“Your flight finished about two weeks ago?” asked the woman.
“Yes. I have traveled since then. I feel I have traveled more since I returned than I did in space.”
“Have you been to London before?” asked the man.
“I am only ever in Russia, except for launches. I was born in Ukraine. A communal farm.”
“Any brothers or sisters?” asked the woman.
“Yes.” Leonid closed and opened his eyes. The lids felt heavy. “No. No brothers or sisters. That is how I think of my fellow cosmonauts. We have spent much time together. As family.”
“We met John Glenn,” said the man.
“Well, we were in the same room as him,” said the woman.
“He’s so quiet. Like you.” The man squeezed Leonid’s shoulder. “But also like you, he has a sort of presence about him. Maybe it comes from seeing the world as something small. Literally seeing it. There are what, ten of you who’ve shared that perspective?”
“Nadya met Glenn and Shepard in America.”
“You know her?” asked the man. “But of course you know her. It’s just hard to imagine her as an actual person. Like with the President. Or Khrushchev in your case.”
“I know Khrushchev, too, but not well. Nadya is in this hotel.”
The woman looked up, as if searching for Nadya above them. Leonid looked up, too, which set the ceiling atwirl. He wobbled on his stool. One of the Americans, he did not see which, reached out and steadied him. Leonid lowered his head and braced himself against the bar. The surface felt frigid. Was the air here conditioned? He looked around for vents, but had trouble bringing anything farther away than the bar top into focus.
“I’m sure you’re tired of this question by now,” said the woman, “but can you tell us what it’s like to fly into space?”
“Hmmm?” said Leonid. He twisted his head to see her and blinked until her face unblurred. “Ah, it’s a great thrill, the ride up on the rocket. It’s as if the whole Earth trembles, and then you pull away from the ground, but the trembling doesn’t stop. At last, the engines cut off, and you float up against the straps of your seat. Only then do you dare a peek out of the little round window, filled with black sky and the orb of the Earth, blue strung with white clouds.”
This was a paraphrase of Nadya’s description of space, the other Nadya, the one with whom he used to flirt. Her description, amended by the cosmonauts to follow, was used by the twins back on the ground to describe spaceflight.
“It sounds like quite an adventure,” said the man. “What about the rocket? What is it like? We’ve seen a model of the capsule here in London, but it’s suspended from the ceiling and we couldn’t get a good look.”
“If you can keep a secret, comrades,” said Leonid, “I’ll tell you. The capsule is quite a bit simpler than that. What you saw is the product of artists, not scientists. The real thing is more like a great metal volleyball. You play volleyball in America, yes?”
“I believe we invented it,” said the woman.
“Excellent, excellent. We play in Star City, when there is time. Outdoors when the weather is nice. Giorgi’s always organizing a game of volleyball. The capsule is like that, like a volleyball.”
“Who’s Giorgi?” asked the man.
“Who?” asked Leonid.
“You just mentioned someone named Giorgi.”
“Ah, yes. He’s a colleague. One who likes to play volleyball.” Leonid laughed and tried to smile, but he had difficulty feeling the shape of his face. He was not sure if the muscles had moved at all.
“What about the inside of the capsule?” asked the man. “Is it really like in films?”
Leonid shook his head. “I haven’t seen American films. It’s not like the spaceships in Russian films, but not so different, I suppose. If you were to look at the inside without a manual to instruct you, it would be the same sort of nonsense they make up for fiction.”
The woman placed her hand on Leonid’s wrist.
“If you ever make it to America,” she said, “we must take you to see a film.”
“Let us!” Leonid raised his glass, almost slopping the little bit of remaining Scotch onto the bar.
“How do you pilot the capsule?” asked the woman.
Leonid realized she looked a little bit like Nadya. He could have confused the two in a dark room, or outside at night. The man, though, looked like no one. He looked specifically as if he was supposed to look like no one, every feature of average size and nominal placement. Maybe instead of no one, the man looked like everyone, a twin to all of humanity.
“The capsule,” said the man.
“Ah yes. There’s Chayka.”
“What’s that?” asked the woman.
“It’s the attitude con—”
“Greetings.” A clipped voice came from behind them.
Leonid turned. It was Ignatius. He noticed that half of her jacket’s fur collar was flipped up. He reached back to adjust it, but she brushed his hand away.
She asked, “Who are your friends, Leonid?”
The couple did not turn around to face her.
“We just met here at the bar,” said Leonid. “I’m afraid I can’t recall their names.”
The couple did not offer them.
“I hate to cut your conversation short,” said Ignatius, “but you must prepare for your next engagement, Leonid. Let me pay for your drinks.”
“They’re on us,” said the woman.
“Very kind of you,” said Ignatius. “Please note that there’s a mirror behind the bar.”
The man and woman had been looking down, but now they lifted their faces and met the reflection of Ignatius’s gaze. Leonid looked between the three of them. He was the only one to move at all.
“You know my face,” said Ignatius to the Americans, “and I know yours. It would be best if we were never to see each other again. Come, Leonid.” She gripped his elbow and guided him away from the bar.
In the lobby, she pulled him into a nook where a black telephone hung from the wall. Her expression did not change, but she locked her eyes on to his. He glanced away under the intensity of the stare, but she did not relent. After a few seconds, he looked back.
“You’re not to drink in public,” she said. “You’re not to talk to anyone you don’t know unless I’m there with you.”
“You sound like a mother.” Leonid had been enjoying his time at the bar.
“How would you know what a mother sounds like?” asked Ignatius.
The irritation left him as if spilled. Whatever enjoyment he had felt was replaced in an instant with melancholy. His face, still mostly numb, slackened. He looked down to a corner of the alcove.
Ignatius placed her hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch, comforting.
“Leonid,” she said. “Those weren’t new friends you made at the bar. They were American agents. Spies.”
Leonid kept staring at the corner. “Surely you’re wrong.”
“Did you not notice that the conversation shifted from English to Russian?”
Leonid thought back. The transition had been so seamless, the couple’s Russian so perfect.
“Don’t feel too bad,” said Ignatius. “I’m fairly sure that they drugged you. Did you tell them anything?”
“I think I was about to.”
“Then let us celebrate the good timing of my arrival. Next time, the drinks are on me.”
Ignatius placed two fingers on his chin and turned his face to hers. She was smiling, lips pressed a little too tight. He recognized the expression from Grandmother, one he had always identified as concern mixed with happiness at having something to be concerned about. Ignatius had her own agenda, yes, and he did not trust her. He could not. But she was an ally, which might turn out to be more reliable than a friend.