I don’t speak a word of Russian, but I do have my sister’s street address written down in both English and Cyrillic on a sheet of paper I keep in my pocketbook. I find my way outside—nobody stops me—and light a cigarette while I wait for a taxi. It takes some time, but one pulls up to discharge a passenger, and I hail it the same way I would hail a taxi in New York City. I give him the address and he doesn’t ask any questions, just nods and takes off.
At this point, it doesn’t require a seasoned intelligence agent to sense that something’s off. I know it in my bones. It isn’t just my nagging suspicions about Iris and Digby; it’s Kedrov’s disappearance—it’s Digby’s silence—it’s the fact that nobody seems to be following this taxi as it speeds through the streets of Moscow to the Digbys’ apartment building. Surely Fox and I weren’t that convincing in bed the other night? What’s happened to the fabled Soviet paranoia?
Or am I just too blind to see who’s watching?
And maybe it isn’t the wisest idea in the world to bolt across town in a Soviet taxi, either, but some peculiar inner urgency propels me to disregard such risks. I roll open the window and suck on my cigarette. The summer morning rushes past, the clear new sunshine speckled with pigeons. I wish to God I knew what I was doing.
I have some rubles in my pocketbook, thanks to Fox’s foresight. I pay the driver and walk into the lobby of the apartment building as if I own the place, which is the only way to walk when you’re scared to death.
The elevator jolts and creaks and lumbers slowly upward, just as it did two days ago. When the doors clang open, I turn left and abandon all pretense of nonchalance. I find the right apartment—at least, I hope so—and knock hard. Wait, and knock again.
At last, I hear footsteps. Then silence, as the occupant stares through the peephole at me. The knob turns, the door opens, and there stands young Kip like the man of the house, unable to disguise his relief at the sight of me.
“Well, hello! I just wanted to stop by and bring the good news. Is your father here?”
“Y-yes. Come in, please.”
I step through the door and look around the foyer. “Have you just woken up? Guess what happened in the middle of the night. Your mother gave you a new baby brother! His name is Gregory and he’s absolutely enormous, and he can’t wait to meet you.”
I am babbling, which I sometimes do when my mind races around like this. I detect a sour smell in the air, and I almost don’t want to hear what Kip might say to me.
“Dad’s resting,” he says.
“Oh? Would he mind if we woke him up?”
“Probably.”
“Where are your brother and sister?”
“I . . . they’re playing.”
“Can I go inside and find them?”
I don’t wait for Kip to give me permission. I proceed to the hallway and turn left into the living room, which is empty and disordered, sofa cushions piled on the floor, lamp turned over, large bottle of probably vodka lying empty on the scruffy rug.
I say something like oh, dear and duck back into the hallway. A giggle drifts past. I follow the noise and wrinkle my nose—the smell’s getting stronger, also sharper—until I reach the source, behind a door.
I open it.
It’s Digby’s office, or so I assume—a tiny, reeking room that looks as if it’s recently exploded. Books and papers everywhere, desk askew, chair upside down. On the floor lies Digby himself, facedown. I figure he isn’t dead, because Claire’s jumping up and down on a fallen cushion near his head—that’s the giggling—and Jack rolls with suppressed laughter on the floor next to his feet, and neither of them seems upset in the least. I look at Digby and at Claire and at Jack and back to Digby. Claire jumps off her cushion and squeals with some unfathomable childish delight.
“Daddy’s wet himself!”
Much as I want to, I can’t just leave my brother-in-law lying on the floor in a pool of his own urine. I manage to wake him with some gentle slaps and a bit of water. I run him a bath and shut the bathroom door to let Darwin have his way with the man.
I can’t read the labels on the cleaning supplies. I fill a bowl with water and a bit of what seems to be soap powder and wash up the floor as best I can. Kip helps me. Of the three children, he’s the only one who grasps the seriousness of the situation. I suppose that’s as it should be. He’s eleven and a half and his blond hair is darkening to a shade somewhere between those of his two parents. He has a sober, scholarly handsomeness to him. I make sure that Jack and Claire are playing quietly in the children’s bedroom and bring Kip into the office with me.
“First of all, young man, I think you’ve done an excellent job looking after your brother and sister with your father unwell.”
“He wasn’t unwell. He was drunk.”
“Well, yes.”
“He used to get drunk all the time, back in England. Then he stopped when we came here.”
“So what set him off, do you think?”
Kip looks at the floor.
“Is it a secret?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You know a lot about secrets, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’m your mother’s sister, all right? I’m here to do whatever she would do, if she were here. I’m a pretty good listener, if you don’t mind my bragging, and I can keep a secret, too.”
Kip looks up. “When Dad brought us home from school yesterday, someone had been inside the apartment.”
“Like a burglar?”
“I guess. But he didn’t steal anything. I couldn’t tell, but Dad knew. Dad went into his office to make sure his things were all there. I thought he looked scared. And then he came out again and that’s when he went down to the shops and came back with the vodka.”
As I listen to this spare account, and stare into my nephew’s serious dark blue eyes, I feel as if I’m looking at one of those trick drawings. You know the ones I mean. You think it’s a profile of an old man, say, but then someone says, Don’t you see the beautiful young woman in the old-fashioned dress? And the man’s big nose becomes a bustle or something, and the curls of his beard become her tumbling hair, and even though the drawing hasn’t changed—the strokes of pen remain exactly the same—you realize it’s a different picture altogether than the one you saw first.
I fold my arms and look around me. I assumed the mess was the result of a drunken rage, Digby coming apart because of guilt while his wife struggled in the throes of labor. But now the scattered papers and open drawers suggest a different story. Digby’s drunken binge speaks of another kind of despair.
Kip stands before me in the tiny room, wearing his drawn, pale face. He needs me to do something. He needs me to hold myself together. He needs me to take charge of this disaster.
“I’ll tell you what. If you can do your best to tidy things up in the living room, I’ll tidy things up in here. Then we’ll put your father in bed for some rest and go visit your mother and your baby brother in the hospital, all right?”
For a second, I imagine he might hug me. Instead, he takes a deep breath, nods, and leaves the room. I light myself a cigarette and start to work. An hour later, I’ve put everything in order, more or less, but I haven’t found anything you might call incriminating.
On the other hand, if the KGB’s searched the place, they’ve probably already found it.
Somehow Digby manages to wash himself up and stumble into the bedroom. I follow him inside. The scene reminds me of one of those photo spreads in Life magazine after a hurricane or a tornado or something. Clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps overturned. Pocketbooks emptied. The bed itself isn’t fit for sleep—the blankets and sheets have been stripped, the mattress ripped open.
“What in the hell have you done?”
He doesn’t answer, just wraps himself in a blanket on the floor and closes his eyes. I bend down next to him and shake his shoulder.