"By that I mean, Vanyush, that… but don't be angry… I have to tell you… it's not their tongues those interpreters use for their work there. They use something else. That's why they're well paid."
"Hey, Sasha! You shouldn't have drunk wine after vodka. Mixing the two's confused your brain. You're talking nonsense. It's laughable listening to you."
"Don't listen if you don't want to. But the fact is I'm telling you the truth. And what's more, I'm not drunk at all. Down there, buried in your countryside, you know nothing. But I traipse all over Moscow with my crutches, through all the entrance gates; so they can't fool me. 'Night duty.' Are you kidding? Those businessmen have their way with the interpreters. They're there to service them!"
"That's filthy gossip! So you are saying they're all prostitutes?"
"You can call it what you like. There are prostitutes in business on their own account. The militia hounds them from pillar to post. And then there are the others, the official ones, if you like. They're real interpreters, with diplomas, work permits, salary, the lot. By day they interpret and by night they service the capitalists in return for dollars."
Semyonov was growing heated, he had a tousled and angry air. "He's not drunk," thought Ivan, "and suppose what he says were true…?"
With a forced laugh he said: "But Sasha, why the devil would the State go in for this nasty business?"
They began arguing again. With the feeling that something inside him was dying, Ivan realized that Semyonov was speaking the truth. And in his fear of believing him he jumped up, knocking over his glass, and with a hoarse shout grabbed hold of the man. He let go at once, so pitiful and light did his crippled body feel. Semyonov began yelling: "You idiot, don't you understand? I'm trying to open your eyes. You strut about like a peacock with your shining Star. You don't understand that we've been had. We'll go together tomorrow. I'll shpw you this 'night duty.' I know one of the guys in the cloakroom at the Intourist Hotel. He'll let us in… Yes, I promise you, they'll let us in, you'll see. I'll go without crutches, I'll take a stick. Here, take a look at this artificial leg I have…"
Semyonov scrambled off the chair onto the floor, rummaged under the bed and pulled out a metal leg with a huge black leather shoe. It seemed to Ivan as if he were living through a horrible and absurd dream. Semyonov let himself fall back on the bed and began to fit on his false leg, calling out: "I'm only a half-portion. What goddamned good am I to anyone? They gave me the false leg for free. If you wear it for a day your stomach bleeds all week. But for you, Vanya, I'll put it on. Tomorrow you'll see, I'll show you what your Star's worth…Under a warm quilt with my wife, you said… Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The cloakroom attendant let them settle down in a dark corner, hidden behind the dusty fronds of a palm tree growing in a big wooden plant holder. From there could be seen the elevators, a small part of the restaurant, and, through the dark French doors, the rear courtyard filled with trash cans from the kitchen. Also visible were the two panels of the sliding doors to the inner entrance hall that opened automatically. That evening, possibly because of the wet snow, these doors were not working properly. They kept opening and closing all the time, with a mindless mechanical obedience, even when no one came near them.
Ivan was sitting beside Semyonov behind the palm tree, on the polished wooden planks that concealed the radiators. Semyonov was leaning sideways with his rigid leg stretched out. From time to time he gave explanations to Ivan in a low voice: "There, you see, in the basement behind the cloakroom, they have a valyutka, a currency bar. It's reserved for capitalists. And the girls, of course. You see that couple there walking toward the elevator? And there, look at that tight-fitting dress. She's going to go with him. Ten minutes' work and she'll pocket what you used to earn in a month driving trucks."
Ivan saw people coming and going who were unusual not only in their language and clothes but even in the way they moved.
Silently the elevator doors opened and closed. A very young girl ran up to the cloakroom, meowing like a cat: "You wouldn't have a packet of Marlboros, would you?"
"He trades, that one. He's no fool," Semyonov explained to Ivan. "She doesn't want to spend her currency, and maybe she hasn't earned it yet. She's very young…"
A large, dazzling woman sailed past, her bosom opulent beneath a fine knit dress. She walked on heels so high and pointed that her calves looked as if they were tensed with cramp. A young man in an elegant suit, a newspaper in his hand, stopped near the cloakroom desk. He exchanged a few offhand words with the attendant, glancing now at people emerging from the lifts, now at those entering the hotel. "A guy from the KGB," whispered Semyonov.
Ivan was wearied by the uninterrupted parade of faces and the mechanical creaking of the malfunctioning door. The blond woman in the tight dress emerged from the elevator and made for the cloakroom. "Job done," thought Ivan. The woman put on some lipstick in front of the mirror and headed for the exit. Absently he watched her go.
At that moment Ivan saw Olya.
She was walking beside a tall man, whose face Ivan did not have time to notice, such was the fascination with which he was staring at his daughter. Olya was talking to her companion, relaxed and natural. Semyonov nudged Ivan with his elbow and murmured something to him. Ivan heard nothing. He felt a horrible tensing inside himself and a salty taste tightening his jaws. He understood he ought to react, leap up, cry out, but he could not. When he began to hear again he caught a remark of Semyonov's: "They're talking German, Ivan, can you hear…?"
At the same moment the elevator doors began to slide shut behind Olya and her companion. Reflected in the mirror in the cabin, Ivan saw a man's face with short gray hair, neatly trimmed. The elevator doors closed smoothly.
Ivan tried to get up but was overcome with such a fit of trembling that his knees gave way. And once more he felt a salty lump in his throat. He had never before experienced such a painful, almost physical pang. He did not realize that what he was suffering from at this moment was a kind of jealousy.
Semyonov tugged at his sleeve, exclaiming in a muted voice: "Vanya, Vanya, what is it? What's the matter with you? You've gone as white as a sheet…"
Stunned, Ivan gazed at him without seeing him and, unable to control a quivering at the corner of his mouth, breathed softly: "That's my daughter."
4
"He's called Wilfried Almendinner… No, not 'Almendinner,' what am I saying? Almendinger… There's a surname for you! A real tongue twister! We're going to take a great interest in him. Svetlana was supposed tq be looking after him. But she's on sick leave, you see. As to conversation, don't worry. To begin with, your German is perfectly adequate, and in any case he speaks Russian. He was here in the war. He was taken prisoner in the Ukraine and learned the language while they were rebuilding Leningrad. I'm telling you this, Olya, to give you a certain amount of background, so you can prepare yourself a little psychologically But when you're talking to him, of course, you're not supposed to know this. In any case you know your business and you don't need me to remind you of it."
Vitaly Ivanovich took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He had a weary and disappointed air. Ever since the winter he had been looking forward to the blissful torpor that awaited him on the beach at the KGB's vacation home beside the Black Sea. And suddenly everything was turned upside down, the spring and summer vacations had been put back to the fall and the order had been given to prepare for the International Festival of Youth and Students.
"They're all going to be gathering here, the whole pro-Communist rabble," Vitaly Ivanovich swore internally. "And because of them, I'll have no vacation. What bizarre routines we're falling into. Almost every year there's something: one year it's the Olympic Games, then it's conferences, now this festival… They come here to make love. It's 'Workers of the world, copulate!' This festival's a farce! If only I could take my leave in September, at least I could go mushroom picking. But no! I'll get it around the new year…"