In the intermission before the second show, Andrei asked: “Do you want to see the beginning of that?”
“Yes,” said Kira. “It’s still early.”
“I know you don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t, either. It’s funny, Andrei, I had a chance to go to the new ballet at the Marinsky tonight, and I didn’t go because it was revolutionary, and here I am looking at this epic.”
“You had a chance to go with whom?”
“Oh — a friend of mine.”
“Not Leo Kovalensky?”
“Andrei! Don’t you think you’re being presumptuous?”
“Kira, of all your friends he’s the one ...”
“... that you don’t like. I know. Still, don’t you think that you’re mentioning it too often?”
“Kira, you’re not interested in politics, are you?”
“No. Why?”
“You’ve never wanted to sacrifice your life senselessly, to have years torn out of it for no good reason, years of jail or exile? Have you?”
“What are you driving at?”
“Keep away from Leo Kovalensky.”
Her mouth was open and her hand was lifted in the air and she did not move for a long second. Then she asked, and no words had ever been so hard to utter:
“What — do — you — mean — Andrei?”
“You don’t want to be known as the friend of a man who is friendly with the wrong kind of people.”
“What people?”
“Several. Our own Comrade Syerov, for one.”
“But what has Leo ...”
“He owns a certain private food store, doesn’t he?”
“Andrei, are you being the G.P.U. agent with me and ...”
“No, I’m not questioning you. I have nothing to learn from you. I’m just wondering how much you know about his affairs — for your own protection.”
“What ... what affairs?”
“That’s all I can tell you. I shouldn’t have told you even that much. But I want to be sure that you don’t let your name be implicated, by chance, in any way.”
“Implicated — in what?”
“Kira, I’m not a G.P.U. agent — with you or to you.”
The lights went out and the orchestra struck up the “Internationale.”
On the screen, a mob of dusty boots marched down a dry, clotted earth. A huge, gray, twinkling, shivering rectangle of boots hung before them, boots without bodies, thick, cobbled soles, old leather gnarled, warped into creases by the muscles and the sweat inside; the boots were not slow and they were not in a hurry; they were not hoofs and they did not seem to be human feet; they rolled forward, from heels to toes, from heels to toes, like gray tanks waddling, crushing, sweeping all before them, clots of earth crumbling into dust, gray boots, dead, measured, endless, lifeless, inexorable.
Kira whispered through the roar of the “Internationale”: “Andrei, are you working on a new case for the G.P.U.?”
He answered: “No. On a case of my own.”
On the screen, shadows in gray uniforms sat around fires under a black sky. Calloused hands stirred iron kettles; a mouth grinned wide over crooked teeth; a man played a harmonica, rocking from side to side with a lewd grin; a man twirled in a Cossack dance, his feet flashing, his hands clapping in time; a man scratched his beard; a man scratched his neck; a man scratched his head; a man chewed a crust of bread, crumbs rolling into the open collar of his tunic, into a black, hairy chest. They were celebrating a victory.
Kira whispered: “Andrei, do you have something to report to the G.P.U.?”
He answered: “Yes.”
On the screen, a demonstration marched down a city street, celebrating a victory. Banners and faces swam slowly past the camera. They moved as wax figures pulled by invisible wires, young faces in dark kerchiefs, old faces in knitted shawls, faces in soldiers’ caps, faces in leather hats, faces that looked alike, set and humorless, eyes flat as if painted on, lips soft and shapeless, marching without stirring, marching without muscles, with no will but that of the cobblestones pulled forward under their motionless feet, with no energy but that of the red banners as sails in the wind, no fuel but the stuffy warmth of millions of skins, millions of flaccid, doughy muscles, no breath but the smell of patched armpits, of warm, weary, bowed necks, marching, marching, marching in an even, ceaseless movement, a movement that did not seem alive.
Kira jerked her head with a shudder that ran down to her knees and gasped: “Andrei, let’s go!”
He rose swiftly, obediently.
When he motioned to a sleigh driver in the street outside, she said: “No. Let’s walk. Walk. With both feet.”
He took her arm, asking: “What’s the matter, Kira?”
“Nothing,” she walked, listening to the living sound of her heels crunching snow. “I ... I didn’t like the picture.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t blame you. I wish they wouldn’t make those things, for their own sake.”
“Andrei, you wanted to leave it all, to go abroad, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you starting something ... against someone ... to help the masters you no longer want to serve?”
“I’m going to find out whether they’re still worth serving.”
“What difference would that make to you?”
“A difference on which the rest of my life may depend.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m giving myself a last chance. I have something to put before them. I know what they should do about it. I’m afraid I know also what they’re going to do about it. I’m still a member of the Party. In a very short while, I’ll know whether I’ll remain a member of the Party.”
“You’re making a test, Andrei? At the cost of several lives?”
“At the cost of several lives that should be ended.”
“Andrei!”
He looked at her white face, astonished: “Kira, what’s the matter? You’ve never questioned me about my work. We’ve never discussed it. You know that my work deals with lives — and death, when necessary. It has never frightened you like this. It’s something the two of us must keep silent about.”
“Are you forbidding me to break that silence?”
“Yes. And there’s something I have to tell you. Please listen carefully and don’t answer me, because, you see, I don’t want to know the answer. I want you to keep silent because I don’t want to learn how much you know about the case I’m investigating. I’m afraid I know already that you’re not quite ignorant about it. I’m expecting the highest integrity from the men I’m going to face. Don’t make me face them with less than that on my part.”
She said, trying to be calm, her voice quivering, a voice with a life and a terror of its own which she could not controclass="underline" “Andrei, I won’t answer. Now listen and don’t question me. Please don’t question me! I have nothing to tell you but this: I’m begging you — you understand — begging you with all there is in me, if I ever meant anything to you, this is the only time I want to claim it, I’m begging you, while it’s still in your hands, to drop this case, Andrei! for one reason only, for me!”
He turned to her and she looked into a face she had never seen before, the implacable face of Comrade Taganov of the G.P.U., a face that could have watched secret executions in dark, secret cellars. He asked slowly: “Kira, what is that man to you?”