"Are you having more headaches?" Rostnikov said panting from the workout, wiping his face with the moist corner of his gray sweat shirt.
Sarah didn't answer at first. She only shrugged, and then she muttered, "It comes. It goes. Nichevo. It's nothing."
At that point, she smiled, looking at him over her glasses. In one hand she held a knife. In the other, the possible cucumber he had purchased. He thought she looked quite beautiful.
"You should talk to your cousin Alex, the doctor," Rostnikov said, getting up slowly to keep his left leg from complaining.
"I'll call him tomorrow. You want to wash up? The chicken will be ready soon."
He grunted and went through their small bedroom to the bathroom smelling both his own sweat and the aroma of chicken. The tiny bathroom was Rostnikov's triumph. He had learned to repair the frequently broken toilet himself knowing that the building superintendent, whose job it was, would never get it done. He had learned to fix the almost-as-frequently functionless shower. He had begun his amateur exploits as a plumber out of a determination to triumph over adversity, but he had discovered that he enjoyed reading about conduits and pipes and plunge valves, that he enjoyed identifying the problem, locating its origin and repairing it. A few of the neighbors had even learned to come to him, though it was quite illegal to bypass the People's plumber for the district and everyone knew that you could almost never get one of the assigned repairmen to the building and if you did you would have to pay a bribe of at least five rubles to get any decent work done, even though the repairs were supposed to be free. The neighbors figured that since Rostnikov was a policeman the normal rules of the Socialist Republic did not necessarily apply.
They had encountered the system often enough to know that this was generally true. And the nice thing about Rostnikov was that he did not expect a bribe. He even seemed to enjoy himself when fixing a toilet or a sink.
Sarah had suggested to him that plumbing repair was just another form of detection with different tools.
"Yes," he had agreed, "but toilets are much simpler. They may complain and talk back but they don't make you weep. And when you find out what is wrong, you fix it. It is simple lonely detection."
She had understood. Sarah usually understood, Rostnikov thought as the cool water beat against his hairy chest. And he usually understood her. For months they had not spoken about leaving the country. He had tried, had even engaged in an attempt to blackmail the KGB, but he had failed and endangered both them and their son Josef. And so they had stopped speaking of leaving and Sarah had remained just as supporting and loving but her smile was not as ready, her step not as hopeful. And the headaches had come.
If Sarah were not Jewish, perhaps, she would not have thought, dreamed of leaving. It would not have entered her mind, but she was Jewish and their son Josef was, on his records, listed as being half Jewish and Rostnikov was identified as having a Jewish wife, all of which gave rise to the idea of leaving. Officially, the Soviet Union, whose Constitution, in Article 34, declares that all "Citizens of the USSR are equal before the law without distinction of origin, social or property status, race or religion," draws a distinction between Russians and Jews or Russians and other ethnic minorities. This distinction is made quite evident on the passports of Soviet citizens, and Jews are sometimes sneeringly called pyaty punkty, fifth pointers, because it is on the fifth line of the Soviet passport that nationality is indicated and the line on which a Jew is identified as being different from the rest of his countrymen.
Rostnikov turned slowly to let the water hit his lower back and then his leg. It would have felt better to have the water beat down, massage, but there was seldom enough water pressure for this to happen. Sometimes in the shower Rostnikov made a sound like singing or humming to tunes or near-tunes that ran through his head, but he did not feel like singing this night.
When he turned off the shower and stepped into the bedroom to dry himself, Rostnikov considered once again how best to tell Sarah about Siberia. It struck him, as it often did, that getting through life was a minefield and one did it successfully by constant worry or by developing a sense and sensitivity.
"Ready?" Sarah said calling to him.
"Coming," he replied with a sigh as he finished putting on his pants and tucked in his white pullover shirt.
Sarah was seated. The pot was steaming in the center of the table as it rested on a block of wood. The salad stood next to his plate and there were glasses of red wine. He tasted his and smiled.
"Saperavi," she said sipping from her own glass.
Like most Russian wines, Saperavi came from Georgia.
"You said you liked it," Sarah said, taking the lid off the pot and pointing to it, indicating that Rostnikov should eat.
"I like it very much, but it costs…" he began as he reached forward to serve himself.
"A celebration," Sarah interrupted.
"What are we celebrating?"
Sarah shrugged and looked at her plate.
"I don't know. Your favorite dish. Your favorite wine."
"You know the story about my cousin Leonora," he said after tasting the chicken and telling her it was delicious. "For some reason she thought I loved cold mashed potatoes. I don't know where she got the idea but she served me a plate of them one day when I came to visit herI couldn't have been more than twelve years old. It was before the warand I didn't have the heart to tell her that she was confusing me with someone else or something else I may have said. I seldom visited my cousin Leonora after that."
"When are you going?" Sarah asked softly, delicately removing a small bone from her mouth.
Rostnikov wanted to rise, hug her to him. Perhaps later.
"Tomorrow morning, early. A car will come for me."
"How long will you be gone?" she asked not looking at him.
"Not long, I hope," he said looking at her. "How did you know?"
"I don't know," she said with a sigh. "Perhaps it's because you acted this way two years ago when you were sent to Tbilisi on the black market business. You brought home a chicken instead of vegetables. And you told the same story about the mashed potatoes. Where are you going?"
"Siberia," he said and she looked up, fear in her wide brown eyes magnified by the glasses.
"No," he laughed. "It's work. A murder. I can't say more."
"Why you? Are there no inspectors in all of Siberia?" she said, continuing to play with her food and not eat it.
"Who knows?" Rostnikov shrugged. He picked up a piece of the cucumber thing in his fingers and took a cautious nibble. It wasn't bad.
"Who, indeed," Sarah said. "I'll pack with you. You always forget simple things like your toothbrush."
They said no more during dinner and finished the entire bottle of wine. After dinner they both cleared the dishes and when Sarah had finished washing them, he motioned for her to join him on the battered sofa in the living room. She dried her hands and came to him.
"Do you want to read, talk, watch television?" she asked. "Channel 2 has a hockey game on, I think."
There was a tightness above her eyes that troubled him. Rostnikov touched her forehead and she closed the eyes.
"I'd like to go to bed," he said. "And then we'll see."
She looked at him over her glasses and shook her head.
"You want to…?"
"Yes," he said. "And you?"
She smiled at him and the pain in her face faded a bit as she touched his rough cheek with her hand. It might be many days before he saw her again.
Rostnikov was ready, his Yugoslavian-made, blue-cloth zippered case at the door, when the knock came at precisely 7 a.m. the next morning. Sarah had already left for work and Rostnikov had been sitting at the window watching people on Krasikov Street shuffling to work or school or in search of a bargain.