People had tried all sorts of remedies against the plague, from drinking raw vodka on an empty stomach to going to mass, but all of them had proved useless. In any case, prayer meetings—like political demonstrations—only helped the disease spread faster.
Bolshevism is a malignant virus, thought Sablin. When somebody becomes infected, one thing leads to another: hallucinations, fever, and a burning desire to cut the painful swelling—the “bubo”—out of the body even if it only makes things worse.
Sablin knew that he too was infected. He could feel nothing but hatred toward those who had brought Russia to its knees and were now finishing it off for good—Trotsky signing death sentences for his fellow countrymen without batting an eyelid, Osip Drugov, who had stolen Sablin’s wife, and Lubochka herself.
Once Zhora Kupin had written a poem about Comrade Drugov:
Zhora and others like him were always the first to die in the troubled times. He was too principled; he stood out too much to survive. Would it ever be possible to forgive his murderers? The Cheka had wiped out an entire generation of youngsters who could have been the flowers of the nation. Passionate, talented boys with a burning desire to make the world a better place, these were the young men who had volunteered for the White Army and performed heroic feats for a cause they had believed in. Who was there now to replace them? Of course, there were enthusiastic, dedicated young men among the urban working class and rural poor. But while the Whites had culture and knowledge behind them, these young Reds had to start at the very beginning from a position of medieval ignorance.
How will we survive the plague? Sablin wondered, walking down the street. Some people will develop immunity—they’ll remain untouched by the disease or not be badly affected. Those who survive will have to rebuild everything after the epidemic, which could drag on for years.
Three people were coming around the corner: a man and two women. Sablin peered at them and, to his great surprise, saw that it was Lubochka with Klim and Nina.
Sablin limped toward them. “Good God, you’re alive! How are you? What are you doing here?”
Lubochka looked around anxiously. “Let’s go home. Nina and Klim have nowhere to go, and I think they should stay with us. I’ll arrange everything.”
Lubochka clearly couldn’t resist showing her guests how much she had achieved. It was a great pleasure for her to act the hostess, boasting of the fine food at her table.
“Pelmeny should be made as they are in the Perm Province,” Lubochka said to Klim and Nina as she ladled out the meat dumplings. “About the size of a walnut and wrapped in dough as thin as linen. The stuffing should have finely minced onion and cream mixed with the ground pork and beef, and they should be cooked in a veal broth and served with red vinegar, ground pepper, and parsley.”
It was the first time in months that Nina and Klim had enjoyed a good meal in peace, warmth, and comfort. Nina sat on the sofa with her hands under her knees. She was ashamed that the skin around her nails was black with deeply ingrained dirt.
Nina felt overwhelmed by the opulence that Lubochka lived in, but the overriding feelings that she was currently experiencing were shock and indignation. How could her old friend possibly serve the Bolsheviks? How could she have possibly abandoned all her ideals for these pelmeni? However, Nina felt she had no right to condemn Lubochka as she herself was eating her meal courtesy of her former friend’s hospitality. Nina’s self-righteous anger would have appeared to everyone, including herself, as bitter and petty envy.
“Come on. I’ll show you your room,” Lubochka said and took Nina and Klim to a small, wood-paneled room above the porch. It had once been used by Anton Emilievich as a storage room.
“Are you sure your father won’t mind us staying here?” Klim asked when Lubochka told him about everything that had happened to Anton Emilievich.
“What are you talking about? You’re his nephew.”
“And what will your new husband say?”
“Nothing.”
“So, you have all of them under your thumb?”
Lubochka rolled her eyes. “Oh, you—you’re incorrigible!”
While Klim was taking a bath, Lubochka brought Nina a set of bed linen.
“Will you be sleeping together? Unmarried?” Lubochka asked, pretending to be scandalized. “But I really don’t care. Osip and I didn’t have a church marriage either.”
“So—what’s going on between you and Sablin then?” Nina blurted out, unable to help herself. “He must see everything… and I’m sure it’s breaking his heart.”
“I love him too,” Lubochka shrugged. “I love them both in different ways.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’ve come to realize that one man can’t provide you with everything you want. Take Klim as an example. He is a nice guy, but he’s let all his opportunities pass him by.”
“It’s not his fault there’s been a revolution,” Nina objected.
Lubochka laughed. “That’s not what I meant. Klim is vain, and all he needs to be happy is for someone to pay him a compliment. He hasn’t the slightest interest in money and power, and he’s always been that way. He’ll never be rich again. He doesn’t know how to make money and doesn’t want to learn.”
Don’t argue, Nina told herself. Let her believe she’s in the right.
“I’m sure you won’t have to go begging,” Lubochka said as she plumped up the pillow, “but I don’t imagine you’ll do very well for yourselves either. One day, you’ll remember Mr. Fomin and your dreams of a beautiful life. If he was alive and you were with him, you’d be living like a queen, no matter who was in power.”
“If the Bolsheviks hadn’t confiscated my mill, I’d have provided for myself pretty well,” Nina said.
“I don’t think so.” Lubochka laughed. “There are flowers that can’t grow without support. You know you would never achieve anything without Fomin.”
Nina was at a complete loss as to what to say.
“You know what’s your problem is?” Lubochka asked in a confidential tone. “It never occurred to you that Klim is the one who’s responsible for your present penury. If you had found yourself a more capable man, you wouldn’t have been starving and hiding from the Cheka, and you could always keep a man like my cousin by your side just for the sake of pleasure. After all, he does bring you pleasure, doesn’t he?”
Klim returned from the bathroom clean-shaven and wearing a new shirt and trousers provided by Lubochka.
“That’s much better!” Lubochka said. “You look like yourself again.”
He smiled. “All I needed was some hot water and a bar of soap, and suddenly, everything is right with the world.”