Edge of Eternity (69 page)

“I love you, didn't you know that?”

“No, I didn't,” he said, stupefied.

“I've loved you for a long time.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“I'm frightened.”

“Of . . . ?”

“My husband.”

Dimka had suspected something like this. He assumed, though he had no proof, that Nik was responsible for the savage beating of the black-marketeer who had tried to cheat Natalya. It was no surprise if Nik's wife was terrified of declaring her love for another man. This was the reason for Natalya's changeability, from sexy warmth one day to cold distance the next. “I guess I'm frightened of Nik, too,” he said.

“When do you leave?”

“The furniture van will come on Friday.”

“So soon!”

“In the office, I'm a loose cannon. They don't know what I might do. They want me out of the way.”

She took out a white handkerchief and touched her eyes with it. Then she leaned closer to him across the little table. “Do you remember that room with all the old Tsarist furniture?”

He smiled. “I'll never forget it.”

“And the four-poster bed?”

“Of course.”

“It was so dusty.”

“And cold.”

Her mood had changed again, and now she was playful, teasing. “What do you remember most?”

An answer sprang to mind instantly: her little breasts with their big pointed nipples. But he suppressed it.

She said: “Go on, you can tell me.”

What did he have to lose? “Your nipples,” he said. He was half embarrassed, half inflamed.

She giggled. “Do you want to see them again?”

Dimka swallowed hard. Trying to match her light mood, he said: “Guess.”

She stood up, suddenly looking decisive. “Meet me there at seven,” she said. Then she walked out.

•   •   •

Nina was furious. “Kharkov?” she yelled. “What am I supposed to do in fucking Kharkov?”

Nina did not normally use bad language: she felt it was coarse. She had risen above such low habits. Her lapse was a sign of how strongly she felt.

Dimka was unsympathetic. “I'm sure the steel union there will give you a job.” In any case it was time she sent Grigor to a day nursery and returned to work, something that was expected of Soviet mothers.

“I don't want to be exiled to a provincial city.”

“Nor do I. Do you imagine I volunteered?”

“Didn't you see this coming?”

“I did, and I even considered switching jobs, but I thought the putsch had been canceled, when it had only been postponed. Naturally the plotters did all they could to keep me in the dark.”

She gave him a calculating look. “I suppose you spent last night saying good-bye to your typist.”

“You told me you didn't care.”

“All right, smart mouth. When do we have to go?”

“Friday.”

“Hell.” Looking furious, Nina started packing.

On Wednesday, Dimka spoke to his uncle Volodya about the move. “It's not just about my career,” he said. “I'm not in government for
myself. I want to prove that Communism can work. But that means it has to change and improve. Now I'm afraid we could go backward.”

“We'll get you back to Moscow as soon as we can,” Volodya said.

“Thank you,” Dimka said with fervent gratitude. His uncle had always been supportive.

“You deserve it,” Volodya said warmly. “You're smart and you get things done, and we don't have a surplus of such people. I wish I had you in my office.”

“I was never the military type.”

“But, listen. After something like this has happened, you have to prove your loyalty by working hard and not complaining—and, most of all, not constantly begging to be sent back to Moscow. If you do all that for five years, I can start working on your return.”

“Five years?”

“Until I can
start.
Don't count on less than ten. In fact, don't count on anything. We don't know how Brezhnev is going to work out.”

In ten years the Soviet Union could slide back all the way to poverty and underdevelopment, Dimka thought. But there was no point in saying so. Volodya was not just his best chance—he was his only chance.

Dimka saw Natalya again on Thursday. She had a split lip. “Did Nik do that?” said Dimka angrily.

“I slipped on icy steps and fell on my face,” she said.

“I don't believe you.”

“It's true,” she said, but she would not meet him in the furniture storeroom again.

On Friday morning a ZIL-130 panel truck arrived and parked outside Government House, and two men in overalls began to carry Dimka's and Nina's possessions down in the elevator.

When the truck was almost full, they stopped for a break. Nina made them sandwiches and tea. The phone rang, and the doorman said: “There's a messenger here from the Kremlin, has to deliver personally.”

“Send him up,” said Dimka.

Two minutes later, Natalya appeared at the door in a coat of champagne-colored mink. With her damaged lip, she looked like a ravaged goddess.

Dimka stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he glanced at Nina.

She caught his guilty look, and glared at Natalya. Dimka wondered if the two women would fly at one another. He got ready to intervene.

Nina folded her arms across her chest. “So, Dimka,” she said, “I suppose this is your little typist.”

What was Dimka supposed to say?
Yes
?
No
?
She's my lover
?

Natalya looked defiant. “I'm not a typist,” she said.

“Don't worry,” said Nina. “I know exactly what you are.”

That jibe was rich, Dimka thought, coming from the woman who had slept with a fat old general in order to get a dacha. But he did not say so.

Natalya looked haughty and handed him an official-looking envelope.

He tore it open. It was from Alexei Kosygin, the reforming economist. He had a strong power base so, despite his radical ideas, he had been made chairman of the Council of Ministers in the Brezhnev government.

Dimka's heart leaped. The letter offered him a job as aide to Kosygin—here in Moscow.

“How did you manage this?” he said to Natalya.

“Long story.”

“Well, thank you.” He wanted to throw his arms around her and kiss her, but refrained. He turned to Nina. “I'm saved,” he said. “I can stay in Moscow. Natalya has got me a job with Kosygin.”

The two women stared at one another, each hating the other. No one knew what to say.

After a long pause, one of the removal men said: “Does that mean we have to unload the truck?”

•   •   •

Tanya flew Aeroflot to Siberia, touching down at Omsk on the way to Irkutsk. The plane was a comfortable Tupolev Tu-104 jet. The overnight flight took eight hours, and she dozed most of the way.

Officially, she was on assignment for TASS. Secretly, she was going to look for Vasili.

Two weeks ago Daniil Antonov had come to her desk and discreetly handed her the typescript of “Frostbite.” “
New World
can't publish this after all,” he had said. “Brezhnev is clamping down. Orthodoxy is the watchword now.”

Tanya had shoved the sheets of paper into a drawer. She was disappointed, but she had been half prepared for this. She said: “Do you remember the articles I wrote three years ago about life in Siberia?”

“Of course,” he said. “It was one of the most popular series we ever did—and the government got a surge of applications from families wanting to go there.”

“Maybe I should do a follow-up. Talk to some of the same people and ask how they're getting on. Also interview some newcomers.”

“Great idea.” Daniil lowered his voice. “Do you know where he is?”

So he had guessed. It was not surprising. “No,” she said. “But I can find out.”

Tanya was still living at Government House. She and her mother had moved up a floor into the grandparents' large apartment, after the death of Katerina, so that they could look after Grandfather Grigori. He claimed he did not need looking after: he had cooked and cleaned for himself and his kid brother, Lev, when they were factory workers before the First World War and living in one room in a St. Petersburg slum, he said proudly. But the truth was that he was seventy-six, and he had not cooked a meal nor swept a floor since the revolution.

That evening Tanya went down in the elevator and knocked on the door of her brother's apartment.

Nina opened up. “Oh,” she said rudely. She retreated into the apartment, leaving the door open. She and Tanya had never liked one another.

Tanya stepped into the little hallway. Dimka appeared from the bedroom. He smiled, pleased to see her. She said: “A quiet word?”

He picked up his keys from a small table and led her outside, closing the apartment door. They went down in the elevator and sat on a bench in the spacious lobby. Tanya said: “I want you to find out where Vasili is.”

He shook his head. “No.”

Tanya almost cried. “Why not?”

“I've just avoided being exiled to Kharkov, by the skin of my teeth. I'm in a new job. What impression will I give if I start making inquiries about a criminal dissident?”

“I have to talk to Vasili!”

“I don't see why.”

“Imagine how he must feel. He finished his sentence more than a year ago, yet he's still there. He may fear being forced to remain there the rest of his life! I have to tell him that we haven't forgotten about him.”

Dimka took her hand. “I'm sorry, Tanya. I know you're fond of him. But what good will it do to put myself at risk?”

“On the strength of ‘Frostbite,' he could be a great author. And he writes about our country in a way that encapsulates everything that's wrong. I have to tell him to write more.”

“So what?”

“You work in the Kremlin: you can't change anything. Brezhnev is never going to reform Communism.”

“I know. I'm in despair.”

“Politics in this country is finished. Literature could be our only hope, now.”

“Is a short story going to make any difference?”

“Who knows? But what else can we do? Come on, Dimka. We've always disagreed about whether Communism should be reformed or abolished, but neither of us has ever just given up.”

“I don't know.”

“Check where Vasili Yenkov lives and works. Say it's a confidential political inquiry for a report you're working on.”

Dimka sighed. “You're right, we can't just give up.”

“Thank you.”

He got the information two days later. Vasili had been released from the prison camp but for some reason there was no new address on file. However, he was working at a power station a few miles outside Irkutsk. The recommendation of the authorities was that he should be refused a travel visa for the foreseeable future.

Tanya was met at the airport by a representative of the Siberian recruitment agency, a woman in her thirties called Irina. Tanya would have preferred a man. Women were intuitive: Irina might suspect Tanya's true mission.

“I thought we could start at the Central Department Store,” Irina said brightly. “We have a lot of things you can't easily buy in Moscow, you know!”

Tanya forced enthusiasm. “Great!”

Irina drove her into the town in a four-wheel-drive Moskvitch 410.
Tanya dropped her bag at the Central Hotel, then let herself be shown around the store. Curbing her impatience, she interviewed the manager and a counter assistant.

Then she said: “I want to see the Chenkov power station.”

“Oh!” said Irina. “But why?”

“I went there last time I was here.” This was a lie, but Irina would not know that. “One of my themes will be how things have changed. Also, I'm hoping to reinterview people I saw last time.”

“But the power station has not been forewarned of your visit.”

“That's all right. I'd prefer not to disrupt their work. We'll look around, then I'll talk to people during the lunch break.”

“As you wish.” Irina did not like it, but she was obliged to do everything possible to please an important journalist. “I'll just call ahead.”

The Chenkov was an old coal-fired electricity-generating station, built in the thirties when cleanliness was not a consideration. The smell of coal was in the air, and its dust coated all surfaces, turning white to gray and gray to black. They were greeted by the manager, in a suit and a dirty shirt, clearly taken by surprise.

As Tanya was shown around she looked for Vasili. He should be easy to spot, a tall man with thick dark hair and movie-star looks. But she must not reveal, to Irina or anyone else nearby, that she knew him well and had come to Siberia to look for him. “You seem familiar,” she would say. “I believe I must have interviewed you last time I was here.” Vasili was quick-witted, and he would readily understand what was going on, but she would keep talking as long as possible, to give him time to get over his shock at seeing her.

An electrician would probably work in the control room, or on the furnace floor, she speculated; then she realized he could be fixing a power outlet or a lighting circuit anywhere in the complex.

She wondered how he might have changed in the intervening years. Presumably he still felt she was a friend: he had sent his story to her. No doubt he had a girlfriend here—perhaps several, knowing him. Would he be philosophical about his extended imprisonment, or enraged by the injustice done to him? Would he be pathetic, or rail at her for not getting him out?

She did her job thoroughly, asking workers how they and their
families felt about life in Siberia. They all mentioned the high salaries and rapid promotion consequent on the shortage of skilled people. Many spoke cheerfully of the hardships: there was a spirit of pioneering camaraderie.