Kostya sought proof of any change in Matvei, something to match his new brutality, a coarseness of the voice, perhaps, or of the face. Matvei remained wide-eyed and sweet, boyish, smooth. Boris Kuznets congratulated them both.
One afternoon, Matvei invited Kostya to exercise with him at the gym after work, and Kostya, refusing to think of Misha and how they’d competed, yet thinking of nothing else, agreed.
Over and over, Matvei got Kostya in a leg lock or wrestled him to the mat.
A coach eyeballed their technique. —Comrade Nikto, Comrade Katelnikov is smaller, and he uses your own weight against you.
— I’d guessed that much.
The coach pointed to Kostya’s scars. —Have you adapted?
— My shoulder’s fine.
— Then why do you lose?
Sweat stinging his eyes, Kostya took a deep breath.
The coach knelt down beside him. —I can show you some newer sombo moves. I’ve taught injured Red Army men, as well as NKVD.
— I’m not injured.
— No, no, of course not, those scars are merely cosmetic. You ass. The whole point of sombo is skill over strength. Now, show some brains and stay behind.
Kostya obeyed, and the hard exercise allowed him to forget the galling secret of a British woman hidden in his flat. Right here, he told himself, right now. The coach defeated him, over and over; sweat flew; Kostya defeated the coach.
— Again.
They grappled; the coach won.
— Again.
They grappled; Kostya won.
— Again. Again. Again.
Both men lay on their backs, limp and breathing hard.
Kostya turned his head to face the coach. —Thank you, comrade. Thank you.
Hair and face slick, the coach grinned. —My pleasure. Now, never forget: an injured man must fight not just harder but smarter. I know, I know, you are not injured. But, should you ever become so, you know what to do.
— Yes.
Matvei, showered and back in uniform, stood over them. —Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto, I must go.
— You’re still here?
A flicker of hurt in Matvei’s eyes, then a deferential nod: he extended a hand. —Let me help you up.
That night, the flat smothering hot, Kostya and Efim argued. Efim wanted official leave to visit his wife in Leningrad; such leave must be approved by the signature of Arkady Balakirev. Temerity, reading Fathers and Sons again, curious about the underlined passages, worked to ignore the quarrel.
Kostya wiped sweat from his face and smeared it into his hair. —Efim, I’m sorry, Balakirev can’t be reached right now.
— Why?
— He’s away.
— Where?
Kostya shook his head.
Efim left the flat, slamming the door.
Kostya snatched Turgenev from Temerity’s hands. —You hide behind that book.
— Oh, do I? Funny, I thought I hid in this flat out of necessity while you hid behind cowardice and excuse.
Stung, Kostya almost called her a bitch. —What cowardice?
— Get me to the British Embassy.
— I can’t do that.
— So you’ve said.
— Nadia, you have no papers and no shoes. I can’t take you outside without papers and shoes.
— And whose fault it is that I have neither papers nor shoes? Cowardice and excuse.
He promised, insisted, swore he knew the location of her passport and papers. Maybe, he muttered far from her hearing, just maybe, he could sign out a car and drive her to the British Embassy, papers be fucked. The desire and then the decision roared up, stalled. Signing out an NKVD car to cross the Moskva on the new Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge, eight lanes of radiant future, and drop an undocumented foreign national at her embassy, yes, well, that might cause a few problems. Aloud, he said he would save her. That night, he believed it.
Temerity no longer believed. The day she surrendered her faith in Kostya, though not her hope, she also surrendered her refusals and allowed his touch. She’d just interrupted his medical consultation with Efim, and it felt intimate, shocking. Both men looked at her in some guilt as Efim pumped liquid into Kostya’s vein, and the scars on Kostya’s left ear and shoulder flushed deep red. When Efim left, Temerity traced her fingers over Kostya’s scars, and Kostya turned to kiss her. He tried nothing else.
Temerity asked Efim about Kostya’s wounds a few nights later.
Efim shook his head. —Shrapnel. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death or lose the arm. Or die of infection.
— Would a gunshot do something similar? One that glanced the shoulder?
— Depending on the wound, likely much worse, unless the patient got to a hospital in time. And then there’s infection.
Her giggle sounded young and silly, nervous. —I mean, would it leave scars.
He peered at her. —That, too.
So, considering duty, the next evening Temerity murmured something Kostya wanted to hear. —I need you.
— What?
— Please.
After a moment, he stroked her shoulders, kissed her neck. —You smell so good.
— You finished all those sulpha pills?
— What? Yes, yes, of course.
She clasped his fingers and guided his hands.
He asked her twice, thrice. —Are you sure?
She touched his lips with the tips of her fingers.
He said it twice, thrice. —I love you.
He surprised her: urgent, yes, but also attentive, and as he kissed her thighs, she cried out.
He stopped, looked up. —Did I hurt you?
— No, no, it’s fine, I just…
— Then let me speak in tongues.
— What?
He resumed.
She laughed. Then she gasped.
Later, Kostya woke up with terrible pain in his shoulder. He stifled a cry and shifted in the bed. Silent beside him and wide awake, Temerity listened to him breathe and recalled a dusty old play. Fornication: but that was in another country, and besides…
The second time, Temerity suggested, then insisted, that Kostya remain mostly on his back. Dubious, he acquiesced, and afterward slept much better.
After the third time, she asked for shoes.
Kostya shook his head. He could hide shoes in another package, wrap them up with his laundry, perhaps. Getting shoes up the stairs: not impossible. Getting Nadia back down the stairs and outside? —I don’t know how to get you past the watchwoman. The new one, oh, Nadia, she doesn’t miss a thing, who lives in which flat, which children are in which grade at school. Yesterday she told me I was late bringing my dirty laundry to the service this week, and then she complimented Efim on his haircut. I never noticed he got a haircut. Did you?
Temerity shut her eyes, unable to escape the memory of Elena Petrovna calling on Stalin as if calling on God.
Then Kostya spoke about his language school dream. —Maybe Finland? Get to Leningrad first. We’d have to swim. How are you in cold water? You said you can speak some Finnish.
Recalling Mikko Toppinen’s Babel Interior, Temerity smiled with sadness and shook her head. —Danish. And nowhere near enough.
The days wore on. The flat got hotter and hotter, cooling at night only to ramp up at dawn, and Temerity always felt hungry — for food, for Kostya, for fresh air, for every word, however difficult, in Pravda, Izvestia, and Krokodil.
Kostya looked at her in growing worry, wishing he could explain why he dared not search Arkady’s house, now occupied by Boris Kuznets. —A few more weeks, Nadia, and I can get this settled.