*
Nina was furious. ‘Kharkov?’ she yelled. ‘What am I supposed to do in fucking Kharkov?’
Nina did not normally use bad language: she felt it was coarse. She had risen above such low habits. Her lapse was a sign of how strongly she felt.
Dimka was unsympathetic. ‘I’m sure the steel union there will give you a job.’ In any case, it was time she sent Grigor to a day nursery and returned to work, something that was expected of Soviet mothers.
‘I don’t want to be exiled to a provincial city.’
‘Nor do I. Do you imagine I volunteered?’
‘Didn’t you see this coming?’
‘I did, and I even considered switching jobs, but I thought the putsch had been cancelled, when it had only been postponed. Naturally, the plotters did all they could to keep me in the dark.’
She gave him a calculating look. ‘I suppose you spent last night saying goodbye to your typist.’
‘You told me you didn’t care.’
‘All right, smart mouth. When do we have to go?’
‘Friday.’
‘Hell.’ Looking furious, Nina started packing.
On Wednesday, Dimka spoke to his Uncle Volodya about the move. ‘It’s not just about my career,’ he said. ‘I’m not in government for myself. I want to prove that Communism can work. But that means it has to change and improve. Now I’m afraid we could go backwards.’
‘We’ll get you back to Moscow as soon as we can,’ Volodya said.
‘Thank you,’ Dimka said with fervent gratitude. His uncle had always been supportive.
‘You deserve it,’ Volodya said warmly. ‘You’re smart and you get things done, and we don’t have a surplus of such people. I wish I had you in my office.’
‘I was never the military type.’
‘But, listen. After something like this has happened, you have to prove your loyalty by working hard and not complaining – and, most of all, not constantly begging to be sent back to Moscow. If you do all that for five years, I can start working on your return.’
‘Five years?’
‘Until I can start. Don’t count on less than ten. In fact, don’t count on anything. We don’t know how Brezhnev is going to work out.’
In ten years the Soviet Union could slide back all the way to poverty and underdevelopment, Dimka thought. But there was no point in saying so. Volodya was not just his best chance – he was his only chance.
Dimka saw Natalya again on Thursday. She had a split lip. ‘Did Nik do that?’ said Dimka angrily.
‘I slipped on icy steps and fell on my face,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true,’ she said, but she would not meet him in the furniture storeroom again.
On Friday morning, a ZIL-130 panel truck arrived and parked outside Government House, and two men in overalls began to carry Dimka’s and Nina’s possessions down in the elevator.
When the truck was almost full, they stopped for a break. Nina made them sandwiches and tea. The phone rang, and the doorman said: ‘There’s a messenger here from the Kremlin, has to deliver personally.’
‘Send him up,’ said Dimka.
Two minutes later, Natalya appeared at the door in a coat of champagne-coloured mink. With her damaged lip, she looked like a ravaged goddess.
Dimka stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he glanced at Nina.
She caught his guilty look, and glared at Natalya. Dimka wondered if the two women would fly at one another. He got ready to intervene.
Nina folded her arms across her chest. ‘So, Dimka,’ she said, ‘I suppose this is your little typist.’
What was Dimka supposed to say? Yes? No? She’s my lover?
Natalya looked defiant. ‘I’m not a typist,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Nina. ‘I know exactly what you are.’
That jibe was rich, Dimka thought, coming from the woman who had slept with a fat old general in order to get a dacha. But he did not say so.
Natalya looked haughty and handed him an official-looking envelope.
He tore it open. It was from Alexei Kosygin, the reforming economist. He had a strong power base so, despite his radical ideas, he had been made Chairman of the Council of Ministers in the Brezhnev government.
Dimka’s heart leaped. The letter offered him a job as aide to Kosygin – here in Moscow.
‘How did you manage this?’ he said to Natalya.
‘Long story.’
‘Well, thank you.’ He wanted to throw his arms around her and kiss her, but refrained. He turned to Nina. ‘I’m saved,’ he said. ‘I can stay in Moscow. Natalya has got me a job with Kosygin.’
The two women stared at one another, each hating the other. No one knew what to say.
After a long pause, one of the removal men said: ‘Does that mean we have to unload the truck?’
*
Tania flew Aeroflot to Siberia, touching down at Omsk on the way to Irkutsk. The plane was a comfortable Tupolev Tu-104 jet. The overnight flight took eight hours, and she dozed most of the way.
Officially, she was on assignment for TASS. Secretly, she was going to look for Vasili.
Two weeks ago, Daniil Antonov had come to her desk and discreetly handed her the typescript of Frostbite. ‘New World can’t publish this after all,’ he had said. ‘Brezhnev is clamping down. Orthodoxy is the watchword now.’
Tania had shoved the sheets of paper into a drawer. She was disappointed, but she had been half prepared for this. She said: ‘Do you remember the articles I wrote three years ago about life in Siberia?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It was one of the most popular series we ever did – and the government got a surge of applications from families wanting to go there.’
‘Maybe I should do a follow-up. Talk to some of the same people and ask how they’re getting on. Also interview some newcomers.’
‘Great idea.’ Daniil lowered his voice. ‘Do you know where he is?’
So he had guessed. It was not surprising. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I can find out.’
Tania was still living at Government House. She and her mother had moved up a floor into the grandparents’ large apartment, after the death of Katerina, so that they could look after Grandfather Grigori. He claimed he did not need looking after: he had cooked and cleaned for himself and his kid brother, Lev, when they were factory workers before the First World War and living in one room in a St Petersburg slum, he said proudly. But the truth was that he was seventy-six, and he had not cooked a meal nor swept a floor since the revolution.
That evening, Tania went down in the elevator and knocked on the door of her brother’s apartment.
Nina opened up. ‘Oh,’ she said rudely. She retreated into the apartment, leaving the door open. She and Tania had never liked one another.
Tania stepped into the little hallway. Dimka appeared from the bedroom. He smiled, pleased to see her. She said: ‘A quiet word?’
He picked up his keys from a small table and led her outside, closing the apartment door. They went down in the elevator and sat on a bench in the spacious lobby. Tania said: ‘I want you to find out where Vasili is.’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
Tania almost cried. ‘Why not?’
‘I’ve just avoided being exiled to Kharkov, by the skin of my teeth. I’m in a new job. What impression will I give if I start making inquiries about a criminal dissident?’
‘I have to talk to Vasili!’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Imagine how he must feel. He finished his sentence more than a year ago, yet he’s still there. He may fear being forced to remain there the rest of his life! I have to tell him that we haven’t forgotten about him.’
Dimka took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tania. I know you’re fond of him. But what good will it do to put myself at risk?’
‘On the strength of Frostbite, he could be a great author. And he writes about our country in a way that encapsulates everything that’s wrong. I have to tell him to write more.’
‘So what?’