“There are two possible approaches, Yuri. The honest one where you go crawling back to Katya on your hands and knees, begging her to take you back.”
“That was my first thought.”
“It’s a terrible idea. It gives her all the advantage, and, forgive me, from what I’ve seen of this Katya, she’s got enough advantages.”
“What’s the other approach?”
“Plan very carefully to meet her by accident. Run into her at a market or at some subbotnik project, like picking potatoes out in Dmitrov.” It was the Party that came up with subbotniks, those Saturday work projects that took us all to the fields in summer to engage in proletarian labor. During spring and autumn, we often helped on construction. This not only reminded effete city dwellers and bureaucrats of the price others had to pay for university educations, electric lights, and so forth, it also provided much-needed field hands. “Make sure she sees you, then get all embarrassed and flustered and try to get away. If she comes after you, you’ve got the advantage.” He grinned again. “I know you, Ribko. You can handle the flustered business like an ace.”
“Then what?”
Now he laughed out loud. “If you can’t figure out what to do when the gorgeous Katya throws herself back at you, you don’t deserve her!”
Then, wheezing, he staggered off to complete his run.
At this time of year there was always a subbotnik going on, especially at places like Katya’s institute, which was still in the process of being built. So I shamelessly followed Saditsky’s cynical orders and went directly to the center’s political officer, Colonel Nikeryasov, asking to be put on a subbotnik at the Institute for Space Research. Two days later — on Friday morning — I was told to report to the institute in question at seven on Saturday morning, to help with pouring concrete.
I knew less about pouring concrete than I did about female psychology, but subbotniks did not require expertise, only enthusiasm. In civilian clothes, I took the train into the city.
I believe it was General Borodin, hero of the war against Napoleon, who said, “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” My clever plan died a painful death before I even reached the institute.
For one thing, the weather was terrible, a cold rain more suited to Moscow in April than in July. This alone meant that pouring concrete was going to be difficult, if attempted at all. The foul weather also affected the guards at the institute, who looked at my military pass and lack of military garb, and decided to detain me.
So I sat in the cramped entryway, waiting for the guards’ supervisor to wrench himself away from his cozy office, while unhappy people tracked in mud from Khoroshev Street. The supervisor arrived prepared to berate or possibly arrest me. But on inspection, my passport turned out to be sufficiently important-looking that he began to grumble to the guards first. “You idiots. Can’t you make a fucking decision without disturbing me?” Then he asked me why I was at the institute today.
“I’m helping with your subbotnik.”
The supervisor was prepared for any answer but that. To think some engineer-lieutenant in the Air Force would voluntarily visit a civilian institute to “help” with a communal work project! Now he had to make a telephone call.
Before he could get to it, however, Katya entered.
She saw me instantly, and I her, as if we had planned this rendezvous. Given the location, and the presence of the guards, it was impossible for me to think about making a sudden run for it. For one thing, the supervisor still held my passport. For another, the guards would have pulled out their guns. So I stood there, empty-handed, a foolish look on my face that wavered between happiness and sheer surprise.
Katya’s face betrayed a quick change of emotion, too, from confusion to annoyance to what seemed like resignation. “Is this supposed to be flattering?” she said by way of greeting.
“You know this officer?” the guard supervisor asked her.
“He’s strangely familiar to me.” Resignation had been replaced by her usual sense of amusement.
“You can vouch for the fact that he’s not a spy?”
A look passed between Katya and me. “He’s no danger to the institute,” she said, her hesitation noticed only by me. “He is, however, a very naughty boy.”
Now the supervisor and the guards got the idea. There was some elbowing, some winking, and within moments I had retrieved my passport and been waved into the institute.
With Katya.
“Why today of all days?” she said, as we walked into the rainy central courtyard. She had yet to say hello.
“I just got back from two months in Baikonur.”
“There are several weeks between your birthday and your departure still unaccounted for.”
“I was hurt and angry.” It was true enough.
“No, Yuri, I was hurt and angry. I was the one who waited for a call or a letter or any kind of apology.”
“I’m apologizing now, in person.”
“Can you even remember why?”
“For embarrassing you in front of Uncle Vladimir.”
That apparently was close enough to soothe her. At least it took the edge off her anger. “Are you really here for the subbotnik?”
“Yes. I arranged it so I could see you.”
She smiled. “Well, you’ve seen me and you’ve stumbled your way through the beginnings of an apology. Now that you’ve accomplished your mission, why don’t you run back to Star Town before they actually make use of you.”
I could thank the Ribko bullheadedness for my answer. “I came to work. I hope I can see you later.” And I marched off with no idea of where I was going, only that I was putting meters between Katya and me.
The weather made it impossible to pour concrete or do any work outside, but those of us on the Party detail found other tasks. Mine was to paint the hallways of a new laboratory building, which I did happily, if sloppily, for the rest of the day. They fed us a hot stew, which was a nice surprise, and at four o’clock I felt more virtuous — a good little Komsomol member — than I had in months. Perhaps in two years.
I left the institute the same way I entered, passing the same guards, who this time shared a friendly wave. I headed for the street wondering what I would do with the rest of my Saturday, when Katya appeared from my left, taking my arm.
“All right. Eight hours of hard labor is sentence enough. I forgive you. But be very careful.”
She was tugging me toward the bus stop. “Where are we going?”
“To my flat. Where else?”
“Your parents were stationed at Semipalatinsk-20. It’s in Kazakhstan, east of Baikonur.”
This was hours later, after ten that evening. We had gone directly from the institute to Katya’s flat, where we made angry, almost savage love without discarding much of our clothing. Or so it seemed. I do remember taking off my shoes.
We went out to find food for dinner, then returned, and made love again, just as desperately as before. Then lay in each other’s arms, talking as if no time had passed, as if there had been no awful scene in front of Uncle Vladimir.
“I haven’t seen him more than once or twice since then,” she said. “He’s been busy with his schemes.”
“He seems to have a lot of them.”
“You have no idea.” I was beginning to get some idea, of course, but didn’t want to spoil the moment by pressing. “I’m surprised you know so little about your own family. I got the impression your mother and your uncle were extremely close.” And that is how we came to the subject of where my mother and father lived when I was a teenager. Semipalatinsk-20, one of our many defense “mailbox” cities.