A man placed a glass of tea before her, the podstakannik’s filigree dulled steel in the shapes of comets and stars. — Bubliki are too dry to eat plain.
As she flinched, she noticed his withered left arm first, then the old wounds on his neck and ear. The cheekbones looked stronger, the flesh beneath them sunken and seamed. His hair had thinned, though not receded much, and the pomaded waves showed as much white as black. The skin of his face looked very coarse, as if pockmarked, or left unprotected for many winters. He wore a white shirt, collar spread and sleeves rolled up past his elbows, old black trousers, belted tight and much too big for him, and thin-soled shoes.
He held a second glass of tea. —May I sit down?
After a moment, Temerity nodded.
Kostya settled himself in a chair opposite Temerity, lit a cigarette, and angled his chair so he, too, might look onto the crowd.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
Temerity struggled not to stare at him. By far, the safest thing to do: walk away from him and not look back. As I should have done at the Bilbao docks. Pretend her memory had flared: thoughts of Kostya not always welcome, might interrupt Temerity several times a week. Pretend she felt nothing, give him only the cool appraisal due an enemy. Pretend she understood and embraced her duty in this moment and not only acknowledge Kostya’s existence but also glean information from him. Yes, that would be her only interest in this strange matter. Information, the reason she’d come to Moscow in ’37, and the reason she sat eating a bublik in Moscow now.
Still looking at the crowd, Kostya spoke first. —It’s happened. It took a while, but it finally happened. I’ve lost my mind. Maybe it’s flu. Fever dreams. Either way, you’re not real. You don’t exist.
The strength of her voice surprised her. —Oh, I exist.
Then she reached across the table to stroke his hand. He flinched, glancing at her in fear, then looked away as he lit a second cigarette from the embers of his first.
Temerity found herself wishing he’d instead light two cigarettes and offer her one.
He exhaled, and smoke curled around his face. The crowd before them surged, the violinists and dancers of a moment ago now gone. —What the barrelling fuck are they doing?
Temerity felt quite defensive and protective of the youngsters. She snapped her answer. —Celebrating.
— Celebrating what?
— Being alive.
He looked at her, eyes cavernous, then resumed studying the crowd.
So did Temerity.
A young couple in front of them embraced, kissed. Those around them smiled and cheered them on. Then someone shook the kissing woman’s shoulder and warned her of the approach of police officers keen to disrupt such displays. The couple separated and blended into the crowd, and seconds later, two more young men in KGB uniform approached at a stroll, eyes focused on the middle distance as if unconcerned.
Temerity took a good swallow of tea before she spoke. —I thought you were dead.
— Yes, I’d guessed that much. You’re crying.
— Tea’s too hot. Scalded my mouth.
He passed her a dingy handkerchief. —You weep over tea?
She accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her face around the glasses. —I suppose you think I weep over you?
— No.
Another group formed a circle around two American delegates who offered to demonstrate something called boogie-woogie. They announced they’d need more room. A third American took a harmonica from his pocket and played a fast tune.
Kostya stroked the table near Temerity’s hand. —When I got too hungry or cold to sleep, I would imagine your eyelids and count the freckles there, and then I’d imagine how more freckles appeared over time and count them, too. I’d draw little constellations. Let me see your eyes.
— No.
— Nadia…
Her voice deepened. —I said no.
Ignoring the dancers, Kostya bowed his head. Then he looked up and stared at Temerity, seeking something.
Noticing this, she twitched some of the headscarf aside so he might see the dent in her skull. —Steel plate.
He said nothing.
She faced him again, almost smiling. —I was hospitalized for two years. I couldn’t talk for a while. When I got my speech back, I kept slipping into other languages. Oh, and I had to take rather a lot of sulpha.
He laughed. Just once. It sounded like the yelp of a beaten dog. Then he spoke in a lighter tone as though resigned to a joke at his expense. —I shouldn’t even be here.
— Alive?
Kostya gestured to the crowd applauding the American dancers and lowered his voice beneath the noise. —That, too.
— I…Kostya…
A smirk tugged at his mouth. —A Britisher lost for words?
— What happened to you?
He answered in a workaday manner, drumming his fingertips against his cigarette pack. —Kolyma. Twenty-five years. I served eighteen. I’m rehabilitated now. Please stop crying.
— How can you be so calm?
— You know nothing of life here. Nothing.
— That’s not true. I—
— Wolf ticket.
— What?
Kostya tapped out another cigarette. —See? You still have trouble with the idioms. In all this…freedom, is that what we call it? In all this, I’m stuck with a wolf ticket, my record of conviction. I’m pardoned for the crimes, yet can’t shake off the conviction. I can’t get a permit to live within a hundred kilometres of Moscow. I live in Voronezh and work in a factory. I check other people’s paperwork. It’s calm. I’ve got my own flat. Well, it’s one room, but it’s my room. I don’t share it with anyone. I like that. Someone found out about my languages. I think I know how. Two men came to see me at work and told me to come with them. First, they brought me to my flat to pack a bag, then they made sure I got on a train to Moscow, where two more men meet me and escort me to…where I used to work. I’m a roaming interpreter. I check in twice a day to report anything interesting. Once the festival is done, it’s back to Voronezh.
— Check in with whom?
— Whom do you think?
Then Kostya nodded toward a man of maybe thirty-five, his face stern, his civilian clothes ill-tailored. He looked fearful, as though examining a leak that might become a flood.
Plainclothes KGB, Temerity concluded, and he might as well have it stamped on his forehead. Then she recalled how she’d entered the country in 1937 as Margaret Bush — but had she left under the name Temerity West? Was there a record? God’s sake. —Wait, they took you back? Did you tail me?
— Fuck, no! No, I just…found you.
— But—
Kostya beckoned her closer, and he murmured. —Listen, will you? I’m Berendei now, just a low-level informer. Nikto and his papers no longer exist. Only trouble is a man I knew back in the thirties. Little Yurochka’s done well for himself. He’s a major now. He tracked me down in Voronezh and told me how things would work. If I don’t deliver reports, either in Voronezh or Moscow or anywhere else he wants to send me, I’ll be shot. Specifically, I’ll be shot in the gut first and left on the floor a while before getting shot in the head. Turns out I don’t want to die. I thought I did. I’ve had a long time to think about death. They didn’t arrest me right away in ’37, so I had a chance to shoot myself, get it over with. I couldn’t. In the camps, I stopped eating. They had us damn near starved anyway; I thought I’d just hurry it along. The first time I surrendered to a bowl of fish bone soup. The second time…why am I even trying to tell you this? Fucked in the mouth, what does it matter? Eating felt like too much trouble. I got very emaciated, a dokhodyaga. I didn’t care. The camp doctor told me I was days from death. He got me assigned to work under him, like an orderly. Sometimes I’d take dictation. He convinced me to eat again. All those chances to die, yet here I am. Efim told me I was addicted to deceit. I thought it was hope. I refused to let myself die, Nadia, because I felt such joy with you in those moments when we could pretend not to worry. Because I love the freckles on your eyelids.