— Your Comrade Ismailovna has sent for one.
The footsteps faded as the man left the staircase for an upper corridor.
Vadym looked up at the wire caging. —Not that an ambulance will help.
— He might —
— Too much blood.
Then Vadym reached out for Kostya’s face. He cupped the younger man’s cheek and stroked his thumb beneath Kostya’s eye, as if to wipe away tears.
Kostya stared at him.
Vadym took his hand back. —I was in your department because I wished to apologize.
— You’ve nothing to apologize for, Dima. I was a thoughtless pig.
— I should let you get to work. Go on. You’ll be late.
Legs feeling heavy, Kostya ascended a few steps.
— Kostya?
He looked back over his bad shoulder, winced.
— Kostya, please. Did you see Misha in Spain? Yes, or no. One word. Just one word.
A door opened, and several other officers descended the stairs between Kostya and Vadym. More men began an ascent from the floor below.
Kostya turned his back to Vadym and joined the press of bodies climbing stairs to some other purpose.
Queasy, Efim strode through the huge department store. He needed fresh air, not the strange stillness of high ceilings, shiny tables, and random consumer goods. His walk had left him feeling vulnerable, exposed, as though many people watched him through many windows.
Yury Stepanov’s pursed little mouth, the lips wet: Merely an informal chat. I just need to understand, Comrade Doctor, so I can explain to my superiors, did you know Comrade Dr. Novikova planned to resign? Did she talk to you about it at all? Had she seemed unhappy? Was her work focused and efficient? I’ll need a detailed report on her workload and how she interacted with her colleagues.
Defeated before he might even consider defiance, Efim had nodded.
Women’s shoes filled his vision. Two shop clerks hurried to remove the shoes from one large crate, match them in sized pairs, and place them on a display table.
Nadezhda Ivanovna’s bare feet.
Efim picked up a shoe: low heel, leather upper, rubber sole. He took up another, held it to the light.
— A present for your wife?
Efim flinched, dropped the shoe.
Arkady bent to pick it up, with some difficulty, and when he rose, his uniform looked rumpled and creased. —I’m sorry I startled you.
— What brings you here, Comrade Major Balakirev?
— Chance. I’ve been out of town, and I just got back. Though I have been thinking of you.
Chance? —Comrade Major, I need to speak with you.
Arkady gestured to a bench in the wide corridor. —And I with you. Let’s sit down. Now first, tell me about Kostya.
Efim dredged up every scrap of professional dignity he could, but this Major Balakirev’s voice: impossible to defy. Resenting his quick surrender, Efim bit the inside of his cheek. —Well, I had hoped to tell you about some real improvement by now, but these last six weeks in particular have convinced me that his injuries will get no better. He’s still in pain. I expect he will have pain there for the rest of his life. He may experience progressive weakening of the arm as well.
— So you can’t heal him?
Efim felt suspended in a moment of recognition, the moment of tottering toward a fall, and his speech sounded rapid and pressed. —Perhaps we’ll see some progress in the next few months. Now, Olga.
— Who? Oh, your wife. What of her?
— I’ve heard nothing from her in weeks. I wish to go and see her. Please. I’ve waited for weeks. I cannot get permission to visit Leningrad without your signature.
— Is that all?
— Is that all? I had to leave her in the first place to come babysit your precious bastard orphan!
— You will lower your voice.
Efim did so. —And, as if this whole setup weren’t absurd enough, I am expected to believe his surname is Nikto.
Arkady laced his hands across the top of his belly, said nothing.
Efim stared at the display of women’s shoes, almost certain now he could pick out the right size.
Arkady shifted his weight. —You want leave to go to Leningrad and see your wife. It’s a reasonable request. I’ll see what I can do. Oh, before I go: that whore in the flat.
— Her name is Nadezhda Ivanovna Solovyova. There’s an accent I can’t place, very subtle. I thought it was Leningrad. She likes tea. And that is all I know about her.
Efim’s words had rattled out at such speed that he could not be sure he said them. Yet he knew he’d said them. Trading likely dangerous information for a chance to see Olga? It seemed a most reasonable barter.
Arkady nodded. —Thank you.
Then he walked away.
Considering nuances of betrayal, Efim stared at the Stakhanovite display of shoes, this absurd surplus, more more more, until his vision blurred, until all the shoes became one black blob, gelatinous and shiny, something that would ooze.
Stakhanov’s coal mixed with blood, perhaps.
Kostya hurried to Evgenia’s desk. —Comrade Ismailovna, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.
As Evgenia shrugged on her jacket, her eyes once more signalled favour. For you, I have sugar. For you, I would wait.
He gave her a clutch of papers. —Here, more of the confession templates we discussed. I got behind on them. The upset earlier today…I can’t think straight. Perhaps some of the officers can make use of these.
Smiling, she glanced at his eyes. She liked to compare the hue of green to spruce in bright summer light. And those long lashes, on a man? What a waste. Yet so beautiful. —This could save me a lot of time with the paperwork. I’ll type up some copies tomorrow morning. Do you want me to hand them out, or shall I give them back to you?
— Type them up and run them by Comrade Captain Kuznets first.
She unlocked one of her filing cabinets, tucked the confessions in a dossier near the front, and locked the cabinet once more. —I’m taking supper today at the new cafe on the corner. Would you care to try it with me?
What? —Oh. I wish I could. I’m due back at my flat. I mean…my girlfriend expects…
— Oh. Yes, yes. I’m sorry, Comrade Senior Lieutenant, I meant nothing improper. You should take your girlfriend to the cafe. They do wonders with herring.
Herring. —Thank you, Comrade Ismailovna. I will remember that. See you tomorrow.
— Right. Don’t forget, we’ll have a crew here to do a Special Clean by nine.
Sidestepping the remains of the bloodstain, imagining the racket of buckets dragged over floors, Kostya returned to his own office.
Evgenia stood behind her desk, furious with herself for not guessing that Konstantin Nikto must have beautiful women queued round the block, beauty with which she could not compete.
Furious with him, too, for seeming so surprised when she asked him out.
The walls echoed with the hum of voices and footsteps from earlier in the day. She glanced at the office where Kamenev had…
Just bring an end to this day.
An officer’s boots in the hallway: the footfall still new to her, Evgenia looked up.
Boris Kuznets strode up to her desk.
Not again.
— Comrade Ismailovna, would you come to dinner with me?
The first time she’d declined, Boris had said nothing, and the following day two NKVD officers harassed her mother in her doctor’s waiting room. The second time she said no, Boris said, My grandfather spoke in proverbs. You remind me of one: fear has big eyes, and the following day, her cousin disappeared. If she refused a third time? She took a deep breath. —Why, thank you, Comrade Captain. Yes.