Hot Siberian (19 page)

Not Vivian, Nikolai knew.

Hoping to round off some of his edginess, he roamed the apartment, into the kitchen, down the hallway, and around, his eyes grazing over such things as the second hinge of a door that he had used every Monday morning for a while as a boy to gauge the increase of his height. That hinge had been a confidant. Now it was merely the functional device that it was. Everything, even the mother and father and grandfather snapshots framed and placed with care on his dresser top, seemed to have shifted in meaning, receded from him. Six months ago, when he was last here, he hadn't taken any special notice of them; they also just happened to be there. Now he saw them as just flat pieces of chemically treated paper bearing likenesses. He tried to shake off that literal perspective, told himself it was a temporary outlook, would pass, had probably been brought on by his disappointment at not being able to reach Vivian. He studied the photographs. They were color prints, a bit grainy. His eyes went first to his mother, Irina Litinova, who had been beautiful to him through all his ages. She was tall, and blessed with a metabolic rate that kept her aristocratically slender. Her dark hair was middle-parted and worn straight and long, reaching down to her collarbones, allowing a vertical rectangle for her pleasing features. She refused to wear her hair up in a bun. Buns, she contended, were for babushkas or farm wives or women of the Party who believed in severity more than humanity. In the snapshot she was smiling just a hint, as though inwardly amused more than outwardly pleased. Her arms were relaxed at her thighs, showing the back of her hands. Nikolai had, from a very early age, associated her hands with those of a dancer he'd seen up close when he and Lev had snuck into a Kirov rehearsal. Such length and taper and the exceptional grace with which she utilized and rested them. His mother's hands were those that had led him to the elite Yasli day nursery and to Detsky Jad, kindergarten for the well-connected. Although there were no marshals or generals or Politburo members conveniently leafed on the family tree, it was his mother who had somehow gotten him into the “special school” on Chernyshov Street. That he'd been accepted because he was a Borodin, related by blood to the musical-medical Borodin, was the explanation she stuck to, and what other was there? Nikolai was seven when he entered the special school and began to seriously learn English. In the second grade he and his classmates were required to speak only English at all times, even when they were at play or having lunch. To lapse into Russian was a punishable infraction. Nikolai brought home gold stars and 5s, the highest grades, and it was always his mother's marvelous hands that cupped his face and gave his mouth its reward.

She had also seen to his political conformity, taken him by the hand into the Young Pioneers, and from then on no one ever questioned whether he would be of the Party. He was the only child of loyal Party members, and it was assumed his path was already defined. His mother, however, did not mold him at home with the usual ideological conditioning. In fact, she herself was what she considered an “ostensible Communist with practical zealotry,” and she made sure that no one, be it peer, instructor, or political leader, exceeded her influence over the mental shape of her Nikolai. Whenever someone planted a Marxist absolute in the fresh soil of Nikolai's mind, Irina discerned it and weeded it out. She was clever about it, cautious and careful, was well aware that she was casting the die for his values. She did not want to do so at the sacrifice of his sense of loyalty. Theirs was a fine line, but they balanced along it together, and Nikolai soon enough reached the point where his understanding was indelible. He was a Communist not out of any sense of cause or fervent belief in system, not out of any feeling of debt to Marx or Lenin or past heroes, but simply because being a Communist was what was best for him to be, best for his place and time. He was, for example, his own man first and then a member of the Komsomol. Naturally, he didn't go around exposing that personal order of importance. He attended meetings but he never made a speech. He could be counted upon, counted in. Four years in a row he went to the Ukraine to help with the harvest.

Upon his graduation from the “special school” at age seventeen, Irina guided him into Leningrad State University. She seemed to know exactly what his direction should be, and was insistent about which subjects he should take. Languages and business, especially English and marketing. He did extremely well, was encouraged by her and her conviction that he was extraordinary and all he needed to do to be successful was exploit himself. He graduated with honors. Then came six months of uncertainty, during which he needed Irina's reassurance more than ever. Shouldn't he do his two years of compulsory military service now? Nikolai wanted to, just for the change from studying the army would be, and because he was restless. Irina felt all that button-polishing ridiculous; the stiff-legged marching would be a waste of him. He'd hate it, she advised; he'd want out within a week. They flared at one another over it, had their most vehement argument ever the day Nikolai happened upon an official letter that announced his deferment. Although he'd never been examined the letter said he had extreme myopia and premature ventricular contractions: nearsightedness and a sometimes abnormal heartbeat. Nikolai was furious, shouted that he was going to get bifocals and have a pacemaker put in. He hurried off to the army recruiting headquarters, filled out the enlistment forms, and took a physical examination. That same week he received a letter from the army rejecting him for medical reasons—bad eyes and erratic heart. This army-or-not matter was settled two days later by another letter, saying that he had been accepted by the Institute of Foreign Languages in Moscow, more commonly referred to throughout the Soviet Union with no less reverence as INYAZ. The notification came as a total surprise to Nikolai. He hadn't even applied to INYAZ, had thought it beyond his reach. It was almost impossible for anyone without a lot of
blat
to be accepted. It was reserved for the
nachalstvo
, the peak of the social hierarchy. It was where the diplomats and translators and foreign trade officials were trained. How was it that he qualified for that league? Was it possible that it was fairness at work, that his excellent grades at Leningrad State University and the advanced courses he'd taken at the Institute of Economics and Commerce had been noticed? Or didn't that complacent, rather victorious expression on Irina's face tell him that
she'd
somehow had something to do with it. She was happy about his acceptance by INYAZ, but considering the importance of it she took it rather calmly, as though it was something she'd been anticipating all along. Nikolai put it to her. She admitted that she'd submitted an application on his behalf, but there was nothing more he could get out of her. Nikolai pressed to know what strings she'd been able to pull. She evaded with the nicest silent reply, like old times, cupped his face and gave him a kiss. They celebrated with a huge, indulgent dinner at the Astoria.

Irina.

Now there she was in the most two-dimensional form, photographed on a day of some past summer in a loose-fitting, delicately figured cotton dress with the arm of the father, Pyotr Borodin, around her, as though it had been coaxed there by the taker, his hand defining the slenderness of her waist. The father appeared annoyed, which was his normal expression, the only one that Nikolai could recall without having to search his memory. The father laughed when he was drunk but even then it was a laugh flavored with bitterness. The father never took more than a dutiful interest in Nikolai. For some reason he was incapable of showing sincere pride in the boy, and when quite young Nikolai stopped bringing his accomplishments home in his heart to the father. Only to the mother. Actually, these were not rare circumstances. In many Russian families the active caring was traditionally left to the mother. Nikolai learned early to be cautious of the father's disposition. It was always simmering, ready to boil. The slightest thing could get him grumbling or ignite him into an argument with the mother, and many times it developed into shoving and wrist-capturing and arm-twisting, the sort of unequal and therefore awkward violence of man against woman. Why had the mother endured the abuse, the constant sour atmosphere? Why not a divorce? Was it her Slavic fatalism to accept her lot? There always seemed to be some never-mentioned secret that kept the marriage together while it kept it apart. That was even apparent in this photograph Nikolai had chosen to have in sight.

He moved his attention six inches to the right for memories of a different quality, for Maksim Bemechev, the grandfather on the mother's side, the former Fabergé work-master, teller of czarist experiences who in the dark of the bedroom he shared with Nikolai put so much of his life into Nikolai's ears, always the romantic facets, such as how during the revolution the Winter Palace had been defended by the
Peterburzhenkas
, a battalion made up of the elegant young ladies from the best-blooded St. Petersburg families. Imagine.

Mere photographs, Nikolai thought.

The mother, the father, the grandfather.

Tomorrow he would pay them a visit. Now, however, he continued moving about the apartment, testing this sense of detachment on various things, things that belonged to him and that he belonged to. What had happened? Was this the price of absence? Had time, with its sharp ticking teeth, chewed away at his affiliation? If this wasn't home, where was? London? Anywhere in the presence of Vivian seemed to be the true answer.

He tried phoning her again and this time did not invent any excuses for her. She knew he would be calling. She knew damn well he would be worried if she wasn't there to receive his call. She was out somewhere with Archer, Nikolai presumed.

He lay on the bed, switched on the lamp that was clamped to the bedpost. A large woven basket beside the bed contained numerous past issues of magazines and newspapers. The
Pravdas
, the
Octobers
, and the
Literaturnayas
were on top. The London
Times
, France
Soirs
and
Playboys
were concealed beneath. Nikolai reached into the basket without looking. What he wanted was tucked down along the side of the basket. It was reassuring that his hand knew precisely where it would be. He brought up
Custine's Eternal Russia: The Marquis de Custine's Accounts of Royal Times
. An edition in original French that he'd had since he was eleven. He'd found it at the Prince Alexander Menshikov summer palace in Gatchina, in that sealed-off, slighted room which became his secret place. The book had been among a mildewed pile of hundred-year-old silk damask draperies. Nikolai thought it might be the sort of book that was forbidden, so he'd left it there, and the next time he came he brought what he needed to clean it. Its covers were warped, its pages dotted with acidity, and some pages were so stuck together they had to be carefully peeled apart, but it was a fine book. There was gold leaf on its edges, and the scarred leather of its covers healed beautifully when rubbed with mink oil. At first Nikolai valued this book mainly because it was something he'd found, but soon he came to cherish it for its contents, the inquisitive count's observations of the self-indulgent life in Russia during the 1800s. Nikolai read and reread it so many times he knew most of it by heart.

Now, however, it was hard in his hands and, it seemed, not nearly as precious as when he'd last picked it up. An old priceless possession had turned into a mere book. He opened it randomly: the description of a court ball to celebrate the nameday of Empress Alexandra Feodorovna on July 23, 1839. He went through a few paragraphs to see if the words were still his dear acquaintances. They refused to speak to him. He was, he thought, getting what he deserved. He placed the book down, clicked off the lamp, and lay there thinking about how long he should wait before he again tried to reach Vivian. After half an hour he got up, put on some jeans and a light sweater, and went out to get away from the phone.

He went a block over to Bolshoi Prospekt and headed south, walking briskly as though he had a destination. At two-thirty in the morning the streets were empty, except for an occasional car. It was that time when not movement or people but the structures and surfaces alone were the city. Nikolai was glad he'd decided to go out. Leningrad was his, would always be. Halfway across the Tutskow Bridge he paused, leaned on the rail, and looked down at flickers on the flow of the Neva. The river was high, he saw. There must have been a lot of rain recently, and even though it was May there would still be melting upstream. He could remember May floodings. He fixed upon a spot about fifty yards upstream and a bit off to the right and believed he wasn't more than a couple of yards off from where he and Lev used to ice-fish, always with success. They'd yank the rather small, wet silvery fish up through the hole and watch them freeze stiff as crystal within a minute. He had read somewhere, and always thought of those fish when he wondered if it was true, that freezing was a warm way to die. When other ice-fishermen who weren't even getting a nibble asked Nikolai and Lev how it was they were always so lucky, Lev would claim it wasn't luck, it was romance, and Nikolai would explain that the Neva had promised them her love. Now, here he was wondering if he'd ever ice-fish the Neva again. What would Vivian think of ice-fishing? Archer would probably liken it to taking meat out of a freezer. That might also be Vivian's opinion, he grunted.

He continued on across the river and along the quay, and as he passed close to Nicholas I, larger in bronze than he'd ever been in life, it seemed that his legs were telling him that he
did
have a destination. He went through the Gorky Gardens and after another two blocks turned onto Gevtsena Street, which before the 1917 Revolution and all the renaming that occurred with it had been Bolshaya Movskaya Street. Nikolai stopped and stood across from number 24. A four-story granite-and-limestone building of considerable size, a hundred and fifty years old. Its blue-gray slate roof was interrupted by three sharp eaves of Gothic flavor. On the ground floor there were wide entrances on the extreme left and right with four large arched store windows in between. On the floors above there were altogether thirty-three windows of identical size. The building was unlighted inside, deserted, making it all the easier for Nikolai to visualize it again as it had been in the early 1900s. Grandfather Maksim's descriptions came back to him almost verbatim: