A short, exhaled laugh.
“Now I’m worried. You’re not giving me another damn animal to be responsible for?”
“Open it. And of course I’m embarrassed about the packaging. They don’t seem to prioritize wrapping paper in their supplies.”
He looks at her once more in order to give himself permission. He drags the package over and puts his hand in and pulls out a camera, a Zorki, a few years old, but in good shape. He detaches the lens and takes off the cap and holds it to the light, checking the surface for scratches, like a wine connoisseur sniffing the first glass from a new bottle.
“Artyom told me you liked photography. I mentioned it to a few people. We wanted to give you something, to show our gratitude. It wasn’t too difficult. Someone always has a cousin. There’s not much film, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to do some wangling of your own.”
He holds the gift and looks at his hands. He has done nothing other than his duty, his professional obligation. Even the acts of these people’s most intimate love will be tainted, their offspring inheriting their tragedy. This is what distresses him most. Nothing but bleakness ahead. How can he hold their gift in his hands? He lays it on the table before him.
Tanya leans over the table and clasps both her hands over his.
“You have done so much good here.”
“What good have I done? Look at the sickness around you.”
“This is a place where we have come to endure. You have helped to make it endurable. You have brought care into our lives. You cannot know how important this is.”
She takes the camera and places it in his hands.
“Now you can do something for me. I want to be photographed. I want something I can save for my children.”
He runs his fingers over the dials, his natural fluency returning in an instant.
He raises it to his eye and focuses on her.
She is confident, gazing straight into the lens, her pupils reflecting in the gentle light. She resists the urge to pose, and stays with her body open and unconsidered and, even before she does this, Grigory knew this would be the case, a quality that so few people have. She simply sits on her chair and talks to him as he makes his first steps back to a past life.
He begins to move as he shoots, opening the aperture and changing shutter speed on instinct, attuned to the light of the room. He varies his angles and positioning, and occasionally the shutters pause, taking a full second between their opening and release, and she holds her breath in these moments, the anticipation gathering everything in its stillness.
She speaks again.
“Look at me.”
She says this as he is pointing the lens right at her.
“Look at me.”
He narrows the focus so that her eyes fill the frame.
“You’re not listening. Look at me.”
He takes away the camera and looks at her, and she approaches and kisses him on the forehead and draws back and puts her gaze in his and clamps her hands around his face.
“You need to go back to her.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but she shakes her head, blanking out his impulse.
“This is not some kind of martyrdom. They’ll find another surgeon. You have done all you can do. Staying here any longer will break you. I have to be here. You don’t. You need to go back now.”
She kisses him on the lips. She kisses him tenderly but with nothing else behind it, no underlying want. An asexual kiss. Years since he has felt the touch of a woman’s lips.
Chapter 26
Maria and Alina sit at the table, pushing around some pork and cabbage with their forks. They sit and stare at the empty place. A plate in the oven. Yevgeni’s tuxedo washed and ironed and starched, hanging on the door. His shoes polished. They are showered. They have done each other’s hair. Their clothes are laid out also, in Alina’s room, all they need to do is put them on. This is supposed to happen after dinner. Alina has secretly been looking forward to dressing with her sister. It’s been maybe ten years since they got made up together, shared lipstick, consulted on fittings, applied eyeliner, the whole point of being a sister brought together in this ritual.
In forty-five minutes an official car will pick them up. They’ll drive on the green strip of the Chaika lane, passing all civilian traffic, which Alina has mentioned repeatedly to everyone at work, a thrill almost on a par with watching her son perform. They’ll pick up Mr. Leibniz and drive to the factory. Alina wanted to ride in the same car as Yakov Sidorenko; it would give them an opportunity to press Yevgeni’s case. She also just wanted to be in his presence, to sit with a man of such civility, maybe learn something from him, even smell him, the refinement of his cologne. Maria wouldn’t allow it, though, said it would place too much pressure upon Yevgeni, would fill him with dread. Mr. Leibniz concurred. So Alina accepted the situation and they will travel separately.
If they travel at all. All this is what they have planned, but they’re supposed to leave in forty-five minutes and Yevgeni isn’t home yet.
Yevgeni left Mr. Leibniz’s two and a half hours ago. He was due to be home ninety minutes ago at the latest. They push their cabbage around and listen for the key slotting into the lock and a mass of apologies. Their gazes drift toward the window, but it’s already too dark to see much. A son and nephew, wandering out there somewhere.
Other plans have been put in motion, plans that only Maria and a few select people are aware of.
Pavel had been right about his friend Danil. The man knows how to put things together. Her meetings with him took place in nondescript offices. The two of them alone. There are others in the planning group but Danil meets them individually, so their plans aren’t compromised. Each time, he arrived and talked through her instructions and listened to any insights or worries she may have had and addressed them then or, if not immediately, certainly at their next meeting. Maria was worried about food and water supplies; Danil has arranged that there are enough canned goods and bottled water in the stockrooms to last the entire factory a month. When she asked what would happen when they cut off the heating, Danil told her that they’d managed to smuggle in two generators for electricity and enough gas canisters and heaters to see them through the first few weeks. If things become entrenched, they can ration the hours they use the heaters, and all the protective clothing in the factory will provide decent warmth.
When Yakov Sidorenko is playing, Zinaida Volkova will take to the stage and announce the strike, reading out a list of their demands. They have men assigned to block the door and take care of Sidorenko, the ministerial consort, and the factory management. Any workers will be free to leave, but it will be made clear to them that they can’t return. At that point they’ll take Alina and Yevgeni from the building.
The two sisters have called Yevgeni’s school friends and knocked on the doors of some boys in the building that he knows. Nothing. Nobody knows where he could be. Mr. Leibniz says he wasn’t worried or distressed, that when he left he seemed ready, normal, cocky. This worries them both even more.
Maria asks herself if he could have been picked up. Does anyone else know about this? No. Danil is too good at what he does. She did as he said and asked around. His reputation didn’t fit that of a KGB mole; he has had too much success in agitation, and he doesn’t display the particular brand of dumb curiosity that they project, always asking questions, always interested in what’s going on. Danil knows not to inquire about things that don’t concern him. And he is trusted by the right people. For Maria’s first meeting, Danil arrived with Zinaida Volkova, and Maria knew that, from then on, she would be prepared to do whatever was necessary. Zinaida is a unifying figure who the entire factory will get behind, her credibility is beyond doubt. The workforce knows she’s not there to line her own pockets. And she’ll be effective. She’ll make a formidable leader and a strong adversary in negotiations. Danil left them alone, and Maria spent a couple of hours talking to her, impressed by the clarity of thought the old woman displayed, the directness of her language, the simplicity of her goals. She was looking for an independent trade union, voted for by the workforce in open elections. They would be free to hold open meetings and free to strike. “Everything will come from this,” Zinaida said, and Maria doesn’t doubt that these two demands are enough to open up a whole range of possibilities. She does doubt that they can gain these kinds of concessions: what they are asking for is a shift in ideology, an opening of previously closed doors. For all the talk of restructuring and openness, they’ll soon find out how far the programmes of glasnost and perestroika will stretch.