As the women passed before him, Kostya recalled an old fairy story, one his grandfather liked to telclass="underline" ‘The Twelve Dancing Princesses.’ He leaned against a wall, noticing how quiet, how still the women seemed.
Numbed. Distant.
What the hell did the old man use tonight?
Then he wondered at his own stillness. At previous dessert parties he’d get hard as soon as he saw a female face. Tonight, he hung limp.
As the other men made noises of enticement and approval, as they broke into smaller groups, bartered with one another, and prepared to choose, Kostya closed his eyes and breathed in deep. The pain in his shoulder grew tentacles, and the tentacles spread down his arm in stinging jolts. He took a last look in the study to make sure he’d missed no one, locked the door, and pocketed the key.
The women’s voices stayed quiet, placid, resigned. Some of the women responded to guidance and suggestion and played with the men’s lapels, stroked the men’s faces. Others walked in circles until chosen, until touched, and then complied. Couples disappeared to shadowed corners or to other rooms. Arkady offered Kostya a cup of wine, a sweet Georgian red now in vogue, which he declined. Vodka meant a milder headache in the morning.
Then he saw her.
His first thought was to wonder what had happened to her knees. Even as he thought this, he denied what he saw, denied the recognition, and almost laughed.
Hair dark and curly, eyes hooded and sleepy: that Britisher, Margaret Bush, Mildred Ferngate, or whatever the hell her real name might be, here, in Arkady Dmitrievich’s parlour.
Kostya changed his mind about the wine and poured himself a big cup of it. Gulped it. Poured a second.
Abducted off the street, of course, picked up like any of the other young women, a pretty piece of pastry for the old man’s dessert party.
Kostya dabbed wine from his lips with the backs of his fingers and strode towards her. Some of the men now discussed sharing, fifteen to twelve, after all, while others finished conversations about office life. One small and slender man, the only one in uniform, touched the tablecloth as if evaluating the quality, then flicked at a stray flower and answered another man’s small talk. —I did not claw my way back to Moscow from rural outposts to remain a sergeant.
Stepanov, Kostya remembered, Yury Grigorievich Stepanov. Yury had been a cadet with Kostya and Misha and tried to force his friendship on them. Kostya and Misha had, with some cruelty, declined the offer.
Yury glanced at the petite woman with the injured knees and stepped toward her. So did Kostya.
Then Boris called Yury over, asking if he liked little blondes with curly hair.
Temerity looked at Kostya: no recognition or compliance in her eyes, just despair. Then her eyes dulled again as she crossed her arms over her breasts and resumed walking in a circle.
Kostya placed his right arm around her shoulders and guided her to the study. None of the other men saw this, he felt sure, for they all had their own distractions. Arkady might later demand to know why Kostya had presumed to use the study and then lecture him on not abusing the privilege of keys. Such folly from the old man could wait.
He locked the study door behind them. So much might happen at these parties, did happen.
— Enough.
His own voice. Kostya recalled nothing of the thought, of the choice to say Enough.
Yet he said it.
Hands quick, he plucked the small Persian rug folded over the back of the desk chair. The rug, soft and light, and much too precious to leave on the floor, had kept Kostya warm as he’d studied far into many cold nights. He wrapped it around Temerity.
She spoke English, confident and loud. —Ready, aye, ready. Though I don’t know where I turned.
He crammed his hand over her mouth and shoved her against the wall, and the fumes of wine and vodka from his breath wafted round them both as he murmured in her ear. —Not a sound, unless I ask you a question, and then you whisper. In Russian. Understand?
Her nod felt weak against his hand.
— I’ll take my hand away, and you will sit down in that chair.
She nodded again, sat down.
— What’s your name? Not Margaret Bush. I’ve guessed that much.
She shook her head, over and over.
— You will tell me your name.
Anger rose in her eyes; confusion dulled it.
Kostya took her right hand, spotted the needle mark. —Get your clothes.
Limp and still, she spoke French. —Blouse.
— Russian. Only Russian. I’ll get your blouse. Is this it?
Temerity sneered. —That sack?
Kostya picked through pieces of fabric until he thought he recognized something. He held the blouse by the collar. —How in hell would I know? This one?
She took the blouse, hesitated as though trying to remember something, crumpled the fabric, patted it, and slipped the blouse on. Then she just sat there, eyes vacant.
Kostya shook his head. —Stand up, come on. Arms out, wait, fine, fine, button it yourself. Which skirt? This one?
— Stockings. No, knees. Brassiere, brassiere.
— Fuck the underwear! You want to live through this night, yes? Then obey me. Where are your shoes? These? No, too big. These? Right. Now wait and keep quiet.
Kostya swaggered out of the study, adjusted his fly, discovered the morphine had not killed response, only delayed it, and eased the door shut behind him. Discarded male clothing, ties and jackets and trousers, littered the chairs and floor. The owners had retreated with their prey to other rooms or unlit corners. Grunts, slaps, and muffled female cries filled Kostya’s ears as he took a portupeya and pouch hanging from the back of a chair. He groped in the pouch, past papers and something sticky, until he found metal. He plucked it out: a car key, engraved with the number forty-two. Tucking the key into a pocket, Kostya returned to the study and offered Temerity his arm. She leaned on him, and they emerged into the front yard, just some drunken couple leaving a party for home.
As Kostya drove, the streets widened into valleys, and the streetlights changed into ancient fires on sticks. Telling himself to remember these morphine-bent perceptions, wondering why the woman next to him cried out about him driving all over the road, Kostya sought Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Only then could he be sure of home.
He parked near his block of flats, confident no one would ask the driver of an NKVD car to move. He offered Temerity his arm again, and they staggered into the lobby. The watchwoman, slumped in her rocking chair, snored.
Kostya smirked.
As they climbed the stairs, Temerity stumbled, fell against him.
Eyes heavy, Kostya kissed the top of Temerity’s head. A night for fairy tales. First, he’d witnessed the parade of the twelve dancing princesses. Then he’d sneaked past the sleeping dragon Zmei Gorynich with a prize. What next, Marya Morevna’s defeat of Koshchei the Deathless?
The clink of metal on the wood from his dropped keys seemed to slice into his ears, and he winced. As he bent over, the awakened watchwoman called up from the lobby. —Goodnight, comrade.
— Goodnight, Grandmother.
Temerity tried to stand up straight, then leaned against him again.
He unlocked his flat door. —It’s no better to be safe than sorry. After you, Marya Morevna.
She mumbled. —That’s not my name.
NARZAN, WITH BERRIES IN’T