Arkady opened his hands and held them out, palms up. —I just want you to listen. Will you listen?
After a moment, she nodded.
Staring at a wall behind Temerity, Arkady murmured about a boy frozen to the ground. The story seemed rehearsed, a draft, part of something longer, a confession perhaps. Then Arkady looked her in the eye. —My turn to pity you, you so young and so hard, because you cannot win this. You’re already dead. You and Kostya both.
His sigh shook.
Words fast, voice low, he might have said something about protecting Kostya as long as he could; Temerity no longer understood him. He might have said something about her beauty as, dry lips gentle, he kissed her on the forehead. Then he frowned as if in sudden pain, sneered the word whore again, spat at her feet, and left.
She got to the armchair and almost fell into it, wrinkling her nose. The scent of him clung. Then, disgusted with herself for crying, she acknowledged what she’d heard, or rather, not heard: a click of a key in the lock.
She peered down the little corridor to the door.
A sliver of light betrayed it: the door pulled over, not shut.
Just get outside, get oriented…
She ran to the bedroom, wrenched the Temerity West passport from beneath the mattress, and tucked it in the right pocket of the trousers. Then she tried on Kostya’s shoes in the closet but tripped on them the second step she took. Glancing down at the trouser cuffs, she reasoned the long pants would hide her bare feet. Filth, cuts, lockjaw? Later.
No cringing. Off we go, then.
She stepped outside the flat.
No one called out. No one seized her arm.
She took note of the number on the door: seven. She glanced up: one more floor. Down: as the stairs seemed to disappear in the dun, she counted five other landings. Up again, and far beyond the landing and any human’s reach, a single light bulb dangled from the seventh floor ceiling.
How in hell does one replace that? A seven-storey ladder?
A draft of fresh air wound round her ankles, and downstairs, far downstairs, something creaked.
Cool wood beneath her bare feet, the steps gritty with tracked dirt, Temerity descended.
One step, two steps.
One floor, two floors.
Below, the heavy lobby door opened, wood and glass. Keys jingled.
A hoarse voice called a greeting. —Good afternoon, Comrade Yaroslav.
— Good afternoon, Grandmother.
— You’re home early today.
— Yes, Grandmother.
Yaroslav, a man in his twenties taking the stairs two at a time, soon passed Temerity. He ignored her. She watched him open his flat on the fifth floor; the door bore the same number as Kostya’s.
Each floor has the same numbers on the flats?
— Who hides in the dark on my stairs?
Blast. Blasted blasted bloody hell.
— Come here, so I can see you.
Holding the trouser cuffs above her feet so she would not trip, Temerity stepped into the lobby. Then she let the trousers fall to their full length. —I do not hide, Grandmother.
The older woman kept rocking in her chair. Her dress, buttoned to her neck, draped down past her ankles and ended in a wrinkled mound. She kept her long hair in a low bun at the back of her neck, like Ursula Friesen. Her eyes, deep set and brown, seemed to be studying a different place and time. Then she smirked. —You’re dressed as a man. And you’re barefoot.
Temerity noticed the window which showed a reflection of the stairs. The older woman would have seen her hitch up the trousers. —Yes, Grandmother.
— I wondered when I’d see you. Come closer, child.
The light bulb in the ceiling high above flickered, darkened again, as Elena squirmed and retrieved an object from a pocket in her skirt: one of Temerity’s shoes.
— Why, Grandmother, where did you get that?
— Left behind in my lobby. And this is the first I’ve seen of you. Where did you get the courage to come downstairs, out of a bottle? We have an NKVD officer living in this building. Shall I tell him about you? No, no, I’ll likely forget by the time I see him again. He looks so handsome in that uniform. He must look even better naked. I could sell these pretty shoes on the black market for a small fortune. I could sell them to the NKVD officers outside.
Temerity saw them: two uniformed officers leaning on their black car, looking up, smoking, bored.
Oh, God.
The officer on the right lowered his gaze to the lobby. He flicked the remains of his cigarette to the street, then ground it out with his boot. Then something distracted him. He saluted, then elbowed his fellow to do the same.
Elena tucked the shoe away. —Do you not hear them coming? Go back. Go. Go!
Temerity ran up the stairs, peeked at each landing; the flat numbers repeated over and over. Which floor? Which blasted floor? Gasping, ribs tight, she wrenched the doorknob of a flat marked seven.
In the lobby, Kostya held the door open for Efim. Both men nodded to Elena in the rocking chair. She, in turn, laughed.
Arms full of shopping packages and a bag from Babichev’s, Kostya gave her a light bow. —You’re jolly today, Grandmother.
Far above, someone’s flat door clicked shut.
Elena nodded. —Yaroslav just got home.
Who the hell is Yaroslav? Kostya looked to Efim, who shrugged. Stifling a sigh, Kostya gave Elena a second light bow. —Thank you, Grandmother.
Efim started up the stairs, and Kostya rearranged his bags as he prepared to follow.
— Comrade Nikto?
— Yes, Grandmother?
— You need a perhaps-bag, one of those collapsible ones made from string. Then you can always carry it with you, and perhaps you’ll see something you want to buy.
— I’ll keep that in mind.
— You don’t look well. Do you get enough sleep?
— Please don’t worry about me, Grandmother.
— Ah. Welcome home, then.
His fever dream on the train into Moscow in 1918: Arkady had taught Kostya how to use the worry beads, to keep him quiet. Kostya got so cold, yet the amber seemed to shimmer and melt. Then the train ran on fowls’ feet, and Baba Yaga spoke to him. Welcome home, bezprizornik, welcome home.
Elena laughed some more.
— I hope you have a pleasant evening, Grandmother.
— And for you, Comrade Nikto, I wish sweet dreams.
In the flat, Kostya joined Efim in admiring the ingenuity behind the kitchen clothesline, even as a flushed Temerity apologized for the sight of both her laundry and herself in Kostya’s clothes. She left the room without saying anything else, and, in a moment, the shower ran.
Efim decided not to question why someone who needed a shower had already changed into clean clothes, just as he’d decided not to question why his key had slipped, why the door seemed to be unlocked. He beckoned Kostya into his bedroom. —Let me see your shoulder.
— It’s fine.
— The pain scowl on your face could cut glass.
Scowling all the more, Kostya acquiesced, and closed Efim’s bedroom door behind him.
Efim opened his medical bag. —If I invite you to call me Efim Antonovich, then may I call you Konstantin Arkadievich?
Kostya looked around the tiny room, much smaller than his: enough space for a single bed and one person to move around it, even then only with some care. He sat on the bed and extended his left arm. —Yes, of course. I’m not sure why we’ve not done that already. Don’t bother with the patronymic. Not for me.
Efim moved Kostya’s shoulder this way and that. —Konstantin, I must be blunt.