Kostya held out his left arm; Efim gave the injection.
Not sure how this NKVD officer had just pried him open, Efim took great care organizing his doctor’s bag. —Sit still a moment, while I check your mistress’s knees.
Kostya’s voice rose, fell. —She’s not my mistress. Look, if you think so little of her, then why do you pick up your bag? Why help her?
The doctor stared at the secret policeman.
Kostya looked away first.
In the bedroom, Efim asked Temerity about her injury. —Did you fall?
She tugged up her skirt. —Pushed, I think.
Efim tweezed small stones and fibres from her wounds and then dabbed some disinfectant. —My name’s Dr. Efim Antonovich Scherba. Yours?
Kostya stood in the doorway, face drawn, voice sharp. —Her name’s Nadezhda. She’ll be with us for a while.
Efim kept his gaze on Temerity. —Nadezhda…what?
Temerity grasped at a sheet to stop the spin of the room. It didn’t help. —Nadezhda Ivanovna Solovyova.
Impressed, Kostya almost smiled. Name number three. Or are we up to four? Recalling the touch of the cigarette case, he used the fond diminutive. —More water, Nadia?
— Piss off.
— Pardon me?
Efim lost his smirk as gently pinched the skin on the back of Temerity’s right hand, near the puncture wound, and released it. The skin did not flatten right away. —You’re quite dehydrated, Miss Solovyova. I know, it should be comrade, not miss, but I am old-fashioned. Drink in tiny sips, just not too much. That tap water’s not fit for a stray dog. Nikto, get her some mineral water at the deli, Narzan, no other brand. And some bread, for later, once you’re sure she can keep the water down. I’ll sit with her while you’re gone.
— It’s a sixth day. The shops are closed.
— Babichev always opens in the morning of a sixth day, seven till noon. Now go. Doctor’s orders.
Temerity glanced at her right hand, where Efim had pinched her. She stroked the spot, then looked up and caught Kostya staring at her.
Efim closed his medical bag and stood up. —If she’s not better by suppertime, she may need intravenous fluids at the hospital.
— She’ll be fine.
— Nikto, she choked on her own vomited bile.
— Then how fortunate you heard the retch, yes?
Efim gave Kostya a long look. —Please hurry. I’m due at the lab.
— On a sixth day?
Efim stifled a sigh as he struggled in his mind, once again, with the new Soviet calendar. —The world doesn’t stop spinning just because you get to enjoy a rest. I need to finish a report. At least today I’ll get some peace and quiet.
— I don’t get sixth days off, as a rule. I had a shift change, and…oh, forget it. Narzan it is.
As Kostya left, Temerity held the glass of tap water away from her mouth. —It tastes terrible. What did you put in it?
Efim took the glass.
Too tired to ask anything else, Temerity shut her eyes.
When Temerity woke again, she found Kostya sitting asleep in a kitchen chair propped against the wall, his feet on the end of the bed. Eyes shut, he breathed with a slight snore, expelling noise and wine fumes. He held something small in one hand: a string of amber beads. Next to him, on a tiny bedside table, stood a green bottle of mineral water and a tea glass supported by a filigree podstakannik.
Temerity took the podstakannik by the handle, then by its body. A nickel alloy, perhaps, the colour of dull brass. The pattern of vines and leaves pressed her fingertips as she tightened her grip.
Hand out for the bottle, Temerity hesitated.
The paper seal on the bottle seemed intact.
Kostya woke to the stuttering clink of glass. —Let me.
She watched him tuck the beads into a pocket and then pour water. She accepted the drink and wrapped her hands around the podstakannik to hide the tremble. The filigree dug in. —It’s good.
He smiled, then looked stern again.
Birdsong and fresh air floated through an open window. Someone in a neighbouring flat practised scales on a piano. Temerity made a quick study of the room as the water settled in her stomach: the small closet, the little bedside table, and the kitchen chair. —Where are we?
— My bedroom.
— In your flat?
— Well, I haven’t got a bedroom in Lubyanka.
She sipped.
Kostya poured himself a glass. —We’re told the tap water is safe. I don’t believe it. The well for this block lies near a recent cemetery. A gas explosion, twenty-odd people died the same day, and what pieces could be found were buried quickly in a small public garden with a memorial stone. It’s why the water tastes so sweet. A toast, then. To the dead.
She raised her glass to match his, then watched him drink.
Mumbling, he gestured to the walls. —I’ll go turn on the radio. We don’t need the neighbours hearing every word we say.
— What about tapping a pencil, to break up the sound waves?
He snorted. —It doesn’t work. Stay there. You’re not well.
In the front room, as he reached for the radio knobs, his right hand shook.
He made it a fist. Remember who you are.
Then he relaxed his hand: stillness and strength.
As the radio clicked on, a deadweight thudded to his bedroom floor. Exasperated, he rolled his eyes, then turned up the volume like any good Soviet citizen who wished to hear about the latest tally of new galoshes from the State Rubber Industry Trust, a glorious surplus which may now bring the shortage within measurable distance of its end, and strode back to the bedroom, where he crouched down to help Temerity up off the floor. —See? This is why I told you to stay in bed.
Once he had her settled, he shut the bedroom window, then sat back down in the chair. His closeness left her little room to leave the bed on that side; her weakness left her little chance to leave the bed on the other side.
She took a breath to speak, looked away.
Kostya smiled, the way a boy caught playing a prank might, and held out his cigarettes. Temerity declined; he lit only one.
Smoke hid his face. —I was not my best self last night.
— Who are you today?
After a moment, he retrieved a red leather wallet from his trouser pocket and held it out to her on the palm of his hand.
She took it, recognized it: a Soviet citizen’s identification. Unfolding the wallet, she found a photograph and a much-initialled, much-stamped official form reading Nikto, Konstantin Arkadievich, Senior Lieutenant of State Security.
She peered at him. —Your name is really Nikto?
As he took the identification back, he sounded tired. —Many people changed their names after the Revolution. Look, I was twelve. I’d lost all my papers, and I didn’t want the orphan’s surname, Neizvestny. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s not important. At least it’s not a common name, like yours. What? What’s funny?
— I never asked to be called Nadezhda.
He whispered. —Well, what was I supposed to do? Tell the good doctor that you’re not a narkomaniac prostitute but a British spy?
— I’m no spy.
— Silly me. A tourist, then, just like in Spain.
Temerity rubbed her temples. —Wait, wait. You share the flat with that doctor?
— Yes.
— He thinks I’m a…what did you say?
Kostya mimed injection. —Narkomaniac. A drug addict.
— No, no, wait, he injected me.
— Scherba?
— No! The fat slob with the moustache, the one running the party.
— Ah, him, yes. He’s no slob. He’s an old Chekist who saved my life, once upon a time, and you will speak of him with respect.
— Respect? What did he do to me?