— Kostya, alone? Him, and that whore? Even if I can’t save him, I will still protect him. I know him well; I know how he thinks; he’ll be here soon. And then I may need you all the more. I don’t want him to know you’re here, though, so when I tell you, wait in the study.
— What?
A wheeze sharpened Arkady’s sigh. —Efim Antonovich, I’ve been presumptuous. I ordered you here instead of inviting you. Vadym said I treat every encounter as an interrogation. I think he was right. Will you stay a while?
Not a command but a plea, a plea from a sick man. Confused, Efim nodded. —Of course.
As Arkady topped up their drinks and started telling a story of Kostya as an adolescent, the trouble he caused with a friend called Misha, Efim saw how he must counsel two violent Chekists on the inevitability of death. He laughed at the thought, just at a moment where Arkady’s story invited laughter. Then he recognized a deeper truth: he must prepare a loving son for the loss of his father.
Ears ringing and arms stiff from too much target practice, Kostya struggled to write his name on the correct line to sign out a car. He passed the forms back to the clerk, who, eyes down, eager to return to the magazine he’d hidden when the officer had approached his desk, wrote his initials next to Kostya’s signature. Then the clerk stood up, stretched his lower back, and plodded to the new display of keys. They dangled on tiny metal rings, the rings themselves hanging on individual nails. Above each naiclass="underline" a careful entry in pencil of numbers matching key to automobile. Several spots lay empty. The clerk stood there a moment, as though watching a confrontation play out and deciding whether to intervene. Then he returned to his desk and glanced at the form again.
Kostya rolled his eyes. Just pick one.
The clerk plucked the key from its nail and gave it to Kostya. —Car number forty-two, Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto.
— Thank you, comrade. Goodnight.
In the garage, where the cars waited in their numbered spots, a driver opened a car’s rear door, and Vasily Blokhin emerged. —Good evening, Nikto. On your way home?
— Just finished some target practice.
— Excellent, stay ready. I’ve got night duty, myself. How’s your shoulder?
— Oh, fine, fine.
— You knew Minenkov. Vadym Pavlovich.
A statement, not a question. No tinge of accusation.
— Yes.
Vasily bowed his head. —My condolences. These are difficult days.
Then he left, his walk slow and steady, and his purpose, it seemed, clear.
Behind the wheel of car number forty-two, Kostya removed his Nagant from the holster and studied it. Such a practical design, elegant: the inviting curve of the grip. Seven rounds nestled the chamber. A thing of beauty, a joy for the permanence of revolution.
Ready.
As was he.
— Not yet.
Kostya’s eyes glittered as he hung up the phone from talking with Arkady. —Why not?
Behind the bathroom door, Temerity adjusted padding. —Just a minute.
Studying his wristwatch, Kostya leaned against the wall. He’d done it. Signed out the car. Kept his promise. He’d get her to the embassy.
Temerity touched his good shoulder. —You mean it? In truth?
One of those spells again: asleep with his eyes open. —Yes, my Marya Morevna, in truth.
She blinked away tears.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. Then, tasting salt, he whispered in her ear. —The car’s just outside the lobby. I’m your driver. We make it look right, yes? I’ll open the car door, and you get in the back. Even the watchwoman can’t object to that.
Her rapid nod brushed her curls against his nose and mouth, tickling him. He held her tight, inhaled the scent of the top of her head, let her go.
Outside the flat, at the top of the stairs, expecting this dream to shatter, Temerity hesitated. Up so high, such a fall, the watchwoman at the bottom…
Kostya offered his arm.
Temerity took it, and they descended together.
In the lobby, Kostya pressed his palm to the seat of the empty rocking chair. —Still warm. She’s not gone far. Move.
Dusk. The air seemed to patter on her face, like raindrops. Temerity took in a deep breath. —Oh, God, it’s so fresh.
Holding the car door open for her, Kostya shook his head. —It’s hot. The whole city stinks.
Temerity took in the smells of the car: leather, oil, steel. Kostya peeked at her in the rear-view mirror, then adjusted his cap, too big now for his bald head.
As they passed Vasilisa Prekrasnaya, Temerity remembered some of the drive from the party to the flat, remembered screaming at Kostya about the car being all over the road. Unaware she did so, she patted her blouse where the Temerity West passport still lay hidden. —Just get me across the bridge and drop me near the embassy. I’ll be fine. You don’t even need to stop the car, just slow it down. I’ll run.
Curious about why she patted her blouse, Kostya wanted to caution her: growing accent, rapid speech. You sound loose. —We’ll take the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky across the river. It’s fastest.
Steady the Buffs. —Thank you, thank you. I’ll never forget this. Thank you.
— But first I need to say goodbye.
— What?
Headlights played on the curtains; a car engine shut off. Arkady, sitting in his favourite armchair, in uniform with his gymastyorka unfastened, informed the cat in his lap that he must stand up.
The cat only purred and seemed to get heavier.
— No, Tchaikovsky, I have guests. I must answer the door.
The cat spread his paws and kneaded Arkady’s thigh; two people outside approached the door.
Arkady resumed scratching the cat around the ears. —Then again, he has a key.
The cat jumped away. Wincing at the pricks of Tchaikovksy’s claws, Arkady flicked on electric lights and plodded to the door.
The lock released; the knob turned; that British woman with the bruised face stepped inside. Kostya, in uniform, walked right behind her, either to protect her, or block her exit. Which one, Arkady could not say.
Kostya greeted him. —Arkady Dmitrievich.
Voice hollow, quiet, Arkady gestured to the parlour. —Leave your boots and shoes on. Sit down.
Temerity’s memory strengthened with each click of her heels. This room. She recognized the chair Arkady now offered her, even as the light glared on his spectacles and hid his eyes. She shook her head. —I’ll stand.
— You’ll sit.
Kostya nudged her towards the chair, and both men watched as she obeyed.
Then Arkady turned to Kostya. —Just what do you hope to accomplish with this stunt?
— I need to get her to the British Embassy.
Temerity closed her eyes. God’s sake!
Arkady snorted. —Sometimes we tell lies not to save ourselves but to comfort ourselves. You’re not going to drive her anywhere, Little Tatar, because you’re not that stupid.
— Arkady Dmitrievich, please. Let’s say goodbye.
— What?
— I’m going with her.
Temerity stared at him. A vision, a desire, a delusion: a sweet summer evening at Kurseong House, in the library, Kostya in his fifties, hair gone grey, face lined from laughter and cigarettes, sitting beneath the Novgorod Gabriel print with a book. Nightingales sang.
After a moment, Arkady managed to speak. —Just steal a car and cross the Moskva like nothing matters?
Kostya gave a crooked smile, acknowledging the absurdity. —The car’s not stolen; I signed it out. And I left once before.
— You can’t come back, not this time. Even if you make it across the water, even if the British take you, you’re done. You will turn your back to me, which doesn’t seem to bother you—