Hot Siberian (31 page)

Her last vague thought before sleep was that perhaps she'd have better luck if she tried making borshch.

CHAPTER

17

AT THE VERY MOMENT WHEN SLEEP TOOK VIVIAN, LIKE THE
other half of a barter three thousand miles away, it gave up Nikolai. He came awake suddenly, sharp awake with his senses fully receptive. Since he'd arrived at the dacha a week ago the nights and mornings had been like that for him. No matter how late he stayed up he awoke at about the same time, when the sky was still dark. It was as though his consciousness had to precede the dawn, not allow the day and its choices to arrive before he had a chance to summon up resistance.

He lay there by the open window of his bedroom and watched the coming sun extinguish the stars. Where now, he wondered, were all the tiny creatures that had been so vociferous in the black of night? Had they lost their courage now that they might be visible, were they cowering down among the blades, beneath leaves and logs, squeezed by fright into any available crack? He listened. The stillness of the early morning was contradicted only by the running of the stream and two caws from a distant crow. He wished he would hear someone moving about downstairs, the sound of water being drawn, the clunk of a kettle being put on the stove, the wonderful, providing smell of something being cooked, anything. He wished to hear humming from down there. Irina used to hum as she went about. Her own private orchestra in the back of her throat. Vivian had also been a hummer, especially when she was busy doing housekeeping things in Devon. Not so much in London, though.

Nikolai was able to think of Vivian now without feeling so much of a protesting ache in him. It had been the right thing for himself, his coming here to the dacha, where there was no phone, no one. He couldn't have chosen a better place to do his battle. The hard work had helped, the way he'd driven his body in spite of his mind. He'd sawn and split three stacks of logs for next winter's fires, telling himself he would be coming here more now. He'd also completed the dry stone wall that had been his father's final project. It was a more difficult task alone, Nikolai found. He'd wrestled and leveraged into position with a greenwood pole the huge rocks needed for the footing and then lugged other rocks to the site and used a ten-pound sledge to break them into the needed shapes with flat faces.

For something more to do at night he had rearranged most of the furniture. It was while moving his mother's heavy chest of drawers that he discovered the letters. They were in the shallow space between the frame and the underside of the bottom drawer, could not have just fallen there. The letters were addressed to Irina. There were ten, bound by a piece of common string. The earliest was dated 1950 and postmarked Kiev. The most recent, on better-quality stationary, was 1961, with a Moscow postmark.

Nikolai's automatic inclination was to read them, but then he reasoned that out of respect to Irina he shouldn't. They had been secretly kept by her; they should remain her secret. He returned them to their hiding space and regretted having disturbed them, because now he knew they were there, would always know. It was like some of their indelible substance, whatever it was, had come off on his hands. He silently asked Irina if she would mind his reading them. It seemed she gave permission. As Vivian would say, it was probably Irina who had led him to move the chest of drawers in the first place. He got the letters out again, could have easily broken the string, but took time to pick loose the tight little knot Irina had made. He read by the light of a kerosene lamp:

My precious
—

Last night you began with

doubt that I honestly cared

for you. Then, influenced by

sensation, you were sure of

me. You tried to leave me

with that impression; perhaps

even now you believe you

succeeded. However, when

you turned your head to

exchange our parting look

I translated your eyes and

read the incertitude in them
.

Again, it seems, you are

giving in to what you feel

is the insufficiency of our

arrangement. Please measure

the passion we share and

remember it was that which

brought us to enter one another
.

I beg you, do not be confounded

by my fickle nature, or, for that

matter, feel the need to exonerate

it
.

It was typewritten and unsigned, not even initialed. Why should it be, Nikolai thought, when only Irina needed to know who it was from? And how surely she must have known! All the letters were equally brief, little more than notes, really. Their content quite similar: Ardor and admission. Apparently all were from the same well-educated person.

Nikolai read each of the ten letters a second time, more slowly, trying to extract from them any indication of what his mother must have felt. He was stunned and intrigued and touched by this disclosure that she'd had a lover over all those years, 1950 to 1961, and perhaps before and perhaps after then. Had there been other letters? Only these kept for some reason, possibly because they contained no mention of name or place and if found would only incriminate her? Nikolai wondered. What had happened after 1961? Had the affair been suddenly broken off, or had the heat of it eventually cooled to the point where the cautions of infidelity became too demanding? Who had this man been? Where was he now? Would he know, would he care, that Irina was no longer alive? With only the handwriting and manner of expression to go on, Nikolai could only idealize an image, one that he kept changing, improving for his mother's sake.

Irina and passion.

As a youth Nikolai had had the commonplace blind spot that prevented him from accepting an erotic side to his mother. When he reached adulthood, his imagination, of course, was realistic, although not graphic about it. Never had he anticipated such intimate proof as these letters. They elicited fantasies that were conceivably what had occurred: Irina readying, prettying herself for an assignation, hurrying to it, stealing the time for it with one excuse or another, sharing a greeting kiss with the accumulated want in it, eagerly undressing or enjoying being undressed, stimulated by the taboo of her own afternoon nudity, relinquishing it, opening that special part of her through which Nikolai had been created and out of which he had come. The more Nikolai imagined, the more voluntarily erotic Irina became. He decided it made him happier for her. It also helped genetically explain his own passionate disposition and allowed him to credit it not so entirely to the effect Vivian had on him.

Now on the seventh morning of his self-imposed exile he got up from the bed hoping he'd left most of his loneliness in it. He put on a pair of old canvas sneakers, some khaki shorts, and a sweatshirt. Downstairs, he took a basket from its hook on a beam and went out. By the time he'd gone twenty steps down the incline, the night wet of the grass had his sneakers soaked and his feet chilled. He paused at the edge of the stream to take stock of his emotional condition and thought he felt fairly good. He had no dislike for the day. During his pause he happened to glance down to a small, shallow landlocked pool. There were, he saw, minnows in it, a dozen or so. They were startled by his looming presence and darted from side to side seeking escape. It would not take long for that pool to go dry, Nikolai thought. He knelt and dug with his hands, scooped away pebbles and sand to create a channel that connected the isolated pool to the main stream. A way out. The minnows would find it.

Feeling somewhat better, Nikolai continued on across the stream and entered the woods. It would be a while before the sun would warm there. Ghostlike wisps were around the trunks of the trees as though resting from their swirls. Nikolai saw wild boar hoofprints. A wild boar was not to be messed with. A short way farther on Nikolai found what he was searching for. Fresh up out of the rich mulched soil. They were
podberyozoviki
, brown-capped mushrooms. More than enough to fill his basket.

He took the mushrooms back to the house, carefully washed, peeled, and sliced them, and sautéed them in butter with some onions. He ate them along with the last of the dark bread and made himself admit it was a better breakfast than any English sausage and eggs no matter who cooked them. While his breakfast settled he sat on the porch and read ten pages of Turgenev's
On the Eve
. In Russian. Then, as though a time had been reached, he went inside and straightened up the kitchen, packed the few things he'd brought, and got into the rented Niva. He took a moment to thank the house before starting the car and heading for Leningrad.

When he arrived at the apartment he knew at once Lev was there. A playful female voice came from Lev's room. Nikolai didn't try to be quiet, went about normally, opened one of the windows, went through his mail. Within a few minutes Lev came out. He left his door open. His bed was in view, but Nikolai didn't look in.

“Someone pulled out the telephone,” Lev informed him. “It was like that when I got here about an hour ago.”

Nikolai nodded and concealed his lack of concern with a moment of attention to the telephone wire, which was a pile of loops on the floor. “Who's that with you, Kecia?” he asked, just to get onto a different subject.

“No, Kecia went home to Helsinki.”

“As you predicted.”

“She sent me her pretty cousin, Ula.”

“That was decent of her.”

“From what I understand it's a large family.” Lev grinned, then asked: “How is it you're here in Leningrad again so soon?”

“Just business, a small emergency.”

“How long will you be around?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Must be hard on your London lady,” Lev commented. He got two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and went back into his room, closed the door.

Nikolai attended to the telephone. He hadn't yanked out the wires but merely unscrewed the cover of the wall plug and disconnected them. He'd done it to protect himself from himself, to make it that much more difficult for him to dial Vivian. He believed he was in good enough shape to handle it now. He reconnected the wires. The phone, like some creature revived, rang immediately. She, Nikolai thought, surely it would be she. His insides were wrenching, there was the voltage of a quiver on the back of his neck, his earlobes felt as though they were about to catch fire. He wasn't ready to hear her, he knew, nowhere near ready.

The phone rang insistently. Nikolai sat there within reach of it, paralyzed by ambivalence. It stopped ringing, and worse then was the giving up conveyed by its abrupt silence. When, after a short while, the phone rang again, Nikolai gazed at it and thought how one simple motion on his part could span him to her. His hand seemed disobedient. It picked up the receiver and brought it to his mouth and ear. The hello that came from him was courageously crisp.

It was a call from Moscow. One of Savich's secretaries told him to remain on the line. Savich came on. “I've been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I'm on holiday,” Nikolai explained.

“So Valkov said.”

“Is there a problem?”

“That was to be my question.”

It had something to do with Churcher, Nikolai thought, probably Churcher's concern about that packet of contraband Aikhal diamonds. He should have written a meeting report, hadn't only because he'd been so distracted. Now Churcher had taken his howl to Savich and mentioned that meeting and brought attention to this gap in Nikolai's conscientiousness. There was no excuse for it and he didn't feel like trying to invent one.

“I had a call from your Vivian,” Savich said.

That was it? Nikolai was twice relieved. That it didn't concern the Churcher matter and that Vivian had gone to such an extent. He had begun to feel his distress was exclusive. “What did she have to say?”

“I didn't take her call or return it yet,” Savich said. “I thought I should first speak with you. What is it, Nikolai? Are you in trouble of some sort?”

“No, no trouble.”

“I sense you are.”

“It's only something personal.”

“Of course it is. The best thing for you would be someone's ear. Whom do you have to confide in?”

“My friend Lev,” Nikolai replied automatically, but then realized he didn't have Lev at the moment. At this critical moment Lev was in pleasure, oblivious to all else, way over on the opposite side of feeling.

“Come down here,” Savich directed.

Why should Savich be interested in his personal life? Nikolai thought. Anyway, how could he possibly open up to Savich? There'd be the unease, the self-consciousness of imposition. And embarrassment. Still, for some reason, Nikolai felt drawn to Savich's offer. “When would be convenient for you?” he heard himself ask.

“I leave for Paris early tomorrow,” Savich said. “I'll be gone for ten days.”

“My situation can wait.”

“No. Catch a flight down this afternoon. Take the five-o'clock.”

“Really, it's not that urgent. Besides, the five-o'clock will be all booked by now.”

“There'll be a seat for you.”

“I'll be on it.”

“You'll be met.”

CHAPTER

18

THE AMBER HEADLIGHTS OF THE GOVERNMENT LIMOUSINE
were on flash.

Up ahead on Moscow's Highway M10, ordinary cars cleared over so the limousine could have the outside lane to itself. At every intersection uniformed militiamen held back other traffic. The black Zil pressed its official prerogative all the way into the city proper, where the M10 became Gorky Prospekt. Its driver was blasé about doing eighty-some on congested Gorky. Its passenger was of a similar frame of mind. Any other time Nikolai would have gotten on the intercom and ordered the driver to slow, but as circumstances were, such peril felt appropriate. He just sat back, ignored his undone seat belt, and gazed out the tinted side window at the sepia blur of everything. That he could see out while no one could see in at him also seemed a suitable condition.