A coat-stand groaned under the weight of a mountain of furs and coats, and a whole flotilla of galoshes was arrayed on the floor. From the living room came the sounds of music and bursts of laughter. Somebody was playing the piano.
Klim felt awkward coming to this party where he knew no one, bringing his daughter, creating bother for strangers. But what could he do?
His host led him deep into the dimly lit apartment with high arched ceilings and narrow winding corridors. Any noble guests who reached Seibert’s bedroom would find themselves in cramped quarters hung with dark blue wallpaper. In the middle of the room was a colossal bed with a carved headstand and orange pillows. A mirror gleamed on the ceiling, and on the chest of drawers beside the bed was a china figurine of the devil with an enormous phallus.
Seibert gave an embarrassed chuckle and turned the figurine to the wall. “Just a bit of fun, you know.”
Klim laid Kitty on the bed and pulled off her felt boots, hat, and coat.
There was a crash from the kitchen behind the wall as if somebody had dropped a metal tray.
“Your little girl’s lucky to be able to sleep through that noise,” said Seibert in an indulgent tone. “As for me, I wake up at the sound of a broom on the pavement outside.
“Let me take you to meet my guests. Magda should be here any minute.”
Magda was half an hour late. The windows of her tram had been white with hoarfrost, and she had missed her stop.
“Owen is here already,” said Seibert when Magda stumbled into the hall, frozen through, her nose streaming from the cold. “Have you got everything prepared?”
Magda sniffed. “I think so, yes.”
Glancing in the mirror, she straightened her dress—dark blue with a pink collar and square buttons on the sleeves. She should have hung her camera case around her neck so that it would be clear straight away that she was a professional journalist and photographer.
“Come on then. I’ll introduce you,” said Seibert, and Magda followed him into the living room.
The room was already full of people all talking at once in a mixture of German, English, and Russian. A pair of Frenchmen, already mellow with drink, were playing a duet on a grand piano and singing “Valentina,” and a few couples were dancing. Wreaths of tobacco smoke spread out in the orange light of the lamps.
“Not long ago, we were at war with one another,” Seibert told Magda, “and now, here we are in the heart of snowy Moscow, drinking wine, and none of us bearing a grudge against the others.”
“Where’s Owen?” asked Magda in a trembling voice.
Seibert pointed out a stout gentleman in a circle of guests.
Magda went a little closer and listened to the conversation.
“When I crossed the border, the customs officials made me declare my fur coat and galoshes,” Owen said. “Can anyone explain why the Soviets do this?”
“It’s their way of fighting unemployment,” answered a dark-haired gentleman in an elegant three-piece suit. “If there aren’t enough jobs, they make some up on the spot. Just imagine how many people you can employ counting all the galoshes that come in and go out of the country.”
“Who’s that?” Magda asked Seibert.
“His name is Klim Rogov. He wanted to talk to you, actually.”
“Why? I don’t know him. Or perhaps I do—”
Magda was interrupted by another loud crash from the kitchen.
“Is that you again, Lieschen?” barked Seibert. “What an infernal nuisance that girl is! Always breaking things!”
He ran from the room.
Magda glanced again at Klim Rogov. She had just remembered that was the name of Nina Kupina’s husband. Could it really be him?
“Soviet power is like a pyramid,” Klim said, turning to Owen. “You have all these leaders at the very top, and each of them picks his vassals—not the best men but the most loyal; those who will always do their bidding. As a reward for their loyalty, the vassals are given profitable official positions, and they are allowed to live off them. All these people have their own vassals, a rung lower down, and the ones lower down have others beneath them, and so on. Everybody’s welfare depends on the strength of the pyramid, so they do their best to reinforce it.”
Klim began to talk about the members of the Soviet government and who belonged to which camp.
“How do you know all this?” asked Owen in amazement.
“I make it my professional habit to be interested in all the details,” Klim said.
“Do you speak Russian?”
Kim nodded. “I have fluent Russian, English, and Spanish, and I can also speak the Shanghai dialect.”
“Could you write me a short piece now on approval?”
“Of course.”
From the next room came the sound of a child crying, and Seibert came rushing in, looking harassed.
“Your daughter has woken up in the other room,” he told Klim.
“I’ll be right back,” Klim said, growing pale.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” shouted Owen after him. “I’m leaving soon.”
Seibert took Magda by the elbow. “Mr. Owen, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Magda Thomson.”
“Excuse me,” Magda interrupted him. “I have to powder my nose.” She set off toward the door.
Magda had already realized that Owen was hoping to hire Klim Rogov as his correspondent, and there was no way she could get around it. No amount of photographs would make up for the fact that she knew no Russian.
Kitty was sitting on the bed howling, her head flung back. “Da-a-a-ddy!”
Klim switched on the night light and took her in his arms. “What is it, little one? I’m here.”
Kitty put her arm around his neck and tried to say something but just kept sobbing and hiccupping.
Klim sat her on his knees. “There, there, little one. Shh…”
He should never have left Kitty alone. How awful for a four-year-old to wake up in an unfamiliar, dark room!
Klim took a notebook from his pocket and, still hugging his daughter, began to write a short article about the currency profiteers who haunted the Moscow markets.
The state bank, Gosbank, exchanged money at the official rate of one ruble, ninety-four kopecks for one US dollar, but in Riga, a dollar was worth four rubles. The unofficial course was used by foreigners living in the USSR as well as thousands of underground traders and smugglers.
“I want to go home,” sobbed Kitty.
“Soon you’ll be at home in your own bed. I promise,” whispered Klim, kissing her on the back of the head, still warm from sleep. “I’ll think of something.”
“What about Mommy?”
“We’ll find her.”
Klim had not even dreamed of finding work in Moscow. It was more than he could have hoped for. With a press card, it would surely be easier for him to find Nina. After all, it was one thing to ask questions as an individual but quite another to ask them on behalf of a respectable news agency.
Klim finished his article, took Kitty in his arms, and went out into the hall.
Owen was already putting on his coat while Seibert rummaged through the pile of coats for the lost gloves.
“Is the article ready?” Owen asked.
Klim handed him the open notebook.
As Owen read the article, his face lit up. “Could you change the money for office expenses on the black market too?”
“Most likely,” said Klim.
Owen handed him his business card. “I think you’re going to work out twice as cheap as your predecessor. Give me a call tomorrow at the hotel, and we can go over the details.”
Owen’s gaze fell on Kitty, and like many others, he could not resist asking about her. “Excuse me. Is that your child?”