The Russian Affair

THIRTY-TWO



Anna had told Petya that on a day like this, you had to go to a park, and she’d chosen the Arkhangelskoye Estate. It was no surprise to discover that thousands of other people had conceived the same idea. As she and her boy turned off the street and walked down to the lower-lying gardens, they discovered a sea of colors—bright hats, vivid shirts, checkered blankets, and baby carriages. People hungry for sunshine had flocked to the park; they were lying about on its lawns or strolling along its paths or laughing, eating, and sleeping in boats afloat on the lake. It was only when Anna, on her way to the children’s play area, reached the triple-spiral staircase with the café that she grasped the real reason why she was there. She’d returned to the place where she’d received the first, decisive information about how everything fit together.

In spite of the enchanted evening in the Peking Hotel, Anna had returned home uneasy, even ill-humored. True, she’d bidden Alexey a tender farewell and enjoyed their last embrace at his door, and yet during those very minutes, it was as if she’d looked into a mirror that had become immediately transparent, exposing many rooms on the other side. Later, in bed, Anna had reproached herself for the long time she’d spent seeing only the obvious in that mirror, namely herself, the Deputy Minister, and the pleasant world he’d opened up for her. Even when she’d become aware that Bulyagkov and Kamarovsky were working her like a puppet, Anna had considered it as part of the male power game. She hadn’t yet been ready to see the secret that lay behind all that. The night had passed in restless dreams, and the morning had brought a stupid quarrel with Viktor Ipalyevich; in the end, she’d collected Petya and fled the closeness of the apartment for the park.

He dashed over the grass and along the water and came back with a hundred things to tell his mother about. A family of peacocks near the café drew Petya’s attention; Anna allowed him to go closer to them, but cautiously.

Naturally, all the tables were occupied, but there, there of all places, at the table where Anna and Kamarovsky had sat, a couple stood up, left a tip, and walked off into the park. A woman with a camera hung around her neck hurried over, but Anna beat her to the table and ordered cakes and lemonade for two.

How long had it been since that August day when Kamarovsky had made her his peremptory offer? Alexey Maximovich is in the public eye, he’d explained, after shedding the mask of the innocent park visitor. Special security precautions are taken for him. But the decisive sentence, which Anna had—until today—overlooked because it was a matter of course, had been this: Alexey Maximovich Bulyagkov is a bearer of the Soviet Union’s state secrets. Therefore, it matters with whom he speaks, whom he meets, with whom he sleeps. At the time, she’d assumed Kamarovsky was talking about her; the guilt she felt at having walked into the KGB’s clutches as an adulteress had prevented her from drawing any further conclusions. Her face turned toward the sun, it occurred to Anna that Kamarovsky might not have correctly evaluated what he’d learned from his range of contact persons. He’d guessed many things and foreseen others, but he’d disregarded the essential. His biggest mistake was that he misconstrued Alexey’s driving force. To Kamarovsky’s way of thinking, and possibly to that of everyone in the state apparatus, all ambition was necessarily directed toward the next rung on the ladder of rank, the better position, the higher office: in Bulyagkov’s case, therefore, the office of Minister of Research Planning. The competent organs had interpreted Alexey’s dissatisfaction with his work as frustration at being the number two man. His infelicity, however, ran deeper than that. When he was a young man, the political apparatus of the time had forced him to give up studying for a degree in science, to leave his Ukrainian homeland, and to go into hiding. After his family’s rehabilitation, it had been impossible for Alexey to take up his studies again, either because it was too late or for some other reason. In Moscow he’d met Medea, and through her and her family’s influence, a door into the stronghold of power had opened for him. Once in the Ministry, however, he’d soon learned that all scientific research was subordinate to the apparatus and not the other way around. He hated serving only the regime; his passion was for science itself. Had my life run in a different course, nothing could have prevented me from becoming a scientist, he’d confessed to Anna. He’d revealed everything to her, piece by piece, hadn’t he? But she hadn’t been able to put them together.

She saw Petya throw some handfuls of grass at the peacocks, who were not impressed, and shifted to a thought that should have entered her mind a long time ago: Under cover of his official position, Alexey Bulyagkov was about to depart on a journey from which he would never return. What else could be the reason for Medea’s sudden separation from her husband, if not her own protection? What about the physicist Lyushin and his double game, letting a scientific success be reframed as a failure, with Alexey’s encouragement? Why was Alexey traveling to a scientific meeting in the West? In the West, Anna repeated inwardly, he’s going over to the West! Was this intention belated revenge for the humiliation of his family? Was the Ukrainian paying the Russians back for having killed his father? At the same time, Anna found it incomprehensible that Bulyagkov, the weary wolf, a man she thought she knew, would be about to turn defector. He must have been planning it for months; therefore, he must have been lying to her for months, too. It seemed even more mind-boggling to think that Alexey must have devised and executed his plans under Kamarovsky’s nose, and that he’d taken advantage of her only because he wanted her to report the obvious—but not the truth—to the Colonel. When she called up her mental image of her lover, his spongy face, his unkempt hair, it was hard for her to believe him capable of such calculation, of the circumspection and patience to carry out such a long-range plan. The very length of the plan, the preparation such a thing would entail, made Anna doubt her conclusions. Even if he felt so jaded, so frustrated by his lack of prospects and the treadmill of the governmental apparatus that he indulged in fantasies of departure, surely his sense of justice, his loyalty, and his patriotic feeling for the fatherland would regain the upper hand after a while.

But not if his fatherland isn’t Russia, Anna thought. Not if the Central Committee doesn’t represent the instrument of his political convictions and the Ministry of Research fails to come up to his standards of scientific advancement. Maybe enticements reached him from over there, offers that have given him hope of resurrecting, at this late date, his buried life’s dream. Anna was certain that the people over there welcomed only those who brought something with them. Even though Anna had only an inexact notion of how Lyushin’s work fit into the overall structure, she nevertheless understood that her own trip to Dubna had been part of the plan. She was supposed to deceive Kamarovsky about Lyushin’s results.

She used one hand to fan her burning face, her eyes were red, and on this spring day she was feeling unseasonably hot. Only now did she discover that two plates of cakes and two glasses of lemonade were standing in front of her; she drank half the contents of one of them. Loud shrieking made her look up; the biggest of the peacocks clapped his tail together and made a run at Petya. Still clutching a handful of grass, the boy turned away and took off for the terrace. Close to his goal, he tripped on a sill and fell to the ground, fully expecting the bird to attack him from behind. But the peacock remained at a safe distance from the humans, ascertained that his mission was accomplished, and sauntered back to his peahens. Anna made her way between tables and reached Petya, who was so frightened he didn’t even cry.

“That’s what you get,” she scolded him. “Come on, now, nothing happened. We’ve got cakes waiting for us. Want some?”

He let her lead him to the table, where the waiter stood ready with the check fluttering in his hand. Anna paid the check, sat down, and watched Petya as he ate.

Whom should she inform? Who was capable of soberly assessing her suspicions—for despite her certainty, that was all they were—and taking steps? Certainly not Kamarovsky; confiding in the Colonel was tantamount to throwing Alexey defenseless to the lions. It was too late for her to speak to Alexey himself; he and the delegation were meeting the press at that moment, and after the meeting, they’d go straight to the airport. Petya sat beside Anna, eating happily, his soul at peace. What was she supposed to do with him? She needed freedom of action.

“I have to make a phone call. Take the last piece with you.”

“More juice,” Petya mumbled, his mouth full.

“Later. You’ll get some juice at home.” Anna took his hand and drew him away from the café terrace. She spotted a pay phone on the other side of the ornamental stream and hastened toward it without paying much attention to whether Petya could keep up with her or not.

“What’s the matter?” he whined.

“This won’t take long.” Anna kept her eyes straight ahead, ran over the little bridge, dodged two bicyclists, saw someone a little distance away also heading for the telephone booth, snatched Petya off his feet, and ran. Panting, she burst into the booth with Petya in her arms, closed the door, turned her back to the oncoming person, and put the first coin in the slot. She dialed Rosa Khleb’s number. While Anna listened to the ring tone repeat itself unanswered, she admitted to herself that out of all the possibilities, she’d chosen the one that would thwart Alexey’s intentions. If her suspicion were confirmed, he was planning to do something wrong, and it was Anna’s duty to avert damage. Outside, the man who also wanted to use the telephone was only a few steps away. She was about to step out of the booth when she recognized Anton. Petya started to push the door open, but she took him by the hand. Anton looked at them through the glass panes.

“I have to talk to you,” he said. “Not here. Let’s go to the car.” He pointed at the spiral staircase that led up to the street. Anna stepped out with Petya.

The boy dragged his feet, unwilling to go farther. “We’ll be home soon,” she said to encourage him. When they reached the street, Anna looked around for the black ZIL.

Anton indicated the automobile in front of them. “We’re taking this one.” He opened the passenger door of a Zhiguli and pulled the seat forward.

Stressed as she was, and unable to understand the situation, Anna laid her head back and laughed. The sun shone on her face. “What is this?” she cried, as if it weren’t obvious that Anton was driving his own vehicle instead of the official limousine.

“It’s as good as new. One point two liters, sixty horsepower, with a radio and genuine synthetic fur.” He reached in and stroked the back of the seat.

Anna shoved Petya into the back and climbed into the passenger’s seat next to Anton; they were sitting side by side for the first time.

“Would you like this?” He handed Petya an opened package of chocolates.

After a questioning look at his mother and a shy one at the stranger, Petya accepted the gift.

“How long did you save up for this car?” Anna asked.

“Six years.”

“How did you track me down?”

“I went to your home, Comrade. Your father told me where I could find you.”

“I’m surprised. He doesn’t know you.”

As though declaring that there was no time for such chitter-chatter, Anton leaned toward her. “But you and I, we’ve known each other for a good while, Anna Viktorovna. We’ve driven down many roads together. Something’s happened.”

“To Alexey? What? What is it?”

“He’ll be taking off soon.”

“So?”

“I did something for the Deputy Minister. Apparently, I was observed when I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I took delivery of certain documents for Alexey Maximovich.” Anton ran his hand over his forehead and through his oiled hair. “Someone saw me do that.”

“Who?”

“Star-Eyes.”

At first, the name and the man who’d spoken it didn’t fit together. So Anton was in on it, too? Was everyone she knew involved in this affair? “What does that mean?” she asked in a whisper.

“The Colonel probably had a suspicion he couldn’t substantiate—until today.” Anton cleared his throat. “Now things look different.”

Anna saw her line of thought confirmed in Anton’s words. “Alexey wants to defect,” she said grimly. “He wants to betray his country.”

“He only wants to start a new life.”

“But that’s not possible. You have only one life, and you have to face up to it. You can’t change it like a coat.”

Petya stared in amazement at his impassioned mother. She rubbed his head and tried out a reassuring smile. “We’re talking, we’re just talking,” she said.

“There’s still time,” said Anton, coming to his real point. “Alexey Maximovich must be warned.”

“Why? Isn’t he about to take off for his new country? He’ll be in Stockholm in a few hours.”

“You’re mistaken. The delegation has a twenty-four-hour layover in Riga. It has something to do with an old invitation from the Latvian Central Committee. Bulyagkov’s supposed to give a presentation there.”

“So why are you coming to me with all this?”

“I thought …” He lowered his voice. “It seemed to me that the right person to warn the Deputy Minister would be someone he’d listen to, not just someone he trusts, but someone he has feelings for,” Anton said, in a serious, businesslike tone.

“And that’s supposed to be me? Why?”

“Because I don’t know anyone else Alexey Maximovich really loves.”

For a moment, there was silence in the little car.

“Who’s Alexey Maximovich?” Petya asked.

“An old friend.”

“If he’s a friend of yours, why don’t I know him?”

“He’s … he’s not here anymore.” Anna looked out the window.

Anton opened the door. With a glance at the child, he signaled her to step outside.

“We’re already outside,” she said, getting out of the car.

They talked over the Zhiguli’s roof. “We can be in Riga in thirteen hours,” Anton said, as matter-of-factly as if he were proposing an outing to the Kremlin.

“We?” Anna made an effort to grasp the lunacy of the proposal. “And what do we do there?”

“You talk to him.”

“If Kamarovsky knows what’s going on, he sent his people there a long time ago.”

“He hasn’t done that, Comrade.”

“Why not?”

“The current state of his health doesn’t allow it.”

“Have you done something to him?”

Anton smiled at her dramatic imagination. “The Colonel is an epileptic.” He saw surprise, almost shock, on her face. “You didn’t know?”

“How could I? Our meetings …” She fell silent.

“We have to make use of this grace period.”

“It’s not just Kamarovsky. He’s certainly smuggled a couple of his people into the delegation, and they can draw similar conclusions.”

“I don’t think so. There’s a particular, crucial point that the Committee for State Security has remained unaware of until today.” Anton gave the boy in the car a friendly look.

“Please explain what you mean.”

“I’d be glad to, Comrade. But we don’t have time. You must decide right away. Otherwise, I’m going on my own.”

“In this car?” she asked, almost amused.

“Don’t underestimate my faithful Zhiguli. The gas tank’s already full.”

“Why not just call Alexey on the telephone?”

“In a hotel in Riga?” He tilted his head to one side. “You know why that’s a bad idea.”

Anna noticed that Petya was making signals to her through the window. She put her hand on the glass and answered his finger language. “I can’t, Anton.”

“In all this time, Alexey Maximovich has never asked anything of you. He isn’t asking anything now, either. I’m asking you. I’m begging you to save Alexey Maximovich Bulyagkov’s life.”

Anna looked up at the tree in whose shadow the automobile was parked and saw that they were under a venerable Russian silverberry. Then her eyes slid down to her own fingers, which seemed to be holding Petya’s hand through the glass. She asked Anton why he was so sure of reaching his goal; after all, there was a border in the way.

“I’m a driver,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been a driver for so long I can hardly remember the time before I started. If there’s anything I understand, it’s driving.”

Anna didn’t want to be taken in again. She was tormented by the feeling that this affair would never end and that as long as she had anything to do with Alexey, her life would be turbulent and hopeless. Even now, when she was supposed to be free of him, he was dragging her back, pulling her behind him, entangling her in his guilt, giving her qualms, and she wanted out, she wanted to strip all that off like a soiled dress. But it was only an affair, she thought, kept up against my will—an affair that had already damaged various aspects of her life. What would have to happen before she could say the thing was finished, over, done with, one way or another? And so she was standing there, looking back and forth from the silverberry tree to her son in the backseat.

She cast about for a gentle way to tell Anton that his proposal was ludicrous and she wasn’t available. Anton’s hair was stiff with brilliantine, but as she turned her gaze to his questioning face, the wind tousled him and blew a lock onto his forehead. This little change had an effect: Anna looked at him no longer as Alexey’s appendage but as an independent person.

“I’m going to take Petya home now,” she said. “Wait for me in the little street.” She bent down, opened the back door, slid the passenger’s seat forward, and helped her son out of the car. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Petya shook his head. “Do you want to go home?”

They walked off together, hand in hand.