That was last night. Right here, right now, she’d just refused his advance and booted him from his own bed.
Rising from the floor, Kostya murmured first in English, then Russian. —By wilful taste of what thou thyself refusest? I admit, Nadia, sometimes you’ve got beauty in your language. Sometimes. But what does it mean?
Temerity tugged the sheets to her chin. —Efim is just finishing in the shower. Go get your injection.
— I don’t need it.
She gave him an exasperated look. —The scars on your ear flush when you lie.
SERVICE WEAPON
Monday 26 July
— Kostya.
Vadym sounded not pleased but annoyed as he turned from dismissing the choir. His greeting seemed to fall at Kostya’s feet.
Kostya addressed him as Vadym Pavlovich and waited for the choir members to file out of the room. Boris gave Kostya a look of knowing sympathy.
Vadym closed the door. —Twice you’ve disappointed me, Kostya.
— I’m sorry?
— No, when you apologize to me, you make it statement, not a question. Back in June, you forgot to tell Arkady about the supper invitation.
— Oh.
— And last night you forgot to meet me at the concert.
— Dima—
— I told you last week, Tchaikovsky, the full 1812, box seats, even if we did have to share them with Kuznets and one of his mistresses. It took me weeks to get those tickets. And for the encore, a balalaika troupe performed Flight of the Bumblebee.
— Sounds amazing.
— A little busy on the balalaikas, maybe, but where the hell were you?
Kostya peered at him. Vadym never raised his voice, not with him. With Misha, yes, a thousand times, but he always spoke to Kostya in a gentle manner, even when in rebuke.
Vadym found that tone again. —I could swear something worries you. It’s got its teeth in your neck and shakes you about.
Kostya found a most plausible lie, plausible because it formed part of the truth. —I’m worried about Arkady Dmitrievich. I’ve heard nothing.
— He’s due back tomorrow.
— What?
— I got a telegram last night from some town I’d never heard of, likely not even on the map. I’d planned to show it to you at the concert.
— He’s well?
Vadym snorted. —Did he look well when he left?
— But he is coming back.
— Yes. I doubt he can talk about it. But you’d know about that.
Misha’s name hung in the silence between them.
— Dima, I’m due upstairs.
Vadym turned his back to Kostya and gathered up sheet music. Kostya watched how Vadym inspected each piece of paper and then added it to his pile. Each time he added a sheet, he tapped the edge of the stack against his belly. Once he’d collected all the sheets, he tapped the papers straight on a table. —You said you had to go.
Head bowed, Kostya returned to the corridor and, instead of climbing the stairs to his department, he descended. He would visit the garage, just to check if any new clerks worked in vehicle requisitions. A new clerk, unfamiliar with various officers and protocols, just might make it easier for Kostya, just might lend him the courage to sign out a car and then take an unauthorized trip to the British Embassy. Maybe.
In the dappled sunlight of the corridor of Laboratory of Special Purpose Number Two, Efim read over the chart. —Good results. We’ve cut the time down from fifteen minutes to just under eight minutes. I am impressed, comrades.
The younger doctors surrounding him, following him, murmured gratitude and deference.
He dismissed them with his usual courtesy. —Please, carry on. I’ll join you later. I have some reports to finish.
Inside his office, Efim shut the door and leaned his back against it. Eight minutes from injection to death. Memory harassed him: conditions in the hospitals in 1918 and ’19, no heating, no food. At Special Purpose Number Two, one enjoyed sunshine, a constant supply of tea in the monstrous samovar, free lunches at a nearby cafeteria. and clean lavatories. The prisoners, however, remained filthy and starved.
Efim wanted to bathe his face in cold water.
Or perhaps drown himself in it.
A gentle knock. —Comrade Dr. Scherba?
I’ve given dying patients that final dose of morphine. Is it not the same as what we do here? Morphine can be a poison, too.
— Comrade Doctor?
I’m just one man.
I’m full of shit.
— Comrade Dr. Scherba, please. May I speak with you?
Forgetting how a visitor could discern rough shadows through the frosted glass window in the door, could see him leaning there, Efim hurried to his desk. —Comrade Dr. Novikova, come in.
Anna Nikolaieva Novikova closed the door behind her and stood before Efim’s desk. He’d avoided her, speaking to her only when necessary. Young and slim, with strong features that surpassed mere prettiness, she elicited from Efim both desire and guilt.
Scent wafted, Krasnaya Moskva, the same perfume that Olga wore.
Efim wished he could shake the temptation out of his head, like water trapped behind an eardrum. Instead, he gestured to the chair before his desk. —Please, sit down.
She cleared her throat. —Comrade, I consider it a privilege to be working here.
Efim recalled her file, her excellent grades in medical school, and the psychological tests indicating fierce capacities for loyalty and hard work. —And we’re lucky to have you.
— I wanted…well, I’m sure you’ve heard these stories a thousand times, the day the child decides to become a doctor.
Efim nodded. —Your story?
— Diphtheria. Myself and my younger brothers. The doctor held a lantern to my brothers’ mouths and told my mother he saw the plaques in the throat. I saw them, too. He noticed me up and about, and he showed me. Then he told my mother to pray, if it gave her comfort. I would likely recover, but the boys looked bad.
— Blunt.
— Kind, in its way. My mother loved him for it. She knew what swollen necks meant. And yes, my brothers died, and I lived, and the doctor came to the funeral and apologized for what he called the obscure workings of God. At no point did he patronize my mother or belittle her grief. He only wished he could have eased our pain.
— And that’s when you decided to become a doctor?
— No. I hated him. I blamed doctors for everything. Until I was about fifteen, when I saw another doctor attend a child who…
She scowled, took a breath.
— Who had suffered unfortunate malnutrition during a period of food difficulties. A common ailment. That doctor was brusque, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. He delivered only bad news, over and over: the child will die; the child will die; the child will die.
— Yes, no one wants to hear it.