On the bus that evening, Anyuta and Klavdia were sitting together. Klavdia was speaking, staring down at her open hand while she pointed to it with her other. Neither Anyuta nor Margarita spoke as she passed; the bus started forward and Margarita grabbed the seatback next to Anyuta’s shoulder. She took an empty seat several rows behind them. Anyuta turned and followed her movements. Only then did Klavdia look around.
That night in the barracks after Klavdia had departed for her side of the room, they lay on their bed boards and Anyuta broke loose with detailed stories from the day. They’d painted ceilings and floors on the factory’s fifth and sixth levels. A dead rat had been discovered in a can of paint where it’d drowned itself. After lunch, Nika and Svetlana had managed to paint themselves into a corner. Her papery voice rose up from beneath and Margarita imagined the factory rooms now haunted forever by their ghostly footprints. But quickly, the stories became about Klavdia. Did she know Klavdia had once been a dancer? She’d even auditioned for the Bolshoi. She’d gone to the University in Moscow for a year but had been expelled for protesting the monarchy. Despite the fact her marks had put her at the head of her class. Even before the men. Her great-grandfather had been part of the plot responsible for the assassination of Tsar Nicholas I. Her birthday was next month. If they could find some thread, she’d promised to teach Anyuta to tat.
Margarita rolled onto her side and whispered into the air. “Does she know as much about you?”
The voice ceased. After a time, Anyuta fell asleep.
The next morning the bus stopped beside the factory. Anyuta, who had sat with Klavdia as before, was asleep, her cheek resting against the older woman’s shoulder. As Margarita passed, Klavdia looked up as though to speak. Her lips parted; Margarita saw the pink of her tongue flicker between her teeth, but then she was silent, her mind changed, and her lips stretched thin into a weak smile. Anyuta snored suddenly, but Klavdia did not move, and Margarita sensed that she herself had lost something and this woman had retrieved it, pocketed it, and refused to give it up to her. As she crossed the walk into the building, the closing of the bus door sounded distant behind her. The snow on either side of the path seemed dirtier than before.
Inside, at Margarita’s desk, the cardigan lay on the arm of the chair. Margarita set it aside and began to work. By the end of the morning, about half of her coworkers had introduced themselves and she had an invitation to join them at lunch in the break room. She met the rest during lunch. There was still no sign of the wife. When she returned to her desk, a red-pink peony in a slender bud vase sat on the corner of her blotter. She touched its petals, wondering where on earth one would lay hands on such a bloom in winter, then saw it was artificial. A metal coil wedged it in the vase. Perhaps pulled from an old hat. Fleetingly, it occurred to her to bring it back for Anyuta—she’d like it. She touched the flower again, with less care this time, then went back to her books. A few hours later she looked up. Vera was standing beside her desk and smiling. Her hands were pressed against her midsection, one atop the other, as if she was trying to hold something in.
“Did you like your flower?” she asked.
Margarita nodded, her words swallowed up in a yawn.
“Did you sleep poorly last night?” she said, her smile melting into concern. She lowered her voice. “Is it hard to sleep?”
“I’m all right,” said Margarita.
“Well, you look nice today anyway.” Vera eyed her hair, then her face. “Very attractive.” She bent closer to her ear and whispered. “I have a surprise for you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Margarita. She patted the pile of ledgers.
Vera motioned with her hand and Margarita followed her to the factory’s vestibule.
The receptionist was speaking with a man. She went then to knock on the manager’s office door. The man turned. It was Ilya. He smiled, as if confused.
“You’re the manager?” he said to Margarita.
It was Ilya.
Vera giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. This was one of their assistants, she explained, a hand behind Margarita’s back. A newcomer to their little family. Ilya nodded and smiled as if he’d never seen her before.
The receptionist returned. The manager would see him now.
Ilya bowed to the women and followed her.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” Vera brought her hands together “I saw him earlier—he’s from one of the factories in the south. Perhaps you’d think a tad old for you, but I’d say well-seasoned. Yes,” she giggled again.
“I don’t think he’s too old,” said Margarita.
“You’re blushing,” said Vera, triumphant.
Margarita could not eat that night or the next morning. She made some excuse of an unsettled stomach and Klavdia looked at her as though she might be infectious. Anyuta helped herself to her untouched portions. Would this be her final meal at the prison camp? The next morning the shoe factory seemed no different than before. The collection of ledgers on her desk had not changed. Other workers arrived with regular greetings. There was nothing that might indicate the propitiousness of the day. She tried to appear busy but could not focus on the ledgers. Midmorning, the manager arrived; he was alone. He greeted the receptionist, then disappeared into his office. Ilya was gone; it was as though she’d imagined him.
What did this mean? The numbers seemed to dart about the page. Had she done something wrong? Had he changed his mind? There was no one to ask. No one in whom to confide. She got up—where would she go? She almost sat down again, then went to the small water closet reserved for the office workers. She shut the door, sat on the toilet, and stared at the back of the door. What did it mean?
Someone rapped at the door. “Have you fallen in?” a female voice asked. Margarita opened it, edged past the waiting woman, and went back to her seat. The numbers continued to swim about the columns. She closed her eyes. It was no good.
Just before lunch Vera appeared by her desk. “Someone made a very good impression yesterday.” She and her husband had hosted Ilya to supper the night before.
“He has left already?” said Margarita. She measured her own voice; did she sound desperate?
“Look who’s so interested,” said Vera. “He’ll be back in a month or so, I imagine. If the weather cooperates. Nice man. Newly assigned.” She nodded as if she already approved of the match. She seemed to be assessing Margarita’s appearance, her ability to entice a man. Suddenly Margarita felt lacking.
“I’ve lost so much weight,” she said. “I’m sure I look terrible.” She brought a hand to her hair. “We have no mirrors.”
Vera invited her to her apartment for lunch. Once there, she went to her closet and removed several dresses. She held one then the other in front of Margarita as she stood in front of the mirror.
“This blue,” she pronounced. Margarita went behind the screen and slipped it on. When she emerged, Vera had a tape measure around her neck; in her hands a pincushion and yard-stick.
“This is perfect for your figure,” she said. “Too big, of course.” She pinned in the sides then stood back, considering the length. “It can come up an inch or two as well.”
“You’re so kind to me,” said Margarita.
Vera studied her face. She went to her drawer and returned with several tubes of lipstick. She selected one, then applied it to Margarita’s lips. “There!” She stepped back and they both looked to the mirror.
The color was more orange than she would have worn back in Moscow. She seemed altered in ways that she wouldn’t have predicted.