“Yes, that’s wonderful. Thanks,” muttered Klim, clearly not taking in what she had said.
“Who was that woman?” asked Galina.
He met her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I just saw a woman on the stairs. What was she doing here?”
Klim came to his senses at last. “She had the wrong address,” he said. “Come on inside now that you’re here. I need you to type something for me.”
Birch logs blazed in the hearth. The room was as hot as an inferno, but Klim did not seem to notice.
“Portraits of Trotsky and his associates,” he dictated, “have been taken down from walls of official buildings. Books written by Trotskyites have been removed from libraries. Streets previously named after their leader have been renamed after Marx, Lenin, and so on. There has been a spate of suicides. The most passionate Trotskyites are leaving notes declaring ‘The counter-revolution has won. Farewell, comrades!.’”
“Perhaps there’s no need to write all this?” pleaded Galina. “After all, it will never get past the censor.”
“Keep typing, please,” Klim told her. “When it was announced that Trotsky was being sent into exile in Alma-Ata, a huge crowd gathered at the station. A man resembling Trotsky was put onto the train under armed guard, but it later turned out this was an actor made up to look like the opposition leader. After standing in the freezing cold for several hours, the crowd dispersed.”
Galina pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and dropped it by accident onto the floor. Bending down to pick it up, she noticed a crumpled pink chemise lying beside the divan.
Klim followed her gaze.
“Would you do me a favor and make me some coffee?” he asked.
As Galina was on her way out to the kitchen, she noticed that the telephone wire had been pulled out of its socket.
It was quite clear to her now what had happened. A woman had spent the night with Klim. This was why he had left Kitty with Galina and had not answered the phone.
Who can it be? thought Galina in dismay. A foreigner? The wife of some Nepman? Has she been coming to see him for long?
When Galina came back, there was no sign of the pink chemise, and the room smelled of scorched cloth. Klim had clearly thrown the garment onto the fire.
“Tell me the truth,” Galina began in a trembling voice. “Who was it who came to see you last night?”
He glanced at her quickly and looked away. He had absolutely no talent for lying.
“Please don’t ask me anything,” he said at last. “I lost my wife not long ago. Since her death, I’ve been finding it difficult—”
So, that was it! Now Galina understood everything—Klim’s misery and his detached, distant air. He had come to the Soviet Union to make a fresh start, but the wound was still too raw. He was not ready to marry again so quickly.
But who was that woman who had come to see him then? Galina guessed that it was probably one of the girls who hung around all day at the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, trying to seduce wealthy foreigners. Klim must have let her stay the night, but then thrown her out, realizing that this was not at all what he wanted.
Galina was glad of one thing: she knew now that Klim’s affections were not engaged elsewhere. All she had to do was to bide her time and make sure no other woman tried to steal her beloved.
15. A KINGDOM OF BOOKS
For a few days, Nina was reduced to a painful state of near-paralysis, trying to work out what to do. She had nothing left: no love, no child, no home, and no aim in life. Soon, Oscar would be back with her papers, and then what? Should she go with him to New York?
I’ll get Klim back, she decided. He still has feelings for me, so it isn’t hopeless yet. And I’ll deal with that lover of his too. She can’t just come along and take what’s mine.
To start with, Nina had to do some detective work. She had to find out about Klim’s way of life, his friends, and his new love interest. Then she would have a better idea what to do.
Nina dug out Elkin’s business card and rang him. “I’d like to have a look at the car you’re selling,” she said. “Could that be arranged?”
Elkin was overjoyed. “Why, of course! Come any time!”
They agreed on a time to meet, but no sooner had Nina hung up than she was gripped by fear. What if it all went wrong? What if she went to see Elkin and ran into Klim? How shameful if he thought she was chasing him! And what if Kitty were there?
I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, thought Nina gloomily. In any case, I’ve got nothing to lose.
Nina arrived at the bookstore, and Elkin gave her a tour of his domain.
She looked around with interest at the motley shelves filled with information and cookery books, horoscopes, dream almanacs, miscellanies, and guide books.
Elkin kept his most valuable treasures—novels on the subject of love and war—in ancient metal-bound chests. Children’s books lay strewn over on the rug, and handsome editions of encyclopedias and religious tomes stood in elegant rows on the shelves.
“It’s like traveling back in time,” said Nina, running her hands over the spines, which shone with gold leaf. “Don’t you sell any modern books?”
Elkin showed her a stand in the corner of the shop, which contained the new Soviet books he was obliged to selclass="underline" propaganda leaflets and works of fiction with titles like The Red Daredevils and Young Communists in Africa.
Elkin gave a wry laugh when he saw Nina’s bewildered expression. “A few years ago, the Party sent out a summons,” he said. “‘We need to have Soviet adventure stories of our own!’ It annoyed them to see that young people only cared about ‘bourgeois writers,’ so they invested money in the scheme and got the wheels turning. Hungry young writers who arrive in Moscow from some far-off places are always happy to try their hand at writing something for a bit of money.”
Nina picked up Young Communists in Africa and leafed through it. “Does anybody read this stuff?” she asked. “It’s utter nonsense! It’s quite obvious the author hasn’t any idea what he’s writing about.”
“Well, what of it?” Elkin shrugged. “There’s a whole generation of children in this country who have barely had any schooling. The Great War put a stop to decent education—all the teachers went off to the front, and after that, things went from bad to worse. Our young people have never traveled, they don’t speak any foreign languages, they’ve never read any good books, and they have only the vaguest idea of what’s what.”
A customer asked for assistance, and Elkin ran off to serve him. Nina stood for some time looking at the illustrations in a large multi-volume edition of Pictorial Russia. She wondered how all these books had survived the war and revolution. Back then, books had been ruthlessly stripped of their leather bindings to make patches for boots.
At last, Elkin shut the door of the store and hung up the “Closed” sign in the window.
“These days, I have to do everything myself,” he sighed. “I used to have three assistants, but I had to let them go. The labor inspection office was threatening to close me down for ‘exploitation of the working classes.’”
“Why would they bother?” Nina asked, amazed. “There are no jobs in the country as it is. Why prevent people from earning a living?”
“You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. In the Kremlin, they think the economic crisis is caused by the Nepmen cheating and swindling and not paying their taxes. But worst of all, we private traders create competition and take away customers from state businesses, thus getting in the way of the construction of socialism. We provide a better service. That’s all. But the government thinks we’re saboteurs and does everything possible to stifle us.”