His voice cracked out, and he sipped some tea.
Temerity remembered all the smells of that Moscow flat, the whiteness of the walls, and her vision of Kostya living with her in England. Overwhelmed, she dropped the bublik to the ground. Pigeons surrounded it. When she spoke, she surprised herself. —I’m not quite the same person.
— Neither am I.
At the next table, Pierre parted from Joie, promising to meet her later as he got his stilts back on. Then he smiled at Kostya. —Hello. I am Pierre, from Cameroon.
— I’m Konstantin. Welcome to Moscow, comrade.
Pierre’s wide smile seemed contagious, for Kostya smiled back. Temerity recognized how little she’d seen him smile. She also noticed his missing teeth and the length of those that remained.
As Pierre and Joie left, and more people took their table, Temerity faced Kostya. —You said your surname is Berendei?
He smiled again, though not the happy smile he’d just given Pierre. —It caused a snarl with my paperwork. The arrest forms were in the name of Nikto, and I told them my name was Berendei. No one would believe me, of course. How many prisoners screamed we had the wrong man? But Matvei Katelnikov, this younger officer I was training, he took my Nikto identification, and it never made it to Lubyanka. People knew I was Nikto, but no one could prove it. The paperwork had to be accurate, and they couldn’t just let me go, so they had to charge me with something. Twenty-five years for anti-Soviet activities for Berendei, Konstantin Semyonovich. I saw Katelnikov again about a year later, in the camp. He didn’t last long. He told me about my Nikto identification, said he buried it. Then he told me he loved me. A few weeks later, someone found out he was former NKVD, and, well, I hadn’t expected to dig a grave for Matvei Katelnikov. Perhaps I should have. At least it was summer, and we could break the ground. Cigarette?
The flame of the match danced between them. Then they each took a deep drag, Temerity coughing.
— Too strong for you, Marya Morevna?
— Out of practice. I gave it up during the war.
— Let me see your eyes.
— No.
— Please, Nadia.
— You’re supposed to be dead. All of what happened here is supposed to be dead. Another country.
He reached across the table and clasped her hand.
She clasped back. —You’re awfully warm for a ghost.
He squeezed, hard. —I’ve dreamt and dreamt about seeing you, and now I don’t know what to do.
— First, let go of my hand before we draw an audience.
He did this.
Underarms slick with sweat, she took a deep breath. —I think I can get you out.
A sudden rise of laugher from the crowd obscured her voice; startled, Kostya looked towards a whoop of joy.
She tried again. —Kostya, listen to me. I, uh…I own a language school.
His eyes brightened, dulled. —Where? Newfoundland?
Despite it all, she laughed, then leaned closer to his ear. —England, you fool. Maybe two hours by rail from London.
He shook his head. —Shut up.
Temerity waited a moment before continuing. —Kostya, you once told me you felt great forces you couldn’t understand influenced your life. Do you remember that?
He nodded.
— And you told me you surrendered to that idea. I submit, you said. Finding me here today, does this feel like an accident to you? Do you not feel you should submit to it? Because I do.
Mouth twitching, he stared at her.
Whoops and cries as another circle dance began, two steps left, one step right.
After a long moment, Kostya stroked the table near her hand again. —Did you ever tell your service about me?
— I said you were very kind.
He considered that.
Temerity’s hand tensed. —Are you married?
— No. There’s no one.
— Plainclothes again, ten o’clock.
Kostya sipped some tea, then spotted the two men. In their late twenties, they each wore ill-fitting grey suits. Their faces looked stern, yet their eyes looked fearful. Back in ’37, he’d have called them puppies.
Longing for the delicate and defiant joy of the violins, Temerity craned her neck. She could not see the violinists. They could be half a mile on by now.
Kostya coughed, long, wheezy, and wet. —I harmed you.
— What?
— When I tried to help you…This is difficult. Let me finish. I don’t know how I thought I could fix it. I couldn’t just leave you at that party. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to say that for years. I’ve rehearsed saying it, and I made these bargains with myself that if I ever saw you again, just seeing you would be enough. Just to know you’re alive would be enough.
He took a deep breath, and his right shoulder relaxed. His left shoulder seemed paralyzed.
Temerity swirled the tea glass in her glass. —Enough? Like hell it is.
— What?
— Kostya, let me help you. I think I can get you out.
For a moment, and a moment within that moment, he admitted to himself that he might, just might, understand what she meant. Get out of the USSR? And how, precisely? Behave like a traitor and change sides?
— Kostya, you were going to come with me in ’37. To the embassy.
Blushing, he shut his eyes and twisted his body away from her. —Nadia, I lost everything, fucking everything, because I loved you.
Temerity took a deep breath, said nothing.
Tracing a finger over the podstakannik, Kostya felt the old skills return, the desire and the ability to wound with language. —Efim died a few days afterwards. Or had you forgotten him?
Glancing at her sidelong, Kostya noticed her frown. The Nikto touch. He still had it.
Temerity sipped tea. —I hadn’t forgotten. How did he die?
He tucked his matches back into a pocket as if preparing to leave. —I’ll tell you another time.
— What? No, no, no, you don’t pull that stunt on me, Kostya.
He felt startled and worked to hide it. —Too many people.
— You said, tell me another time. You want to see me again?
He gave her an exasperated look.
Temerity dropped the handkerchief on the ground, hoping Kostya had enough sense to bend over with her and help her retrieve it.
He did.
She murmured near his ear. —I need a clear answer. Do you want to get out?
— Shut up.
Temerity knocked the handkerchief farther under the table. —Paperwork in Voronezh too enticing? Kostya, listen to me. I can help. I need a Russian teacher at my school.
Kostya snatched the handkerchief from the ground and sat back up. His eyes, huge now, shone with tears. —I’m too small. I don’t matter. And I’d never get the papers.
— We both matter. We—
A man in his thirties passed by and gave them a glance. He approached the table and spoke Russian to Temerity. —Is this man bothering you?
— Not at all.
— You’re weeping.
Temerity dabbed at her face again with Kostya’s handkerchief. —Tears of joy for the celebration in the streets, comrade.
The man glared at Kostya, then looked back at Temerity. —If you’re sure.
— Quite sure, thank you.
He left.
Kostya tapped his cigarette package and discovered it was empty. —My handler. He’ll expect me to file a report on you.