The Russian Affair Read online

  Bulyagkov opened the door with two potholders in his hands, and soon he was serving her Tartar-style chicken ragout. When Anna asked who had done the preparation, he confessed that the delicatessen on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt had delivered the food right on time. She thanked him for the washers, the most sensible gift she’d received in a long time. He opened a bottle of wine and showed her the label. She couldn’t decipher it.

  “It’s a pinot blanc. I picked it up at my house.”

  “What does your wife say when you leave with a bottle of wine under your arm?” Anna didn’t wish to be impertinent, but his casual attitude, which was again on display in this, their second meeting, made her nervous.

  “Medea is home even more seldom than I am,” he said. He raised Anna’s hand, the one holding the glass, to her mouth. “Taste it.”

  Although she found the wine so acidic that she grimaced, she praised it dutifully. Then she asked, “What does your wife do?”

  “She’s on the Soviet Council for Inter-Republic Cultural Cooperation. Since so many touring theater companies are constantly arriving in Moscow, she goes to the theater very often—so often, in fact, that she ought to have a bad conscience.” He took a drink.

  “Do you have a bad conscience, Comrade?”

  “Why?”

  “Because so far you haven’t given me a single reason why we’re together.” She felt her forehead beginning to burn. “Or are you going to tell me that we have these meetings because you like my father’s poems?”

  “What sort of future do you dream about, Anna?”

  For a moment, the right answer went through her head: I dream about the realization of world communism, equality for all people, and the end of imperialism for the benefit of every individual. She said, “When Leonid and I applied for an apartment, we were told that something would be available in Nostikhyeva soon. That was three years ago.” Anna pushed her plate away. “I’d like Petya to go to the Polytechnic. He’s got a talent for logic—he’s already beaten Viktor Ipalyevich twice at chess. But they take only so many students.”

  “How about you, Anna? What would you wish for yourself?”

  “I’d like to see Stockholm.”

  His face took on a look of affectionate surprise. “Why Sweden?”

  “Viktor Ipalyevich has a book at home, a thick volume with pictures. Stockholm’s a city on the sea, and it doesn’t get hot in summer.” She smiled. “I don’t like hot weather.” Her host refilled their glasses. “When are you going to try to kiss me, Comrade?” Anna asked. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the intimate setting, but in any case, Anna thought the question was justified.

  “Does that mean you want me to?”

  “You’re doing everything possible to soften me up.” She pointed at the remains of the exquisite snack.

  “Do you suppose that I’m trying to seduce you with chicken ragout and white wine?”

  “Aren’t you? What do you want from me, Alexey?”

  He turned serious. “I watched you that day we first met. You were standing on the ladder, and I was under you. It’s something I’ll never forget.”

  She moved away. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t think it’s a pleasure to look at you?”

  “But we can’t just … sit here and eat, and I tell you about Leonid, and you talk about Medea …” Anna forcefully laid her hand on his. “And then I go back home?”

  “There are things I can imagine doing with you.” He stroked her thumb.

  She raised his hand and pressed it against the base of her throat, expecting his fingers to set out on their own.

  “I’d like to see you naked,” he said. “We could keep sitting here and talking—I won’t touch you.”

  “No,” she said curtly.

  He drew back his hand. “I understand.”

  “Not because I’m too modest,” she went on more softly. “Not because of that.”

  “But because … ?”

  “I can’t undress in front of you.”

  “A scar? Perhaps a third nipple?”

  “I can’t let you see my underwear.”

  He leaned back, smiling. “You think I can’t imagine what kind of underclothing a female house painter from combine four-one-six wears?”

  “With these things on, doing a ‘striptease’ in front of you is out of the question.” She pronounced the unusual word slowly.

  “You could go to the bathroom and fold your clothes in a nice neat pile. I’ll wait here.”

  “Will you get undressed, too?” Anna could feel sweat forming on her upper lip.

  “Good gracious, no.” Bulyagkov folded his arms as though trying to cover himself.

  He pressed her with neither gestures nor looks. Anna cast her eyes around the apartment, taking in the chandelier, the pattern of the wallpaper, the brass curtain rods. From outside came the light of an interminable dusk.

  “Please close the curtains.”

  As if they were at the beginning of an experiment, Bulyagkov got to his feet and they moved past each other without exchanging a glance, Anna heading for the bathroom and her host for the window. Anna walked down the hall, turned into the bedroom, and stopped in surprise: The bed wasn’t made. She gazed at the blue-and-white-striped mattress with the folded duvet on top of it. Whatever the Deputy Minister had in mind for her, it wasn’t the obvious thing. When she entered the bathroom, the turquoise-colored tiles gave her the feeling of stepping into a dream. She ran her fingers over them. Where could you get such beautiful materials? The pale gray grout between the tiles wasn’t the crumbly stuff Anna had to work with on the job. She continued to discover further details as she undressed. Since Anna and her family had moved in with her father, casual living had come to an end. Viktor Ipalyevich, who had sung of many a body in his poetry, detested displays of real nakedness and wouldn’t allow Petya to sit at the table without a shirt, not even on hot summer days. Anna took off her shoes, her blouse, and her skirt; a glance in the mirror confirmed her belief that her gray brassiere was not made for a stranger’s eyes. She removed it, quickly slid her panties down to the floor, and beheld the naked house painter. Her bosom was glistening with perspiration, and her muscular arms bore witness to the countless buckets of paint she’d hauled up and down scaffolding. Anna pinned her hair back and washed herself, but she still didn’t like what she saw in the mirror. She put one foot forward, raised her chest, threw her head back; then, at last, she opened the door into the bedroom. A sudden feeling of shyness overcame her, followed by a bad conscience: While she was undressing herself for another man, Leonid was putting Petya to bed. Anna covered her breasts and started to return to her clothes, but then she heard Alexey’s voice. He was calling her from the hall; she answered that she was coming. While she walked to the bedroom door, she could feel the vein in her neck throbbing. Alexey was waiting for her in the dimly lit anteroom. Gravely and lovingly, he kept his eyes fastened to hers. Then he led the way back into the living room.

  Anna jerked around in her seat. Outside, an icy wind was beating against the window through which she’d watched the bus for Nagatino disappear.

  “You passed it up!” she cried out to Anton.

  He raised his eyes to the rearview mirror. “A small change in the routine, Comrade.”

  The ZIL shot onto Vernadsky Prospekt, heading southwest. “Where are we going?” Anna asked. When she got no reply, she leaned forward over the seat. “I have to be back before midnight.”

  “By midnight, we’ll all be in bed,” Anton said in his soothing bass.

  With a jolt, they drove onto the icy bridge; the limousine was taking the expressway out of the city, already leaving behind the big housing developments to their right. Soon Anton turned off onto a road snuggled amid white hills. Anna saw the silhouettes of bare trees against the dark gray sky. The headlights repeatedly tore a patch of frozen forest out of the darkness. She asked no more questions. A DEAD END sign appeared, and under it a notice banning all ve
hicles. But a freezing policeman waved the automobile through without looking into the backseat. On two sides, Anna saw walls, in front of which young birch trees had been planted. A second man in uniform opened a barrier for them, and the ZIL drove into a pine plantation. Only the road had been cleared; otherwise, the snow lay knee high on all sides. Anna could see no building of any kind until Anton rounded a bend to the left and stopped on a steeply sloping concrete slab. When she got out of the limousine, ice crystals stung her face. Here on the slope, the trees stopped. In spite of the darkness, she was sure that the river lay before her, compelled to a standstill, as it were, by the cold.

  There were lights in three windows at ground level, and then lights came on outside, too. Around the door, Anna could see wood carvings of some pale color; the house itself might have been blue. Anton, without a coat, walked ahead of her. Alexey Maximovich appeared in the doorway, wearing a white shirt under a woolen jacket. “We have visitors in the city,” he sighed. “My wife needs the apartment.” Without making sure that his visitor was following him, he went back into the house. The door closed behind them.

  The most impressive thing, Anna thought, was the stove, a massive construction covered with blue tiles that radiated an immense amount of heat. She let her coat slip from her shoulders. “I thought your wife …”

  “Medea knows about it. I’ve had the Drezhnevskaya apartment since long before you came along.” There was a dull sheen on his cheeks and chin; Anna was sure that he’d just finished shaving.

  Finding it hard to look at him, she let her eyes wander. There were carpets on the wall of Kyrgyz workmanship, and a gigantic Persian rug formed the centerpiece; she followed the patterns with her eyes, the meanderings in blue and ochre, as if writing were concealed in them. Upholstered furniture faced the fireplace. Above the dining room table was a hanging lamp; its weak light conjured up days of old, because this house was still lit by petroleum lamps.

  “Are you hungry?” Alexey sat on the bench sofa and arranged a cushion for Anna. “Anton picked up a few things.” He nodded toward a passageway, which she supposed led to the kitchen.

  “Is Anton going to stay in the car?”

  “Are you worried about him?” he asked with a grin.

  “It’s cold.”

  “He can go into the summer house.”

  Anna walked through the passage to the next room and found the light switch; the kitchen still looked rustic, but it was equipped with every urban convenience. “Shall I fix us something?” she asked.

  “Yes, make something for us, Annushka,” he called out.

  After checking the pantry and glancing at the clock, Anna took out onions, eggs, and sour cream and heated some oil in a small iron skillet. If it takes us an hour to eat, she reckoned, there will still be an hour before Anton has to take me back. If Alexey comes with us, he’ll have Anton drop him off first. She turned on the oven, cut the onion into thin slices, and dressed them with cream and paprika. After beating some eggs, she poured them into the skillet and put it in the oven. She heard Alexey moving around in the living room, and soon afterward came the sound of music, a sleepy hit tune featuring lots of violins. He walked into the kitchen. Anna said nothing. Every time, she found the preliminaries more difficult. She hoped he’d start the conversation on his own. With his fingers, he combed her hair aside and kissed her ear, but it wasn’t a caress; it was rather a kiss of welcome, as though he were just now greeting her. Without interrupting her work with the two-handled chopper, she leaned her head against his cheek.

  “A hard day?”

  “The comrades monopolized me for four long hours. The office was overheated, my secretary’s coffee undrinkable, and the representative from Tambov had such foul breath that I stood up and pretended I had to walk around in order to think.” Bulyagkov leaned on the sink. “I’d love to see you cook naked.”

  “Not tonight.” She looked into the oven to see whether the eggs had set yet. “Was the Minister there?”

  “He knows what sessions he should stay away from.” With the reserve that she had liked in him from the start, Alexey put his hand on her waist. “It’s always about money. Every oblast wants to distinguish itself through particular achievements in research. The farther they are from Moscow, the more money they want.” He clasped the back of her head, and she enjoyed the pressure of his fingers. She wrapped a cloth around her hand and took the little pan out of the oven.

  “Take a seat.” She strewed chopped onion onto the cooked eggs.

  “Do you know that this is a Ukrainian recipe?” Alexey asked. “I was often served this dish as a child.”

  “What were you like when you were a boy, Alexey?”

  “Happy.” He went back into the front room.

  Anna heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked, followed by the tinkle of glasses. When she carried in the food on a tray, Bulyagkov, who was standing in front of the liquor cabinet, turned around. She served; he took a seat and started eating.

  “Seventy-four percent,” he said after a few bites. “With the help of the technological revolution, they want to boost petrochemical production by seventy-four percent.”

  “Isn’t that … extraordinarily good?”

  “There is no ‘technological revolution.’ Seventy-four percent is beyond all reason. It’s not even an incentive, it’s a fantasy.” He drained his glass and refilled it at once. “But Kosygin wants to announce it. And therefore I have to put on the necessary performance for the Minister.” With a sudden blow, he jammed the cork back into the bottle. “They want units of greater capacity, gigantic power station units to improve primary processing.” He broke off a piece of bread and used it to wipe the traces of egg yolk off his plate. “But things aren’t so advanced as that, not anywhere in the country. In Murmansk, they thought they had the problem solved. Twelve million rubles, and during the trial run, everything blew up in their faces.”

  He took Anna’s wrist. “You’re not taking care of yourself,” he said, waving her hand back and forth.

  “I’ve used your cream.” She wanted to pull her hand away.

  “Rough and blotchy,” he said, spreading her fingers.

  “It’s the lime.”

  “Why don’t you wear gloves?”

  “They don’t help.”

  “You’re beautiful, Annushka.” He let himself sink back against the cushion. “Are you cold? Shall I put more wood on?”

  “It’s fine.” She shifted to the side and took off her boots. While she let her blouse drop and slipped out of her underskirt, she had the feeling that, for her, deceit and reality were getting more and more mixed up. Every day a new piece of her integrity went missing, and her feelings slipped away from her. Obviously, her life was a lie.

  Without touching her, he stood up, took a step back, and pointed at her body with an outstretched hand. Calling her affectionate names, he watched as she unzipped her skirt and slid off her pantyhose. Finally naked, Anna set the plate in the skillet and put the remains of the bread on the plate. With a glance at the wall clock, she made sure that there was as yet no reason to hurry. In semidarkness, she sank down onto a rug, and her mood grew darker and calmer. She couldn’t help thinking about Anton. Had he made himself comfortable in the summer house? He was probably sitting in the car with the engine running.

  TWO

  At three in the afternoon the next day, when she boarded the special bus on Durova Street, it was already getting dark. At the end of a thirty-minute trip, twenty workers, seventeen of them women, were dropped off in Karacharovo. The worksite was an elongated, twelve-story apartment house that was supposed (according to the plan) to be ready by May. Trouble began because the painters were unable to do their work, and that was because the plasterers were two weeks in arrears on theirs. The walls and ceilings on five entire floors had yet to receive their final coat of plaster. The person in charge defended the delay by blaming it on the unrelenting cold: Not even the propane heaters that burned day and night on every
floor could make the surfaces dry. Anna and the other women complained that the plasterers’ dillydallying would cause them, the painters, to fail to fulfill their responsibilities in the plan as well. What happened in the end was what usually happened: The women laid aside their paintbrushes and picked up trowels. This was dirty work, and so a settlement for the cost of cleaning the painters’ work uniforms had to be reached. When that was done, Anna and some of her colleagues climbed up on the scaffolding, while others mixed the lime plaster. In order to counteract the cold, they used quick-drying cement; the women on the scaffolding had to work very fast. A tub of fresh plaster was hoisted up to Anna; using a hawk with one hand, she scooped up some of the mixture and spread it on the ceiling with the trowel in her other hand. The plaster was too runny, and some of it dripped onto her face. She cursed and called out to the mixers to use less water. Then, with circular movements, she distributed the remaining plaster over the smooth surface.

  An hour later, her head and shoulders were sprinkled with gray. Even though she was wearing a headscarf, she could feel wet plaster in her hair and her eyelids were gummy with it, but her dirty gloves prevented her from wiping off her face. Nevertheless, she’d managed to plaster half of the ceiling. Anna jumped down from the scaffolding, crouched next to the propane heater, and drank a glass of tea. One of the plasterers, a nice-looking, broad-shouldered man, squatted down beside her; after taking a few sips of his own tea in silence, he thanked the comrade for her help.

  Is Petya asleep already? she wondered. Will the inhalation treatment give him a more restful night, or will he utter that strangled groan again and sit up in the bed, because he can’t get enough air when he’s lying down? As long as he was running a fever, she had to let him stay home from school, but spending the whole day together with his capricious grandfather wasn’t good for the boy. Papa hardly ever sees anybody but his family anymore, Anna thought. She found it less regrettable that he avoided the literati and their scene than that he had shed all his friends. The extraordinary reading two years previously hadn’t given him back his self-confidence; the consequences of his little swipe at the regime were an enduring sign that the ice age was not yet over. Viktor Tsazukhin had reminded the members of the Writers’ Association that he was a recipient of the Order of the Fatherland, that he had spoken before large Party gatherings and been invited to receptions. How long ago had that been? Twenty years? Basically, Anna knew of her father’s significance only from pictures she’d seen and things she’d heard. As a little girl, she’d been told who the people with Viktor Ipalyevich in the framed photographs were, and she knew where the fancy presentation edition of The Red Light stood on the bookshelf. More than his early work, however, she loved the poems he’d written in recent years, poems that remained unpublished. As the man with the peaked cap grew sadder and understood less and questioned more, Anna found herself drawn all the more strongly to his shorter, smaller pieces. Instead of lengthy evocations of the human spectacle, his current output was characterized by instantaneous sketches, a couple of stanzas about a misunderstanding at a bus stop, lines that distilled several weeks’ work. His poetry described the people of Moscow, not so much their utopian dream as their actual present; his verse shined a light on their everyday lives, captured certain moments, dedicated itself to a feeling of disappointed hope for the unattainable. Yes, Anna loved her father through his poems.