoughts were elsewhere, Kamarovsky raised his voice. “We’re interested not only in the reason but also in the point in time. As far as we know, there has been no recent occurrence in the Bulyagkov marriage that could explain this precipitous breakup.”

  “I met Alexey just last week.” She got to her feet and placed the half-full tea glass on the desk. “What justification do I give for visiting him again?”

  “You’re right.” The Colonel took care to see that the veneer wasn’t suffering any damage from the hot glass. “So far, there’s been no official statement about the divorce. So how could you have learned about it?”

  Anna realized that, for the first time, she was a step ahead of Kamarovsky. Couldn’t she go to Alexey and say, “The Colonel’s doing a lot of speculating about your divorce. What would you like me to tell him?” At the same time, she was as baffled as Kamarovsky about what was going on. Alexey’s revelation that he’d seen through Anna’s double game from the beginning had sealed her eyes to whatever lay behind that disclosure: a second truth, a veil Alexey spread over his real motives. She believed his declaration of love, but she more and more doubted whether she had his trust.

  On the way home, she thought about how adroitly Alexey kept the balance between trust and secrecy, how he gave the appearance of letting Anna in on his private affairs and at the same time measured out his truths in the doses that best served his purposes. What purpose was served, she wondered, by the announcement that he was going on a trip when he was apparently staying home?

  She reached her building and slinked past Avdotya’s door to avoid the seamstress’s questions about the new curtain. Even though Viktor Ipalyevich came down for the mail during the day, Anna usually checked the mailbox. Winter hadn’t done the lock any good, and she could barely turn the key. Inside was a letter from the building association; a renovation of the heating pipes had been pending for a long time. Also, there was something, probably an invitation, addressed to her father from the Guild of Young Soviet Poets; ever since the announcement that his volume of poetry was in line for imminent publication, Viktor Ipalyevich’s social life had grown increasingly active. Oddly, the smallest envelope was the fattest. Who crammed so much paper into such a little envelope? When she saw the army postmark, Anna’s face broke into a smile, and a glance at the return address confirmed her guess. A letter from Leonid was as rare as snow in August; it made her even happier to think that her husband had taken the time to write at such length. She attributed the letter’s bulk to the barrenness of his surroundings, to the amount of idle time he had, and, above all, to the fact that he missed her. So the few, conflict-filled days of his home leave had eventually had the desired effect on him. How could a comparison between Moscow and Siberia turn out otherwise? As Anna thrust her finger under the seal, it occurred to her to let Petya open the letter. More quickly than they ordinarily did after work, her legs carried her up the stairs and onto the fourth-floor landing, where she immediately unlocked the apartment door. The place was unusually cold. Viktor Ipalyevich was wearing a thick sweater and sitting in the living room with a blanket over h
is knees, and a rustling sound was coming from the sleeping alcove.

  “What’s going on?” She hid the mail behind her back.

  “The building management turned off the heat without saying why,” the poet growled. “They could at least have waited until summer.”

  Anna pulled out the association’s mimeographed letter, which informed residents that heat in the building would be temporarily shut off for maintenance work on April 11 and 12. She handed her father the letter. Without taking off her shoes and jacket, she went to the nook and bent over her son. “Look here, Petyushka,” she said tenderly.

  The dark-haired head emerged from the bedclothes, and then Petya shined a flashlight in his mother’s face. “If I read under the covers, it gets warm right away.”

  She smiled at the flushed, childish face. “I think something’s come for you,” she said, presenting the letter.

  “What is it?” He examined the envelope earnestly. “Who’s writing to me?”

  “To us, Petya.” She laid the letter on his lap. “Papa’s writing to us.”

  “Papa,” he repeated with great reverence. “From Yakutia?”

  She nodded. “This letter has traveled a long, long way to reach us. Would you like to open it?”

  “Is he writing to tell us when he’s coming back?” The child’s finger traced the edges of the stamp. “Is he writing about the animals out there where he is? Did he put a present in with the letter?”

  “Hurry up,” Anna said with a laugh. “You remind me of old Avdotya, trying to imagine what Metsentsev’s going to write to her about.”

  The child plucked cautiously at a corner. The paper didn’t give way immediately, so he pulled harder and soon had several snippets in his hand.

  “Stop,” his mother said, laying her hand on his. “We don’t want to tear it to pieces.”