Kira knocked at the door on the top of the stairs.
Andrei Taganov opened it and stepped back, astonished; his eyes widened in the slow, incredulous glance of a man looking at a miracle that could not become habitual; he forgot to move, he stood before her, the collar of a white shirt thrown open at his sunburnt throat.
“Kira!”
She laughed, a clear, metallic laughter: “How are you, Andrei?”
His hands closed slowly, softly over her shoulders, so softly that she could not feel his hands, only their strength, their will holding her, bending her backward; but his lips on hers were brutal, uncontrollable. His eyes were closed; hers were open, looking indifferently up at the ceiling.
“Kira, I didn’t expect you till tonight.”
“I know. But you won’t throw me out, will you?”
She stepped aside, preceding him through the dim little lobby into his room, throwing her bag on a chair, her hat on a table, with imperious familiarity.
She alone knew why Andrei Taganov had had to economize, that winter; why he had given up his room and moved into an abandoned wing of the palace, which the Party Club could not use and had given to him free of rent.
It had been the secret love nest of a prince. Many years ago, a forgotten sovereign had waited there for the light, stealthy footsteps and the rustle of a silk skirt up the long marble stairway. His magnificent furniture was gone; but the walls, the fireplace and the ceiling remained.
The walls were covered with a white brocade hand-embroidered in delicate little wreaths of blue and silver leaves. A marble row of cupids with garlands and cornucopias spouting frozen white flowers encircled the cornice. A marble Leda reclined voluptuously in the embrace of white wings over the fireplace. And from the soft blue of a sky painted on the ceiling, among pale, downy clouds, white doves — that had watched long nights of luxurious orgies — now looked at an iron bed, broken-down chairs, a long unpainted table loaded with books in bright red covers, wooden boxes piled as a dresser, posters of Red Army soldiers hiding the splits in the white brocade, and a leather jacket hanging on a nail in a corner.
Kira said peremptorily: “I came now to tell you that I can’t come tonight.”
“Oh! ... You can’t, Kira?”
“No. I can’t. Now don’t look tragic. Here, I brought you something to cheer you up.”
She took a small toy from her pocket, a glass tube that ended in a bulb filled with a red liquid in which a little black figure floated, trembling.
“What’s that?”
She held the bulb in her closed fist, but the little figure did not move. “I can’t do it. You try. Hold it this way.”
She closed his fingers over the bulb. No expression, no movement of his told it to her, but she knew that he was not indifferent to the touch of her fingers on his, that all of the past winter had not made him accustomed and indifferent. The red liquid in the sealed tube spurted up suddenly in furious, boiling bubbles; the little black, horned figure jumped ecstatically up and down through the storm.
“See? They call it American Resident. I bought it on a street corner. Cute, isn’t it?”
He smiled and watched the imp dancing. “Very cute.... Kira, why can’t you come tonight?”
“It’s ... some business that I have to attend. Nothing important. Do you mind?”
“No. Not if it’s inconvenient for you. Can you stay now?”
“Only for a little while.” She tore her coat off and threw it on the bed.
“Oh, Kira!”
“Like it? It’s your own fault. You insisted on a new dress.”
The dress was red, very plain, very short, trimmed in black patent leather: a belt, four buttons, a flat round collar and a huge bow. She stood, leaning against the door, slouching a little, suddenly very fragile and young, a child’s dress clinging to a body that looked as helpless and innocent as a child’s, her tangled hair thrown back, her skirt high over slender legs pressed closely together, her eyes round and candid, but her smile mocking and confident, her lips moist, wide. He stood looking at her, frightened by a woman who looked more dangerous, more desirable than he had ever known.
She jerked her head impatiently: “Well? You don’t like it?”
“Kira, you are ... the dress is ... so lovely. I’ve never seen a woman’s dress like that.”
“What do you know about women’s dresses?”
“I looked through a whole magazine of Paris fashions at the Censorship bureau yesterday.”
“You looking through a fashion magazine?”
“I was thinking of you. I wanted to know what women liked.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Things I’d like you to have. Funny little hats. And slippers like sandals — with nothing but straps. And jewelry. Diamonds.”
“Andrei! You didn’t tell that to your comrades at the Censorship bureau, did you?”
He laughed, still looking at her intently, incredulously: “No. I didn’t.”
“Stop staring at me like that. What’s the matter? Are you afraid to come near me?”
His fingers touched the red dress. Then his lips sank suddenly into the hollow of her naked elbow.
He sat in the deep niche of the window sill and she stood beside him, in the tight circle of his arms. His face was expressionless, and only his eyes laughed soundlessly, cried to her soundlessly what he could not say.
Then he was talking, his face buried in the red dress: “You know, I’m glad you came now, instead of tonight. There were still so many hours to wait.... I’ve never seen you like this.... I’ve tried to read and I couldn’t.... Will you wear this dress next time? Was that your own idea, this leather bow? ... Why do you look so ... so much more grownup in a childish dress like this? ... I like that bow.... Kira, you know, I’ve missed you so terribly.... Even when I’m working I ...”
Her eyes were soft, pleading, a little frightened: “Andrei, you shouldn’t think of me when you’re working.”
He said slowly, without smiling: “Sometimes, it’s only thoughts of you that help me — through my work.”
“Andrei! What’s the matter?”
But he was smiling again: “Why don’t you want me to think of you? Remember, last time you were here, you told me about that book you read with a hero called Andrei and you said you thought of me? I’ve been repeating it to myself ever since, and I bought the book. I know it isn’t much, Kira, but ... well ... you don’t say them often, things like that.”
She leaned back, her hands crossed behind her head, mocking and irresistible: “Oh, I think of you so seldom I’ve forgotten your last name. Hope I read it in a book. Why, I’ve even forgotten that scar, right there, over your eye.” Her finger was following the line of the scar, sliding down his forehead, erasing his frown; she was laughing, ignoring the plea she had understood.
“Kira, would it cost so very much to install a telephone in your house?”
“But they ... we ... have no electrical connections in the apartment. It’s really impossible.”
“I’ve wished so often that you had a phone. Then I could call you ... once in a while. Sometimes, it’s so hard to wait, just wait for you.”