The Russian Affair

TWO



At three in the afternoon the next day, when she boarded the special bus on Durova Street, it was already getting dark. At the end of a thirty-minute trip, twenty workers, seventeen of them women, were dropped off in Karacharovo. The worksite was an elongated, twelve-story apartment house that was supposed (according to the plan) to be ready by May. Trouble began because the painters were unable to do their work, and that was because the plasterers were two weeks in arrears on theirs. The walls and ceilings on five entire floors had yet to receive their final coat of plaster. The person in charge defended the delay by blaming it on the unrelenting cold: Not even the propane heaters that burned day and night on every floor could make the surfaces dry. Anna and the other women complained that the plasterers’ dillydallying would cause them, the painters, to fail to fulfill their responsibilities in the plan as well. What happened in the end was what usually happened: The women laid aside their paintbrushes and picked up trowels. This was dirty work, and so a settlement for the cost of cleaning the painters’ work uniforms had to be reached. When that was done, Anna and some of her colleagues climbed up on the scaffolding, while others mixed the lime plaster. In order to counteract the cold, they used quick-drying cement; the women on the scaffolding had to work very fast. A tub of fresh plaster was hoisted up to Anna; using a hawk with one hand, she scooped up some of the mixture and spread it on the ceiling with the trowel in her other hand. The plaster was too runny, and some of it dripped onto her face. She cursed and called out to the mixers to use less water. Then, with circular movements, she distributed the remaining plaster over the smooth surface.

An hour later, her head and shoulders were sprinkled with gray. Even though she was wearing a headscarf, she could feel wet plaster in her hair and her eyelids were gummy with it, but her dirty gloves prevented her from wiping off her face. Nevertheless, she’d managed to plaster half of the ceiling. Anna jumped down from the scaffolding, crouched next to the propane heater, and drank a glass of tea. One of the plasterers, a nice-looking, broad-shouldered man, squatted down beside her; after taking a few sips of his own tea in silence, he thanked the comrade for her help.

Is Petya asleep already? she wondered. Will the inhalation treatment give him a more restful night, or will he utter that strangled groan again and sit up in the bed, because he can’t get enough air when he’s lying down? As long as he was running a fever, she had to let him stay home from school, but spending the whole day together with his capricious grandfather wasn’t good for the boy. Papa hardly ever sees anybody but his family anymore, Anna thought. She found it less regrettable that he avoided the literati and their scene than that he had shed all his friends. The extraordinary reading two years previously hadn’t given him back his self-confidence; the consequences of his little swipe at the regime were an enduring sign that the ice age was not yet over. Viktor Tsazukhin had reminded the members of the Writers’ Association that he was a recipient of the Order of the Fatherland, that he had spoken before large Party gatherings and been invited to receptions. How long ago had that been? Twenty years? Basically, Anna knew of her father’s significance only from pictures she’d seen and things she’d heard. As a little girl, she’d been told who the people with Viktor Ipalyevich in the framed photographs were, and she knew where the fancy presentation edition of The Red Light stood on the bookshelf. More than his early work, however, she loved the poems he’d written in recent years, poems that remained unpublished. As the man with the peaked cap grew sadder and understood less and questioned more, Anna found herself drawn all the more strongly to his shorter, smaller pieces. Instead of lengthy evocations of the human spectacle, his current output was characterized by instantaneous sketches, a couple of stanzas about a misunderstanding at a bus stop, lines that distilled several weeks’ work. His poetry described the people of Moscow, not so much their utopian dream as their actual present; his verse shined a light on their everyday lives, captured certain moments, dedicated itself to a feeling of disappointed hope for the unattainable. Yes, Anna loved her father through his poems.

“How’s your husband?” the plasterer asked, tearing her from her thoughts.

“He’s good. He likes it where he is.” To all who knew of it, the fact that Leonid had been transferred without explanation necessarily seemed like a punishment, and as for the real reason, Anna couldn’t reveal it to anyone. She screwed the cup back onto her thermos bottle and climbed up her scaffolding.


The following morning, Petya’s fever had increased. Anna swapped shifts with a colleague, dressed the boy so heavily that only his eyes and nose were visible between his scarf and his fur cap, and set out with him for the polyclinic. Along the way, she gave Petya some white lozenges to suck—they didn’t help, but he liked them. When he announced that he was feeling better, she knew that he was scared of the treatment that lay in store for him. Not even six months had passed since they’d been to see the doctor about his earaches. The doctor, a woman, had pulled his earlobes, and when Petya cried out loudly, she’d diagnosed an infection. She’d prescribed drops, which indeed deadened the pain, but the inflammation grew worse. Petya had whimpered for an entire night and fallen asleep at dawn. When he woke up, Anna had discovered a yellow stain on his pillow; his eardrum had burst and pus had run out of his ear while he slept. From then on, the boy had felt better, even though he was deaf in that ear for weeks. At the follow-up examination, the doctor had proudly announced that the membrane was going to heal.

The freshly painted outpatients’ clinic impressed Anna; the work on the window frames and ledges had been skillfully carried out. Inside the clinic, the gray, oil-based paint remained unchanged. Petya was breathing in brief gasps and could hardly keep himself upright. In order to reach the children’s department more quickly, Anna carried him piggyback up two floors, only to find a disappointingly long line of people waiting to see a doctor. The queue stretched all the way out to the stairwell. Automatically, she asked who the last person was, and when told, she said, “Then I come after you.” The other mother nodded. She was handsomely dressed, with a tailored jacket and a black cap. The little girl she was holding by the hand turned toward Petya. At this distance from the treatment rooms, there were no chairs or benches, and so Anna spread her coat in a corner of the stairs to give Petya something to sit on. A nurse hurried past them, muttering something about a “Gypsy camp.”

The morning was almost gone when they were called. The lady doctor sounded Petya’s chest and back, determined that he was suffering from a catarrh, and said that such a condition was standard in wintertime. Anna described his leaping fevers and his breathing difficulties, his frequent coughing and streaming eyes; the doctor assumed that they were all connected. She stuck to her diagnosis—a feverish cold—and prescribed a dose of ultraviolet therapy and an inhalant. “It’s winter, that’s all,” she said, waving the next patient in. “When spring comes, you’ll see …” She returned to her desk.

In spite of the transfer form she’d been given, Anna and Petya had to wait another forty-five minutes before he was summoned to the radiation room. While the boy was inside, Anna went over the course of the next few hours in her mind. She visualized the trip back home, the shopping she’d do on the way, the ride to her worksite. Because she’d swapped shifts, she had some unexpected free time, several hours’ worth. She wanted to get something out of the day, to wrest a little enjoyment from it while she still could. She called Rosa Khleb from the nearest telephone.

“I’m taking my lunch break at twelve noon,” said the pleasant voice at the other end of the line.

“The thing is, I’m not dressed for going out to eat,” Anna answered. “And at three o’clock, I have to catch the workers’ bus on Durova Street.”

“You’ve got enough time,” Rosa said, and when Anna hesitated, she added, “Don’t worry about your clothes—you don’t need to dress up for this place.” She named an address, and Anna rang off.

Petya left the radiation room happy, declaring that he was warm all over. On the way back, he stopped several times to talk about the magic light he’d been shot with; the light, he said, had made the nurse’s white coat shine blue.

When she saw the line in front of the pharmacy, Anna lost patience. With a tight grip on Petya’s hand, she pulled him past the waiting customers to the entrance. “It’s an emergency,” she said to the protesting women and gave the gaunt pharmacist an imploring look. If he wished to, he could banish her to the end of the line.

“What does he need?”

Ignoring the murmurs of disapproval around her, Anna took out the prescription.

After a scant look at it, the pharmacist said, “We don’t have that. I can give you something similar.” He turned to the storage drawer cabinet behind him. “But it’ll cost more.”

“The doctor said …” Anna tapped the prescription.

“Yes or no?” With a jerk, he pulled out a drawer.

“I’ll take it.” She removed from Petya’s grasp the plastic sign advising customers that they could have only one prescription filled per day.

The substitute medicine was three times as expensive as the one originally prescribed, but the growing ill humor of the people waiting in line induced Anna to pay without further delay. Taking her boy by the hand, she stepped out into the cold.

When they got home, the apartment had been tidied up and Viktor Ipalyevich, dressed in the jacket he wore around the house, was sitting at the table. His composition book lay in front of him, and next to it, a writing pad with notes. The glass beside him was empty. Anna laid her hand on the samovar; whatever Viktor Ipalyevich had been drinking, it wasn’t tea. His cap was pulled down to his eyes, as if he wanted to shut out the visible world. His pencil hung motionless over the paper.

“Would you like beef in pepper sauce for lunch?” Anna asked as she passed him on her way to the kitchen. She’d put the fatty meat in a marinade the night before and needed only to cook it. Petya took his book from the sofa, pulled the curtain to one side, and threw himself onto the bed.

“I swapped shifts with Svetlana today. Will you fix Petya’s dinner?”

The figure in the black woolen jacket didn’t move. While sautéing the garlic, Anna read the little leaflet that had come with Petya’s medicine, set some water on to boil, and prepared his inhalant. She squeezed tomato paste out of a tube, stirred it into the pot, and added the meat. Then she went into the other room and sat down across from her father. He didn’t look up. There was writing on the page in front of him, but an eraser lay close at hand. In order to save paper, Viktor Ipalyevich would make repeated revisions of a poem on the same sheet, until it was gray and worn from erasures. Anna started telling him about her morning at the clinic, heard the water boiling, rushed to the kitchen to fetch it, stirred the meat as she passed, and carried the steaming pot into the room. She called Petya, who laid his book aside, grumbling a bit, and trotted over to the table. She poured the required amount of the inhalant into the water, put a cushion under the boy, told him to lean over the pot, and spread a towel over his head and shoulders. He gasped for air and started struggling; his mother stroked his back. If he was a brave boy, she told him, he’d start feeling better that very day. Gradually, the little fellow under the towel began to breathe evenly.

“How’s it coming along?” Anna asked her father.

“Nothing’s coming anymore. I’ve been aware of it for a long time.” He looked at her with watery eyes; his homemade liquor was having its effect. “The spring has dried up.”

“But you were writing well just yesterday.”

“One can always write something.” He turned over the page and showed his daughter that he had torn out all the preceding pages. “Worthless stuff. I sit there from morning till evening and tell myself I’m practicing a craft.” He threw his pencil across the table. “An idler, that’s what I’ve become. Nobody needs what I produce.” He laughed grimly. “I haven’t met my quota. The committee will scold me.”

Anna said nothing and contemplated the carpet hanging on the opposite wall, her only wedding present. While Leonid was still living with them, Viktor Ipalyevich had done better at keeping his drinking under control; it was embarrassing for him to let himself go in front of his son-in-law. Anna’s eyes wandered to the shelves where her father’s books stood. Above the shelves hung the wall light in the gilded sconce, which had its own odd history. She gazed at the rusty radiator and the velvet cloth that hid the sleeping alcove. She’d neglected to wash the curtains in the fall; now, yellowish and heavy, they’d have to wait until spring.

“Lunch is almost ready,” she said. When she stepped past Viktor Ipalyevich, she could smell his rotgut liquor. In the kitchen, she turned off the gas, put the meat and sauce on a platter, and carried it and the plates into the other room.

“Will you clear the table?” Without waiting for her father’s consent, she clapped his notebook shut. His gloominess took her breath away, and she could hardly wait for her appointment with Rosa.

“How long do I have to stay down here?” Petya asked, coughing as he spoke.

“Just a little while longer.” Anna served her father and herself and started eating. “For the most part, the beginning of a poem comes to you fairly easily. And you write the ending quickly, too.” She pointed to the closed composition book. “It’s just in the middle where you have problems, isn’t it?”

“What do you know about how a poem gets written?”

“Nothing.” She chewed slowly. “I know nothing about it.”

“Then don’t tell me anything about it, either.” He picked at his food. “How often is Petya supposed to have these inhalation treatments?”

“No more!” The red face appeared from under the table. “I just had one, I don’t have to do it anymore.”

“Again before he goes to bed,” said Anna. She put some food on the boy’s plate and took away the pot of water. “You’ll feel better tomorrow,” she told Petya, looking at the kitchen clock. “Does the brave boy want a treat?” She returned to the room with a cookie in her hand. Then she put on her scarf and grabbed her coat. “Errands,” she said, answering Viktor Ipalyevich’s questioning look.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything.”

“Put it in the oven for me.” She was already out the door.


The bus took Anna from west to east. She got out at the Lubyanka Theater stop, took longer than she liked to find the right street, and stopped to stare in amazement at an old man who had piled bundles of dried green twigs against the wall of a building. He turned his sign—OAK 50 KOPECKS, BIRCH 45 KOPECKS—so that she could see it. She shook her head, thanking him, and looked for a spot where she could wait undisturbed. Ten minutes passed. Rosa’s tardiness annoyed Anna, and she resolved to give her friend five more minutes before she went off to have a glass of tea on her own.

Rosa Khleb had turned out to be the most refreshing and, at the same time, the most disastrous acquaintance that Anna had made in recent years. She couldn’t imagine a more interesting friend, but Rosa was also a she-devil who often made Anna wish that they had never met. Two years previously, in June, around the time when her affair with Alexey had begun, Anna had gone to buy bread at a bakery on Kalinin Prospekt that offered five different kinds. In no hurry, she’d moved forward in the line, mentally going over her remaining errands.

“But it’s back there,” she heard a man at the counter say.

The girl behind it held out a loaf to him.

“That’s at least five hours old. I’d like some of the fresh bread back there on the trays.” He pointed toward the ovens.

“Next in line.”

“Wait a minute, I’m first!”

“You want some bread from back there, right?” said the shop assistant, imitating him. “That’ll be available in an hour.” Disregarding the man’s protests, she signaled to a woman with a child to step up to the counter. The woman wasn’t choosy; she took the proffered loaf and thrust it into her shopping bag. Furious, the man pushed his way out of the crowded shop.

Only then did Anna notice the pretty woman standing in front of her in the line. She was wearing a striking summer dress, dark blue with a light-colored pattern. No dye could have produced the natural color of her shoulder-length blond hair. She might have been around Anna’s age, but her bearing, her self-confident air, suggested a woman in her thirties. When the blonde’s turn came, she didn’t make her choice hastily, as the other customers did; she took the long-handled spoon from the counter and pressed the metal into the loaves that were on offer. By the fourth, the people behind Anna began to grow restless. “They’re all the same!” one cried out.

The shop assistant nodded and said, “They all come out of the same machine.”

“How old is that one?” the blonde asked.

“It’s fresh.” The girl tried to hand her the loaf, but the customer decided on another one. “That man who was just here was right,” she said without emphasis. “You ought to put out your newest loaves. This bread’s already getting hard.” With that, she took the loaf and went to stand in the line in front of the cash register. Very soon, Anna was behind her again. It had grown dark outside, a draft of cool air entered the bakery, and thunder crashed over the rooftops.

“Oh no, not now!” a woman cried. She quickly counted her kopecks, dropped them on the cashier’s counter, and ran out in an attempt to beat the coming storm. The next woman in line was equally hurried, but not the blonde. She calmly opened her shopping bag, let the cashier peer inside to see whether there was anything there besides a loaf of bread, took out her purse, and started looking for the correct change.

“It’s going to be pouring in a minute!” a man barked.

After paying, the blonde ambled past the line of customers to the exit.

Anna paid in her turn, put her change in her pocket and her loaf under her arm, squeezed through the door, and stepped out. The air was green, there was a smell of sulfur, and lightning and thunder were following each other in rapid succession. She was surprised to find the blond customer still standing in the entrance, apparently having trouble with her umbrella. The rain was coming down so hard that two men who were running for the bakery collided just outside the door. Laughing, they hastened to take refuge inside. From one second to the next, the street was swept empty. Anna decided to wait out the heaviest downpour and leaned against the wall. As the pretty woman was still struggling with her umbrella, Anna offered to help and opened it with two swift movements.

“Where do you have to go? I can take you part of the way.”

Had Anna been able to imagine the consequences of this offer, she would have run out into the rain without replying. Instead she gazed at the lovely things the blonde was wearing. “You’ll ruin your dress,” Anna said.

“I want to go to that café.” Arm in arm, protected by the umbrella, and running in step, they set out.

When they reached the door of the bar, the unknown woman asked, “Shall we go in and have some tea?”

Anna, breathless, stood there without speaking.

“Without you, I would have got soaking wet,” said the woman, smiling. “And by the way, my name is Rosa.”


The meeting that took place one week later marked the first time that Anna stepped into the trap. For a long time, her family had enjoyed a privilege: During the 1940s, when Viktor Ipalyevich was at the height of his fame, he had purchased a grave in one of Moscow’s central cemeteries. And so Anna was among the few who, when they visited their dead, could do so inside the city; most people had to go to the urn graves located on the outskirts. On that particular afternoon, having picked up some spike broom and some forget-me-nots, Anna had passed through the cemetery’s main portal and watched the crows, which seemed to be attacking the graves. It was hot and sunny. Many visitors were kneeling on the marble gravestones, scrubbing them with brushes or putting plants on them. Anna reached the grave that was her goal and greeted a couple who had set up a table on their son’s gravestone and were having lunch.

“We’ve brought Sasha some of the things he used to like.” With a gesture, the father invited Anna to share their meal: pirozhki, hard-boiled eggs, pickled mushrooms, and fish. Regretfully, Anna pointed to the neglected adjacent grave and held up a hand rake. “First I have to tidy up Mama’s place.”

“The winter made a real mess.” The neighbors kept eating.

Anna went down on her knees. Her grandparents’ marker had been moved farther back, and in the middle stood a stone of polished granite bearing a picture of her mother. The photograph showed a pretty woman with her hair pinned up high on her head. The look on the youthful face gave Anna a pang; in reality, Dora Tsazukhina had been a slight, inconspicuous woman, somewhat shorter than Viktor Ipalyevich. She’d worked for the Writers’ Association as one of a hundred typists and had met, at a reception, the poet whose work she’d revered even as a girl. Viktor Ipalyevich was divorced, and he enjoyed being revered by women for his poetry. He’d seduced Dora that very night and visited her a few times after that at the Writers’ Association, but without considering the matter very important. Soon afterward, a lover of many years’ standing left him for a sculptor who won the Lenin Prize. Finding himself empty-handed in every way had dealt a sharp blow to Viktor Ipalyevich’s self-confidence. As chance would have it, the editing of his latest volume of poems had recently been completed, and Dora was typing up the revised manuscript, so that the two of them had professional reasons for spending time together. The poet had instinctively understood that in securing Dora he would be drawing to his side a lifelong admirer, someone who would always subordinate her existence to his needs and who (this consideration was not to be disdained) earned a respectable income. Dora and Viktor were married during a heavy March rainstorm; at the end of November, Anna came into the world. “She’ll be an idealist,” her father had declared, and he’d given her the name of the protagonist in Tolstoy’s famous novel. The allocation of a larger apartment was achieved without difficulty, and Viktor, Dora, and the infant moved into their new home near Filyovsky Park. Dora wasn’t robust, but nobody found her delicacy worrying; for Viktor Ipalyevich, all it meant was that he would go on his long hikes through the hills around Zagorsk alone or choose easier routes. On one such excursion, Dora had slipped and, although she didn’t fall, broken her shinbone. The fragility of her bone structure aroused surprise; a medical examination revealed that she had cancer of the bone marrow. At the time when her mother was hospitalized, Anna was a fourteen-year-old Pioneer Girl. For three years, Dora had fought her illness with a determination that commanded Viktor Ipalyevich’s deepest respect; in the final months, however, both he and his daughter had wished that the sick woman’s ordeal might be over soon. Anna’s mother died in the household; outside, as on her wedding day, there was a terrific downpour. The normally complacent Viktor Ipalyevich had mourned his wife’s death more deeply than Anna would have thought him capable of doing, and during this period he’d produced his most beautiful poems: not elegies, but vibrant declarations of love to Dora. Shortly afterward, Anna had left school and accepted a trainee position in the building combine.

Now she knelt at her mother’s grave. While casting hungry glances at her neighbors’ picnic, she’d dug little hollows in the soil and planted the forget-me-nots in a circle around the gravestone. Then she’d swept all the blackened leaves off the grave and polished its brass ornamentation, and as she was kneeling there quietly for a moment, a cloth pattern came into her field of vision—a summer dress that Anna recognized. It was the same woman she’d met during the cloudburst outside the bakery.

“Anna?” the woman asked warily, as if she weren’t sure of the name.

“Rosa!”

“What a coincidence!” the woman said, laughing. Her hair shimmered in the midday sun.

“Who do you have in here?” Anna asked, tamping down the earth around the forget-me-nots.

“My paternal grandparents.” Rosa pointed to the cemetery’s main avenue.

“My mother,” Anna said, pointing to the photograph.

“You look like her.”

“She died when I was seventeen.”

“I’m doubly happy to see you again,” Rosa said, extracting her wallet from her purse.

Anna remembered how embarrassed Rosa had been in the tearoom. She hadn’t had enough money, and she’d been unable to pay her share; Anna had even been obliged to lend her subway fare. “Forget it,” Anna said. “It was my treat.”

Rosa insisted on immediate reciprocation. She accompanied Anna as she poured stale water out of a vase, carried the vase over to a faucet, and filled the vessel with fresh water. When she placed the spike broom blossoms behind her mother’s picture, flowers surrounded the gravestone like a yellow corona. Then Anna and Rosa strolled away together down the central avenue of the cemetery, followed by the curious eyes of the old couple.

“Just a moment,” Rosa said, slowing her pace. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to …” She pointed to the little church that gave the cemetery its name, and Anna realized that the cross around Rosa’s neck was no mere adornment. They both covered their heads with scarves. It was cold in the chapel, and the space was filled with the singsong prayers of some old women. Rosa bought a candle, took out a small piece of paper, and wrote the names of her dead on it. After a short prayer, she laid the chit on a stack near the altar. Anna watched these proceedings with sympathy, which she was only later to understand was exactly what Rosa had wished to elicit. By performing a reactionary act in Anna’s sight, she was giving her friend a sign of trust.

In the tearoom after the earlier cloudburst, Rosa had mentioned that she worked as a journalist for the English-language daily, the Moscow Times. Now, as they left the church, she told Anna of a telephone call to the newspaper that morning: During some demolition work in the Arbat quarter of Moscow, an old storeroom, unopened since the war, had been discovered. Her editor, Rosa said, had assigned her to report on this discovery, and she invited Anna to accompany her on the assignment.

The building complex was on the boundary of the Arbat quarter. At first glance, the high fence surrounding the complex made it seem inaccessible. The photographer, a stout fellow with curly hair, was already waiting. He yanked two boards aside, allowing the women to enter the worksite. The converted lobby, its windows blacked out by decades of dust, was on the second floor. When the photographer opened the iron door, Anna just stood there, speechless. She felt as though she’d entered some monumental film like the ones that used to be shown to her and her fellow Pioneer Girls. The gray concrete ceiling was thickly hung with huge crystal chandeliers that sparkled in the light of a heavy-duty, upward-pointing halogen lamp. The sight before Anna’s eyes surpassed everything that she’d been taught about the wasteful extravagance of the feudal barons. Who had possessed the resources, not to mention the room, required to hang such luxury from their ceilings? For whom had workers’ hands suspended countless rhinestones from little wire hooks and assembled chandeliers as tall as two stories in a modern building? Hesitantly, as if she might be called to account for every step, Anna entered the scene, while Rosa questioned the worker who had come upon the hidden treasure. The photographer worried about the quality of the light and shot pictures from every possible angle.

The report on “Stalin’s Lamp Shop” had never appeared. Those who knew about the collection had preferred to help themselves to it. With a smile, Rosa had assured the head of the demolition firm that he’d be compensated for his discovery if he conducted himself appropriately. Even so early on, it should have made Anna suspicious to see a young woman, a journalist, in a position to make such an offer. Blinded by the hanging splendor, Anna had looked on, and the question never crossed her mind.

“Which one do you like?”

Anna’s eyes had wandered to a wall chandelier with a gilt arm; Rosa had nodded in agreement. Once, some time later, Rosa had told Anna that the small lamps, the ones that could be carried off in a crate or a box, had disappeared soonest. For the middle-sized chandeliers, trucks with their tailgates down had pulled up in the parking area; the monsters, the largest of the treasures, had hung there for some time, and then someone had decided to dismantle them and sell their individual parts.

That was the day when Anna accepted the first gift, the first time she associated herself with someone she barely knew in order to obtain some benefit. Much later, a good while after the two had become the closest of friends, Rosa admitted to Anna that no member of her family had ever been buried in the Vaganskovskoye Cemetery.


“You look like an illegal street vendor,” Rosa Khleb said, snatching Anna out of her memories. “Why didn’t you wait inside?”

“There’s … nothing there,” Anna said, pointing in the direction she’d come from.

Rosa took her friend’s arm, and together they turned back to the man with the bundled twigs. She was a head taller than Anna, and she was wearing a fur-trimmed coat and black leather gloves. She bought two bundles, one oak and one birch, and entered the passage that led to the building’s inner courtyard. There was a cashier in one of the rear stairwells.

“As a club member, I’m allowed to bring a guest,” Rosa said, paying for them both.

“What kind of club is this?” Anna followed her inside through a normal apartment doorway.

“You’ll like it. Every now and then, when I have more time than I do now, I stay here for a full three hours.”

The dressing room smelled as though sweaty laundry were being boiled somewhere nearby. Rosa surrendered her watch, her briefcase, and a gold bracelet to a woman in a white smock. Anna hastened to put her own things in the woman’s hands. She received their coats and hats and handed them two tokens.

“The second one is for the towels,” Rosa explained.

They entered a room whose elegance had faded. A carved mantelpiece crowned the walled-up fireplace. A sleepy old woman was sitting in front of a massive mirror; a copy of the house rules was fastened to the mirror’s frame with thumbtacks. One of the regulations stated: “Anyone seen consuming alcohol must be reported at once.” The woman showed them to a changing room. The coat hangers, the benches, and the shoe racks, but above all the moist, warm air, made it clear to Anna what sort of place they were in. Rosa loosened her hair and began to get undressed; Anna admired her ivory-white underwear.

“What are you waiting for?”

Anna let her pants, sweater, and shirt fall to the floor. When she was naked, she covered herself with the bath towel.

“I have to sweat out yesterday’s office party,” Rosa said, going ahead of her. “A couple of our correspondents were still going strong at dawn. Good thing we publish only twice a week—otherwise, there would have been no edition of the Moscow Times today.”

Once they were through the next door, the temperature and the humidity rose sharply. Several women stood under showers and soaped themselves. For a long moment, Anna felt inhibited among strangers; at the washstands in the building combine, people rarely appeared unclothed.

“I thought you didn’t have much time,” Rosa said to encourage her. Anna stepped under the jet of lukewarm water.

“Prepare yourself for feudalism in its most horrible form!” Rosa said, indicating with an outstretched arm the steam bath’s inner sanctum.

They entered a room whose contours could only be guessed, because it was full of steam. Along the wall, Anna could make out slabs of black marble for reclining, and in the middle of the room a bathtub that seemed to have been chiseled out of a single block of stone; two women were sitting in it, chatting. On the marble slabs, too, women were sitting and talking. Water and sweat ran along their shoulders and breasts and dripped onto the floor.

“Are you ready for the gallery?” Rosa smiled in a way that made Anna curious. They approached the last door together. A wave of hot, moist air took Anna’s breath away and scorched her lungs. A lightbulb illuminated the square room, in which there were three tiers of benches, the highest tier right under the ceiling. In this chamber there was only one other person, a woman of extravagant proportions, snoring in her sleep. Anna and Rosa chose the middle tier and sat there for a while in silence, trying to get used to the climate.

“So how are things going for you, Comrade?”

Anna waited until the moisture on her nose formed a droplet and fell onto her knee. “I miss my husband.”

“How much time does he have left?”

“You say that as if he were serving a jail sentence.”

Rosa lay down at full length on her stomach. “I say that because I know you know the exact day when his time is up.”

“His year on Sakhalin ends in March. Then he gets a six-day vacation.” Anna leaned back against the stone wall. Her towel slipped off her breasts, and Anna spread it out under her.

Rosa put a hand on Anna’s thigh. “Look at it this way: At that point, your situation will be settled. Leonid will get an official right of abode for Moscow, and you’ll finally be allocated an apartment.”

“Papa will be happier than anybody else when we leave him in peace inside his own four walls.”

“Without you, your father wouldn’t have any more walls at all. And furthermore, his books would be—”

Knowing what was coming next, Anna interrupted her with a gesture. “Viktor Ipalyevich isn’t a nanny. He needs concentration for his work.”

Rosa grinned. “Is there a selflessness medal? If there is, you ought to get nominated for it.”

“I’m not selfless,” Anna replied. “I’m anything but that.”

The pipe behind them roared and steam, coming from the opening in bursts, enveloped them. The fat woman heaved a noisy sigh, rolled off her bench, and disappeared outside. The bath attendant passed with a small bucket and sprinkled water on the hot stones.

“And how is the Deputy Minister?”

Anna watched the attendant until she was out of sight. Then she said, “Alexey is wrestling with his ghosts.”

“Which ones this time?”

“The demons of the Five-Year Plan. The Deputy Minister finds the figures that the CC plans to publish …” Anna waved one hand, slowly. “Too optimistic.”

“Who believes figures? Everybody knows they’re a fetish with Kosygin. He’ll just give a pretty speech.” She leaned forward, spread her legs, and slid to the step below her. “If that’s all Bulyagkov has to worry about, he’s in an enviable position.”

Anna said softly, “He hates his job.”

This remark made Rosa sit up and take notice. “What makes you think so?”

“He’s never told me a single pleasant story about the Ministry. You know, the sort of thing you hear on the news. He’s got the power to influence the scientific life of our country, and it doesn’t seem to mean anything to him.”

Rosa sat in pensive silence for a few seconds. Then she said, “He’s like all men.” She smiled. “When they go home in the evening, they like to gripe to their wives about their work. Bulyagkov, apparently, does the same thing with his lover.”

Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“I think you’re just about hard-boiled now, my dear. When I came here for the first time, I couldn’t take more than five minutes in the gallery.”

Rosa was dripping out of every pore, Anna noticed, while her own skin seemed only a little damp. She said, “Those of us in construction are used to tougher conditions than you in your chic editorial offices. In summer, I often have to work for hours in attics and dormers where the temperature must be one hundred and twenty degrees.”

Rosa took up one of the bundles of twigs, signaled to Anna to turn over, and struck her, first gently, then harder and harder, on her back and her legs. Anna flinched at the initial blow but quickly began to feel an agreeable tingling and closed her eyes. After a while, she rolled onto her back, and Rosa continued the procedure. It didn’t bother Anna to feel her friend’s eyes on her body. Eventually, Rosa dropped the twigs and lay down on the stone herself. Anna seized the bundle of oak twigs and brought them down sharply on Rosa’s posterior.

“Harder.”

Anna struck harder. A while passed in which the only audible sounds were Rosa’s quickened breathing and soft groans. Anna brushed the twigs over her friend’s flat belly, over her muscular thighs and calves.

“Star-Eyes wants to see you,” Rosa said. The bundle of oak switches stopped in midair, shivering. “I was going to call you today. You beat me to it.”

“About what?”

“Your report.”

“But just last week …” Anna laid the twigs aside.

“He has questions.” Rosa sat up. “You behave like somebody afraid of failing an exam. Star-Eyes is satisfied with you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll learn that later.” Rosa licked her lips. “We should have brought something to drink. They sell bread and chicken in the foyer.” She stood up and wrapped the towel around her chest. “How would you like a bottle of beer?”

“Isn’t alcohol prohibited?”

“For a Russian, you know surprisingly little about the difference between utopia and reality. They sell vodka in half-liter bottles, too, and with any luck there will even be some lemons.”

Anna watched Rosa disappear into the steam and then followed her, as though walking into clouds.