Alov took off his greatcoat, changed into his felt slippers, and was about to sort through the mail when there was a shout in the corridor.
“All those in the Foreign Department, go collect your wage checks!” It was the secretary Eteri Bagratovna.
There was a banging of doors and the clattering of boots on the stairs. Within moments, a long line had formed at the cashier’s office.
The employees of the Foreign Department fell into two groups of unequal status—the stick-at-homes and the travelers. Those who belonged to the first group never went anywhere and resembled impoverished teachers or clerks. Those in the second group enjoyed frequent trips abroad and returned decked out in the latest foreign clothes: sleeveless pullovers, shirts with pointed lapels, silk ties, and Oxford bags.
Alov did not particularly envy the travelers—his needs were simple: filterless cigarettes, strong tea, and perhaps medicine if he fell sick. But it vexed him that his beautiful wife had only two dresses, both of which had been bought second-hand.
Dunya Odesskaya was the sort of woman who should have been put on a pedestal and showered with presents. Comparing himself with her, Alov was at a loss to understand what she saw in him with his thinning hair, his pince-nez on a cord, his sunken chest, and the beginnings of a pot belly.
When his colleagues had had a drink or two, they would tease him, “You should watch out for that Dunya of yours. She’s a real hot potato!”
“And just look at you—thin and bent as an old oven fork!”
Alov was sure that in calling him an “oven fork,” they were hinting at cuckold’s horns. Miserable and jealous, he hounded his wife with accusations and then locked himself in his office with Galina. These brief betrayals would leave him feeling temporarily avenged.
One day, in the Tretyakov Art Gallery, Alov saw a group of schoolchildren looking at the painting “The Unequal Marriage.” The exhibition guide was explaining to the kids what torment it must be for the young bride to marry the rich but repulsive old man on the picture.
At least, Alov thought gloomily, that old man could afford to give his young bride valuable jewelry and a gracious style of living.
His own salary was circumscribed by the Party’s rule on the maximum wage, and he could afford to bring Dunya nothing more exciting than a couple of sacks of potatoes.
If only he could find another position! He had heard rumors that some of his colleagues from the Economic Department had put together dossiers on the directors of various enterprises and forced them to pay up under threat of exposure. The OGPU employees who worked in the Transport Department did well for themselves too—they could always extort bribes from black market traders transporting goods from one region to another.
It sounded prestigious to work in the Foreign Department, but what did it actually mean? Alov could not even hope for a promotion: there was only one person above him in the whole department: the fearsome Drachenblut.
Standing behind Alov in the line was Zharkov, a small man with a rosy face, short graying hair, and a slightly crooked nose.
Zharkov played a minor role in the OGPU, but a very profitable one, supplying Russians living abroad with false documents, currency, codes, and so on. Every time he came back into the country, he would bring back with him a suitcase full of women’s clothing and accessories.
“Did you bring it?” Alov mouthed the question silently.
“Mm-hm,” Zharkov muttered in assent. “Come and see me after lunch.”
The previous week, Alov had taken out a loan from the mutual aid bureau and asked Zharkov to bring him back some French perfume for Dunya. Dunya’s birthday was coming up, and he needed to get her a decent present.
“Perhaps you want some lipstick too?” Zharkov enquired. “A young woman ordered it from me—she was close to Drachenblut at the time, but now he’s got rid of her. So, I’m not allowed to give her anything.”
Alov pulled at his beard. “Oh… all right. I’ll take the lipstick too.”
After drawing their wages, all the employees began sorting out what money they owed where and to whom. Everybody had debts of some sort, some going back more than a month.
A young girl from the Far East section darted about among them. “Who hasn’t paid his subscription?” she called out. “Who’s still short? Comrade Alov, you should be ashamed of yourself! You owe money to the International Society for Revolutionary Fighters and three other organizations. Do you want me to raise the issue at the next Party meeting?”
Grudgingly, Alov counted out what he owed. A huge number of “voluntary” organizations had sprung up in the Soviet Union offering support for everything you could imagine, from German workers’ children to the chemical industry. Every good communist was obliged to be a member of these organizations and pay membership dues. Otherwise, he ran the risk of being expelled from the Party.
Alov made a quick calculation: after all these official payments had been made and he had paid his rent and given back what he owed to other people, he would have only fifty rubles left, hardly enough to buy food for the month.
On the stairs, he ran into Galina, who had also come to collect her paycheck.
“Hello, Pidge,” he said gloomily. “Did you get your check? How about lunch in the canteen to celebrate? My treat.”
There was no point trying to economize; he would still end up in debt before the month was out.
The canteen was in one of the basement rooms, and they had to cross the yard to get to it. On the other side of the yard, beyond a wooden fence, was the OGPU’s holding prison, its windows partially screened with plywood panels. A guard was posted at the gate and beside him stood a battered Black Maria van, its doors wide open. The driver—a young, dark-browed man by the name of Ibrahim—jumped out as they passed.
Alov shook his hand. “How’s it going?”
“I was working the night shift,” said Ibrahim. “Wish I could sleep, but I can’t. Got to clean up the car.”
Alov peered inside the van—the floor, which had clearly been hurriedly wiped, was covered with brownish smears.
“Is that blood?” Galina gasped.
“Oh, no, Miss,” said Ibrahim with a smirk. “That’s fruit juice.”
“Have you been beating someone again?”
Alov was annoyed at Galina acting the innocent when she had no qualms about accepting her OGPU paycheck or the vouchers for the organization’s cooperative store.
Alov pulled at her arm. “Come on. Let’s go. Otherwise, all the pies will have gone from the canteen.”
Galina trailed obediently after him. Alov was sure she was already lost in some idiotic daydream: she was probably wondering about who had been arrested the night before and what he had done.
As they climbed the worn entrance steps, Galina could control herself no longer.
“I don’t see why people have to be beaten when they’re arrested,” she burst out. “We’re not savages after all!”
“We’re surgeons. Spilling blood is part of what we do,” growled Alov. “If nobody took it upon themselves to operate, our society would die from hidden diseases.” He stopped and fixed Galina with a stern gaze. “You do see that, don’t you?”
She nodded hurriedly. “Of course I do.”
They entered a large echoing hall with tiled walls. All the tables were already occupied, but Alov was given a reserved place on the condition that they eat quickly before any of the management arrived.
A minute later, the waitress, Ulyana, came up to their table.