“Hey, did you see that man?” he snapped at the secretary.
“No, Comrade Syerov. Where?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I just thought it was someone I knew. Wonder what he’s doing around here?”
An hour later, Pavel Syerov left his office, and — walking down the stairs, on his way to the street, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting out their shells — saw the man in the leather jacket again. He had not been mistaken: it was Andrei Taganov.
Pavel Syerov stopped, and his brows moved closer together, and he spit one more shell out of the corner of his mouth. Then he approached Andrei casually and said: “Good evening, Comrade Taganov.”
Andrei answered: “Good evening, Comrade Syerov.”
“Thinking of taking a trip, Andrei?”
“No.”
“Hunting train speculators?”
“No.”
“Been shifted to the G.P.U. transport section?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you. A rare person to see, aren’t you? So busy you have no time for old friends any more. Have some sunflower seeds?”
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t have the dirty habit? Don’t dissipate at all, do you? No vices, but one, eh? Well, I’m glad to see you taking an interest in this old station which is my home, so to speak. Been around for an hour or so, haven’t you?”
“Any more questions to ask?”
“Who, me? I wasn’t asking any questions. What would I be questioning you for? I was just being sociable, so to speak. One must be sociable once in a while, if one doesn’t want to be branded as an individualist, you know. Why don’t you drop in to see me while you’re in these parts?”
“I may,” said Andrei slowly. “Good-bye, Comrade Syerov.”
Syerov stood, frowning, an unbroken sunflower seed between his teeth, and watched Andrei descending the stairs.
The clerk wiped his nose with his thumb and forefinger, wiped the linseed oil off the bottle’s neck with his apron, and asked: “That all today, citizen?”
“That’s all,” said Andrei Taganov.
The clerk tore a piece of newspaper and wrapped the bottle, greasy stains spreading on the paper.
“Doing good business?” Andrei asked.
“Rotten,” the clerk answered, shrugging his shoulders in an old blue sweater. “You’re the first customer in three hours, I guess. Glad to hear a human voice. Nothing to do here but sit and scare mice off.”
“That’s too bad. Taking a loss, then?”
“Who, me? I don’t own the joint.”
“Then I guess you’ll lose your job soon. The boss will be coming to do his own clerking.”
“Who? My boss?” The clerk made a hoarse, cackling sound that was laughter, opening a wide hole with two broken, blackened teeth. “Not my boss, he won’t. I’d like to see the elegant Citizen Kovalensky slinging herrings and linseed oil.”
“Well, he won’t be elegant long with such poor business.”
“Maybe he won’t,” said the clerk, “and maybe he will.”
“Maybe,” said Andrei Taganov.
“Fifty kopeks, citizen.”
“Here you are. Good night, citizen.”
Antonina Pavlovna had tickets for the new ballet at the Marinsky Theater. It was a “profunion” show and Morozov had received the tickets at the Food Trust. But Morozov did not care for ballet and he had a school meeting to attend, where he was to make a speech on the “Proletarian Distribution of Food Products,” so he gave the tickets to Antonina Pavlovna. She invited Leo and Kira to accompany her. “Well, of course, it’s supposed to be a revolutionary ballet,” she explained. “The first Red ballet. And, of course, you know my attitude on politics, but then, one should be broad-minded artistically, don’t you think so? At least, it’s an interesting experiment.”
Kira refused the invitation. Leo left with Antonina Pavlovna. Antonina Pavlovna wore a jade green gown embroidered in gold, too tight across her stomach, and carried mother-of-pearl opera glasses on a long gold handle.
Kira had made a date with Andrei. But when she left the tramway and walked through the dark streets to the palace garden, she noticed her feet slowing down of their own will, her body tense, unyielding, fighting her, as if she were walking forward against a strong wind. It was as if her body remembered that which she was trying to forget: the night before, a night such as her first one in the gray and silver room she had shared with Leo for over three years. Her body felt pure and hallowed; her feet were slowing down to retard her progress toward that which seemed a sacrilege because she did desire it and did not wish to desire it tonight.
When she reached the top of the long, dark stairs and Andrei opened the door, she asked: “Andrei, will you do something for me?”
“Before I kiss you?”
“No. But right after. Will you take me to a motion picture tonight?”
He kissed her, his face showing nothing but the ever-incredulous joy of seeing her again, then said: “All right.”
They walked out together, arm in arm, fresh snow squeaking under their feet. The three largest film theaters on Nevsky displayed huge cotton signs with red letters:
THE HIT OF THE SEASON!
NEW MASTERPIECE OF THE SOVIET CINEMA!
“RED WARRIORS”
A gigantic epic of the struggle of red heroes in the civil war!
A SAGA OF THE PROLETARIAT!
A titanic drama of the heroic unknown masses
of Workers and Soldiers!
One theater also bore the sign:
COMRADE LENIN SAID: “OF ALL THE ARTS, THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE FOR RUSSIA IS THE CINEMA!”
The theater entrances blazed in streams of white light. The cashiers watched the passersby wistfully and yawned. No one stopped to look at the display of stills.
“You don’t want to see that,” said Andrei.
“No,” said Kira.
The fourth and smaller theater played a foreign picture. It was an old, unknown picture with no stars, no actors’ names announced; three faded stills were pasted in the show window, presenting a lady with too much make-up and a dress fashionable ten years ago.
“We might as well see that,” said Kira.
The box office was closed.
“Sorry, citizens,” said the usher, “no seats left. All sold out for this show and the next one. The foyer’s jammed with people waiting.”
“Well,” said Kira, as they turned away with resignation, “it may as well be ‘The Red Warriors.’ ”
The foyer of the huge, white-columned “Parisiana” was empty. The picture was on, and no one was allowed to enter in the middle of a show. But the usher bowed eagerly and let them enter.
The theater was dark, cold, and seemed silent under the roar of the orchestra, with the echoing silence of a huge, empty room. A few heads dotted the waste of grayish, empty rows.
On the screen, a mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. A mob of ragged gray uniforms sat around fires, cooking soup. A long train crawled slowly through endless minutes, open box cars loaded with a mob of ragged gray uniforms. “A MONTH LATER” said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. A sea of arms waved banners. A mob of ragged gray uniforms crawled down trench tops, against a black sky. “THE BATTLE OF ZAVRASHINO” said a title. A mob in patent leather boots shot a mob in bast shoes lined against a wall. “THE BATTLE OF SAMSONOVO” said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. “THREE WEEKS LATER” said a title. A long train crawled into a sunset. “THE PROLETARIAT STAMPED ITS MIGHTY BOOT DOWN THE TREACHEROUS THROAT OF DEPRAVED ARISTOCRATS” said a title. A mob in patent leather boots danced in a gaudy brothel, amid broken bottles and half-naked women who looked at the camera. “BUT THE SPIRIT OF OUR RED WARRIORS FLAMED WITH LOYALTY TO THE PROLETARIAN CAUSE” said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. There was no plot, no hero. “THE AIM OF PROLETARIAN ART,” a poster in the foyer had explained, “IS THE DRAMA AND COLOR OF MASS LIFE.”