The Russian Affair

NINE



Personally, I don’t like the Moskva swimming pool,” Kamarovsky said, turning to Anna as though he expected her to agree.

“Why not, Comrade Colonel?”

“Because it’s on the very spot where the Palace of Soviets was supposed to be built.”

Kamarovsky’s window offered no view of the pool, yet he spoke of it as though he had the ground plan of the city in his head. “Le Corbusier had been hired for the planning. Think about that: an international ambassador of communism. His towers would have been overwhelming—I’ll show you his drawings for them sometime. What a victory we could have celebrated for revolutionary architecture.”

Anna was standing behind the Colonel. As was the case with all her visits, this one had begun with a lecture on recent Soviet building design. There was a bowl of various citrus and tropical fruits on the table; she couldn’t decipher the composer’s name at the top of the musical score that lay on the open piano.

The drive home from Dubna had passed in silence. The bus riders turned their thoughts to the demands and requirements of their ordinary lives, from which they had been removed for three whole days. The driver stopped for gas only once; nevertheless, Anna thought the return trip longer than the outward journey. She’d never left Petya alone for so long. Viktor Ipalyevich did what he could, but he was old and unpredictable. Had he bothered to call about Petya’s test results? How serious was his condition? Did he need prolonged treatment? Who was going to pay for his medicine? As Anna’s concern grew, she began to find every mile too far, and the distance to Moscow interminable. As on the original trip to Dubna, the orphanage director had sought to engage her in conversation, and she’d pretended to be asleep. When they reached the city limits on the Dmitrovsky Chaussée, the members of the group had assured one another that they would meet again; numbers were exchanged and suitable meeting places suggested. Nobody alluded to the fact that half of the delegation was scattered over the whole country. Anna had let the orphanage director get her bag down, nodded when Nadezhda referred to the monthly gathering of the building combine, and climbed out of the bus. She’d crossed Kutuzovsky Prospekt; the weather was colder than in Dubna. It had been after midnight when she’d finally reached the apartment. The first thing she’d done was to listen hard, trying to hear whether Petya was sleeping. She’d been relieved at the sound of soft breathing behind the curtain. Viktor Ipalyevich was not on his sofa but clattering around the kitchen. She’d put down her bag, greeted him, and put on some tea for her father and herself.

“Child’s play” had been his answer to her series of worried questions. “I don’t know what’s supposed to be so hard about bringing up kids. You make sure they have enough to eat, you help them with their homework, you tell them when they’re supposed to go to bed and when to get up, and you take them to school.” From all appearances, Viktor Ipalyevich had been in a fine mood, and although he rarely displayed any of his official decorations, he was wearing one pinned to his lapel.

Anna had not been taken in by her father’s glib attempt to gloss over the past three days. “How late did you two stay up playing chess?” she asked. “Did you let him drink beer? Did he take a puff on your cigar? Did he change his underwear?”

“Why are you on about his underwear?” Viktor Ipalyevich had pushed his cap back, revealing his forehead’s white skin. “We washed his hair. He let his cloth fish go for a swim—the poor little thing didn’t survive.”

“What did Doctor Shchedrin say?”

“I didn’t reach him right away.”

“You forgot!”

“No,” he said, defending himself. “I called three or four times. I had to speak to three women before I could finally get your doctor on the line.”

“When?” Anna had impatiently snatched the tea caddy from the shelf.

“This afternoon.”

“And?” She’d stood perfectly still, with the raised teakettle in her hand.

“It’s complicated. You have to take Petya to see him again.”

“In his office?”

“In Shchedrin’s clinic.”

“In the hospital?” Anna had forgotten to pour the tea.

“He sounded friendly,” Viktor Ipalyevich had said soothingly. “You know yourself what a blessing it is just to be allowed to speak to such a physician.” He’d raised his arm. “And I don’t want to know how you were able to contact him—I don’t want to know!”

“When’s the appointment?”

“Tomorrow. I made sure it wouldn’t interfere with the shift you’re working. Tomorrow at eleven.” Anna had looked up into the rising steam.


As though he wished to shut out the architectural transgression, Kamarovsky pulled the curtain halfway across the balcony window. “There were seven years of negotiations over Le Corbusier’s sketches, but then, in the end, water-based recreation got the nod. Now, right in front of our building, we have a paddling pool!”

“Comrade Colonel, I wish to inform you that I have failed,” said Anna, a little too loudly. “As an informant, I’m a bust. My services can’t be of any further use to you.”

Kamarovsky smiled at her, as indulgently as a doting uncle. “Impatience is mounting everywhere,” he said mysteriously. “That’s because of the spring. Everyone’s longing for it, even though we all know we’re going to have to wait two more months before it deigns to come.” He did not follow his usual custom of directing her to sit at the desk to give her report but instead escorted her to the sofa. For himself, he chose the chair facing her; behind him, the soundless television screen showed a roundtable discussion, six men and a woman.

“You completed the entire three-day visit?”

Anna nodded. She was wearing black; in front of the mirror, she’d thought it looked like the proper outfit—black conferred strength on her.

“Dubna’s impressive, isn’t it?” Anna answered this question, too, in the affirmative. “Which excursion did you like the best?”

The amusing afternoon on the Volga came into her mind, but instead, she said, “The synchrocyclotron. It was impressive to see the scientists at their work.” She pulled her turtleneck collar up under her chin. “Comrade, I’m asking to be discharged,” she continued. All too aware of her tendency to vacillate, she wanted, this time, to be the one who initiated the change of direction.

“Did you meet Lyushin?”

“On the last day,” she answered, convinced that he knew about her meeting in any case.

“Were you able to speak with him?” She nodded. “Therefore, you fulfilled the first part of your mission.” He turned and faced the television screen.

“Our meeting took place because of a coincidence.”

“A coincidence?” He snapped his head around, eyeglasses flashing.

“We did have a discussion, but I don’t deserve the slightest credit for having brought it about.” Anna stood up. If he keeps deflecting the conversation like this, she thought, I’ve lost. Speaking as though the man in the chair were not her case officer but rather a sympathetic advisor, Anna explained that she was beginning to confuse intrigue and reality. She sometimes caught herself acting a lie as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she said, and even though this was all in the service of a good cause, she recognized that she was the wrong person for the job. She’d served the KGB for a year and a half, she’d never refused an order, she’d tried as hard as she could, but now, she was begging him—here Anna stood in front of Kamarovsky, who was still seated—to release her and to let her go back to living a normal life.

Kamarovsky, too, rose to his feet, and their clothes were momentarily in contact. “This day comes for everyone,” he said. He went over to the television set and changed the channel. Pensively, he watched some little birds bathing in a soup bowl. “For everyone who works on the outside. It’s the hardest thing of all, Anna. Please take your seat again.”

He rarely called her by her first name. She couldn’t let herself be lulled, but she obeyed him, grateful that he was taking up her subject. He approached the sofa from the side and placed one foot on the armrest; he was wearing lined slippers.

“You think we people on the inside have it easy. If we need information, we give someone an assignment, and then we evaluate the results.” He made a gentle pause. “I used to be on the street, too, Anna, working on the outside. It sharpens your discernment, but it simultaneously makes you lose focus. Who’s an agent, who’s just a fellow human being, who’s an informer, who’s simply telling us something? Back then, I lost my capacity for chitchat, would you believe it? In the evenings, when we’d have a few drinks and the others would make small talk, I couldn’t stop looking for what lay behind their words and analyzing their characters. I eavesdropped on my friends, and I wouldn’t have hesitated to make use of the information I had on them. It was during that time that my wife left me.” He gave Anna a warmhearted look.

“So didn’t you think of quitting then?”

“Once or twice. Yes, I wanted to put an end to it, because I felt that my work had turned me into some kind of freak. Life had lost all normality as far as I was concerned.” He lowered his head, and the glint of his spectacles struck her eyes. “At the same time, I realized that the decision wasn’t up to me. I trusted my case officer; I trusted the Party.”

Anna’s heart sank. Kamarovsky’s last words hung over her like a neon sign. She understood that he’d told her his—or someone else’s—story just to keep her up to the mark. That meant that he wouldn’t simply let her go.

“There’s one thing I’ve never forgotten, even in my moments of doubt,” Kamarovsky said, removing his foot from the sofa. “My occupation is not a job, it’s a struggle whose purpose is to combat our society’s enemies and to protect its representatives. Therefore how I feel is unimportant; there can scarcely be anything less significant than how an individual feels while the battle is raging. The only thing that matters is the outcome, the result, which justifies all misgivings, all doubts, and every other human emotion. Those are subjective feelings; the Party, however, thinks objectively, and it acts exclusively in the interest of society. To subordinate yourself to the Party’s insights must necessarily be for the benefit of all and therefore for the welfare of each individual.”

As though he wanted to assure Anna of his accessibility, Kamarovsky sat down next to her. “Your case is different,” he said in a suddenly changed voice. “You’re not made for such a life, Anna. I know that.”

The shift in tone rendered her speechless. In some confusion, she stared at his white-tipped hairs, his fine nose, his slightly mocking mouth.

“You have some feelings for the Deputy Minister. At the same time, you believe you’re deceiving him. Moreover, you have to hide your actions from your husband and your son, and you even lie to your father.”

It seemed to Anna as though she were sitting with the Colonel in a movie theater where the film of her life was being shown. Kamarovsky spoke softly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the other people in the audience. “I don’t shy away from calling things by their names,” he said, “because I know that your mission will soon be concluded. We’re just about ready to close the Deputy Minister’s case.”

“Case? I thought I was doing all this for his protection.”

“Of course you are.” Kamarovsky made a soothing gesture. “The aims we’re pursuing will enable us to avert a specific danger that threatens Bulyagkov. Soon, very soon, Comrade. And that’s why your report is of such great significance.”

He pressed a hand against his brow and fell silent for a moment, during which Anna watched his head sink. His hand fell, too, and landed as though lifeless on Anna’s thigh. It looked to her as though Kamarovsky had dozed off in the middle of his explanation.

“Comrade Colonel?”

His breathing appeared to have stopped. Then, as though he’d suddenly regained consciousness, Kamarovsky jerked his head up and heaved a deep sigh. When he noticed his hand on the young woman’s leg, he stiffened his fingers and got immediately to his feet. “You were saying that your conversation with the leader of the theoretical physics section came about by accident.” He reached the desk in three steps, leaned on its edge, and opened a file. “How so?”

A rush of blood flooded Anna’s face. From one second to the next, the Colonel had yanked her into the place where he wanted her. She said, “Because I didn’t find Lyushin, he found me.”

Kamarovsky unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and gazed at the nib. “I had the information that Lyushin likes to ski at night passed on to you. Why didn’t you act on that tip?”

Finally, Anna had the solution to the mystery of the second agent: The skinny orphanage director, so intent on ingratiating himself with her, had been on the job. He, at least, had carried out his assignment brilliantly.

“I considered it unlikely … actually, I thought—”

“You didn’t act purposefully because you had a bad hangover,” he said, interrupting her. “You needed to be clearheaded, and you weren’t.” In the light of the desk lamp, Kamarovsky looked older. His eyes blinked behind the lenses of his spectacles. “Please describe your meeting with Lyushin in detail.”

As an outward sign that she was ready to give a sober report, Anna left the sofa and sat in her usual place. She outlined the situation on the afternoon in question and described Lyushin’s sudden appearance in Bulyagkov’s borrowed house.

“Did you have the impression that the relationship between the two is of such a kind that would permit unannounced visits?”

After a brief hesitation, Anna answered that the situation had not seemed unusual to her. The two men had quarreled the previous day, and she’d looked upon Lyushin’s appearance as an offer of reconciliation.

“In your opinion, what was the quarrel about?”

“Money. Lyushin referred to setbacks in a research project. He wants more money so that the research can continue.”

“Setbacks?” The nib of the fountain pen was pointing at her. “Are you completely sure about that?”

“That was the word he used.”

“How did you come to be talking about that?”

Anna recalled the crazy afternoon, remembered how she’d sat there in her underwear with the scratchy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “I had done a little research and learned something about the basics of quantum mechanics,” she answered. “Lyushin was quizzing me. It was a kind of teacher-student situation.” Aided by her notes, she gave an account of the conversation, used Lyushin’s own technical language to describe his problem, and ended with a reference to the series of equations in which the scientists proposed to achieve greater accuracy by leaving out lower-order terms. “At this point, Lyushin conceded that he had been forced to take some steps backward.” Anna lowered her notepad. “His department must revise their work all the way back to an equation that was constructed a year and a half ago.”

The Colonel nodded. “Lyushin’s Stationary Law,” he said. “A fabulous breakthrough, or so it seemed at the time.” He turned to a fresh page and wrote a few lines. “How did Bulyagkov react to Lyushin’s revelation?”

“He knew about it. Apparently, the main issue was the continued financial support.”

“And the lost time.” Kamarovsky licked his lips like a thirsty man. “Dubna is dependent on Lyushin’s results. There’s a whole series of construction projects in the works, all based on his revolutionary methods.”

He stopped talking and opened a drawer. She expected him to take something out of it, but he laid an empty hand on his writing pad. “I’d like to thank you, Comrade. You’ve fulfilled your assignment more thoroughly than you seem to know. For several reasons, we’ve had doubts about whether or not the theoretical physics section was being cagey about its successful results. Your information, Anna, gives us concrete clues.”

She responded to his unexpected thanks with a nod and shoved her chair back, thinking that her report was at an end.

“I’ve had this on my desk for the last two weeks.”

Looking up, Anna saw that Kamarovsky was holding a document in his hand. “I wanted to give it to you personally.” He inverted it and pushed it over the desk to Anna. The document was entitled “GLAVLIT—Summary Decision.”

“I acknowledge that it’s taken a long time, but the result warrants the delay.”

Her eyes flew over the printed lines. She couldn’t immediately grasp the sense of what she was reading, obscured as it was by convoluted official language.

Kamarovsky ended her uncertainty: “It looks as though we shall soon be holding a new volume of Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin’s poetry, fresh from the press,” he said. “The committee has arrived at the view that the submitted poems are morally and politically conducive to the formation of the Soviet character and to the elevation of the citizens’ social consciousness. The committee accordingly authorizes without reservation the publication of the collection and undertakes to have the volume printed by the government press with the help of public funds.”

Anna kept her eyes fastened on the paper. It was dazzlingly clear to her that she was, once again, on the point of letting herself be bought. Her first reaction was the wish that the price would be sufficiently high. Her words of gratitude were succinct, she rose to go, and the Colonel accompanied her to the hall stand. While she slipped into her coat, she asked, “How did you get over it when your wife left you because of your work?”

“Ah, that.” He turned toward the piano and smiled. “I still had music. It unites the things we’ve been talking about today. It’s analytical in construction, yet it makes an immediate connection with our emotions.”

“Do you play often?”

“Every free minute I have.” He walked her to the door.

As A. I. Kamarovsky listened to the sound of Anna’s footsteps fading away down the stairs, he imagined what she would say if she knew that there had never been a Mrs. Kamarovsky. The Colonel was sure: The subtle affliction that would bind Anna to him from that day forward, his tragic submission to his sense of duty, and his calculated display of an almost erotic relationship with the Party would serve to motivate this particular female agent. His lie, therefore, was in a good cause. He sat at the piano and clumsily played a few bars. Neither his abilities nor his strength sufficed for more. He felt the vague presentiment returning, and this time, concentrating on music making wouldn’t help him out of the crisis. Breathing heavily, he closed the score and waited. He was waiting to see whether the atonic seizure would set in a second time and overcome him before he could do anything about it. When it failed to materialize, he dared to stand up and move toward the desk with cautious steps. As he did so, he made sure not to come too close to furniture and other objects. He opened the drawer, took out the little envelope, suppressed his horror at verifying that a single tablet was all it contained, and swallowed the tablet. In the interval before the medicine began to take effect, he sank down onto the chair and concentrated on the thing lying closest to hand, which was Anna’s report.