"I will."
"No. Tell me — do you have any American money?"
"Yes."
"A lot? One hundred dollars?"
"More."
"That is enough. Give it to me. If these men come, I'll show it to them. Have no fear, they'll believe me then. And you know what they'll do? They'll threaten me… for it's illegal to take foreign money. All I have to do after that is act frightened and tell them everything. You came here in a car—"
"A dark Zhiguli."
"Good. And you told me you were going from here…?"
"Back to Leningrad."
"So, they'll believe it. And leave me alone."
It was shrewd; and he could bring it off if anyone could. "All right," I said. "I agree. But do one more thing for me. Go and stay with someone, or have someone stay here…"
He was making a face. "No…"
"What about this woman, Olga…?"
His expression turned even more sour. "She wishes to marry me. On the day before I die, I may let her — but not one minute sooner." He flapped his hand. "However, I will do it for you… I'll tell her to come here. That is more natural." Then, rather to my surprise, he began to get up from the chair: not spryly, perhaps, but with somewhat more locomotive power than I'd assumed he could muster. He was dressed in a flannel nightshirt, long underwear, many pairs of socks, and a pair of knitted slippers — Olga's handiwork? — that came up to his knees.
"We should go now," he said. "She'll go down to the village when the store opens again."
Passing through a curtained doorway, he emerged a few minutes later as heavily bundled up in sweaters and coats as he'd been in his chair. We stepped outside. He took my arm, and I led him down to the road.
It was late afternoon now, the sky was darkening, and the gray shadows of the birches and pines stretched over the snow. But it was warmer, and only a few flakes drifted reluctantly down. As we walked in the tracks of a truck, separated by the space of its body, I had to slow my pace to Shastov's, but it was nonetheless clear that he could manage; stiffly, and a little anxiously, but carefully, staying within himself… which, I concluded, was a good sign, and I began to worry less about him and Subotin. After ten minutes, we reached the "first" canal road; it was here that Olga lived.
"I'll fetch her," the old man said, "but don't come with me. It isn't far, and it would be best that she not see you."
I nodded. We shook hands. And then, with a little spasm of embarrassment, he reached into the folds of his clothing and drew forth a small, black, leather-covered box. "For her," he said. "For my daughter. It was her mother's. It's all I have to give to her… if you would."
"Yes. Of course."
I took the box from him, though in fact it wasn't really a box but a small traveling icon: the sides and top were flaps, which could be folded open and propped up as a little altar. It is a traditional Russian present to honor a child's "name day" — that is, the feast day of the saint whose name forms part of the child's own. As was usually the case, an image of the saint was embossed on a small gold disk on the top flap — I didn't recognize which one it was — and this, in turn, was superimposed over a coat of arms. The Russian nobility usually employed their own arms here, but ordinary Russians, not entitled to such dignity, borrowed the national crest, the Imperial eagles of the Romanovs; and this was what Yuri's wife had done. Beautifully enameled, outlined in gilt — a little worn — they glared up at me in all their ancient glory.
"It's very lovely," I said. "I'll see May gets it."
He smiled, and his dark eyes, peering out from under a huge wool cap that came down to his eyebrows, brightened. "And you'll also remember Pierre—"
"South Dakota—"
"And Bismarck—"
"Yes, I'll remember."
"Very good." Then, with a wave, he turned away. I watched him go. Further on, he waved again, and then I turned, toward the village.
It was dark now; the road was empty. I trudged along in the tracks of the truck, but then, approaching the village, swung off to my right. I waded across a rocky field toward some trees. They were the same dying pines, their ash-gray bark peeling off in long strips, but the black shadows they cast reached out and swallowed me up. I struggled on. The wind was coming up, snow sifted down from the branches over my head, and there were sudden hollows where I plunged in to my thighs; but I knew this was safer than the road. And then, just as I began to sense the, lake up ahead, there was a sudden spatter of lights to my left: I knew it was six. Turning back, I looked through the misting plume of my breath and had my last glimpse of Povonets, glimmering through the trees.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the car. It was as I'd left it. Saying a prayer, I turned the key… It chugged a couple of times, but the battery was strong and it kicked over. As the engine warmed, I thought about this incredible day. I couldn't complain; I'd found more than I'd come for. Yet, even as I squeezed Brightman's key in my palm, I thought again that each aspect of this "case" which I seemed to "solve" only opened up another mystery. Unfolding the little icon, I set it up on the dash. I stroked the leather; it was soft as silk and I realized that it jnust have been in Shastov's family, or his wife's, for generations. May was the last of her line. But who was she? And what connection was there between her real identity and Brightman's disappearance? The very questions I'd begun with had returned. Shastov had given me most of her story, but in truth I had no idea what that story meant… / assume that some of what Brightman told me was true, Grainger had written. He did go to Russia, after all… and I'm sure he did get to know many men in the senior Communist leadership. So I suspect that Brightman's daughter is the child of one of those men — someone who believed he would soon fall victim to Stalin's Terror. At the time, it had seemed a good guess, but now I was sure it couldn't be true: neither Shastov nor his wife had been a prominent Communist. And Berri's notion wasn't much better: Don't kid yourself. Once upon a time, Dimitrov might have been your hero, but he ended up like the rest of them, a son of bitch. By 1940, his hands were covered in blood. If he snatched a baby away from the Bolshevik, it was because he thought it might help save him, not the child. No doubt he was right about Dimitrov — but how could Yuri Shas-tov's child save anyone? And who would wish to save her?
These were the questions that occupied my mind as I headed back to Leningrad, but they seemed unanswerable, and for the time being I had other problems. Most urgently, I was exhausted, and after winding back along the lake for thirty miles — to thoroughly warm the engine — I found a side road and plowed up it. There I slept for three blissful hours, and when the cold awoke me I was almost myself again. I started off. Now the miles and hours passed — and the tension built. What would happen back in Leningrad? I'd escaped Subotin — but if Loginov really wanted me, there wasn't much to stop him, for Russia is as hard to leave as it is to enter. But perhaps he didn't want me; for him, I was the lure to draw Subotin out. In any case, when I got back to the hotel, no one seemed to notice, and when I returned the car — the original license plates once again in place — there was no comment. Gradually, my worries shifted. Where was Subotin? If I really was a lure, then I had to expect a strike, but I had no proof that he was even close. He must have come to Russia, but he would have his own means of moving here and might be miles ahead of me — or just behind. That last night, as' I lay exhausted in the Astoria, my conscience would have given anything for the power to make a simple call to Povonets. Had Subotin been there? Was the old man all right? I guessed he was — when it came to survival, I would have bet on him no matter what the odds — but there was no way of telling. So, the next morning, I crossed my fingers, filled out all the forms, and headed for my plane, and as I felt the big engines thrust us up, I turned my thoughts to my destination — Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Once again Brightman had shown a fox's cunning, and once again his secret trail circled back upon me. What did it mean? I had no idea; but as the Polish darkness drifted by below us, I fell asleep and dreamed, or rather I rejoined the dream I'd dreamt as I was flying in. It was just the same. I could see a ship drawn up beside the pier at Leningrad: an ancient steamer, with belching funnels and swiveling cranes. I could see Brightman, bundled up in his fur coat, as he made his way through the customs shed. And finally I could see the desk where he turned in his passport. He looked up then, showing his face: and it was my face. And as the passport official stamped the documents and handed them back, his face was revealed as well; darkened, the features obscured by the shadow of his cap, but clear enough: my father.