The Russian Affair (47 page)

“We should have taken the subway.” Tsazukhin wiped droplets of perspiration from his beard. “When I get there, I’m going to be covered in sweat.”

“On a day like this, nobody goes underground voluntarily.” Anna checked the armpits of his light-colored suit jacket for stains. “A festive day, a day in your honor,” she said, teasing the poet. “And all Moscow is invited.”

“All right, all right, that’s enough.”

They reached the boulevard and strolled toward the Conservatory building. Suddenly, Viktor Ipalyevich slowed down. “Hasn’t anyone come at all?” he asked anxiously. “What did I tell you? Nobody wants to sit inside and listen to contemporary poetry on a fine June day.”

Secretly, Anna feared he might be right. When snow was piled a yard high and only narrow paths were shoveled clear, when light had been absent from the city for months—that was the best time to enter interior worlds, to be edified by literature, music, or theater. Who would go to the Conservatory to hear poems in June?

“They’re probably all inside already,” Anna said, encouraging her father.

“Nonsense. On a day like this, they’d stay out in the evening air until the very last bell.”

A pale-faced Doctor Glem leaped out at Tsazukhin. “My dear Viktor Ipalyevich,” he cried, his voice implying trouble. The chairman of the artistic board was wearing a light-colored suit identical with the poet’s, but enlivened by a red breast-pocket handkerchief.

“What is it, Doctor Glem? What’s wrong?” Viktor Ipalyevich tried to adopt a patronizing tone. “There’s no audience, is that it? I told you to reserve one of the smaller halls. Who needs a big stage for a book of poems and—”

“You’re here at last!” Glem cried, interrupting him. “We called you and called you, and then we even sent someone in a car to fetch you. Where have you been?”

“We went for a walk in the delightful summer air,” the poet said in self-defense.

“You went for a walk on the evening of your great occasion? A thousand and more are waiting for Tsazukhin, and he’s taking a leisurely stroll!”

“A thousand and more? How can that be, a thousand and more?” He stared at Glem in confusion. “We’re not supposed to start until eight o’—”

“Seven-thirty, Viktor Ipalyevich, seven-thirty!” cried the chairman of the artistic board, relieved to see the muddle cleared up so easily. “Didn’t you read the invitation to your own reading?”

“Seven-thirty?” He turned around. “Anna, did you know … seven-thirty? We were just loitering around, and I thought it was almost seven-thirty, but …” He jerked his head up and looked at the clock on the building: 7:37. “My dear Glem, I’m so terribly sorry, naturally I’ll have to make an apology.” He stamped his foot. “I hate unpunctuality!”

“Go on in, Papa, it’s all right.” Anna took him by the shoulders and pushed him toward Doctor Glem, who joined in the effort to soothe the poet.

“Everyone’s having a good time, they’re all patient, they’re glad to wait for you. Come on, now.”

“I’m melting in my own sweat!” Tsazukhin said feverishly. “I would have liked to freshen up, maybe take off my shoes for a few minutes.”

“How about some cologne water? That will make you feel better.” Glem looked gratefully at Anna, who continued to push her father forward. “Things are going to turn out fine, after all.”

As he’d done the last time they were in that building, Glem’s assistant welcomed the poet’s party and escorted mother and son into the auditorium while Tsazukhin was being brought onstage. And as she’d done the last time, Anna shuddered as she stepped into the artists’ box: Down in the orchestra seats, in the tiers, and all the way up in the galleries, Moscow society had assembled. In the front rows, she recognized some prominent and important people, along with her father’s colleagues and assorted wives, grandfathers, and aspirants. As she’d done before, she pushed down the folding seat and occupied it. The only difference this time was that little Petya was sitting next to her, not Leonid. The parapet was too high for the boy to see over, so he folded his seat back up and sat on the edge. “All these people came to see Dyedushka?” he whispered.

“A thousand and more.” The flapping and fluttering in the theater made Anna smile. People cooled off by fanning themselves with their programs; others even used, for the same purpose, their newly purchased volume of the poet’s verse. Anna’s eyes shifted over to the side stalls, which were reserved for the nomenklatura. Comrades in dark suits were sitting there, some of them without ties, their shirt collars turned out over their jacket lapels. She recognized one unprepossessing face from newspaper photographs: The Minister for Research Planning entered, took a seat, and gestured to his wife to do the same. The places around the Minister filled up quickly; the Deputy Minister was not among those present.

At that moment, the house lights went out, and a spotlight shined a circle of light on the red curtain, which immediately swooshed upward to reveal a simple lectern, surrounded by a colorful stage set that belonged to a student production at the Conservatory. Doctor Glem stepped to the lectern first, was welcomed by friendly applause, and launched into his introductory address: “Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin’s legacy comprises thirty years of Soviet lyric poetry and is the expression of an epoch rich in hard-won victories as well as painful losses.”

Anna’s attention was suddenly distracted by a late guest, whose arrival
went unnoticed by the audience. An invisible hand had opened the door for him; without a sound, he’d gone down the aisle to the side stalls and taken a seat among the influential personages. He wore a dark green suit and had apparently been in such a hurry that he was still holding his hat in his hand. For a moment, he listened to Glem’s speech, and then, all at once, he turned his head to the left. In spite of the darkness, his eyeglasses reflected some stray spotlight beams; A. I. Kamarovsky looked up at Anna, as if he knew that she and no one else was sitting in the artists’ box. It seemed to her like a greeting.

Doctor Glem reached the end of his introduction, announced the guest of honor, and considered it necessary to call for applause. The thousand drowned him out and welcomed Viktor Ipalyevich. Kamarovsky, too, clapped and looked on benevolently as the poet, whose career would have turned out differently had it not been for the Colonel, walked to the lectern.

It had been impressive—beautiful and rich in ethical content. It had been worth the trouble. Kamarovsky slipped off his street shoes and removed his jacket. On that particular evening, it might have been desirable to sit out on the balcony in his underpants, but A. I. Kamarovsky didn’t do anything in his underpants. So he merely opened the balcony door and looked out into the mellow night. Even though it virtually never got dark at that time of year, the Kalininsky Bridge was a band of shimmering light, and the river reflected the opposite bank; it was as if the buildings were dissolving in the black water. In the distance were the lights of the Ostankino television and radio tower—1,660 feet high, Kamarovsky recalled. Satisfied, he closed the door. It was a special night. New things were coming; the Soviet poet Tsazukhin’s triumph belonged among them. As for old things, tonight they would be disposed of. Kamarovsky had played a decisive role in both processes. He went over to his desk. Without turning on a light—the reflection from the street
lights was enough—he opened a folder. It contained handwritten notes, most of them in cipher. Kamarovsky let the pages slip slowly through his fingers; he understood not a sentence. His accomplishment lay in the recovery of the material. Nikolai Lyushin’s trial had commenced, in camera, closed to the public. It was essential to give him a strong warning, but without dampening his scientific zeal. He must learn that the agencies overseeing his work were its protectors, not its censors, and that he would do well to trust them. His assertions that he hadn’t knowingly done anything illegal were noted in the transcript.

Kamarovsky closed the folder, withdrew to the dark part of the room, and, with a sigh, sank down onto the sofa. The night was progressing; at this rate, it wouldn’t last much longer. He’d seen Rosa one last time, but she hadn’t noticed him. Her beauty had seemed to him like a mask on her devastated face. He hadn’t succeeded in making her believe she’d gotten off so lightly; Rosa knew what path she was on. In the foregoing weeks, she’d given up everything that was of any interest. She’d done it almost unbidden; corporal punishment hadn’t been necessary. For one whole day, she’d allowed herself to be encouraged by a hint that now, turned in a double sense, she could be sent out into the field again. The following night must have made it clear to her that she was of no use to the KGB anymore. From that point on, Rosa’s spirit was broken. She knows what’s coming, the Colonel thought, she just doesn’t know when. The reason for his decision lay in the plain fact that in this case, deterrence was inevitable. Kamarovsky took off his glasses in the darkness and put them on the armrest, ready to be snatched up again. In the shadowy space in front of him, he saw Rosa as she was being taken out of her cell. He saw his protégée, the most beautiful Russian girl he ever met, walking down the corridor. The ceiling lights made her shadow appear now in front of her and now behind her.

Kamarovsky had charged “Bull-Neck” with handling the matter. No, you couldn’t say he’d actually
charged
him; a hint had sufficed. Bull-Neck looked upon it as a distinction and was glad to oblige. As usual,
the prisoner would have an escort: one man in front of Rosa, and Bull-Neck behind her. He’d prepare himself soundlessly, and at the moment when the man in front disappeared behind a turning in the corridor, the execution would be carried out.

In other words, the condemned would neither hear the sound nor feel the entrance of the projectile. It was like sitting on a seesaw and then being catapulted up to where everything lost itself in white. Looking at it that way, he could say that Rosa knew what was happening to her but would not herself experience it. I’m the only one, Antip Iosipovich thought, who will comprehend Rosa’s death. He picked up his glasses and rose to his feet. At the age of only fifteen, Rosa Khleb had handed our General Secretary a bouquet of flowers; she had kissed him and been embraced by him. How many Soviet girls receive such an honor? He turned on the television set.

FORTY

C
aptain Nechayev had been instructed to detach teams from each company and deploy them to assist in earthmoving. There was a shortage of heavy equipment, and the men complained about the back-breaking labor. After the hard winter, maintenance work on the regional railway line could no longer be postponed. When Leonid inspected the tracks, it looked to him as though drunken giants had been at play with the railroad. Along a five-mile stretch, the formerly straight and level track embankment was warped into a line that undulated up and down like a wave; the steel rails, as thick as a man’s arm, had bent as though they were made of wax. Damage from freezing had been followed by the thawing of the ground, which then turned into mud. There was nothing here that could be repaired; everything had to be ripped out and built anew.

The first lieutenant in the corps of engineers told him, “We’ve used this method before in regions where the ground thaws ten feet deep in summer and the whole countryside is transformed into a morass.”

It was decided to move the line over several miles and with the help of mining machinery build a new embankment six feet high, using for ballast a mixture of rubble and crushed macadam. If you let the material subside for a year, the engineer said, it will form a layer practically as
hard as concrete, and then new cross-ties can be laid on that. The dismantling of the ruined track and the construction of a provisional road had already been coordinated between the railroad administration and the army. The new track bed had to be completed in no more than three months, before winter brought everything to a standstill again.

“A year of track replacement traffic,” Leonid said. He feared a high cost in material as well as elevated administrative expenses. The engineer announced that he would place cranes on both sides of the worksite to assist in loading and unloading freight. The provisional road was to be built of wood, because a wooden road could be built more cheaply and also in the shortest time, and the used-up planks could ultimately provide fuel for winter heating. Leonid admired how confidently the engineers went about their job—making calculations in terms of tons and cubic feet and battalion-strength work crews—and how little they cared about obtaining proper authorization for what they did.

From earliest youth, Leonid had felt a romanticized interest in woodworking. He liked it when the screaming saw cut the first wedge out of a tree trunk and the tree shivered from root to crown. He’d been amazed to discover that the lumberjacks always knew what direction the tree would fall in, and he would look on in excitement as a toppling giant ripped through the undergrowth and crashed to the ground, where saws immediately sprang upon the fallen victim. The result of these memories from Leonid’s time as a Young Pioneer was that he’d made arrangements to participate in the construction of the wooden road himself. The people performing the work were carpenters and joiners; Leonid and his soldiers were there to assist them.

On that morning, the force at the worksite was visibly reduced. Leonid checked the list and saw that many soldiers had reported sick, and there was a general shortage of helping hands. When a carpenter operating a circular saw needed an assistant, Leonid took off his uniform jacket, set his cap aside, and pitched in. The machine was an elderly table saw, on which rough blocks were being cut at a 45-degree angle, a task that
required a steady hand. The carpenter worked at a leisurely pace. After an hour, Leonid’s hair, shirt, and pants were sprinkled with chips. He felt free and happy, and from time to time he squinted into the sun, which shone in a cloudless sky. He lifted the next block onto the metal table; the carpenter held the wood in position and pushed it steadily onto the spinning blade. Suddenly, the block jerked to one side, Leonid reached for it, the carpenter screamed something—they both saw, too late, the branch hidden in the face wood. Leonid couldn’t get free in time and was literally sucked in by the saw blade; he watched his hand disappear into the machine. He felt an itching sensation that made him think it couldn’t be so bad, but then a gush of blood poured out. The carpenter pressed the emergency button, and the rotor came to a stop. Leonid staggered backward; when he looked at his hand, it seemed to be part of someone else’s body. He turned his head away and collapsed. The carpenter tore his shirt into strips and pressed them on the wound to stop the bleeding. Someone else informed the medical service.