Boris raised his eyebrows. —Arkady Dmitrievich saved you? Why?
— I…oh, God, Dima is dead.
— Yes.
— Dima is dead. He ran as he fell.
— Impossible. Bodies tumble.
Kostya stood up and slammed his glass on Boris’s desk. —He ran!
Boris studied the splash of vodka, noticed how it missed his paperwork. —I am sorry you had to witness it. These are difficult days.
— He called me Misha.
— Sit down. That’s an order. Now Kostya, listen to me.
— Do not call me that!
Boris stared at him.
A dozen apologies ripped through Kostya’s mind only to fail in his mouth. He softened his voice. —With respect, Boris Aleksandrovich, you may not use that name.
— You’re in shock, so I’ll let that go. Nikto, you cannot work today. Go home.
— No, wait, I—
— Senior Lieutenant Nikto!
Kostya stood to attention.
— You will not work today. Is that clear?
— Yes, Comrade Captain.
— At ease. Now sit down.
Kostya almost fell back into the chair.
Silence.
— In a few moments, Konstantain Arkadievich, once you feel ready, we shall leave this office and descend to the garage, and I will drive you home myself.
Playing with his glass, Kostya shook his head. —I want to take the metro.
Boris blinked several times, then brushed his hand over his eyes. —Nikto, don’t crack on me. Not now. I never expected this from Minenkov. I’ll drive you home.
Kostya’s voice sounded clear, precise. —I’ll be fine. I like riding the metro.
— What’s your station?
— Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. My flat’s a short walk from there.
— Very good. I want you to sit here for a few moments while I confer with Comrade Ismailovna, and then I’ll walk you to Dzerzhinskaya. You will stay here until I come back.
— Yes.
And he did that, aware of Boris’s departure and return, aware of how his knees ached as he stood up from the chair, the same sort of chair Vadym had hurled, aware of how Evgenia Ismailovna and Matvei Katelnikov looked at him, aware, too, of the dozens of other men jostling him and Boris as they descended the stairs and emerged from Lubyanka.
Boris took Kostya’s arm again and guided him away from the Special Clean crew. —I’ll telephone later to check on you.
Kostya rode the metro past Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Annoyed, he told himself to pay attention. Then he noticed the train had returned to Dzerzhinskaya. Kostya changed his seat, hoping to keep himself more alert. The vodka served as a fine bulwark against any harder emotion, and he nodded as if to a friend beside him. He reminded himself of the number of stops now until the train returned to Vasilisa Prekrasnaya; he counted them on his fingers.
After enduring another little chat with Yury Stepanov about the team making no progress on the newest poison, Efim told himself to expect arrest at any moment. A giddy peace descended on him then, and, in a mood of defiance, of one giant shrug, he left the lab to visit the department store in Red Square. As an ambulance siren howled, the vehicle heading for Lubyanka, he said a quick prayer for the ailing, something he’d not done for many years, and then he chose a pair of women’s shoes. He paid, wishing the clerk a good morning.
On the metro, he recalled the day he leapt from the moving train.
The tunnel walls seemed close enough to scrape the window glass.
Sometimes, he decided, face impassive, no different from the faces of the other passengers, sometimes defiance looks like nothing at all.
He did not, however, present the shoes to Nadezhda Ivanovna right away. He got distracted when he found her puffy in the face, dark around the eyes, and slouched in the one soft chair.
— You’re home so early, Efim. Are you all right?
— I’m fine. I feel better than I have in months.
— What’s it like outside?
— Hot.
She sighed. —Hot in here, too.
— Do you sleep well, Nadezhda Ivanovna?
— No.
— Bowels all right?
— I need more exercise.
— Here.
She stared at the shoes.
— Try them on. Doctor’s orders.
— Efim Antonovich, please. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.
He looked her in the eye. —How is it trouble for me that you need shoes? Must I kneel and put them on you?
She stood up and slipped her feet into the shoes. Then she took a few steps. They’d chafe her heels without stockings, but they fit. —What do I owe you?
Skin tingling, Efim turned his back. —Nothing.
Then he walked to the bathroom and locked the door.
That sound made Temerity glance down the little corridor to the main door.
Efim had left his key in the lock.
Temerity blinked a few times. Then she patted her blouse to check for her passport.
A few quick steps, the soles of the shoes tapping against the floor, a quick turn of the key, and she stepped outside the flat.
The air smelled less dusty than inside the flat, less close, yet hardly fresh. A draft from the lobby wafted up the stairs.
Holding the rail, steps deliberate, Temerity descended the stairs.
In the lobby, the watchwoman dozed in the rocking chair, her chin bent to her chest.
Temerity opened the main door and strode out to the sidewalk. Scents of tar, diesel, rivers, and stones, and such bright light, overwhelmed her for a moment, and she stood still.
A woman with her arms full of shopping bags made a point of offering a sarcastic apology as she veered aside.
Temerity peered down the narrow street lined with what looked like old houses made over into flats, unlike the new building she’d just exited.
A woman leaned out an upper window in the building across the street, scowling.
Temerity felt herself tremble. I’m lost. Already.
The shoes pinched and rubbed. The sun shone so bright.
No, not lost. Here. He parked the car here the night he brought me. The deli. Find Babichev’s, then you can find Hotel Lux. God’s sake, no, that’s the last place to go. There’ll be a map in the metro station. Walk with confidence, girl. Walk like you’ve got every right to be in this city.
As she entered Vasilisa Prekrasnaya and peeked down the stairs, the station’s beauty seized her: ceramic tiles in the walls and ceiling; marble pylons, marble repurposed, perhaps, from the 1931 destruction of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour; wrought iron sconces for electric lights; a colourful mosaic mural of Bilibin’s illustration of Vasilisa outside Baba Yaga’s hut, Vasilisa holding up her lamp of holy fire and a skull.
She’s too small, Temerity had said, shoving the Russian fairy tale book from her father’s hand. She can’t win.
Now Temerity wanted to touch the mosaic, touch Vasilisa, reach her mother…
A sign interrupted her thoughts: Fare 30 kopeks. As Temerity considered how she might charm the fare guard into letting her pass, the sudden draft and a rumble of an arriving train distracted her.
Squeaking and squealing, the train came to a perfect halt, and the doors released a dozen passengers, including a uniformed NKVD officer. The other commuters gave him space as he ascended the steps.
Kostya stared at Temerity.
She stared at him.
Pale, he glanced down at her feet, looked back up. His eyes glittered. —How nice of you to meet me here, darling.
She took a step back.
Kostya offered his arm, and as various strangers passed them by, walking close to the walls to avoid the NKVD officer, she took it. She craned her head to get one last glimpse of the mosaic; columns and other people blocked her view. She and Kostya returned to the surface and walked the short distance to the block of flats, Kostya chatting about how much of a headache he felt coming on, how much he looked forward to a drink.