In the army Komarov learned the old Russian saying and reversed it. Where he should have licked, he did lick; where he should have barked, he did bark. He kept his opinions to himself, praising officials even when he thought they were fools, as when Khrushchev knuckled under to Kennedy during the Cuban missile fiasco. The army gave Komarov comfort and discipline. The army gave him the chance his father never had. While gripping the knife tightly, he wished he’d had its power the night of the opera.
As a boy he would have wanted to be a Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev, not allowing himself to be duped the way the current administration allowed themselves to be duped. But perhaps, like all things in this modern world, the current situation was a charade, the talk of perestroika a ruse by Gorbachev to lure the movie actor Reagan into his clutches.
Komarov had seen much during his years in the KGB. Orthodox Church leaders working for the KGB after being compromised by Romeo agents. Spy planes collecting air samples routinely doctored by those being spied on. A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev.
How could he possibly accomplish it today? Perhaps Gypsies were the answer. Gypsies, after all, were much like the Muslims in Afghanistan-male-centered, out of touch with modern culture, using superstitious religion to undo the world. Gypsies allowed their children to smoke. He’d seen them in the slums of Moscow, eight-and nine-year-old boys smoking. Not girls. Boys. The boys in the culture growing up to overthrow governments. The boys of deviant societies bent on destruction while he went into the army and then into the KGB to serve Mother Russia.
Muslims and Gypsies. He’d known of a Hungarian CIA station chief code named Gypsy Moth. Perhaps the code name could be used again. Perhaps the cousin visiting the Horvath brothers had objectives beyond a familial visit. Western secret services actively recruited spies and provocateurs. Perhaps uncovering a network of spies and provocateurs was the key, someone hired by American intelligence to compromise a Chernobyl engineer.
“A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev,” he mumbled.
Komarov was not certain how long he had been on the porch, perhaps an hour, perhaps two. But he did know he had refilled his glass several times. He was now in the most comfortable state of his day, a euphoric state in which the cares of the past and present fade and the vodka has not yet completely taken over. It was difficult to maintain this feeling for long. But while it lasted, each evening, he felt it would last forever. Unfortunately, the bottle required one to become drunk and uncomfortable in order to pass through this state. He thought about this for a moment, tried to analyze the logic of it, then took another drink.
A noise in the bushes to his left. Komarov sat forward, put down his glass. A figure moved swiftly along the side, then the front of the porch. Komarov took the knife from his pocket. For an instant he thought of Chkalov, of militia vengeance. He recalled one of his agents, Allika, who had been mysteriously killed last year. He was out of his chair and had begun to open the knife when he recognized his son coming up the stairs.
“Dmitry!”
“What’s new, Pop?”
He slipped the knife back into his pocket, allowing it to close within its handle. “You frightened me.”
“What else is new?”
“Why don’t you use the front door?”
“Why do you sit out here every night?”
“Why do you always ask questions in response to mine?”
“Why do you always ask questions?”
It was no use. Komarov sat back in his chair, took a drink of vodka, lit a cigarette.
Instead of going into the house, Dmitry sat on the steps facing the yard. Komarov stared at the dark outline of his son. So thin he seemed unhealthy. His hair, cropped on the sides and long on top, sticking straight up. His damnable earring catching the light from the house.
“I got a job today,” said Dmitry.
“A job?” No. He must not sound overly excited. “What kind of job?”
“At the art museum in Kiev.”
“Which one? There are several art museums.”
“Not the Museum of Russian Art. This one’s a few doors away.”
“What matters is you’re employed, Dmitry.”
“So now you don’t have to say your son was kicked out of the university and he’s a parasite. Am I right? Is this why you’re so impressed?”
“No,” said Komarov. “I’m interested. Which museum is it?”
“Oriental and Western Art. I’ll work in the gift shop. Fyodor got me the job.”
Fyodor, the one Dmitry brought to dinner last month, the one who put his arm around Dmitry as they walked down the street.
Komarov took another drink, then another. His own son, the son of a major in the KGB, a homosexual. And now his… his what?
Mate? Bed partner? Lover? And now his son’s lover had gotten Dmitry a job.
“So, what do you think, Pop?”
“I think it’s good to have a job.” Komarov wanted to be alone with his vodka but knew he must go on, he must try despite the fact he had left the state of euphoria and was descending into the depths of drunkenness. “I also think relationships should be with the right people.”
“Like who?”
The wind blew across Komarov’s face, but he could not smell the air. All he could smell was the vodka.
“A long time ago,” said Komarov, “when I was stationed in East Berlin, there was a woman named Gretchen. Golden blond hair, eyes like fine crystal, skin soft and fair…”
Dmitry stood and walked to the back door.
“Where are you going? I was speaking!”
“I’ve heard this story before, Pop.”
“No. You… you couldn’t have.”
“I have. And so has Mom. You always talk about Gretchen when you’re drunk. You always tell us how she was murdered and what a hero you were to have avenged her death. You’re drunk like this every night. Go ahead. Try to stand up. See? You can’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. There are no Gretchens here.
I have my own friends. Telling me about the old days in Berlin when you used your whore, Gretchen, to lure poor bastards to be tortured doesn’t mean anything here. Maybe you killed the bastards she brought to you. Why don’t you get your gun and kill me? You can’t even get out of your chair!”
Komarov reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife. Before he could open it, Dmitry snatched it away.
“Ha! A knife! You pull a knife on your own son?”
Dmitry opened the knife, held the blade up to the light coming from the window. “Such a big knife for such a little man.” Then Dmitry stabbed the knife into the door frame and went into the house, leaving the back door to slam shut like the shot from a pistol.
Komarov held the arms of his chair and twisted to stare at the knife sticking out of the door frame, the knife he’d used so he could be where he was today. But where was he? Was this hell? Was there really a vengeful God? If so, why didn’t God kill the Gypsy landlord so he could live a different life? A life along the other path instead of this one with its marriage producing a homosexual son who, despite his appearance, had become stronger than him. What was a man?
Were the brutes Chkalov and Azef men? Was he a man?
Komarov picked up the vodka bottle, felt the weight of it, the heft of poison, of slow death. He would fight it. He would regain his manhood. Perhaps he would uncover a conspiracy at Chernobyl, a conspiracy involving the Horvath brothers. Gypsies, whose relatives dress and dance like women while others pick pockets. Gypsies, who converse in languages others cannot understand. Gypsies, who wear earrings. A world of symbols. A world in which a spy from American intelligence can, if he wants, squirm in the bushes like a snake and mount a surprise attack on a KGB official simply trying to get through another evening at his own home.