Galina stared for some time at the stranger. Where had this photograph come from? Why had Kitty put it in her album?
Galina turned the picture over and was still more amazed to see the name “Nina Kupina” scored out and over it, in Klim’s handwriting, the words “Mrs. Reich.”
So, this was the woman he had tried to find out about. The same woman who had stayed a night with him and seemed to have completely shattered his peace of mind.
Who was she? There was something very familiar about that surname, Reich, but Galina could not remember where she had heard it before.
She took Nina’s photograph as well as Klim’s so that she could cast a spell on both of them. Having resolved on the sinful course of action, she felt she had nothing to lose.
Galina wrapped Nina’s picture in paper, and the next time she went in to the Lubyanka, she asked Ibrahim to put it into the pocket of one of the dead prisoners. This was the best way to get rid of a rival—the main thing was for the dead man to take the picture to the grave with him, or if that wasn’t possible, to the crematorium.
Ibrahim was only too happy to oblige. He often helped to load dead bodies onto the meat wagon, and it was easy for him to carry out Galina’s request.
She thanked him and ran off to see Alov.
“Well, is your employer back yet?” he asked and then began to complain of how he and Dunya were fed up of being cooped up in a corner in the room belonging to Valakhov, the Drachenblut’s assistant.
Back in the civil war days, Valakhov had managed to secure a large room for himself in the former lawyer’s apartment. But he had too many square meters of living space, and during one of the many campaigns against bourgeois values, he had been forced to “consolidate.”
He had registered Alov as a tenant, and then Alov had brought along his young wife. The old friends had fallen out so completely that they could no longer stand the sight of one another. Valakhov had no success with women, and it was galling for him to see Alov, old and ill as he was, enjoying a personal life while he did not.
Galina still felt awkward that she had taken the room on Bolshoi Kiselny Lane.
“Maybe you should ask Drachenblut to put you on the housing list?” she suggested, but Alov pulled a face.
“I’ve asked him a hundred times already.”
He took his amber beads out of his sleeve and began to count them off one by one.
“Drachenblut has ordered us to prepare ourselves for a purge,” Alov said. “After that, there is bound to be some free living space, so we have to redouble our efforts. Do you have any news?”
Galina shrugged. “I met Seibert the other day. He’s just back from Archangelsk, and he asked me to go to the casino with him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him to get lost. I think he’s angry with Klim about some article he wrote.”
Alov tossed the beads up and caught them. “Pidge, I think you should agree to go out with him.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Galina said, taken aback. “It’s not me he’s after. He just has a score to settle with Klim.”
Alov looked at her sternly. “Don’t go putting on airs! Just do as you’re told. Go with him to casino and listen to what he has to say. Maybe you’ll find out something useful.”
He took a voucher for the OGPU shop from his pocket and handed it to Galina. “Here—take this. You can get Tata some felt boots for the winter. And don’t cry! We all have to serve the Revolution in whatever way we can.”
On the way back out, Galina met Ibrahim again.
“I did what you asked,” he reported. “They just took three of ‘em down to the crematorium.”
Galina thanked him and hurried off. So, now, the deed was done. All that remained was to read out the prayer for the “sticking charm.” But where should she do it? Churches were closing down one after another, and if one stayed open, the priests did their best not to draw attention to it.
Galina skirted the Kremlin and set off along the bank of the Moscow River. The golden dome of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior gleamed far away in the setting sun.
The bells would almost certainly ring there, she thought. After all, it was such a huge cathedral that nobody would ever try to close it, surely.
Galina walked slowly toward the shining dome as if toward her own death. She was ready for hell and endless torment if only Klim would love her!
The chiming of a bell rang out over the river. This was it! Galina took out the piece of paper in which she had wrapped Klim’s photograph, and a moment later, she froze in horror.
In her hand was the photograph of Nina Kupina. She had given Klim’s photograph to Ibrahim by mistake.
Galina met Seibert under the gleaming clock in the square by the Triumphal Arch. It was drizzling, and Seibert held a large umbrella over her head.
“Don’t be embarrassed—take my arm,” he said. “My dear, your perfume is delightful.”
Galina had never worn perfume in her life. The only smell that might have clung to her was that of the boiled cabbage she had made for dinner.
“Have you ever been to a casino?” asked Seibert. “You haven’t? Oh, dear me, this won’t do! You must try everything life has to offer you while you still can. Especially as gambling houses are being closed down one after the other. A relic of bourgeois society, don’t you know!”
They entered an unmarked building, and its once fine lobby was now dilapidated and smelled musty. A worn staircase led up to the floor above, and a dim chandelier with broken strings of crystals hung from the ceiling.
“Comrades, where do you think you’re going in your galoshes?” barked the gray-whiskered doorman. “Off the carpet please!”
Seibert put on a puzzled expression and began to say something in German.
“Foreigners…” the doorman muttered with disgust but made no further comment.
The big hall on the floor above was hung with mirrors and political posters. Men in rumpled double-breasted suits and fashionable pointed brogues crowded around the gaming tables.
“Who are they all?” asked Galina in a whisper. “Are they Nepmen?”
Seibert shook his head. “They’re mainly foreigners, cashiers on the fiddle, and romantics who believe that one day, they’ll get lucky.”
There were few women among the clientele, and to Galina, they looked as if they had not come to play but to hunt for customers for the night.
Goodness, how horrible! she thought. The only sight that cheered her up was a group of old women in threadbare silk dresses and old-fashioned hats. They sat at a separate table, deeply engrossed in playing poker, or rather, in playing at “the good old days.” Seibert explained that the old ladies used the place as a club and did not bring in any money, but the management tolerated them because they had become something of a local attraction.
As she walked between the tables, Galina noticed that all the gamblers were using cards produced by the League of Militant Atheists: all the kings were priests and wonder-workers, the queens were treacherous looking nuns, and the knaves were deacons with drunken leers.
Seibert took Galina to a roulette table surrounded by a crowd of young men, their faces flushed with drink and excitement.
“Hey there, you great white capitalist shark!” they called out when they saw Seibert. “You’ve brought along another lady friend, have you?”
“And you still haven’t been paid, I see?” answered Seibert.