A piece of dull khaki peeked around one of the black leather lapels. Temerity lifted the hanger from the rod, and the leather coat slipped off, burying her feet and revealing something else on the hanger, a long khaki jacket with many pockets. It smelled of sweat and disinfectant, dust and blood.
Swallow each and every one, or your cock will fall off.
The left sleeve hung in tatters.
On the radio, dreary music ended on a weak note, repeated four times as it faded, reminding Temerity of Rigoletto’s ‘Va, va, va, va’: complicity and defeat.
A woman’s voice, warm yet firm, demanded attention. —Now is the time when good Soviet children settle themselves.
Temerity thought of Mikko Toppinen raising his arms over his face: Leave me alone.
— Children, are you ready to listen?
Temerity picked up the coat and hung it again over the jacket. Then she shut the closet and returned to the front room, where she sat in the one soft chair, faced the radio, and closed her eyes. Stories, her father had often said, are keys to a culture. You can understand a national character, my girl, if you understand that nation’s stories. As a child, Temerity could not fathom what insight The Wind in the Willows might give a foreigner, though she later thought Kim might help. She always smiled when her father started to talk about stories and national character, because that meant he would then translate a Russian fairy story from her mother’s old book, and Temerity could strain for a memory, any memory, of her mother’s voice.
She never found it.
The woman on the radio began the story of Dobrynya Nikitich defeating the dragon Zmei Gorynich. —And Dobrynya’s mother warned him, even as she made sure he wore his warm cloak, do not visit the Saracen mountains, do not step on baby dragons, do not rescue Russian captives, and do not bathe in the Puchai River. What do you think he did?
Temerity closed her eyes and remembered the portrait of her mother at Kurseong House, a petite young woman with dark eyes and hair, curls escaping the chignon, three-year-old Felix standing beside her, sporting his first haircut and pair of breeches, and infant Temerity on her lap.
The day she shoved the book from her father’s hands, Edward yelled at her, demanding she show more respect for her mother’s belongings, and Temerity stared at that portrait in repentance. It’s Vasilisa, not Mother. I’m not pushing Mother away. Vasilisa is too small. Then she’d turned and run back to her father’s lap. Edward held her and let her cry.
The woman on the radio continued. —Do you think Dobrynya obeyed his loving mother? He did not, and soon he found himself facing the terrible dragon, Zmei Gorynich.
Temerity knew this story. Soon after the book-pushing incident, Edward had bought Temerity English translations of Russian fairy tales, and she’d devoured them — though she’d still avoided Vasilisa. Dobrynya Nikitich fought Zmei Gorynich for three days, aided by a magic helmet and guiding voice, finally winning his own freedom and that of a captive woman called Zabava Putyatishna. How might the ending change to better suit these Soviet times? Would Zabava thank Dobrynya and then chair a Dragon Re-education Committee?
The woman on the radio concluded the story. —Dobrynya Nikitich was a peasant, and this story happened long ago, so Dobrynya Nikitich gave Zabava Putyatishna to his noble-born friend and fellow bogatyr, Alyosha Popov.
Temerity rubbed her temples. Gave her. Like a prize.
Another voice took the mic. —Join us again this time tomorrow for Children’s Tales. Next, a selection of music by Tchaikovsky.
Temerity stood up, straightened her clothes, and looked to Izvestia on the little hinged table. First, she checked the main door to see if perhaps the lock had slipped. Then she cut the newspaper into squares.
Arkady heaved himself out of the overstuffed armchair. —Poligon duty? You?
Kostya nodded.
Scowling, Arkady lit two cigarettes, and passed one to Kostya. —Who did you piss off to get poligon duty?
Kostya took a deep drag on the cigarette and stared out the window at the back yard, at the flower beds. —Special Squad is a man short tonight.
— Oh, and you believed that?
Comrade Senior Lieutenant Ippolitov cannot come to work today. —Well, I’m not about to ask precisely why they’re a man short.
— Someone’s fucking with you. Special Squad is for apes, not star officers who speak six languages.
— Seven.
— I’ll go talk to your department head.
Kostya shook his head. —No. I can handle it.
— Vadym, he’ll put in a word. And Boris Kuznets. Between the three of us—
— Kuznets is my new department head, and he gave me the order himself.
After a moment, Arkady tapped his cigarette pack against the table. —Kuznets stuck you with poligon duty?
— In his office. A few hours ago. Over tea.
— Oh. He didn’t tell me he’d be taking over that department.
Kostya studied the pile of ash. —He might have only found out himself this morning.
Arkady smiled at the joke, recognizing its likely truth. —Your shoulder, Tatar. You’re not fit to shoot yet.
— The hell I’m not.
— Pardon me?
Kostya took his revolver from its holster, placed it on the table. —Target practice.
Watching Arkady pick up the Nagant, examine it, sniff it, Kostya felt like he waited for the throw of a switch. Approval, or punishment. Yes, or no. Life, or death.
Arkady passed the revolver back, and his big hands descended to his portupeya. The gesture reminded Kostya of the first time he saw Arkady, the January day in Odessa. —Kostya, I can go over Kuznets’s head. Go around him, at least.
— No.
— Kostya—
— I said, no. Leave it.
— Then why did you come?
To hear your voice. —To warn you.
— Me?
— It’s a test, and I refuse to give Kuznets any ammunition.
— You’re still hung over, can’t think straight.
— I saw how he looked at you at the party, just little flashes of it. He’d crush your skull beneath his right boot to get a better view of a game of bandy.
Arkady patted his belly. —He’s kissed my arse so much that he’s chapped his lips. An invitation to one of my parties is not easy to obtain. Again and again he asks my opinion on how the departments should function.
— How did he even know about your parties? Arkady Dmitrievich, please. He mentioned…
Arkady kept still, hands in mid-air. He mouthed his response. —Mentioned what?
Kostya deferred to Arkady’s fear and whispered. —The former chief.