In the lobby, the old watchwoman slept on.
Temerity struggled to keep pace, slipping on the stairs. —Kostya, wait.
He wrenched open the flat door, shoved her inside, slammed the door behind them. She scrabbled to get out of his reach.
Efim, in his bedroom, gasped and flinched at the noise.
Kostya’s eyes seemed to shrink. —You stupid bitch!
— Kostya, please, lower your voice.
— You’ve got no fucking papers!
She stood up, backing towards the kitchen counter. —And whose fault is that?
He backhanded her across the face. —Stay down!
She fell against the counter.
Efim ran to the kitchen. —Nikto, the neighbours.
— Fuck the neighbours!
A blow from the side of Temerity’s hand struck the right side of his neck, interrupting the carotid. Vision greying, he fell against the table and got himself into a chair. Then he hooked his ankle around hers and tripped her, and she fell, her full weight thumping against the floor.
— Nikto, stop! I gave her the shoes.
— What?
As Temerity got herself beyond Kostya’s reach, Efim touched Kostya on his good shoulder. —I gave her the shoes. I don’t know who she is, or where she comes from, or why I had to get tangled up in this, and I don’t want to know. But I gave her the shoes.
Temerity’s voice, words quiet and low, carried. —I can’t stay here.
Kostya whirled round and punched a wall. Shaking plaster from his hand, he left the flat, and his shouted profanities echoed down the stairwell.
Efim turned to Temerity. —Where did he hit you? Not your eyes? Good. Tilt your head so I can see.
— He’s got no right!
Efim wanted to hold her, protect her. —No right at all. Wait here. I’ll get a cold compress.
As Efim ran water, Temerity tried to stand. Her legs refused.
Efim knelt before her and eased the compress onto her cheek. His touch, so soft, made Temerity think of Cristobal Zapatero and his gentle movements as he rolled bandages. Then she remembered his rosary beads and how he’d dropped them in fear.
Efim, his fingers damp now with Temerity’s tears, took her hand and guided it to the compress. As she held it in place, he sat on the floor beside her. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Back stiffening, Temerity wanted to shake him off, shove him away like the illustration of Vasilisa the Beautiful. Instead, she leaned onto his chest and sobbed.
After a moment, she pulled away and patted the compress over her eyes. She wondered how best to thank him, whether to call him Efim or the more formal Efim Antonovich, or whether to pretend nothing had happened, when a key clicked in the locked main door.
Efim murmured about Kostya coming back to apologize and stood up.
On a slow and heavy stride, Arkady Balakirev emerged from the little corridor leading to the door. His face looked both drawn and puffy, and his eyes seemed sunken and small. When he took his spectacles from his pouch and placed them just so on his nose, the lenses magnified his eyes to something huge and absurd. —Where is he?
Efim now stood between Arkady and Temerity. —Who, Nikto? He left a few minutes ago. I don’t know how you missed him.
— Did he tell you?
— Tell me what?
— Vadym Minenkov is dead.
Temerity got to her feet. —The one who brought the mushrooms, Efim. I don’t think you met him.
As Efim gestured for Temerity to stay behind him, he felt very small before Arkady. —My condolences, Comrade Major. Is this someone close to you and Nikto?
— My oldest friend. Kostya called him uncle.
— What happened?
Arkady fixed his gaze on Temerity. —Hurled himself out a fucking window.
Silence.
Turning away, Arkady sniffed a few times. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse. —If you see Kostya before I do, look after him.
— I look after him every day.
Then Arkady faced them again, removed his spectacles, jostled Efim to one side and leaned in close to Temerity. —When he comes back, get him to telephone me. I don’t care what time it is. Understand me yet?
She nodded.
He peered at her injured face, drew the pads of his fingers over the mark. —A good start. I should like to finish it.
Then he left.
Efim let out a shaky breath. —I am sorry he said that to you.
Struggling with more tears, she shook her head. —I’m fine.
He glanced at her feet. Fluid had collected round her ankles. And, Efim now noticed, around her eyes, wrists and fingers. She seemed puffy all over. —Nadezhda Ivanovna, are you nauseous at all?
She said nothing.
— Any dizziness? Any change in your breasts?
— How dare you ask me that?
— I’m a doctor.
She muttered something Efim did not catch.
He opened his medical bag, took out a stethoscope. —Let me listen.
After a moment, Temerity unbuttoned her blouse.
A faint smell of perfume reached Efim as he noticed the freckles on his patient’s shoulders. The fabric of her blouse, save some staining in the armpits, seemed clean. She wore the same blouse almost every day. —Your heart rate’s a little fast, Nadezhda. Do you feel anxious?
— Yes, I feel anxious! Kostya just beat me across the face, then that wretched old man threatened to beat me some more, and all I want is some fresh air…
She looked into his eyes and held her hand over her lower abdomen, much as Olga might.
Efim nodded.
Temerity took her hand away. —I can’t do this. Not here. Not with him.
Efim plucked the stethoscope buds from his ears. —You’re far from the first woman in this difficulty.
— Screw for survival.
He studied her. Arrest and interrogation might induce miscarriage, or Nadezhda and her fetus might prove resilient and robust. And when she showed? Could even a hardened Chekist kill a pregnant woman and thereby murder two at once? Of course he could. If Nadezhda was sent to Kolyma, she would starve faster than the others as the fetus sucked every calorie. And where would she give birth, in the barracks, in a mine? Incarcerated mothers brought young children with them. Perhaps the guards built nurseries in the women’s camps. Yes, they must.
Efim shut his eyes and felt the constant rattling sway of the train in 1918. Then he remembered Olga’s farewelclass="underline" Be a good doctor.
— Nadezhda.
— I can’t.
— I know. Do you want my help?
She stared at him.
He nodded. —Twenty-five years, if we’re caught. Possibly death. I’ve got very little to offer you for pain, and we’d need to work fast. It will be unpleasant.
— Yes.
— Are you sure?
She stood up and straightened her blouse. —Yes.
Kostya had not spent so much money in cafes since the night before he left for Spain, out with Vadym, Arkady, and Misha. Nor had he gotten so drunk, worse even than the night of Arkady’s dessert party. He staggered out of the cafe, discovered daylight still blazed, and then, after urinating in an alley, caught sight of one of his street contacts. One of my own bezprizorniki. —Andrei!
The boy turned to look over his shoulder. Then he nodded, signalling he’d heard, and hurried to Kostya.
— Andrei, Andryushka, how are you?
— Better than you.
— There are corpses buried five deep at the poligons who are better than me today.
— What?
— I need some wine.