Hot Siberian (38 page)

Keeping down, he crept across the enclosure to the cardboard shipping containers. Their arrangement of some stacked upon others offered a sort of lair. Nikolai crawled in. A narrow space between containers allowed him to see the watchman approaching. Every clack of the watchman's leather-heeled shoes on the concrete floor was a subtraction. In a moment, Nikolai thought, there would be the flashlight's beam playing in through the steel mesh. These containers wouldn't conceal him for long. They were the obvious hiding place, probably where the watchman would first look. He was sure to be found. There would be the point of that pistol, hard words, some roughing up. What ultimately would be done with him, to him? He doubted it would be anything so benign as turning him over to the police.

The watchman was no more than twenty feet from the enclosure. But now he began humming a bright Slav song. He went past the enclosure to the wall across the way. He opened a door, pulled on a bare bulb, undid and shoved down his trousers, and sat on the toilet bowl. The flashlight turned out to be a rolled-up magazine that immediately distracted one end of the watchman while his other evacuated. The toilet door was open, and although Nikolai had an unimpeded view of the man he preferred not to look. He spent the time gazing into the side of the nearest cardboard container, listening to what Irina had to say about his behavior. She wanted to know what in the world he was doing there cowering on the hard bare floor of this Czech factory with the sounds of defecation in his ears. Was this what she had so conscientiously prepared him for? She didn't mind his being in love, but couldn't he be just normally, deeply in love? How quixotic of him to believe he could sneak in and rummage around a bit and come up with a handful of diamonds. A ridiculous notion. She was ashamed of his head for containing it. He should have asked her advice. She would have made him realize how irrational and extensively optimistic his reasoning was. She would have told him, as she had so often, “Communists don't get rich, they get comfortable.”

The flush of the toilet was too much for her. She was gone. Nikolai's mind became resynchronized with his eyes, registered what his eyes were fixed upon. He doubted what he saw. It was right there where he couldn't miss it, but too coincidental to be true. He waited until the watchman had returned to the front office. Then he switched on his flashlight and read clearly the Zuzana shipping label on one of the containers:

Boule de Cristal

131 rue de Paradis

Paris 10th arr. France

CHAPTER

20

THE LACK OF A SENSE OF PLACE THAT NIKOLAI HAD COMPLAINED
about to Savich was dispelled the moment he set foot upon the cobbles of Loundes Close. Gone so immediately and entirely that Nikolai wasn't sure that feeling had ever been valid or even his. Where he belonged,
rodina
or no
rodina
, was with Vivian no matter where in the world that might be. Stick a pin into any map for anyplace, as long as it was with her, within touch of her. Being beyond that range would always cause him to ache.

Now, marvelous fortune, he was only fifty familiar paces from her door. His insides, chest, groin, and head were overinflating with anticipation. Throughout the flight from Prague he'd managed to keep that feeling reasonably in check by reading snatches of a Gogol and gazing out at the night sky a lot. Constantly imposed on his consciousness, however, had been the happy fact that he was aimed at her and closing at five hundred miles an hour. When he'd allowed himself to dwell on her, which required a certain kind of enjoyable bravery, he'd envisioned her curled up on her sofa, emotionally distracted, unable to concentrate on anything, not even on handicapping tomorrow's races. It had occurred to him several times during the flight that she, uncanny as she was, might intuit that he was on his way and be sitting there waiting.

What hadn't occurred to Nikolai until now, this very second, was that Vivian might have had the lock on her front door changed. He tried the key. It slipped in nicely enough, but would it turn? If it did this time, never again would he doubt it. He felt the blade of the key meet the resistance of the bolt. The bolt seemed not so friendly, stubborn, perhaps unyielding. But then it retracted with its usual crisp, admitting snap and there was her cat, Ninja, at the top of the stairs. As soon as Nikolai saw Ninja there playing patient sphinx, he knew Vivian wasn't home. Ninja phlegmatically turned his head and gave a look that said, “Well, you're back are you?” but otherwise didn't budge a hair as Nikolai stepped over him.

Where could Vivian be? Where couldn't she be? The place was filled with her and empty. Tangerine peels that weren't yet dried were in the bowl on the table that served the sofa. There also was that day's newspaper opened to the page where the racing entries were listed. Evidently she hadn't been gone long, at least hadn't taken off in a cloud of despair for some distant attraction such as Macao.

Nikolai told himself he shouldn't stay. He'd relinquished his right to stay and would need to reestablish it. He'd go to his apartment, not walk the block fifty times. He'd go to his apartment and relax and try phoning no more than once an hour. For now he'd limit himself to just a look around. He went straight into the bedroom, straight to the closet she'd designated as his. His clothes and shoes and all were still there, exactly as he'd left them. He was ashamed of having half expected they'd be carelessly stuffed into a cardboard carton with his name scribbled on it for identification. He stood by his side of the bed and decided there hadn't been any encroachments. He went to the dresser to his assigned drawer. It wasn't the same. His socks and underwear and such were all folded and rolled and more neatly organized than ever. He saw love in that order. His toothbrush still stood with hers in the silver tumbler by the bathroom sink. That was most reassuring. His toothbrush would have been the first thing to go. At what point, he wondered, would she have ridded herself of all these remnants of him? No matter. He'd returned in time. Now he'd changed his mind. He'd sit on the top step and wait with Ninja.

No sooner had he pushed Ninja over to make room than he heard the slam of a car door just outside. It sounded like the door of a taxi, not a Rolls, he thought. Next was the sound of the bolt unlocking and then there she was, inside, preoccupied with securing the night latch. That done, she turned, glanced up, and saw him. For a long moment she remained fixed, eyes to eyes with him. It was as if each thought the other an apparition that would evanesce if a word was spoken. Finally she came up the stairs, and he moved aside to let her by. He believed he understood why she didn't greet him with an embrace and kiss. A mere embrace and kiss would not suffice.

She dropped her shoulder bag to the floor, plumped a couple of pillows with vigorous slaps and jabs, and sat on the sofa close to its right arm. Nikolai cautioned himself not to do anything she might interpret as assuming. He got up from the steps, came in, and took the chair across from her, as might a visitor who'd just happened to drop by.

“I'll make some tea,” she said.

Far from what he'd imagined would be their first words. “Not for me, thanks.”

“Perhaps later.”

At least there was going to be a later, Nikolai thought.

“How've you been?” she asked casually.

“How about you?”

“Not well,” she admitted matter-of-factly. “Not at all well.”

Nikolai tried a smile. “You look wonderful to me.”

There was a catch in her sigh. “I've had the dumps. Ever had the dumps?”

“What are the symptoms?”

“Mopes, fidgets, droops.” She touched the defining concavity between her collarbones. “A huge jam-up of woes right about here that keeps laughter from coming out. Ever had that?”

“It's been going around.”

“Nothing much one can do for it, I suppose. Just let it run its course. What did you do for yours?”

“Went to the dacha.”

“Oh, so that's where you were. I had most of the world and then some trying to find you. Even my lost-persons angels were at a loss. Were you at the dacha alone?”

The outfit she had on was new, Nikolai thought. At least he couldn't recall ever having seen her in it, and surely he would have remembered, because it was such a fierce yellow and the short skirt was so raunchy. He wanted to go over and lick her knees.

“I mean, you weren't with one of Lev's libidinous Finns or anyone, were you?”

Nikolai savored her jealousy. He looked away, as though his reply wouldn't hold up under her scrutiny.

“Don't be brutal with me, Nickie,” she implored. “I know I deserve it, but please don't be.” She let her plea hang between them until it had expended most of its fervency. “Are you wondering where I was tonight?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Sure it does. I hope it does.”

“What I meant is, it doesn't matter because you're here now.”

“I went to dinner and half a concert at Albert Hall with a school chum, a she, Millicent Millington. I hadn't spoken to her in years. Thought it might be healthful for me to renew some old ties, although none were ever what one might call a meaningful knot.”

“Half a concert?”

Vivian nodded. “Throughout dinner, and I mean practically every second from appetizer to demitasse, Millie Millie, as we used to call her, couldn't talk of anything other than
her
predicament. It was impossible for me to get in a word about you.”

“What was bothering her?” Nikolai asked, merely to maintain verbal momentum.

“About six years ago Millie Millie married splendidly to more than ample money, and she was, so she claimed, exceedingly satisfied with her life until one afternoon last fall when she dallied with a neighbor down in Sussex.”

“And, as it goes, she simultaneously fell out and into love.”

“Right. However, this neighbor happens to also be a wife. By now they're really into it. They get lost together during the hunts so they can have at it in the hedgerows. Millie Millie spared me none of the details. In fact she was so graphic it was sordid. It was like she'd found God and he has a clitoris.”

“What about her irises? I assume you had a look.”

Vivian had on her magnifying monocle. She fingered it, spun it by its stem. “I'd thought I might,” she said, “but there was no need. Millie Millie was so excited with her switch she was practically walleyed. Anyway, I begged off at intermission, said I had excruciating cramps.”

“Do you?”

“I was fibbing. Have you ever known me to have cramps? Besides, that or whatever has never stopped us.” In her unhalting manner without so much as a breath she ran right into another topic. “I'm sorry about how I behaved in Baden-Baden.”

“I shouldn't have run out on you.”

“Considering my abysmal behavior,
I
would have run out on me.” She lowered her eyes a fraction. “In fact, I more or less have.”

“I apologize for leaving you high and dry.”

“High and wet,” she corrected. “No matter, it's my blame. You can't have it, not even a smidgen of it. You sacrificed your precious Fabergé things for me and I pissed the money away.”

“Not without warning me that you probably would.”

“Don't let me off the hook. I was insensitive. I had a long tête-à-tête with my conscience, which if possible is something I normally avoid, and we agree, my conscience and I.I was insensitive.”

He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Viv, I didn't take off because you got caught up in a losing streak.”

“What could be worse?”

“I would have left even if you'd won a bundle.”

“That's worse.” She frowned.

“I was struggling with the future.”

She understood what he meant. She'd also done some struggling with it, wondering what they'd do when he got called back to Russia. Would she go with him? Would he want her to? Wouldn't their love be different there? She'd have to join up, wouldn't she? Become a Communist, pretend she disliked owning things? She'd have to get used to not having money coursing through her life. It was almost unimaginable. One of her beliefs was that thoughts were energy and whatever was thought of enough would become circumstance. On that basis she'd put this personal Armageddon out of mind.

“The future, you say?”

“It was giving me a very bad time.”

“Well, it's still there.”

“But I believe I can handle it now,” Nikolai told her.

“You think you can change me?”

“I don't want any changes.”

Relief alleviated the tension in her cheeks, and her mouth softened. “You shouldn't have to suffer even my venial sinning,” she said. “Hell, lover, I want to be good
for
you, not just
to
you.”

Her words were his. He remembered for the impact of comparison how vacant and dispirited he'd felt when he was away from her. He thought of how possibly he'd solved all their divergences in Prague. He glanced at the newspapers on the table, her many red-ink scratchings on the lists of racing entries. “Been winning?” he asked.

“I haven't been betting, just picking. My bookmakers must think I've gone blind. Gareth has been trying desperately to get in touch with me. The other day he was at my door. I didn't answer. No use tempting myself. Strangely, I seem to do better when all I do is pick.” Her expression clouded with consternation. She raised her chin to clear it away. “Actually I'm trying to wean myself out of horse-playing altogether.”

“Why should you?”

“Well …” She seemed unsure of which reason to give. “It recently occurred to me that financially demonstrating confidence in the swiftness of a handsome beast in the flesh was one thing, but there was no reason other than greed to put such faith in mere names and statistics. Besides, I don't lose well.”