— You’ve not got them now?
— No. That is why I must get them today.
— I need those papers and passport.
— Yes, I’d guessed that much.
— Yesterday. You said you’d get them yesterday.
Kostya strode away from her. —Do you like kasha? Of course you like kasha; everyone likes kasha.
— I…what?
Kostya measured water into a pot and set it to boil. —I’ve got some butter for it. No cinnamon though, so I can’t make my grandfather’s recipe for you, all butter and cinnamon and honey, or sugar. Honey’s better. My grandfather would add extra honey to mine, when my grandmother wasn’t looking.
Temerity struggled to speak.
Kostya took a sack of kasha from the pantry. Then he looked at Temerity, and emotion surfaced in his eyes, hid itself again: desire, perhaps, and mistrust.
Fear.
— Comrade Nikto—
— Call me Kostya. Please.
— Konstantin…
— Look, that’s not my name. Well, it is, but no one uses it. No one who matters.
— Kostya. I can’t stay here.
— This will take a few minutes. The bathroom’s free. Use my soap, on the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the stenka.
When Kostya turned his attention to the stove, Temerity sniffed her blouse. Play along. —Where shall I find a towel?
— Stenka, third drawer on the left.
Thin towels lay in perfect folds. —You’re very tidy with your linens.
— Laundry service.
Inside the bathroom, ceramic tiles of an odd shade of blue, like that atop an NKVD cap, shone on the walls. Grey splashes pocked the mirror, yellow spatters stained the base of the toilet, and beard bristles littered the faucet and sink. Pieces of newspaper, cut in squares with a precision she could only admire, lay in an ashtray. On a shelf over the toilet, within easy reach of the shower, lay razors and shaving brushes, toothbrushes, tooth powder, a bottle of Shipr cologne, a brush and two combs, a tin of hair pomade, and two soap dishes. The scraps of grey soap lay in congealed pools of their own melt. An improvement over Hotel Lux, she told herself. At least this bathroom afforded some privacy.
And a key in the lock.
Afraid of mirage, she touched it.
Cool. Hard. Steel.
Wrist quick, she locked the bathroom door. Then she took the soap and ran the water in the shower.
When she returned to the fold-down table, the butter had disappeared, and the kitchen smelled of turned earth and toasted nuts with a depth of bitterness: agreeable, even enticing.
Leaning against the counter near the stove, Kostya looked up from a section of Efim’s newspaper. —Did you get enough hot water?
— It was fine, thank you.
— The bottom two drawers in the stenka are mine. Take anything that might help.
Temerity plucked her blouse away from a damp patch on her skin, then took up another section of the newspaper, Friday’s Izvestia. —Thank you.
Bearing two bowls of kasha, he sat next to her, pulled his chair close. —I put lots of butter in here.
She whispered. —Why? Why would you help me?
He studied her face, found the freckles on her eyelids, and whispered back. —Still got that cigarette case?
— Where are my shoes?
Kostya said it aloud, making them both flinch. —Your shoes?
— I left Hotel Lux fully dressed and carrying a handbag. This morning I own nothing more than a blouse and a skirt.
— I got your shoes on your feet before we left.
— Then where did you put them?
He craned his neck to look at the dim corridor leading to the door, then got up and flicked on the light: his boots, but no women’s shoes. —I don’t know. Let me check my closet.
As she ate, he opened and slammed the closet door in his bedroom, cursed.
He returned with his cap. —I’m sorry there’s no honey.
— It’s fine. I quite like it.
He looked pleased. —Help yourself to anything else.
— Wait. My shoes.
— I’ve got to go to work.
— Now?
— Yes, now. I promise, I’ll get the papers, and then we’ll find your shoes. Just be patient.
She took in a long breath, let it out. Then she rattled Izvestia. —I’ll cut this up when I’ve read it.
— Thank you very much. Here, I’ll get you the scissors.
As Kostya stepped behind the huge counter to open a drawer, Temerity bolted for the door.
— Hey!
She snatched the bathroom key from her skirt pocket, stumbling as Kostya grabbed first the collar of her blouse and then her arms. His furious whisper filled her head. —What the barrelling fuck do you think you’re you doing?
— Get off me!
Gentler, he thought, than he might be in a cell, Kostya wrenched her away from the door, turned her around, and shoved her against the wall. —You think you’ll get past the babushka in the lobby?
— Who?
He pried the key from her fist. —Even if you do, this is Moscow, not a collective farm. We have discovered shoes here in the barbaric land of Russia. Bare feet? Someone will ask you questions, and you’ve got no papers. You speak Russian well, I give you that, but you miss idioms, and in the cell, when you were tired, you started substituting words from other languages. Sometimes your speech sounds like translation; you still think in English. So, a barefoot woman who speaks imperfect Russian and can produce no papers? Not suspicious at all.
— Let me go!
He released her arms but continued to block the door. —Go where? Please, I know this must be difficult, but—
Light exploded. A pulpy pain followed, and Kostya fell, seeing Temerity lower her knee. The wall felt cool and comforting against his scarred ear. On his first breath, he called on God. On his second, he called Temerity a bitch. On his third, he retched.
She strode to the kitchen. A drawer rumbled, some cutlery clinked, and, as she returned to stand over him, her voice fell, certain, deep, cold. —Get away from the door.
Electric light glinted on the blade of a meat knife.
Kostya’s voice rasped. —Please put that down.
— I said, get away from the door.
Kostya heard footsteps on the stairs as a neighbour descended to the lobby, on his way to work. —You won’t use that.
— No?
— Go outside barefoot and bloodied? You’re not that stupid.
Muscles in her forearm tensed.
Shutting his eyes against pain, Kostya sat up and pressed his back against the door. Revolution, civil war, and flu, two famines, two sea voyages, and someone else’s civil war, all so I can get kneed in the balls and die at the end of a knife in my own flat?
Cutlery clinked, and a drawer rumbled closed.
He opened his eyes.
Temerity stood behind the counter now, hands empty, arms crossed.
Kostya stood up, limped to the fold-down table, and sat in one of the chairs. Breathing hard, he examined the key he’d taken from her. —Besides, this is the bathroom key. It won’t fit the main door. Different lock. Fucked in the mouth. Get me a cold compress.
She kept still.
— I won’t hurt you.
She raised her eyebrows.
— Please.
At the stenka, Temerity selected a smaller towel, shook it out, and considered making it a garotte even as she admitted to herself that she’d not use it.
As she folded the towel again, her hands shook. Steady the Buffs.
Cold water ran in the kitchen as Kostya lowered himself to the floor beside the table and stretched out. Sitting on a chair had been a mistake. He considered how the neighbours might interpret this morning’s noise. None of them had seen him bring a woman home, but they may very well have heard a female voice. A body’s thud? Comrade Nikto of flat seven on floor six either beat his woman or fell down drunk. Neither would draw undue attention.