The Russian Affair

THIRTY-NINE



How hot it was. In heat like this, Anna felt sorry for the fat woman rolling the hot blacktop smooth. Wearing black overalls, the worker sat in her steamroller and drove back and forth over the closed-off stretch of Bolshaya Sadovaya Street, always close behind the tank car, which poured out its contents in a stinking rivulet. The expression on the steamroller driver’s face wasn’t peevish, only concentrated; Anna spotted a pretty wedding ring on her dirty hand.

It was really too hot. Minutes earlier, when they’d come walking along the river, they’d seen thousands of half-naked people lying on the ground, even though the sun was hidden behind veils of haze. It was getting close to seven-thirty, but people didn’t want to go home yet. The day had been enchantingly beautiful, the sun-drenched city gleaming in the hot air. Women wore their lightest clothes; older ladies kept handkerchiefs in their sleeves, ready to dry off forehead and neck from time to time. Ice-cream stands and eau de cologne vendors were doing a booming business, and laughter was everywhere in the streets.

“It’s getting close to seven-thirty,” Viktor Ipalyevich said, putting his hand inside his open shirt, where gray fuzz grew high on his chest.

“We have enough time.” Anna liked the breeze her skirt stirred up when she swung her legs. Given the occasion, she had hesitated no longer to buy the desert-colored dress with the strawberry print; the price was, of course, an impertinence; on the other hand, nobody else had a dress like that. At the next corner, a little girl was running around without paying attention to the traffic. She wore a white kerchief, and she was pursuing a paper airplane that someone had thrown. Instinctively, Anna held Petya’s hand more tightly. Wearing his only suit, the boy trotted along beside his mother and grandfather.

“We should have taken the subway.” Tsazukhin wiped droplets of perspiration from his beard. “When I get there, I’m going to be covered in sweat.”

“On a day like this, nobody goes underground voluntarily.” Anna checked the armpits of his light-colored suit jacket for stains. “A festive day, a day in your honor,” she said, teasing the poet. “And all Moscow is invited.”

“All right, all right, that’s enough.”

They reached the boulevard and strolled toward the Conservatory building. Suddenly, Viktor Ipalyevich slowed down. “Hasn’t anyone come at all?” he asked anxiously. “What did I tell you? Nobody wants to sit inside and listen to contemporary poetry on a fine June day.”

Secretly, Anna feared he might be right. When snow was piled a yard high and only narrow paths were shoveled clear, when light had been absent from the city for months—that was the best time to enter interior worlds, to be edified by literature, music, or theater. Who would go to the Conservatory to hear poems in June?

“They’re probably all inside already,” Anna said, encouraging her father.

“Nonsense. On a day like this, they’d stay out in the evening air until the very last bell.”

A pale-faced Doctor Glem leaped out at Tsazukhin. “My dear Viktor Ipalyevich,” he cried, his voice implying trouble. The chairman of the artistic board was wearing a light-colored suit identical with the poet’s, but enlivened by a red breast-pocket handkerchief.

“What is it, Doctor Glem? What’s wrong?” Viktor Ipalyevich tried to adopt a patronizing tone. “There’s no audience, is that it? I told you to reserve one of the smaller halls. Who needs a big stage for a book of poems and—”

“You’re here at last!” Glem cried, interrupting him. “We called you and called you, and then we even sent someone in a car to fetch you. Where have you been?”

“We went for a walk in the delightful summer air,” the poet said in self-defense.

“You went for a walk on the evening of your great occasion? A thousand and more are waiting for Tsazukhin, and he’s taking a leisurely stroll!”

“A thousand and more? How can that be, a thousand and more?” He stared at Glem in confusion. “We’re not supposed to start until eight o’—”

“Seven-thirty, Viktor Ipalyevich, seven-thirty!” cried the chairman of the artistic board, relieved to see the muddle cleared up so easily. “Didn’t you read the invitation to your own reading?”

“Seven-thirty?” He turned around. “Anna, did you know … seven-thirty? We were just loitering around, and I thought it was almost seven-thirty, but …” He jerked his head up and looked at the clock on the building: 7:37. “My dear Glem, I’m so terribly sorry, naturally I’ll have to make an apology.” He stamped his foot. “I hate unpunctuality!”

“Go on in, Papa, it’s all right.” Anna took him by the shoulders and pushed him toward Doctor Glem, who joined in the effort to soothe the poet.

“Everyone’s having a good time, they’re all patient, they’re glad to wait for you. Come on, now.”

“I’m melting in my own sweat!” Tsazukhin said feverishly. “I would have liked to freshen up, maybe take off my shoes for a few minutes.”

“How about some cologne water? That will make you feel better.” Glem looked gratefully at Anna, who continued to push her father forward. “Things are going to turn out fine, after all.”

As he’d done the last time they were in that building, Glem’s assistant welcomed the poet’s party and escorted mother and son into the auditorium while Tsazukhin was being brought onstage. And as she’d done the last time, Anna shuddered as she stepped into the artists’ box: Down in the orchestra seats, in the tiers, and all the way up in the galleries, Moscow society had assembled. In the front rows, she recognized some prominent and important people, along with her father’s colleagues and assorted wives, grandfathers, and aspirants. As she’d done before, she pushed down the folding seat and occupied it. The only difference this time was that little Petya was sitting next to her, not Leonid. The parapet was too high for the boy to see over, so he folded his seat back up and sat on the edge. “All these people came to see Dyedushka?” he whispered.

“A thousand and more.” The flapping and fluttering in the theater made Anna smile. People cooled off by fanning themselves with their programs; others even used, for the same purpose, their newly purchased volume of the poet’s verse. Anna’s eyes shifted over to the side stalls, which were reserved for the nomenklatura. Comrades in dark suits were sitting there, some of them without ties, their shirt collars turned out over their jacket lapels. She recognized one unprepossessing face from newspaper photographs: The Minister for Research Planning entered, took a seat, and gestured to his wife to do the same. The places around the Minister filled up quickly; the Deputy Minister was not among those present.

At that moment, the house lights went out, and a spotlight shined a circle of light on the red curtain, which immediately swooshed upward to reveal a simple lectern, surrounded by a colorful stage set that belonged to a student production at the Conservatory. Doctor Glem stepped to the lectern first, was welcomed by friendly applause, and launched into his introductory address: “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.”

Anna’s attention was suddenly distracted by a late guest, whose arrival went unnoticed by the audience. An invisible hand had opened the door for him; without a sound, he’d gone down the aisle to the side stalls and taken a seat among the influential personages. He wore a dark green suit and had apparently been in such a hurry that he was still holding his hat in his hand. For a moment, he listened to Glem’s speech, and then, all at once, he turned his head to the left. In spite of the darkness, his eyeglasses reflected some stray spotlight beams; A. I. Kamarovsky looked up at Anna, as if he knew that she and no one else was sitting in the artists’ box. It seemed to her like a greeting.

Doctor Glem reached the end of his introduction, announced the guest of honor, and considered it necessary to call for applause. The thousand drowned him out and welcomed Viktor Ipalyevich. Kamarovsky, too, clapped and looked on benevolently as the poet, whose career would have turned out differently had it not been for the Colonel, walked to the lectern.


It had been impressive—beautiful and rich in ethical content. It had been worth the trouble. Kamarovsky slipped off his street shoes and removed his jacket. On that particular evening, it might have been desirable to sit out on the balcony in his underpants, but A. I. Kamarovsky didn’t do anything in his underpants. So he merely opened the balcony door and looked out into the mellow night. Even though it virtually never got dark at that time of year, the Kalininsky Bridge was a band of shimmering light, and the river reflected the opposite bank; it was as if the buildings were dissolving in the black water. In the distance were the lights of the Ostankino television and radio tower—1,660 feet high, Kamarovsky recalled. Satisfied, he closed the door. It was a special night. New things were coming; the Soviet poet Tsazukhin’s triumph belonged among them. As for old things, tonight they would be disposed of. Kamarovsky had played a decisive role in both processes. He went over to his desk. Without turning on a light—the reflection from the street lights was enough—he opened a folder. It contained handwritten notes, most of them in cipher. Kamarovsky let the pages slip slowly through his fingers; he understood not a sentence. His accomplishment lay in the recovery of the material. Nikolai Lyushin’s trial had commenced, in camera, closed to the public. It was essential to give him a strong warning, but without dampening his scientific zeal. He must learn that the agencies overseeing his work were its protectors, not its censors, and that he would do well to trust them. His assertions that he hadn’t knowingly done anything illegal were noted in the transcript.

Kamarovsky closed the folder, withdrew to the dark part of the room, and, with a sigh, sank down onto the sofa. The night was progressing; at this rate, it wouldn’t last much longer. He’d seen Rosa one last time, but she hadn’t noticed him. Her beauty had seemed to him like a mask on her devastated face. He hadn’t succeeded in making her believe she’d gotten off so lightly; Rosa knew what path she was on. In the foregoing weeks, she’d given up everything that was of any interest. She’d done it almost unbidden; corporal punishment hadn’t been necessary. For one whole day, she’d allowed herself to be encouraged by a hint that now, turned in a double sense, she could be sent out into the field again. The following night must have made it clear to her that she was of no use to the KGB anymore. From that point on, Rosa’s spirit was broken. She knows what’s coming, the Colonel thought, she just doesn’t know when. The reason for his decision lay in the plain fact that in this case, deterrence was inevitable. Kamarovsky took off his glasses in the darkness and put them on the armrest, ready to be snatched up again. In the shadowy space in front of him, he saw Rosa as she was being taken out of her cell. He saw his protégée, the most beautiful Russian girl he ever met, walking down the corridor. The ceiling lights made her shadow appear now in front of her and now behind her.

Kamarovsky had charged “Bull-Neck” with handling the matter. No, you couldn’t say he’d actually charged him; a hint had sufficed. Bull-Neck looked upon it as a distinction and was glad to oblige. As usual, the prisoner would have an escort: one man in front of Rosa, and Bull-Neck behind her. He’d prepare himself soundlessly, and at the moment when the man in front disappeared behind a turning in the corridor, the execution would be carried out.

In other words, the condemned would neither hear the sound nor feel the entrance of the projectile. It was like sitting on a seesaw and then being catapulted up to where everything lost itself in white. Looking at it that way, he could say that Rosa knew what was happening to her but would not herself experience it. I’m the only one, Antip Iosipovich thought, who will comprehend Rosa’s death. He picked up his glasses and rose to his feet. At the age of only fifteen, Rosa Khleb had handed our General Secretary a bouquet of flowers; she had kissed him and been embraced by him. How many Soviet girls receive such an honor? He turned on the television set.