“Andrei,” Syerov moaned, “what is that damned aristocrat to you?”
“I’ve answered that question once.”
Syerov rose unsteadily and drew himself up for a last, desperate effort: “Listen, Andrei, I have something to tell you. I thought you knew it, but I guess you don’t. Only pull yourself together and listen, and don’t kill me on the first word. I know there’s a name you don’t want to be mentioned, but I’ll mention it. It’s Kira Argounova.”
“Well?”
“Listen, we’re not mincing words, are we? Hell, not now we aren’t. Well, then, listen: you love her and you’ve been sleeping with her for over a year. And.... Wait! Let me finish.... Well, she’s been Leo Kovalensky’s mistress all that time.... Wait! You don’t have to take my word for it. Just check up on it and see for yourself.”
“Why check up on it? I know it.”
“Oh!” said Pavel Syerov.
He stood, rocking slowly from heels to toes, looking at Andrei. Then he laughed. “Well,” he said, “I should have known.”
“Get your coat,” said Andrei, rising.
“I should have known,” laughed Syerov, “why the saint of the Comm-party would go in for blackmail. You fool! You poor, virtuous, brainless fool! So that’s the kind of grandstand you’re playing! I should have known that the lofty heroics are a disease one never gets cured of! Come on, Andrei! Haven’t you any sense left? Any pride?”
“We’ve talked long enough,” said Andrei. “You seem to know a lot about me. You should know that I don’t change my mind.”
Pavel Syerov reached for his overcoat and pulled it on slowly, his pale lips grinning.
“All right, Sir Galahad or whatever it’s called,” he said. “Sir Galahad of the blackmail sword. You win — this time. It’s no use threatening you with any retaliation. Fellows like you get theirs without any help from fellows like me. In a year — this little mess will be forgotten. I’ll be running the railroads of the U.S.S.R. and buying satin diapers for my brat. You’ll be standing in line for a pot of soup — and maybe you’ll get it. But you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that your sweetheart is being ... by a man you hate!”
“Yes,” said Andrei. “Good luck, Comrade Syerov.”
“Good luck, Comrade Taganov.”
Kira sat on the floor, folding Leo’s underwear, putting it back into the drawer. Her dresses were still piled in a heap before her open wardrobe. Papers rustled all over the room when she moved. Down from the torn pillows fluttered like snow over the furniture.
She had not been out for two days. She had heard no sound from the world beyond the walls of her room. Galina Petrovna had telephoned once and wailed into the receiver; Kira had told her not to worry and please not to come over; Galina Petrovna had not come.
The Lavrovs had decided that their neighbor was not shaken by her tragedy; they heard no tears; they noticed nothing unusual in the frail little figure whom they watched sidewise when they crossed her room on their way to the bathroom. They noticed only that she seemed lazy, for her limbs fell and remained in any position, and it took her an effort to move them; and her eyes remained fixed on one spot and it took a bigger effort to shift her glance, and her glance was like a forty-pound sack of sand being dragged by a child’s fist.
She sat on the floor and folded shirts neatly, creasing every pleat, slipping them cautiously into the drawer on the palms of her two hands. One shirt had Leo’s initials embroidered on the breast pocket; she sat staring at it, without moving.
She did not raise her head when she heard the door opening.
“Allo, Kira,” said a voice.
She fell back against the open drawer and it slammed shut with a crash. Leo was looking down at her. His lips drooped, but it was not a smile; his lips had no color; the circles under his eyes were blue and sharp, as if painted on by an amateur actor.
“Kira ... please ... no hysterics ...” he said wearily.
She rose slowly, her arms swinging limply. She stood, her fingers crumpling the hair on her right temple, looking at him incredulously, afraid to touch him.
“Leo ... Leo ... you’re not ... free, are you?”
“Yes. Free. Released. Kicked out.”
“Leo ... how ... how could it ... happen ... ?”
“How do I know? I thought you knew something about that.”
She was kissing his lips, his neck, the muscles exposed by his torn shirt collar, his hands, his palms. He patted her hair and looked indifferently over her head, at the wrecked room.
“Leo ...” she whispered, looking up into his dead eyes, “what have they done to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Did they ... did they ... I heard they sometimes ...”
“No, they didn’t torture me. They say they have a room for that, but I didn’t have the privilege.... I had a nice cell all to myself and three meals a day, although the soup was rotten. I just sat there for two days and thought of what last words I could say before the firing squad. As good a pastime as any.”
She took his coat off; she pushed him into an armchair; she knelt, pulling off his overshoes; she pressed her head to his knees for a second and jerked it away, and bent lower, to hide her face, and tied his unfastened shoestring with trembling fingers.
He asked: “Have I any clean underwear left?”
“Yes ... I’ll get it ... only ... Leo ... I want to know ... you haven’t told me ...”
“What is there to tell? I guess it’s all over. The case is closed. They told me to see that I don’t get into the G.P.U. for a third time.” He added indifferently: “I think your friend Taganov had something to do with my release.”
“He ...”
“You didn’t ask him to?”
“No,” she said, rising. “No, I didn’t ask him.”
“Did they ruin the furniture completely, and the bed, too?”
“Who? ... Oh, the search ... No ... Yes, I guess they have.... Leo!” she cried suddenly, so that he shuddered and looked at her, lifting his eyelids with effort. “Leo, have you nothing to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Aren’t you ... aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Sure. You look nice. Your hair needs combing.”
“Leo, did you think of me ... there?”
“No.”
“You ... didn’t?”
“No. What for? To make it easier?”
“Leo, do you ... love me?”
“Oh, what a question.... What a question at what a time.... You’re getting feminine, Kira.... Really, it’s not becoming.... Not becoming at all....”
“I’m sorry, dear. I know it’s foolish. I don’t know why I had to ask it just then.... You’re so tired. I’ll get your underwear and I’ll fix your dinner. You haven’t had dinner, have you?”
“No. I don’t want any. Is there anything to drink in the house?”
“Leo ... you’re not going ... again ... to ...”
“Leave me alone, will you? Get the hell out, please could you? Go to your parents ... or something ...”
“Leo!” She stood, her hands in her hair, staring down at him incredulously. “Leo, what have they done to you?”
His head was leaning back against the chair and she looked at the quivering white triangle of his neck and chin; he spoke, his eyes closed, only his lips moving, his voice even and flat: “Nothing.... No one’s going to do anything to me any more.... No one.... Not you nor anyone else.... No one can hurt me but you — and now you can’t either.... No one....”
“Leo!” She seized his limp, white-faced head and shook it furiously, pitilessly. “Leo! It can’t get you like this! It won’t get you!”