Garin inspected the paper of the document. One edge was torn, the ink was faded to give the appearance of age, and the surface was worn as if repeatedly handled. He verified the Russian paper stock. A perfect forgery, unless you knew what to look for. He looked in the envelope for the second document, but it was missing. He looked behind the cabinet and on the floor but found nothing. Shit. He wrote a note for Ronnie and placed it where he knew she’d find it.
He turned to leave but stopped briefly and placed his fingers on the icon’s delicate silver frame, submitting to his urge to test the relic’s powers. Then he stopped. She would come, or she wouldn’t. No prayer would change that fact.
GARIN STOOD AT Natalya’s third-floor apartment, raising his hand to knock, when suddenly the door opened and Natalya stood before him, horrified.
“You’re late,” she scolded. Her black hair fell to her shoulders as if each strand was weighted. She wore scarlet lipstick, and her chartreuse blouse revealed a pearl necklace that curved to her cleavage. “Did you not remember? I had friends who were coming for dinner. They arrived an hour ago.”
“I didn’t forget.” A lie. “Something came up.”
“You’re rude.” She stared at him. “Come in. We just sat down. Let me introduce you.” She double locked the door and led him toward the dining room, where lively laughter made a festive atmosphere. She presented him to the three people who sat at the dining table, which was set with crystal wineglasses, mismatched china, and serving bowls of stewed meats and vegetables. She pulled him forward.
“He’s been found,” she said to the table. Then to Garin, “We couldn’t wait. They were threatening to leave.” She whispered in Garin’s ear, “For a man who obsesses over time, you are remarkably late.”
Garin sat between two flamboyantly dressed ballerinas with wild scarves over their shoulders and unkempt hair that they swept back self-consciously or pushed from their sullen faces. They stared. Natalya sat across from Garin, beside a man in his forties with long, graying hair, a decade older than the women, who ignored Garin. He tossed pieces of torn bread into his mouth and entertained Natalya with flirtatious whispers. They all seemed to know one another and, being familiar, they interrupted one another in the course of yelling. Garin slipped into his seat, happy to be ignored and, for a moment, he thought, unnoticed, but Natalya looked up.
“This is Bogdan,” she said, swatting the man’s hand from hers. “An old friend. And they are Anna and Galina. Serve yourself.”
Garin was quiet most of the dinner. He observed the others, listened without appearing to listen, and smiled when something clever was said or if one happened to look at him for his reaction. Anna and Galina were confident and haughty, stealing glances, and they talked about the ups and downs inside the Bolshoi company, offering their view of the artistic director’s new favorite. With each sip of wine, they opened up more and said funny or insulting things. Surly Bogdan popped bread in his mouth and kept looking at Garin until at last he couldn’t contain his curiosity.
“Who is he?” he asked Natalya, looking straight at Garin, as though he were a rival. “He sits there like a turtle with his head in his shell.” Bogdan leaned toward Garin. “Tell us a little about yourself. You haven’t opened your mouth all night, except to fill it. We all know Natasha’s friends, but you are a new face.” The man poured himself a generous glass of wine. “We are all friends here. Writers, dancers, and Natasha—who knows what she does. Honor us with a few words of biography.”
Garin met Bogdan’s boozy presumptuousness with a flat expression. He saw Natalya redden. There was a long silence around the table.
“I am a translator,” Garin said.
“Who do you translate?”
Garin threw out a few writers, still current enough for the purpose of the conversation, and books he’d read so he could speak knowledgeably, if needed.
“Anti-Soviet writers like Bulgakov?” Bogdan asked. “He was at the famous Spaso House party.” There was a startled silence. Bogdan leaned forward and looked directly at Garin. “Do you believe in God?” He pushed away Natalya’s hand. “Let him answer.”
Garin paused. “No one has ever asked me that.”
Bogdan laughed. “You know, God doesn’t exist in the Soviet Union. He’s been exiled. Anyone who has seen him walking like a beggar, or disguised as a child, is quickly reeducated.” Bogdan looked at Garin like a cat who had cornered a mouse. “You speak Russian well. Old phrasings, unusual accent, but a native speaker. Do you translate Russian into English or English into Russian?”
“Both. Sometimes Russian into Russian.”
Bogdan smiled. “We used to risk our lives to share samizdat manuscripts of dubious quality, made precious because they were forbidden. But those days are gone. They died with Brezhnev. Things are better now.”
The two dancers laughed. The dark-haired girl with cherry lipstick and a long olive neck mocked Bogdan. “Don’t be a toad. You don’t have to show off your stupid Party allegiance.” She looked at Garin. “This man is being polite. You should learn from him instead of trying to seduce Natalya with your secret whispers—which are obvious to all of us, by the way.”
The second dancer had flaxen hair, thin black lips, and scolding eyes. “Maybe you’d like to invite both of us to bed to show off your Party affections.”
Anna and Galina were giddy with laughter.
“Fine,” Bogdan said. “No more insults. There’s always something to look forward to. Always a tunnel at the end of the light.”
Bogdan leaned toward Garin. “I was once a samizdat publisher, and for that I was called a traitor—but not enough of a traitor to go to jail. I applied unsuccessfully for an émigré visa right after I lost my job as a civil engineer and shortly before I took a job on the night shift at the botanical garden, joining the pool of the marginally employed. It was essential for a Soviet citizen like me, a Jew and a writer, to keep a low profile, and no one has as low a profile as a night-shift guard at the botanical garden that closes at dusk.
“That is who I am,” Bogdan concluded, nodding at Garin. “Tell me about yourself.”
Natalya stood and began to gather the plates. “Enough of politics. It’s boring. I have a walnut rogaliki for dessert. It is all I could find.” She handed a large serving dish to Bogdan. “Help me clear.”
Garin never did say anything about himself. After-dinner aperitifs were poured, and with them conversation moved from one topic to the next, avoiding politics. The evening began to wind down, and inevitably the conversation returned to politics.
Bogdan lifted his glass of wine. “Chernenko est mort.”
“Why in French?” Galina asked.
“It sounds more civilized to say death in French. The French seem to die gracefully in bed.”
NATALYA CALLED DOWN the circular staircase to the lobby, reminding her departing guests to secure the front door on their way out. She turned to Garin, who stood behind, glass in hand.
“Well, those are my friends,” she said. “You succeeded in drawing attention to yourself by saying almost nothing.”
“I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“He was baiting you. He is jealous of men with faith.” She gazed at him as if trying to look into his mind. “Something I see under your mask.” She raised an eyebrow. “Now, when I meet Bogdan again, which may be never, he will remember you. But he is a dissident, and he will have no desire to draw attention to himself by reporting you to the KGB. He is a good writer, but he writes about his crummy dissident life, so nothing will ever get published. He didn’t like you, but you are safe.” She looked at him. “Are you adventurous?”