When he was alone, he took off his underwear and the bandage that he’d put back on after his relapse. Then, slowly, and despite the discomfort caused by his movements, he lowered himself into the water. The wound bothered him, but the warmth was soothing. He found a comfortable position in the tub and closed his eyes, breathing in the steam as if it nourished him. For a moment, while his whole body relaxed, his mind traveled to Detroit, and he saw himself in America again. A bathtub full of hot water . . . a job that fulfilled him . . . a hassle-free life . . . and Natasha. He was surprised by how little he would need to be happy.
He was on the verge of falling asleep again, when he heard knocking on the door downstairs. His comfort disappeared, turning into alarm. It couldn’t be Yuri because he had a key. He shouted out, receiving no response. He tried to sit up, but an intense pain ran down his spine. Gripping the edge of the bath, he gathered in his legs and rolled to one side. Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Yuri?”
The footsteps continued. There was no reply.
He tried to get up. Despite the pain, he managed to get himself onto his knees. Then he leaned back until he was squatting. He was on the verge of standing, when he noticed a figure before him. Jack stammered when he saw that the person looking at him naked, water up to his calves, was Natasha. Very slowly, cursing continuously, he submerged himself in the bath again.
“No!” she said, and ran to stop him.
With the young woman’s help, Jack got out of the tub and tried to cover himself with his underwear, but she made him lie on the bed, and felt the scar with a worried expression.
“What possessed you to take a bath? I told you not to get it wet.”
“What’re you doing here?” he said, covering himself with a blanket. “Did your father send you?”
“My father? Of course not! Well, he mentioned your relapse, but it was my idea to come. I asked for your address at the American store. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. The door was unlocked, and I was worried you might need help.”
Still in a daze, he looked at Natasha, whose face was even more beautiful with her hair unbraided. “You came here from the factory just to see me?”
“Not exactly. I live just a few blocks away, remember?”
“Well, no, not really. The time I took you home, I remember parking in front of an old building, but I’d had one drink too many. I still don’t know how I made it back to the village. But let me think . . . Ah, that’s it! Cooperative Street! That’s where your house is.”
“A house, me? No such luck. Just a room with a shared bathroom and kitchen, like any other single girl.”
“But, for someone in your position, isn’t living in a shared house a little, er, stifling?”
“Why?” She smiled. “I don’t have more hands, legs, or heads than anyone else.”
“I don’t know. You’re an important surgeon. You should have the right to—”
“To a house like this?” She looked around. “It certainly is big. And if properly cleaned, it would even be quite nice, but it would be even better if a couple of families that needed it lived here, don’t you think?”
Jack was surprised by the willingness with which Natasha accepted living conditions that didn’t match the importance of her role. He wasn’t sure what to say, so decided to remain silent and let the young woman tend to him. She was applying a dressing that she’d taken from her case, when Jack decided to be bold. “You look . . . I don’t know . . . different.”
“Oh! And is that a compliment?” She gave a start, surprised.
“No. I mean . . . I don’t know. It’s just seeing you like this, without your uniform . . .”
“Is it that bad?” Natasha got up, laughing. She did a twirl.
“No. You look lovely,” said Jack. “It’s just . . . today you look like a normal young woman!”
“What do you mean?” She feigned anger. “So what did I look like before?”
“Well . . . er . . . a Russian doctor!” he replied. “No! That’s not what I meant. It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve seen you being a doctor without your coat,” he said, quickly trying to dig himself out of a hole.
“Oh, I think you did mean it.” She was still smiling.
“Really, I’m sorry. This . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind turning around?” He motioned that he wanted to get dressed.
Natasha obeyed, the smile still spread across her face, while Jack pulled on his pants.
“So. How’s the burn doing?” He finished dressing.
“Well, this Russian doctor doesn’t think getting into the bathtub was the best idea. Let’s take a look.” She undid his pants and pressed gently. “Fortunately, the scar hasn’t softened too much. I imagine you’ll be walking unaided in a couple of weeks.”
“It’s still damned painful.”
“The fragment damaged the nerves. You might have to get used to it. What’s the smell in here?” She turned around to where Yuri had left a plate of leftover sausages.
“Breakfast. Will you join me?”
“I’d love to. It’s been ages since I’ve had a good meal, but I don’t know if I have time.”
“Come on! Help me. I won’t be able to cook them on my own.” He pretended to be in pain.
Natasha couldn’t refuse, and she helped him roast a couple of sausages from the package that Yuri had left, and toast some slices of black bread. The aroma spread through the house, mixing with the heat from the embers. They sat together by the fire and savored the food.
“You’re slimmer out of your uniform.” Jack examined her.
“I don’t think I’m all that skinny. It’s the rationing,” she replied, seeming embarrassed. “And work!” she quickly added.
“And what does your boyfriend think about it?” Jack joked.
“Boyfriend? What makes you think I have one?” she said, playing along.
“Well, I don’t know. It just seems strange that such a pretty girl, and someone so accomplished, could live in a shared apartment and think only about work.”
“Well, maybe I’m strange. But I can promise you that, if I had a boyfriend, he’d kiss me even if I were the skinniest girl on earth.” She laughed, and when Jack put his arms around her, also laughing uncontrollably, she let him kiss her. “And you? Haven’t you had a girlfriend? I mean . . . apart from your wife.”
“Sure. Come here, I’ll introduce you to her.” He pulled her toward a mirror so she could see herself.
“No. I mean an American girl.” Her expression turned serious. “My father said you’d been seeing Wilbur Hewitt’s daughter.”
“He said that? Well, you don’t need to worry. She’s water under the bridge.”
“So, it’s true.”
“What does it matter? Hey, what’s with the twenty questions? You wouldn’t be jealous, would you?”
“Me? Are you kidding? Oh wow! You even have a phonograph!” She broke off the interrogation and headed cheerfully toward the device. However, when she saw it close up, her expression changed to one of astonishment. “Where . . . where did you get this?”
“Do you like it? It’s an Edison, from—”
“I know what it is! I’m asking where you got this contraption from.”
Jack noticed a sudden hardness in her tone.
“Um . . . an official gave it to me to repair,” said Jack, feeling as if he were being accused of an unknown crime.
“An official?”
“Yes. Viktor Smirnov. He’s an OGPU officer under your father’s command. Is there something wrong?”