He lit another Camel and let the thought die.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m worried about her. Look, Zhoe, I know it’s a bit tricky for you, but I was thinking maybe you could.
At that moment, the bell rang three times. Kostya threw on his trousers and sweater, and dashed towards the door. ‘Zounds, if the neighbors see the likes of her traipsing in here, that’s all I need.’
The girl who appeared in the doorway behind Kostya was not merely unlike any other in Moscow. She was outlandish enough for Greenwich Village or the King’s Road. Her face oozed make-up: a runny pool of pancake, mascara and lipstick, all applied as if the object were to test the absorbency of skin. I had the impression that a childish ingenue hid behind the mask, but it could be no more than a guess. Only the absurdity of the smears and splotches kept them from being unsavory.
She followed Kostya into the room and succumbed to a profound shiver - which, having caught Kostya’s worried glance, she tried to convert into a joyful hallelujah gesture.
‘Aloha, Kostya precious. You’re in that dreadful sweater again. I told you.’
She herself was wearing what must once have been an evening coat - a summer model, unlined. A patch near the pocket, apparently treated with a cleaning fluid, suggested
the coat was blue silk. ‘How do I look, angel? I purchased it from the most inspiring old woman. She wore it the evening she was seduced by Rasputin/
She held her hands coyly beneath the threadbare velvet collar and executed a shaky pirouette before Kostya’s fragment of a mirror. Something both comic and pathetic showed in the way she arched her neck and tilted her head. She’d probably seen a photograph of Audrey Hepburn in a movie magazine smuggled into Russia years before and passed hand-to-hand by a hundred girlfriends.
It s my being-seduced-despite-everything-by-powerf ul-men wrap,’ she disclosed, stroking the coat. ‘This morning it drove a victim wild, almost caused a skandal on Gorky Street. He runs an atomic factory or something in a place called Dubna. Demonstrated what they’re working on out there at the moment, a hush-hush project he called radioactive love.’
Kostya shook his head and looked at me with pained yet delighted eyes. The girl sounded like a precocious pupil of his; the irreverent mention of Dubna, the nuclear research center near Moscow, pleased him visibly. For some reason, his curious friend produced a faint pang in me. My inclination to laugh was supplanted by a notion that I’d seen her before — long before, which made the notion impossible. But she too seemed to flash me a recognition signal.
Kostya registered our exchange of glances and cleared his throat. Zhoe, he said gravely, ‘I’d like to present the kid. Kid, this is my old friend Zhoe — I mean, my friend of old. Virtue’s my mate and all that, but in a jam - say some kind of cell - I’d rather have Zhoe.’
Oktyabrina offered her hand from the tattered coat. Her fingers were frozen.
You two provincials ought to get on famously,’ Kostya continued. ‘Zhoe’s an imported product too. Transatlantic in fact - from America.’
‘How marvelously exciting,’ exclaimed Oktyabrina. ‘I’m from the Kingdom of Tanganyika myself/ She curtsied to 18
the floor and they both laughed.
‘It’s an expression/ Kostya explained. “I’m from America” stands for something far-fetched, like outer space - no one takes it seriously/ He pierced the ends of a raw egg with a corkscrew and pushed it at Oktyabrina. 'Drink this, kid, you need some emergency protein/
‘Thanks loads, darling, but I’m not the slightest bit hungry. And I can only stay a second. I just dropped by to see if you need anything. You’re absolutely certain you’re OK?’
Her speech was something I’d never heard before, a kind of Russian version of a clever Brooklyn girl parodying herself. She had begun to flutter about the room, picking up things and peering into comers to determine, I guessed, if there were new additions to Kostya’s stock of discarded, mislaid and forgotten cosmetics. Soon she discovered a bottle of something streaky and added a layer to her face. Then she sank into the bed, sighed profoundly and closed her eyes. A moment later she was up again.
‘Ciao children, I’m off. Into the snowy wastes. The most delicate errand of mercy/
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Kostya demanded.
‘Really darling, don’t even ask. Actually, I’ve got an urgent appointment with a certain terribly important official. He’s a frightful Don Juan as well as a balletomane - I must decide this minute whether to mix business and pleasure.’
‘Balls,’ barked Kostya. ‘Sit down and scrape off the lipstick. You’re going to have a feed/
Ignoring her feeble show of opposition, he forcibly removed her coat. Underneath were layers of ratty sweaters over a washed-out green dress. The outfit was consummated by a scarlet ribbon tied across the chest as a sash. Near its center over her snippet of a bust, was pinned a hand-cut ovaclass="underline" a yellowed photograph of a Victorian woman wearing a crown.
Oktyabrina observed my gape from the comer of her eye
visibly pleased by her effect. Tm planning to do Odette next season/ she explained soberly, nodding down to the photograph. ‘Swan Lake. I mean a ballerina worth anything must live her parts day and night, don't you agree?'
It sounds logical to me,' I said, encouraged that she'd finally said something that was open to an answer.
‘I suppose you've seen Spesivtseva's Odette in Monte Carlo,' she said, apparently encouraged herself. ‘And you're terribly sad when you remember the old days. I don't understand what’s happening to ballet in this country.'
She paused to catch her breath and remove her boots, which had apparently been lacquered with nail polish. Swans, she continued, ‘are an ancient folk symbol for purity, as you probably know. Purity, grace and redemption - which is why the part is so crucial. The symbolism happens to come from the old Teutonic legend of the Swan Queen. That, as well as the legend's Slavic variations, was Tchaikovsky's inspiration.'
And the Teutons took it from Marx of course — the father of all our culture,' Kostya broke in. ‘Now stop that psychopathic chatter and sit down.'
Kostya quickly seated her on the trunk and hunted for his wooden ladle. Soon he divided the mellow borscht into three large serving bowls. Then he jumped up again. ‘What a disgrace!' he exclaimed. ‘I've actually served without napkins.' He hurriedly ripped up an old Pravda and offered the segments on his arm, bowing elegantly like the proprietor of a grand establishment. ‘Your very own serviettes, my lords and ladies.'
Oktyabrina wanted to laugh, but was too busy attacking the soup. In the seconds between large, slurping spoonfuls, however, she managed to blurt out an announcement. ‘A man marries for soup ... a woman for meat . . . it's an old Russian saying.’ Then she too jumped up, to search for her handbag. When she’d found it, she removed a sprig of dill from the bottom and sprinkled some into my bowl.
Dill is important,' she confided. ‘For masculine powers.
No, Kostya darling, you’ve had enough of this particular herb/
She returned to her own bowl with noises of effort and pleasure. It was her eyes, I realized as she wolfed down the steaming soup, that were her most intriguing feature. They were a kind of greyish green, a mongrel mixture, but so large compared to the bones of her face that they would have been breathtaking had she been beautiful. But she wasn’t in fact beautiful, not even pretty in a conventional sense - certainly not by Kostya’s milkmaid standards.
‘Do you thrill to the dance?’ she asked me when her bowl was empty but her mouth stiff full of fatty soup meat and black bread.
‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I do like ballet. More than motor-cycle racing, for example.’
‘How marvelous! Actually I only fall in love with men who are manly enough to appreciate the subtle things. An artist can never separate her loves from her art.’