“Elkin is an honest man—” Nina began.
But Seibert interrupted her. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“No. It’s my first time in Berlin, and I—”
“All right then,” said Seibert with a sigh. “Let’s go back to my place.”
I’ll wring Klim’s neck when he arrives, he thought. How could he have made such a mess of everything?
33. THE FESTIVAL
On the 7th of November, Alov was meant to go on the demonstration to commemorate the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, but all morning, he had been feeling unwell.
“So, there’s something going on between your wife and Babloyan?” Valakhov said to Alov while Dunya was out getting water for the tea. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. These actresses are all tramps. Still, it’s a bit late now to be crying into your porridge.”
Alov froze in the center of the room, his eyes staring out of his head and his body trembling all over.
“Don’t get yourself so worked up,” Valakhov said good-naturedly. “Babloyan has no interest in stealing women. He’ll have his fun, and then he’ll drop her. And you never know. The whole thing might be to your advantage.”
Alov threw his greatcoat over his shoulders and headed for the door. “See you at the demonstration.”
A moment later, Dunya came back.
“What’s going on between you and Babloyan?” demanded Alov, his teeth chattering like an old dog’s.
Dunya took him by the shoulders. “Oh, Lord… you’re having one of your turns again! Sit down! Sit!”
Alov tried to hit her, but he had no strength left. His fist merely glanced off her cheekbone.
“Have you lost your mind?” squealed Dunya, clapping a hand to her face. “I have a performance today!”
“I’ll show you a performance!” wheezed Alov, but he was immediately overcome by a frenzied bout of coughing.
Swearing, Dunya pulled him over to the bed. “Lie down, you jerk! Lie down, I tell you!”
Alov was racked by coughing until he was almost sick. At long last, as the agonizing spasms subsided, he burst into sobs, crushed by humiliation, weakness, and the fear that Dunya would take it into her head to leave him.
She sat down beside him, her hands clasped between her knees.
“There’s nothing between me and Babloyan,” she said. “And don’t worry—there won’t be. The girls told me he had a dose of venereal disease when he was young, and he’s impotent as a result. He doesn’t even sleep with his wife. Why do you think he’s always surrounded by women? He’s hoping somebody will ‘cure’ him.”
“What bitches you actresses are,” Alov whispered, “gossiping about things like that among yourselves!”
“Anyway, he liked my dancing, and he promised to get me work at one of the big state movie studios,” said Dunya.
“I forbid it!” howled Alov. “I will not allow you to disgrace me!”
Dunya looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Have you ever thought about the fact that you disgrace me? I’m ashamed to admit I’m married to a man who works for the OGPU. I don’t want everybody avoiding me like the plague.”
She went up to the mirror and made a great show of inspecting her cheekbone to see if there was a bruise.
“You rat!” she shook her fist at Alov. “You raise a hand to me again, and I’ll hit you over the head with the iron. I hope they fire you from your lousy job—maybe then you’ll have some chance of becoming a decent man.”
She went out, slamming the door behind her. Alov lay for some time on the bed, too weak to pull himself up.
On the way to Red Square, Alov felt so bad he decided not to go to the demonstration, and instead, he set off to Lubyanka.
As soon as he reached his office, Alov put three chairs together and lay down to try to get some rest, but he slept fitfully and felt no better. From time to time, he was racked with fits of coughing and eventually developed a terrible migraine into the bargain. It was as if a metal ball was rolling around inside his skull.
In his pocket, wrapped in a piece of paper, Alov had a pill from Denmark, which, he knew, could relieve his symptoms for a while. Zharkov had once brought a whole packet back for him, and Alov had done his best to make them last.
Should I take the pill now, he wondered, or keep it for when the purge begins?
Alov smoked two cigarettes one after the other and then set to work clearing his desk. There were all sorts of stupid letters, reports, and nonsense of all sorts. Last in the pile was an unsealed envelope from Minsk. “Urgent. For immediate attention,” was written on it in Drachenblut’s handwriting.
It was a report of the interrogation of a man by the name of Elkin. He had tried to cross the Soviet border and had been attacked and robbed by his guide. A border patrol had discovered Elkin the next morning and dispatched the offender to the Minsk OGPU where certain facts had come to light during his interrogation.
Elkin had said that he had been sent across the border by Klim Rogov who claimed to be a correspondent for the United Press but was actually working for Chinese intelligence. Having heard it, the Belorussians had contacted Moscow at once.
As he read the document, Alov felt a shiver run down his spine. Good grief. He had found out about this business in the nick of time: Klim Rogov was planning to leave Moscow tomorrow. Luckily, Drachenblut had gone off to the celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution, so today, he would not summon Alov to come to him with the report on the situation. A failure in such an important case as this could have warranted immediate dismissal from the OGPU.
Grabbing the receiver, Alov contacted the duty officer.
Mr. Owen himself arrived for the celebrations of the eleventh anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, and Klim handed over the documents and keys for Mashka to him. The new correspondent for the United Press was due to arrive in Moscow in two weeks’ time.
Klim arranged a farewell party for his journalist friends, went to see Weinstein and the censors, and looked in on the Volga Germans to tell Father Thomas that he could expect some good news in the near future.
Although he still had a whole day left in the city, Klim had already packed up all his possessions. His apartment was almost empty with most of the furniture taken away. A few upholstery tacks lay scattered on the floor, and there were empty medicine vials and wire coat hangers on the window sill in the living room. Kapitolina was going to sell them to a rag merchant for a few kopecks.
Klim had given Kapitolina all his linen and tableware.
“My precious angel!” she cried, dashing about from room to room. “I’ll be a rich woman now! Rockefella will have nothing on me!”
Suddenly, she stood stock still. “Oh! I’ve just thought. I’ll have to give something to Galina. Should I give her a boot brush?”
“I’ll think of something,” said Klim.
Several times, he had begun composing a farewell letter to Galina—a ridiculous missive full of pointless wishes for good luck, good health, and all good things in the future. He wondered what, in fact, the future held in store for her. It seemed unlikely she would marry again—too many men of her age had been killed in the war. What “good things” could she hope for then? A jar of jam or a tin of meat bought on some special occasion? A free ride on a tram?
Damn it all, it would be far easier not to think about it!
But Klim could not stop thinking about it. In the end, he picked up the phone and gave the operator the number for Galina’s apartment.