He inserted his latest acquisition, a Dinah Washington, and pushed the button.
Neither Porfiry Petrovich nor Sarah spoke for the next ten minutes, because Rostnikov’s routine was a form of meditation. It involved the patient shifting of weights after each exercise, because Rostnikov did not have enough weights to leave them on the bar after each set. He followed the same routine for each session so that it required no thought, so that he could lose himself in the distant realization of the music and the concentration on each pull of his muscles.
His clean and jerk was awkward because of his leg, though he could manage almost two hundred and thirty pounds. He could do a dead lift of three hundred and forty pounds, but he did it with all the weight on his right leg. Even so, Rostnikov was sure that he could significantly increase that amount if there were room to store more weights in the cupboard. Since his weights were limited, he had to settle for increasing his repetitions, which led to a very long routine. This was the abbreviated sequence. He would rise early in the morning and lose himself in the longer, more satisfying routine.
The music penetrated him as he moved. A voice, high and sad, yet powerful, sang of love for sale and claimed that “nothing ever changes my love for you.” Rostnikov counted without counting; his body told him when he had reached his limit. When his face turned red, his veins ridged high and purple along his arms and forehead, and his breath came in short puffs, then he would do two more.
It was at that moment of satisfaction that Sarah turned away, unable to watch the combination of pain and ecstasy on her husband’s face.
“Finished,” he said, wiping his forehead with his towel and reaching over to the cassette recorder. He let Dinah Washington finish her line and punched the button.
Eight minutes later, after Rostnikov had taken a very quick cold shower and shave and changed into his good suit, they ate and talked of the dead priest, and of Sarah’s cousin Aaron who had just received permission to emigrate to Israel. She had not meant to talk of Aaron, but somehow it had come up.
“They will never let me go, Sarah,” Rostnikov said, enjoying his food, though he could taste the missing ingredients in his mind. He appreciated what she must have gone through-the lines, the battles-to get half of a chicken. “Even with the new open emigration. They will never risk my telling their secrets.”
“What is lost by trying?” she said.
“Perhaps nothing,” he answered. “Perhaps our lives.”
“Things are different now,” she said gently.
“Faces in the Kremlin are different. The names of nations, cities, streets are different. People are the same. I know a seventy-year-old thief named Misha who changed his name to Yuri, got his teeth fixed, and began to wear decent clothes. People commented on how respectable he looked but-”
“But,” Sarah concluded, “he continued to be a thief.”
“I’ve told you about Misha before,” he said, using his spoon to find the last sweet remnant of sauce.
“Several times,” she said. “With a different point each time. This time you were unusually cynical.”
“I m sorry.”
“You are and you are not,” she countered with a smile. “You want me to be happy, but you have never wanted to leave Russia.”
“Iosef-”
“-is a grown man,” Sarah said. “We would ask him to join us.”
“And if he said no?”
“You would persuade him to say yes.”
He shrugged and ate. This could lead to dangerous words that could end the fragile mood of the evening. “We must go,” he said, standing. “This was wonderful, amazing, delicious. We will clean it up later, but we must go.”
There was no question of taking the metro. Traffic had thinned. No rain had fallen. The night was chilly and the sky clear. This was a special night, a night for cabs.
Pravda had said the play would start, as most plays started, at seven, but Iosef had asked them to come earlier. “Earlier,” as it turned out, was five minutes before curtain time.
Iosef was standing on the street without a coat looking for them as the cab pulled up. “You are late,” he said, helping his mother out of the cab.
Iosef stood a head taller than his father, and though he would one day fall victim to hereditary thickness, he was now, just a few months out of the army, lean and looking very much like his mother. There was a touch of makeup on his face, which Rostnikov found disconcerting for an instant.
“You look quite beautiful,” Iosef said to his mother as Rostnikov stepped out of the cab after paying the driver.
“See,” Rostnikov said. “I told you.”
Sarah smiled and Iosef guided them past the ticket takers and to their seats in the crowded little theater. They were on the aisle to the right of the stage so Porfiry Petrovich’s leg would have more room.
“I’ll come back for you after the show,” Iosef said.
The audience was of all ages, but mostly young.
Iosef had gone halfway up the aisle when he returned to say, “I think it still needs some work, mostly the opening. It may be a little slow. Be patient.”
“Go, act,” said Rostnikov, touching his son’s arm.
A few moments later the audience grew silent as the houselights went down and the curtain parted.
On the stage were three young soldiers and an older man who looked like an Arab in a strange but familiar uniform. The Arab was tied to a chair.
In the first act of the play the three soldiers argued about how they should deal with the man in the chair, who was an Afghan rebel. One soldier wanted to kill him, recounting the brutality of the rebels. Another soldier, played by Iosef, wanted to torture him for information. The third soldier wanted to let the man go.
The Afghan, speaking in broken Russian, claimed that he was not a rebel, that he knew nothing.
At the end of the act the Afghan and the soldier who wanted to save him were alone on stage, and the Afghan admitted that he had killed Soviet soldiers and would; if he were not executed, do it again till his country was free.
The compassionate soldier said that the Afghan reminded him of his own father.
The dilemma for the compassionate soldier was evident as the curtain came down. On one hand, loyalty to his country and his fellow soldiers; on the other, sympathy for a man who reminded him of his father, a man who behaved out of principles far more clear than those of the Soviet soldiers. The compassionate soldier now had a terrible secret.
The audience applauded politely, then headed for the snack bar.
“Iosef is a good actor,” said Sarah.
“The one playing Vasha, the compassionate soldier, is a fine actor,” said Rostnikov. “You like the play?”
“Of course,” said Sarah. “He’s afraid you won’t like it.”
“I’ll tell him the truth,” Rostnikov said.
“If necessary, lie,” said Sarah, and she kissed his cheek.
“So far I like it,” he said as they moved up the aisle with the crowd.
When they reached the line for the snack bar, someone behind them said, “Don’t you return telephone calls?”
Both Rostnikov and Sarah knew who they would see before they turned, and since Lydia Tkach had been so loud; many others turned with them. Lydia was wearing a green dress with a green necklace that was almost lost in the ruffles around her neck. In her right hand she carried a rather wrinkled coat.
“It is good to see you,” Rostnikov lied. “You have met my wife, Sarah.”
“Of course,” shouted Lydia, taking Sarah’s hand. “Jewish lady with the brain tumor. It is good to see you again.”