But Natalya intended to stay with her husband. So Dimka would have no one.
He would tell Nina tonight. The four were due to meet at the girls’ apartment. He would take Nina aside and tell her . . . what? It seemed more difficult when he tried to think of the actual words. Come on, he told himself; you’ve written speeches for Khrushchev, you can write one for yourself.
Our affair is over . . . I don’t want to see you any more . . . I thought I was in love with you, but I’ve realized I’m not . . . It was fun while it lasted . . .
Everything he thought of sounded cruel. Was there no kind way to say this? Perhaps not. What about the naked truth? I’ve met someone else, and I really love her . . .
That sounded worst of all.
At the end of the afternoon, Khrushchev decided the Presidium should put on a public display of international goodwill by going en masse to the Bolshoi Theatre, where the American Jerome Hines was singing Boris Godunov, the most popular of Russian operas. Aides were invited too. Dimka thought it was a stupid idea. Who was going to be fooled? On the other hand, he found himself relieved to have to call off his date with Nina, which he was now dreading.
He phoned her place of work and caught her just before she left. ‘I can’t make it tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to the Bolshoi with the boss.’
‘Can’t you get out of it?’ she said.
‘Are you joking?’ A man who worked for the First Secretary would miss his mother’s funeral rather than disobey.
‘I want to see you.’
‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Come after the opera.’
‘It will be late.’
‘No matter how late it is, come to my place. I’ll be up, if I have to wait all night.’
He was puzzled. She was not normally so insistent. She almost sounded needy, and that was not like her. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘There’s something we have to discuss.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you tonight.’
‘Tell me now.’
Nina hung up.
Dimka put on his overcoat and walked to the theatre, which was only a few steps from the Kremlin.
Jerome Hines was six foot six, and wore a crown with a cross on top: his presence was immense. His astonishingly powerful bass filled the theatre and made its echoing spaces seem small. Yet Dimka sat through Mussorgsky’s opera without hearing much. He ignored the spectacle on stage. He spent the evening worrying alternately about how the Americans would respond to Khrushchev’s peace proposal and how Nina would respond to his ending their affair.
When at last Khrushchev said goodnight, Dimka walked to the girls’ apartment, which was a mile or so from the theatre. On the way he tried to guess what Nina wanted to talk about. Perhaps she was going to end their relationship: that would be a relief. She might have been offered a promotion that required her to move to Leningrad. She might even have met someone else, as he had, and decided that the new man was Mr Right. Or she could be ill: a fatal disease, perhaps connected with the mysterious reasons why she could not get pregnant. All these possibilities offered Dimka an easy way out, and he realized he would be gladdened by any one, perhaps even – to his shame – the fatal illness.
No, he thought, I don’t really wish her dead.
As promised, Nina was waiting for him.
She was wearing a green silk robe, as if she were about to go to bed, but her hair was perfect and she wore a little light make-up. She kissed him on the lips, and he kissed her back with shame in his heart. He was betraying Natalya by relishing the kiss, and betraying Nina by thinking of Natalya. The double guilt gave him a pain in his stomach.
Nina poured a glass of beer and he drank half of it quickly, eager for some Dutch courage.
She sat beside him on the couch. He was pretty sure she had nothing on under the robe. Desire stirred in him, and the picture of Natalya in his mind began to fade a little.
‘We’re not at war yet,’ he said. ‘That’s my news. What’s yours?’
Nina took the beer from him and set it on the coffee table, then she held his hand. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
Dimka felt as if he had been punched. He stared at her in uncomprehending shock. ‘Pregnant,’ he said stupidly.
‘Two months and a bit.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve missed two consecutive periods.’
‘Even so . . .’
‘Look.’ She opened her robe to show him her breasts. ‘They’re bigger.’
They were, he saw, feeling a mixture of desire and dismay.
‘And they hurt.’ She closed the robe, but not very tight. ‘And smoking makes me sick to my stomach. Damn it, I feel pregnant.’
This could not be true. ‘But you said—’
‘That I couldn’t have children.’ She looked away. ‘That’s what my doctor told me.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes. It’s confirmed.’
Incredulously, Dimka said: ‘What does he say now?’
‘That it’s a miracle.’
‘Doctors don’t believe in miracles.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Dimka tried to stop the room spinning around him. He swallowed hard and struggled to get over the shock. He had to be practical. ‘You don’t want to get married, and I sure as hell don’t,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘You have to give me the money for an abortion.’
Dimka swallowed. ‘All right.’ Abortions were readily available in Moscow, but they were not free. Dimka considered how he would get the money. He had been planning to trade in his motorcycle and buy a used car. If he postponed that he could probably manage it. He might borrow from his grandparents. ‘I can do that,’ he said.
She immediately relented. ‘We should pay half each. We made this baby together.’
Suddenly Dimka felt different. It was her use of the word baby. He found himself conflicted. He pictured himself holding a baby, watching a child take its first steps, teaching it to read, taking it to school. He said: ‘Are you sure an abortion is what you want?’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Uncomfortable.’ He asked himself why he felt this way. ‘I don’t think it’s a sin, or anything like that. I just started imagining, you know, a little baby.’ He was not sure where these feelings had come from. ‘Could we have the child adopted?’
‘Give birth, and then hand the baby over to strangers?’
‘I know, I don’t like it either. But it’s hard to raise a child on your own. I’d help you, though.’
‘Why?’
‘It will be my child, too.’
She took his hand. ‘Thank you for saying that.’ She looked very vulnerable suddenly, and his heart lurched. She said: ‘We love each other, don’t we?’
‘Yes.’ At that moment he did. He thought of Natalya, but somehow his picture of her was vague and distant, whereas Nina was here – in the flesh, he thought, and that phrase seemed more vivid than usual.
‘We’ll both love the child, won’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then . . .’
‘But you don’t want to get married.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Past tense.’
‘I felt that way when I wasn’t pregnant.’
‘Have you changed your mind?’
‘Everything feels different now.’
Dimka was bewildered. Were they talking about getting married? Desperate for something to say, he tried a joke. ‘If you’re proposing to me, where’s the bread and salt?’ The traditional betrothal ceremony required the exchange of gifts of bread and salt.
To his astonishment, she burst into tears.
His heart melted. He put his arms around her. At first she resisted, but after a moment she allowed herself to be hugged. Her tears wet his shirt. He stroked her hair.
She lifted her head to be kissed. After a minute she broke away. ‘Will you make love to me, before I get too fat and hideous?’ Her robe gaped, and he could see one soft breast, charmingly freckled.
‘Yes,’ he said recklessly, pushing the picture of Natalya even farther back in his mind.
Nina kissed him again. He grasped her breast: it felt even heavier than before.
She pulled away again. ‘You didn’t mean what you said at the start, did you?’
‘What did I say?’
‘That you sure as hell didn’t want to get married.’
He smiled, still holding her breast. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it.’