The grim lines of his tanned face were like an effigy of a medieval saint; from the age of the Crusades he had inherited the ruthlessness, the devotion, and also the austere chastity. She could not speak of love to him; she could not think of love in his presence; not because she feared a stern condemnation; but because she feared his sublime indifference.
She did not want to conceal it forever. The two men had to meet. She feared that meeting, a little. She remembered that one of them was the son of an executed father; the other one — a member of the G.P.U. Vava’s party was a convenient occasion: the two would meet; she would watch their reac tions; then, perhaps, she could bring Andrei to her house; and if, at the party, he heard the truth about her — well, she thought, so much the better.
Meeting him in the library of the Institute, she asked: “Andrei, would a bourgeois party frighten you?”
“Not if you’ll be there to protect me — if that’s an invitation.”
“I’ll be there. And it is an invitation. Saturday night. Lydia and I are going. And two men. You’re one of them.”
“Fine — if Lydia is not too afraid of me.”
“The other one — is Leo Kovalensky.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t know his address then, Andrei.”
“I didn’t ask you, Kira. And it does not matter.”
“Call for us at nine-thirty, at the house on Moika.”
“I remember your address.”
“My ... oh, yes, of course.”
Vava Milovskaia met her guests in the anteroom.
Her smile was radiant; her black eyes and black curls sparkled like the patent leather of the narrow belt around her slim waistline; and the delicate patent leather flowers on her shoulder — the latest Soviet fashion — sparkled like her eyes.
The guests entered, logs of wood under their arms. A tall, stern maid in black, with stiff white apron and cap, silently received the logs.
“Kira! Lydia! Darlings! So glad! How are you?” Vava fluttered.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Leo, that I’m really frightened,” she acknowledged the introduction, her hand in Leo’s; even Lydia understood Leo’s answering glance; as to Vava, she caught her breath and stepped back a little, and looked at Kira. But Kira paid no attention.
To Andrei, Vava said: “So you’re a Communist? I think that’s charming. I’ve always said that Communists were just like other people.”
The large drawing room had not been heated all winter. The fire had just been lit. A fretful smoke struggled up the chimney, escaping back into the room once in a while. A gray fog hung over the neatly polished mirrors, the freshly dusted tables proudly displaying careful rows of worthless knick-knacks; a damp odor of mildewed wood rose to destroy the painful dignity of a room too obviously prepared for guests.
The guests sat huddled in corners, shivering under old shawls and sweaters, tense and self-conscious and too carelessly nonchalant in their old best clothes. They kept their arms pressed to their sides to hide the holes in their armpits; elbows motionless on their knees — to hide rubbed patches; feet deep under chairs — to hide worn felt boots. They smiled vacantly without purpose, laughed too loudly at nothing in particular, timid and uncomfortable and guiltily conscious of a forbidden purpose, the forgotten purpose of gaiety. They eyed the fireplace wistfully, longing and reluctant to seize upon the best seats by the fire. Everybody was cold and everybody wanted desperately to be gay.
The only one whose bright, loud gaiety seemed effortless was Victor. His wide stride bounced from group to group, offering the tonic of a ringing voice and a resplendent smile: “This way, ladies and gentlemen.... Move over to this lovely fire. We’ll be warm in an instant.... Ah! my charming cousins, Kira and Lydia! ... Delighted, Comrade Taganov, delighted! ... Here’s a lovely armchair, Lydia darling, I save it specially for you.... Rita dear, you remind me of the heroine in the new Smirnov novel. Read it? Magnificent! Literature emancipated from outworn conceptions of form. A new woman — the free woman of the future.... Comrade Taganov, that project for the electrification of the entire R.S.F.S.R. is the most stupendous undertaking in the history of mankind. When we consider the amount of electrical power per citizen to be found in our natural resources.... Vava, these patent leather flowers are the latest word in feminine elegance. I understand that the most famous couturier of Paris has ... I quite agree with you, Boris. Schopenhauer’s pessimism is entirely outmoded in the face of the healthy, practical philosophical conceptions of the rising proletariat and, no matter what our personal political convictions may be, we must all be objective enough to agree that the proletariat is the ruling class of the future....”
With perfect assurance, Victor assumed the role of host. Vava’s dark eyes, that rested on him every time she flitted through the room, sanctioned his right by a long, adoring glance. She flew into the anteroom at every sound of the door bell, returning with a couple that smiled shyly, rubbing their cold hands, hiding the worn seams of their clothes. The solemn maid followed silently, carrying the logs as if she were serving a dish, and piled them neatly by the fireplace.
Kolya Smiatkin, a blond, chubby young man with a pleasant smile, who was filing clerk in the Tobacco Trust, said timidly: “They say ... er ... I heard ... I’m afraid there’s going to be a reduction of staffs in our office — next month. Everybody’s whispering about it. Maybe I’ll get fired this time. Maybe not. Makes you feel sort of uncomfortable.”
A tall gentleman with a gold pince-nez and the intense eyes of an undernourished philosopher said lugubriously: “I have an excellent job in the archives. Bread almost every week. Only I’m afraid there’s a woman after the job — a Communist’s mistress — and ...”
Someone nudged him and pointed at Andrei, who stood by the fireplace, smoking. The tall gentleman coughed and looked uncomfortable.
Rita Eksler was the only woman in the room who smoked. She lay stretched on a davenport, her legs high on its arm, her skirt high above her knees, red bangs low over pale green eyes, painted lips puckered insolently around a cigarette. Many things were whispered about her. Her parents had been killed in the revolution. She had married a commander of the Red Army and divorced him two months later. She was homely and used her homeliness with such skillful, audacious emphasis that the most beautiful girls feared her competition.
She stretched lazily and said, her voice slow, husky: “I’ve heard something amusing. A boy friend of mine wrote from Berlin ...” All eyes turned to her, eagerly, reverently. “... and he tells me they have cafés in Berlin that are open all night — all night, elegant, eh? — they call them ‘Nacht Local.’ And in a famous, very naughty ‘Nacht Local,’ a famous dancer — Rikki Rey — danced with sixteen girls and with nothing on. I mean, positively nothing. So she got arrested. And the next night, she and her girls appeared in a military number, and they wore little chiffon trunks, two gold strings crossed over their breasts, and huge fur hats. And they were considered dressed. Elegant, eh?”
She laughed huskily at the awed crowd, but her eyes were on Leo; they had been on Leo ever since he had entered the room. Leo’s answer was a straight, mocking glance of understanding that insulted and encouraged Rita at the same time.