But when he asked her a question suddenly, even though his voice was hard and his eyes empty, the question was a plea: “But you’ve always been in strict sympathy with the Soviet Government, Citizen Argounova, haven’t you?”
She answered very softly: “Yes.”
Somewhere, around a lamp, late in the night, amid rustling papers, reports and documents, a committee was holding a conference.
“Factory owners were the chief exploiters of the Proletariat.”
“Worse than landowners.”
“Most dangerous of class enemies.”
“We are performing a great service to the cause of the Revolution and no personal feelings are to interfere with our duty.”
“Order from Moscow — children of former factory owners are in the first category to be expelled.”
A voice asked, weighing every word: “Any exceptions to that rule, Comrade Taganov?”
He stood by a window, his hands clasped behind his back. He answered: “None.”
The names of those expelled were typewritten on a long sheet of paper and posted on a blackboard in the office of the Technological Institute.
Kira had expected it. But when she saw the name on the list: “Argounova, Kira,” she closed her eyes and looked again and read the long list carefully, to make sure.
Then she noticed that her brief case was open; she clasped the catch carefully; she looked at the hole in her glove and stuck her finger out, trying to see how far it would go, and twisted an unraveled thread into a little snake and watched it uncoil.
Then she felt that someone was watching her. She turned. Andrei stood alone in a window niche. He was looking at her, but he did not move forward, he did not say a word, he did not incline his head in greeting. She knew what he feared, what he hoped, what he was waiting for. She walked to him, and looked up at him, and extended her hand with the same trusting smile he had known on the same young lips, only the lips trembled a little.
“It’s all right, Andrei. I know you couldn’t help it.”
She had not expected the gratitude, a gratitude like pain, in his low voice when he answered: “I’d give you my place — if I could.”
“Oh, it’s all right.... Well ... I guess I won’t be a builder after all.... I guess I won’t build any aluminum bridges.” She tried to laugh. “It’s all right, because everybody always told me one can’t build a bridge of aluminum anyway.” She noticed that it was harder for him to smile than for her. “And Andrei,” she said softly, knowing that he did not dare to ask it, “this doesn’t mean that we won’t see each other any more, does it?”
He took her hand in both of his. “It doesn’t, Kira, if ...”
“Well, then, it doesn’t. Give me your phone number and address, so I can call you, because we ... we won’t meet here ... any more. We’re such good friends that — isn’t it funny? — I’ve never even known your address. All’s for the best. Maybe ... maybe we’ll be better friends now.”
When she came home, Leo was sprawled across the bed, and he didn’t get up. He looked at her and laughed. He laughed dryly, monotonously, senselessly.
She stood still, looking at him.
“Thrown out?” he asked, rising on a wavering elbow, his hair falling over his face. “Don’t have to tell me. I know. You’re kicked out. Like a dog. So am I. Like two dogs. Congratulations, Kira Alexandrovna. Hearty proletarian congratulations!”
“Leo, you’ve ... you’ve been drinking!”
“Sure. To celebrate. All of us did. Dozens and dozens of us at the University.
A toast to the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.... Many toasts to the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.... Don’t stare at me like that.... It’s a good old custom to drink at births, and weddings, and funerals.... Well, we weren’t born together, Comrade Argounova.... And we’ve never had a wedding, Comrade Argounova.... But we might yet see the other.... We might ... yet ... the other ... Kira....”
She was on her knees by the bed, gathering to her breast a pale face with a contorted wound of a mouth, she was brushing damp hair off his forehead, she was whispering: “Leo ... dearest ... you shouldn’t do that.... Now’s the time you shouldn’t.... We have to think clearly now....” She was whispering without conviction. “It’s not dangerous so long as we don’t give up.... You must take care of yourself, Leo.... You must spare yourself....”
His mouth spat out: “For what?”
Kira met Vasili Ivanovitch in the street.
It took an effort not to let her face show the change of his. She had seen him but once since Maria Petrovna’s death, and he had not looked like that. He walked like an old man. His clear, proud eyes darted at every face, a bitter look of suspicion, and hatred, and shame. His wrinkled, sinewy hands tottered uncertainly in useless movements, like an old woman’s. Two lines were slashed from the corners of his lips to his chin, lines of such suffering that one felt guilty of intrusion for having seen and guessed.
“Kira, glad to see you again, glad to see you,” he muttered, his voice, his words clinging to her helplessly. “Why don’t you come over any more? It’s sort of lonesome, at home. Or ... or maybe you’ve heard ... and don’t want to come?”
She had not heard. But something in his voice told her not to ask him what it was that she could have heard. She said with her warmest smile: “Why, no, Uncle Vasili, I’ll be glad to come. It’s just that I’ve been working so hard. But I’ll be over tonight, may I?”
She did not ask about Irina and Victor, and whether they, too, had been expelled. As after an earthquake, all were looking around cautiously, counting the victims, afraid to ask questions.
That night, after dinner, she called on the Dunaevs. She had persuaded Leo to go to bed; he had a fever; his cheekbones flamed with bright red spots; she had left a jug of cold tea by the bed and told him that she would be back early.
At a bare table without table cloth, under a lamp without a shade, Vasili Ivanovitch sat reading an old volume of Chekhov. Irina, her hair uncombed, sat drawing senseless figures on a huge sheet of paper. Acia slept, fully dressed, curled in an armchair in a dark corner. A rusty “Bourgeoise” smoked.
“Allo,” said Irina, her lips twisting. Kira had never seen her smile like that.
“Would you like some tea, Kira? Hot tea? Only ... only we have no saccharine left.”
“No, thank you, Uncle Vasili, I’ve just had dinner.”
“Well?” said Irina. “Why don’t you say it? Expelled?”
Kira nodded.
“And Leo, too?”
Kira nodded.
“Well? Why don’t you ask? Oh, I’ll tell you myself: sure, I’m out. What could you expect? Daughter of the wealthy Court Furrier!”
“And — Victor?”
Irina and Vasili Ivanovitch exchanged a glance, a strange glance. “No,” Irina answered slowly, “Victor is not expelled.”
“I’m glad, Uncle Vasili. That’s good news, isn’t it?” She knew the best way to cheer her uncle: “Victor’s such a talented young man, I’m glad they’ve spared his future.”
“Yes,” Vasili Ivanovitch said slowly, bitterly. “Victor is such a talented young man.”
“She had a white lace gown,” Irina said hysterically, “and, really, she has a gorgeous voice — oh — I mean — I’m speaking of the new production of ‘La Traviata’ at the Mikhailovsky Theater — and you’ve seen it, of course? Oh, well, you must see it. Old classics are ... old classics are ...”
“Yes,” said Vasili Ivanovitch, “old classics are still the best. In those days, they had culture, and moral values, and ... and integrity....”