Lev didn’t much care for the looks of me done up. He accepted it when we went out to restaurants or on other special occasions, but he preferred me in what he called my natural state, with dirt riming every ridge and my hair tied up in a bun. You have to understand, I didn’t let him keep me from proper hygiene, but I took special pleasure in getting ready now, knowing he wouldn’t be around to pout or moan about my hairspray. Anyhow, one always dresses with more care for a woman.
The momentum from my bath carried me all the way to Lev and Vera’s house before I started to get nervous. By now he’d be in London, or huddled on the back of a transport truck as it trundled through Alsace; I’d calculated carefully to make sure I seemed casual when I finally showed up. It needed to look like I was just in the neighborhood, unaware of Lev’s precise date and time of departure. A friendly girl, perhaps a bit dim. Red nails, red dress. Behind the door, Vera was going about her day, scratching out a note to Lev’s editor or planning a week of supper menus. I pictured her doing something mundane with just—a little ripple in the air, some machination still unseen.
The pills were tucked away in my purse, not to use, but more as a talisman. They helped me keep heart, you see. I couldn’t wear anything Lev had given me, lest Vera recognize a familiar bracelet or pin; I didn’t entirely trust Lev to be original in his gift-giving. Vera, I thought. Little girl, black hair, long nose. I reached into my mind and rearranged the Pioneer scarf around her neck to its proper dashing angle. There was something so comfortingly familiar about her, something so like going home. I had to remind myself that we hadn’t been friendly back in Moscow. She hadn’t even known my name.
After a couple of minutes I decided that my skulking behind a tree at the corner was becoming conspicuous, and gathered myself up to walk to the door and knock. A shuffle and bustle somewhere unseen, and then the door swung open to reveal a stocky girl wearing vivid green earrings.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Oh.” I took a tiny step backwards, which I hoped looked casual. “Who are you?”
“Excuse me? You knocked. Who are you?” On second inspection, the girl was older than I’d thought—at least my age—and her clothes were rather slapdash, considering her jewelry. She saw me looking at the earrings and reached a protective hand up to touch one. “Mrs. was letting me try them on.”
“Oh, I see. Mrs.? You mean Vera? Is she home?”
“Why would you come if you thought she wasn’t?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t think. Didn’t, um, know.”
“Ok.” The girl twisted her mouth up untrustingly, but couldn’t find any further reason to object. She disappeared into the house, leaving the door cracked open, and when I was sure she was gone I pushed it wider with my toe. Everything was as I remembered it. There was Lev’s suit jacket folded over the banister. Somewhere inside there were stacks of his shirts, and buffed shoes lined up in neat rows. The scent of him drifted out towards me, and I parted my lips to let it in, poking my head just past the door frame to get a closer look.
Just then, Vera turned the corner. She saw me and stopped short, raising an eyebrow—not quite enough to look angry, but enough to let me know I was not especially welcome. There was a moment of silent comparison between us, though perhaps this was only in my head. Vera, a few years older than me and a century more powerful, somehow. I can only imagine how wanting she found me, but, well, she was supposed to. That was the plan. Glancing over her shoulder at the girl, who was in the process of removing the green earrings, she nodded that she was alright. Then she stood in the doorway, blocking it.
“You must be the girl Lev is trying to foist on me. Took you long enough to show up.”
“Vera.” I couldn’t help myself. “You’re Vera Petrovna.” She was slim and sharp and so light-skinned she appeared to be glowing. As if her bones were tubes of neon.
“Pardon me?”
I held out a hand, conscious of a thumbprint marring one of my newly painted nails. It hadn’t been part of the plan to tell Vera that we knew one another or get her thinking about connections. But I remembered her so clearly, and it seemed impossible she wouldn’t know me too. “Zoya Ivanovna Andropova. We’ve met. You were Vera Volkova, back in Moscow?”
She stared at me, and then—took my hand. Looking less like she planned to shake it and more like she wanted to make a close canine inspection. Indeed I thought she might lick my fingers to see where I’d been.
“Zoya. V’ui otkuda?”
“Like I said, Moscow.”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, we spent most summers in Lipetsk, but I was born in the city.”
“I mean you don’t know me. We’ve never met.” Her voice was softer than I thought it would be. Fewer hard edges than her face implied.
“Well,” I said, “as you like.” There would be time to pursue our shared history later. (Though, as you know, dear reader, Vera never gave an inch.) For now, the future was more important. “May I come in?”
Vera leaned closer, and when she did I could smell the talcum she’d applied after her bath. And—apples. And something both sweet and sour, like yogurt. She put her face near enough to mine that I saw her lips part from her teeth when she spoke, which she did very quietly.
“Little bee. Buzzing around my nest. I’ve seen you hovering, you know, on the streets and at that silly school. What are you looking for?”
“Excuse me?” My voice, too, came out in a whisper. The best thing to do, I knew, was to feign ignorance and stick to my story: a silly girl, just looking for a friend. But it made me nervous to think she’d spotted me, when I’d been so careful.
“You want to come inside? Why couldn’t you find your way before? On your own.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vera stepped back and straightened up. Her voice dropped and became casual, almost loud.
“Zoya Andropova. You must have a cup of tea with me. But not today, I’m afraid. As you must be aware, my husband left on a trip recently, and I’ve been overtired. Can you come back? Say, Tuesday?”
“Alright,” I agreed. Wary, now. “What time?”
“Two o’clock, precisely. The right time for tea. I’ll have something to eat, too. Do you like pastila?”
This was, in fact, my favorite dessert—a gelée of fruit and sugar reduced over days of heat and pressed into a delicate square—which Lev sometimes bought for me at a European bakery in New York. My mother had made her own version when we worked in Lipetsk, to give me something to look forward to during those interminable summers. I nodded, mute, and Vera smiled.
“Wonderful. We will see each other then. Now, I’m afraid you must buzz along, little bee.”
Behind her the short girl, who I decided must be the maid, giggled, but Vera made no sign she’d heard. Instead she watched me walk away—I could feel her eyes on my back, her attention swarming over me, urging me on until I turned the corner and moved out of sight. At which point I broke into a run, not caring if they heard the sound of my heels clicking against the concrete.