another ten years, and congratulated myself on preventing a too-brutal confrontation with the truth in the park. Why is self-congratulation so often premature?
15
On Monday it was even hotter and the infatuation with the novelty of sweltering had turned to general fatigue. The newspapers had already begun their campaign for Metallurgists’ Day on the coming Sunday, but half of Moscow’s metal workers, together with anyone else who had the imagination, were playing truant from work.
On Tuesday, it was a shade cooler. Shortly after Oktyabrina arrived at the apartment, we went down for mineral water and beer, since the supplies were certain to be exhausted by noon. When we stepped out into the dazzling sun, a company of soldiers was trudging up a street leading from the Ring Road. They were presumably headed for the Central Club of the Soviet Army, a half mile away. The marching order was sloppier than usual, no doubt because of the heat. In their ponderous, year-round boots and coarse tunics they looked as happy as polar bears in an African zoo.
Oktyabrina’s practiced eye explored the ranks rapidly, and for some reason she appeared relieved that Alexander wasn’t there. Then we saw him simultaneously: he was leading the company. Sweat had soaked through his tunic in the back, and for the first time he looked older than twenty.
Before I missed her, Oktyabrina had ducked into the food shop where we’d been headed. She must have jumped the line at the dairy counter and slapped down a ruble without waiting for change. For in less than a minute, she emerged with a half-liter bottle of milk.
The scene that followed was not as remarkable as it might seem because there is an old tradition of Russian women 150
pressing loaves of bread and jars of water into the hands of grateful soldiers and convicts trudging dusty steppe roads. Nevertheless, the glint in Oktyabrina’s eye suggested not almsgiving, but revenge.
The bottle was pearly in the sun and dripped freely with condensation. She held it with outstretched arms like an offering, and marched steadfastly towards Alexander. He observed her from the comer of his eye while his head wheeled in a search for an escape route. In vain: the ambush was perfectly laid.
When Alexander turned directly to Oktyabrina, as a last resort, his blue eyes gushed pain and pleading: please disappear, I’ll give you anything you want later, but not in front of my soldiers. Oktyabrina marched resolutely towards him with a serene face and Mona Lisa smile, through which she was humming ‘Forward Comrades for Party and Motherland , a well-known Army song. By this time, several people on the sidewalk had noticed the spectacle and were spreading the word about it. Sensing a good laugh, the ranks of Alexander’s company revived.
Alexander raised his arm and was about to say something, but Oktyabrina got in the first word. She was now directly across the street from him, but she shouted loud enough for the last rank to hear and savor.
Aloha, Sashinka, darling — wait for me. I brought you something wonderfully refreshing. Take this and sip
Alexander looked despairingly at his men, hoping against hope that they would take Oktyabrina for an eccentric stranger.
‘My beloved, you’ve lost at least a kilo since Friday. On duty all weekend like that in the heat . . . you’re dangerously dehydrated. Now stop this silly marching for a moment and refresh yourself. Drink drink drink!
‘I always knew it,’ said Alexander miserably, humiliation disfiguring his splendid countenance. ‘You’re no Chipmunk, you’re a polecat - you need a cage. Now scram , before I. .. before I. . .’
Oktyabrina strode on through the bunched soldiers. They had broken rank for the view, but now parted again to clear her path for presentation of the 'refreshment’ to Alexander. Their guffaws concentrated on the implied slur of the bottle’s contents and possible connection with Alexander’s pretty face. It was 'baby’s milkie’ instead of the drink of real men, above all Army men - especially Russian Army men.
‘Shame shame on you,’ Oktyabrina chided them collectively. A cow in the yard means milk on the table — that s the kind of national heritage you big burly things are supposed to be defending. Only a dunce sees pleasure in vodka.
This struck the soldiers as so charmingly zany that they seized Oktyabrina and flung her into the air in the traditional Russian toast to heroes and good fellows. A happy cheer and spray of sweat accompanied each airward trip. Oktyabrina clutched the bottle; her expression alternated between rapture over the attention she’d secured and terror of physical hurt. Alexander tried desperately to restore order, knowing that were a senior officer to drive past his career would be mangled.
Traffic stopped and a crowd of onlookers gathered. They began recounting their VE-Day experiences, the last time they’d seen such public spontaneity in an army unit. It was only after the troops were finally back in a semblance of rank that Alexander caught sight of me.
'How could she do it?’ he moaned. 'Wasn’t I trying to be nice to her? That outfit she’s wearing. And milk - do you realize I can never be in the saddle again?’
His men quickly supported this contention: although Soviet soldiers sing in response to specific commands, they broke into a full-throated chorus on their own initiative as they moved off. It was ‘Forward Comrades for Party and Motherland’.
‘How could I do what?’ said Oktyabrina as the company disappeared. Her voice was like a wounded bride s. But it s still so dreadfully hot. Sashinka was sweating so - ought I to stand aside and watch him become ill for lack of liquid?’ 152
Back in the apartment she made one of her statements of prepared ambiguity. ‘My Sasha could have all the girls with licentious legs he wants - if he wanted them. I’m not blind to that. But I’m the one who loves him only for himself -enough to brave scorn and supervise his health.’
Alexander’s note was delivered by Petya. Oktyabrina found this ‘outrageous’. ‘That pretty-boy lacks the' courage even to say adieu to me in person/ But in fact, she was pleased by the triumph this acknowledged, as well as by Petya’s behavior when he handed her the note. He scurried away,
evidently in fear that Oktyabrina might select him as her next victim.
The note was entirely straightforward. Alexander wasn’t angry, didn t even blame her, but she was plain dangerous. Although he wasnt calling her a subversive element, it came to the same thing. ‘Because a hundred like you exposed to the troops and morale will be busted. Believe me, the Chinks won t stop at Siberia. ... I know you could track me down, but I am warning you. I always promised I would never hit a woman because of Mother, but I’m warning you ’
Oktyabrina placed the note next to Alexander’s photograph and studied the documentary evidence of Beginning and End. Yes, Lieutenant Zavodin and I must go our separate ways,’ she sighed, pondering whether to rip up the photograph and/or the note, or preserve one or both. Diffuse post-mortems followed throughout the day. ‘If the love lacked joy, the parting will be sans agony,’ she said. ‘That’s
Lermontov, of course. Only sufferers fully understand his genius.’
The next day, we strolled down Petrovka in the post-heatwave breeze and Oktyabrina suggested a visit to a church still functioning inside the ancient Petrovsky Monastery. It was attended by wretchedly poor women wrapped in almost a winter lamination of dingy shawls. They kissed smoky icons, sank painfully to their knees and prostrated
themselves on the cold floor — all of which Oktyabrina saw in a new light.
‘It’s rather exalted in a way. . . . Do you think the Lieutenant was a sign for me to become a nun? Ive long suspected that my life was consecrated for the pursuit of physical