Part 22 (1/2)
She encouraged Petya to give the stranger his hand, which the boy did without shyness.
”We should have another talk soon,” Kamarovsky said. ”Would tomorrow after work be all right with you?”
In that case, Anna thought, I'll have to fix dinner ahead of time. She nodded in a.s.sent.
”Good, then.” The Colonel wished them a good day and walked on in the direction of the Lenin Library.
”Who was that?” Petya asked.
Anna made up a lie and set out for home, depressed. Her anxiety continued into the evening, while she sat silently on the sofa and watched the chess game between grandfather and grandson. It took her a long time to fall asleep. After the Colonel's announcement that the Bulyagkov dossier would soon be closed, and especially after her discussion with Alexey, she'd hoped that she was entering a final, calm stage, which would last until the men took up their inscrutable game again, but without her. In the darkness of the sleeping alcove, she thought about her meeting with her case officer, scheduled for the following day: For the first time, she would be reporting to Kamarovsky in the knowledge that Alexey, the man under observation, had turned the tables on the Colonel from the beginning. Even though the past two years had taught Anna to lie routinely and keep her camouflage in place at all times, she was afraid she might not be able to deceive Kamarovsky's searching eyes. She cast about for excuses not to go to the building on the quay, yet at the same time, she knew that such a move would only arouse the Colonel's mistrust. With a sigh, Anna put an arm around her sleeping child.
”For the mission I have in mind this time, I'm counting on your special intuition.” In contrast to the other occasions when Anna had been in this apartment, for this visit the samovar was singing. Kamarovsky, who'd never offered her anything to drink before, busied himself with dishes, apologized for having only four sugar cubes in the house, and served her a gla.s.s of tea. Not immediately accepting his invitation to sit on the couch, she stepped over to the window and took a few sips. The room was flooded with light; for the first time since Anna had been making reports here, the curtains were completely open. The magnificent bridge soared over the black river, which was swollen by snowmelt and flowing with a mighty surge through the steel arches. The windows of the Comecon building reflected the sun in a rainbow of colors; the Hotel Ukraina was a gleaming silver tower.
”We need information about the Bulyagkov couple's divorce.” The Colonel was standing behind her. His words penetrated Anna's consciousness so gradually that she held her breath for a moment. Kamarovsky stared at her attentively. He wasn't mistaken; Anna was surprised by the news. ”So you didn't know?” he asked.
She slowly shook her head.
”He didn't drop any hints? Never talked about insurmountable difficulties at home? You never had to listen to the complaints of a frustrated husband, seeking solace with his young lover?”
Kamarovsky's sarcasm alarmed Anna; normally, he limited himself to asking questions and evaluating data.
”I can't believe he wants to separate from Medea,” she said truthfully.
”I want you to get to the bottom of this ... discrepancy.” He was a dark silhouette in front of the glittering balcony door.
”What discrepancy?”
”Alexey Maximovich has a wife who's one of the most influential people in Moscow society, a woman to whom he owes his entire political career. How does he let her go? How, after so many years of reciprocal tolerance, have they come to a point where 'insurmountable obstacles' make it impossible for their marriage to continue?”
To avoid having to answer at once, Anna took a swallow of tea. ”Maybe the divorce is to Medea's advantage. Maybe there's another man in her life.”
He went to his desk and leafed through the notes that Rosa Khleb had turned over to him. The interview with Medea Bulyagkova had been unproductive. Moscow's cultural secretary had adroitly limited the conversation to cultural affairs and thoroughly described her concept for Voices of the Soviet Republics; in answer to personal questions, however, she'd added nothing to what was already in the mutual divorce pet.i.tion.
”I need background material-some incident, some point of contention that makes this seem like a reasonable step.”
”When it comes to love, not everything is reasonable.”
How could she let herself be so carried away that she'd mouth a statement like that? Kamarovsky gave her a derisive look, whereupon she turned her back to the window and sat down.
”How's your husband?” the Colonel asked, unerringly.
”He's started his tour of duty at his new station.”
”And how's he getting on there?”
”Well, I think.”
”He applied for the five-year stipulation, right?” Kamarovsky leaned forward, hands on his desk.
”He did, but he hasn't signed it yet.”
”How do you feel about this prospect?”
She shrugged.
”Five years is a very long time,” the Colonel said. ”And I want you to know,” he added empathically, ”we have nothing to do with it.”
”What am I supposed to do with Alexey?”
”Meet him and talk about his divorce.”
”With what justification?”
”You're the partner in Alexey Maximovich's longest-running affair.” The Colonel tilted his head to one side. ”Shouldn't you be getting your hopes up, now that he's going to be a free man again soon? In the meantime, he's moved out of the conjugal residence.” Noticing that Anna's thoughts were elsewhere, Kamarovsky raised his voice. ”We're interested not only in the reason but also in the point in time. As far as we know, there has been no recent occurrence in the Bulyagkov marriage that could explain this precipitous breakup.”
”I met Alexey just last week.” She got to her feet and placed the half-full tea gla.s.s on the desk. ”What justification do I give for visiting him again?”
”You're right.” The Colonel took care to see that the veneer wasn't suffering any damage from the hot gla.s.s. ”So far, there's been no official statement about the divorce. So how could you have learned about it?”
Anna realized that, for the first time, she was a step ahead of Kamarovsky. Couldn't she go to Alexey and say, ”The Colonel's doing a lot of speculating about your divorce. What would you like me to tell him?” At the same time, she was as baffled as Kamarovsky about what was going on. Alexey's revelation that he'd seen through Anna's double game from the beginning had sealed her eyes to whatever lay behind that disclosure: a second truth, a veil Alexey spread over his real motives. She believed his declaration of love, but she more and more doubted whether she had his trust.
On the way home, she thought about how adroitly Alexey kept the balance between trust and secrecy, how he gave the appearance of letting Anna in on his private affairs and at the same time measured out his truths in the doses that best served his purposes. What purpose was served, she wondered, by the announcement that he was going on a trip when he was apparently staying home?
She reached her building and slinked past Avdotya's door to avoid the seamstress's questions about the new curtain. Even though Viktor Ipalyevich came down for the mail during the day, Anna usually checked the mailbox. Winter hadn't done the lock any good, and she could barely turn the key. Inside was a letter from the building a.s.sociation; a renovation of the heating pipes had been pending for a long time. Also, there was something, probably an invitation, addressed to her father from the Guild of Young Soviet Poets; ever since the announcement that his volume of poetry was in line for imminent publication, Viktor Ipalyevich's social life had grown increasingly active. Oddly, the smallest envelope was the fattest. Who crammed so much paper into such a little envelope? When she saw the army postmark, Anna's face broke into a smile, and a glance at the return address confirmed her guess. A letter from Leonid was as rare as snow in August; it made her even happier to think that her husband had taken the time to write at such length. She attributed the letter's bulk to the barrenness of his surroundings, to the amount of idle time he had, and, above all, to the fact that he missed her. So the few, conflict-filled days of his home leave had eventually had the desired effect on him. How could a comparison between Moscow and Siberia turn out otherwise? As Anna thrust her finger under the seal, it occurred to her to let Petya open the letter. More quickly than they ordinarily did after work, her legs carried her up the stairs and onto the fourth-floor landing, where she immediately unlocked the apartment door. The place was unusually cold. Viktor Ipalyevich was wearing a thick sweater and sitting in the living room with a blanket over his knees, and a rustling sound was coming from the sleeping alcove.
”What's going on?” She hid the mail behind her back.
”The building management turned off the heat without saying why,” the poet growled. ”They could at least have waited until summer.”
Anna pulled out the a.s.sociation's mimeographed letter, which informed residents that heat in the building would be temporarily shut off for maintenance work on April 11 and 12. She handed her father the letter. Without taking off her shoes and jacket, she went to the nook and bent over her son. ”Look here, Petyushka,” she said tenderly.
The dark-haired head emerged from the bedclothes, and then Petya s.h.i.+ned a flashlight in his mother's face. ”If I read under the covers, it gets warm right away.”
She smiled at the flushed, childish face. ”I think something's come for you,” she said, presenting the letter.
”What is it?” He examined the envelope earnestly. ”Who's writing to me?”
”To us, Petya.” She laid the letter on his lap. ”Papa's writing to us.”
”Papa,” he repeated with great reverence. ”From Yakutia?”
She nodded. ”This letter has traveled a long, long way to reach us. Would you like to open it?”
”Is he writing to tell us when he's coming back?” The child's finger traced the edges of the stamp. ”Is he writing about the animals out there where he is? Did he put a present in with the letter?”
”Hurry up,” Anna said with a laugh. ”You remind me of old Avdotya, trying to imagine what Metsentsev's going to write to her about.”
The child plucked cautiously at a corner. The paper didn't give way immediately, so he pulled harder and soon had several snippets in his hand.