We the Living (55 page)

Victor came home. He flung his coat on a chair in the lobby and kicked his galoshes into a corner. The galoshes upset an umbrella stand that clattered down to the floor. Victor did not stop to pick it up.

In the dining room, Marisha sat before a pile of opened volumes, bending her head to one side, writing studiously, biting her pencil. Vasili Ivanovitch sat by a window, carving a wooden box. Acia sat on the floor, mixing sawdust, potato peelings and sunflower-seed shells in a broken bowl.

“Dinner ready?” snapped Victor.

Marisha fluttered up to throw her arms around him. “Not . . . not quite, darling,” she apologized. “Irina’s been busy and I have this thesis to write for tomorrow and . . .”

He threw her arms off impatiently and walked out, slamming the door. He went down a dim corridor to Irina’s room. He threw the door open without knocking. Irina stood by the window, in Sasha’s arms, his lips on hers. She jerked away from him; she cried: “Victor!”, her voice choked with indignation. Victor wheeled about without a word and slammed the door behind him.

He returned to the dining room. He roared at Marisha: “Why the hell isn’t the bed made in our room? The room’s like a pigsty. What have you been doing all day?”

“But darling,” she faltered, “I . . . I’ve been at the Rabfac, and then at the Lenin’s Library meeting, and the Wall Newspaper’s Editorial Board, and then there’s this thesis on Electrification I have to read tomorrow at the Club, and I don’t know a thing about Electrification and I’ve had to read so much and . . .”

“Well, go and see if you can heat something on the Primus. I expect to be fed when I come home.”

“Yes, dear.”

She gathered her books swiftly, nervously. She hurried, pressing the heavy pile to her breast, dropped two books by the door, bent awkwardly to pick them up, and went out.

“Father,” said Victor, “why don’t you get a job?”

Vasili Ivanovitch raised his head slowly and looked at him. “What’s the matter, Victor?” he asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Only it’s rather foolish to be registered as an unemployed bourgeois and be constantly under suspicion.”

“Victor, we haven’t discussed our political views for a long time, you know. But if you want to hear it—I will not work for your government so long as I live.”

“But surely, Father, you’re not hoping still that . . .”

“What I’m hoping is not to be discussed with a Party man. And if you’re tired of the expense . . .”

“Oh, no, Father, of course it isn’t that.”

Sasha passed through the dining room on his way out. He shook hands with Vasili Ivanovitch. He patted Acia’s head. He went out without a word or a glance at Victor.

“Irina, I want to speak to you,” said Victor.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I want to speak to you—alone.”

“Anything you have to say, Father may hear it.”

“Very well. It’s about that man,” he pointed at the door that had closed behind Sasha.

“Yes?”

“I hope you realize the infernal situation.”

“No. I don’t. What situation?”

“Do you know with what type of man you’re carrying on an affair?”

“I’m not carrying on any affair. Sasha and I are engaged.”

Victor jerked forward, opening his mouth and closing it again, then said slowly, with an effort to control himself: “Irina, that’s utterly impossible.”

She stood before him, her eyes steady, menacing, scornful. She asked: “Is it? Just exactly why?”

He leaned toward her, his mouth twitching. “Listen,” he hissed, “don’t make any useless denials. I know what your Sasha Chernov is. He’s up to his neck in counter-revolutionary plots. It’s none of my business. I’m keeping my mouth shut. But it won’t be long before others in the Party discover it. You know the end for bright lads like him. Do you expect me to stand by and watch my sister marrying a counter-revolutionary? What do you think it will do to my Party standing?”

“What it will do to your Party standing or to yourself,” Irina said with meticulous precision, “concerns me less than the cat’s leavings on the back stairs.”

“Irina!” Vasili Ivanovitch gasped. Victor whirled upon him.

“You tell her!” Victor roared. “It’s hard enough to get anywhere with the millstone of this family tied around my neck! You can roll straight down to hell, if you all enjoy it so nobly, but I’ll be damned if you’re going to drag me along!”

“But, Victor,” Vasili Ivanovitch said quietly, “there’s nothing either you or I can do about it. Your sister loves him. She has a right to her own happiness. God knows, she’s had little enough of it these last few years.”

“If you’re so afraid for your damn Party hide,” said Irina, “I’ll get out of here. I’m making enough for myself. I could starve on my own on what one of your Red clubs considers a living salary! I’ve have gone long ago, if it weren’t for Father and Acia!”

“Irina,” Vasili Ivanovitch moaned, “you won’t do that!”

“In other words,” Victor asked, “you refuse to give up that young fool?”

“And also,” Irina answered, “I refuse to discuss him with you.”

“Very well,” said Victor, “I’ve warned you.”

“Victor!” Vasili Ivanovitch cried. “You’re—you’re not going to harm Sasha, are you?”

“Don’t worry,” Irina hissed, “he won’t. It would be too compromising for his Party standing!”

Kira met Vava Milovskaia in the street, but could hardly recognize her, and it was Vava who approached timidly, muttering: “How are you, Kira?”

Vava wore an old felt hat made over from her father’s derby, with a broken brim that looked as if it had not been brushed for days. One black curl hung carelessly over her right cheek, her mouth was smeared unevenly with a faded, purplish lipstick, and her little nose was shiny, but her eyes were dull; her eyes looked swollen, aged, indifferent.

“Vava, I haven’t seen you for such a long time. How are you?”

“I’m . . . I’m married, Kira.”

“You . . . Why, congratulations. . . . When?”

“Thanks. Two weeks ago.” Vava’s eyes were looking away; she muttered, staring at the street: “I . . . we . . . we didn’t have a big wedding, so we didn’t invite anyone. Just the family. You see, it was a church wedding, and Kolya didn’t want that known at the office where he works.”

“Kolya . . . ?”

“Yes, Kolya Smiatkin, you probably don’t remember him, you met him at my party, though. . . . That’s what I am now: Citizen Smiatkina. . . . He works at the Tobacco Trust, and it’s not a very big job, but they say he’ll get a raise. . . . He’s a very nice boy . . . he . . . he loves me very much. . . . Why shouldn’t I have married him?”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t have, Vava.”

“What is there to wait for? What can one do with oneself, these days, if one isn’t . . . if one isn’t a. . . . What I like about you, Kira, is that you’re the first person who didn’t say she wished me to be happy!”

“But I do wish it, Vava.”

“Well, I’m happy!” She tossed her head defiantly. “I’m perfectly happy!”

Vava’s hand in a soiled glove rested on Kira’s arm; she hesitated, as if she feared Kira’s presence, and closed her fingers tighter over Kira’s arm, as if she were afraid to let her go, as if she were hanging on desperately to something she did not want to utter. Then she whispered, looking away: “Kira . . . do you think . . .
he’s
happy?”

“Victor is not a person who cares about being happy,” Kira answered slowly.

“I wouldn’t mind . . .” Vava whispered, “I wouldn’t mind . . . if she were pretty. . . . But I saw her. . . . Oh, well, anyway, it doesn’t concern me at all. Not in the least. . . . I’d like you to come over and visit us, Kira, you and Leo. Only . . . only we haven’t found a place to live yet. I moved into Kolya’s room, because . . . because my old room . . . well, Father didn’t approve, you see, so I thought it would be better to move out. And Kolya’s room—it’s a former storage closet in a big apartment, and it’s so small that we . . . But when we find a room, I’ll invite you to come over and . . . Well, I have to run along. . . . Good-bye, Kira.”

“Good-bye, Vava.”

“He’s not in,” said the gray-haired woman.

“I’ll wait,” said Comrade Sonia.

The woman shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot and chewed her lips. Then she said: “Don’t see how you can wait, citizen. We’ve got no reception room. I’m only Citizen Syerov’s neighbor and my quarters . . .”

“I’ll wait in Citizen Syerov’s room.”

“But, citizen . . .”

“I said I’ll wait in Citizen Syerov’s room.”

Comrade Sonia walked resolutely down the corridor. The old neighbor followed, nodding dejectedly, watching the swift heels of Comrade Sonia’s flat, masculine shoes.

Pavel Syerov jumped up when Comrade Sonia entered. He threw his arms wide in a gesture of surprise and welcome.

“Sonia, my dear!” he laughed very loudly. “It’s you! My dear, I’m so sorry. I was busy and I had given orders . . . but had I known . . .”

“It’s quite all right,” Comrade Sonia dismissed the subject. She threw a heavy brief case on the table and unbuttoned her coat, unwinding a thick, masculine scarf from her neck. She glanced at her wristwatch. “I have half an hour to spare,” she said. “I’m on my way to the Club. We’re opening a Lenin’s Nook today. I had to see you about something important.”

Syerov offered her a chair and pulled on his coat, adjusting his tie before a mirror, smoothing his hair, smiling ingratiatingly.

“Pavel,” said Comrade Sonia, “we’re going to have a baby.”

Syerov’s hand dropped. His mouth fell open. “A . . . ?”

“A baby,” Comrade Sonia said firmly.

“What the . . .”

“It’s been three months, I know,” said Comrade Sonia.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“But hell! You’ll have to . . .”

“It’s too late to do anything now.”

“Why the devil didn’t you . . .”

“I said it was too late.”

Syerov fell on a chair before her and stared intently at her unruffled calm. “Are you sure it’s mine?” he asked hoarsely.

“Pavel,” she said without raising her voice, “you’re insulting me.”

He jumped up, and walked to the door, and came back, and sat down again, and jumped up. “Well, what in hell are we to do about it?”

“We’re going to be married, Pavel.”

He bent toward her, his closed fist on the table. “You’ve gone crazy,” he said heavily.

She looked at him, silently, waiting.

“You’re crazy, I tell you! I have no such intention.”

“But you’ll have to do it.”

“I will, will I ? You get out of here, you . . .”

“Pavel,” she said softly, “don’t say anything you may regret.”

“Listen . . . what the . . . we’re not living in a bourgeois country. Hell! There’s no such thing as a betrayed virgin . . . and you were no virgin anyway . . . and. . . . Well, if you want to go to court—try and collect for its support—and the devil take you—but there’s no law to make me marry you! Marry! Hell! You’d think we lived in England or something!”

“Sit down, Pavel,” said Comrade Sonia, adjusting a button on her cuff, “and don’t misunderstand me. My attitude on the subject is not old-fashioned in the least. I am not concerned over morals or public disgrace or any such nonsense. It is merely a matter of our duty.”

“Our . . . what?”

“Our duty, Pavel. To a future citizen of our republic.”

Syerov laughed; it sounded as if he were blowing his nose. “Cut that out!” he said. “You’re not addressing a Club meeting.”

“Indeed,” said Comrade Sonia, “so loyalty to our principles is not part of your private life?”

He jumped up again. “Now, Sonia, don’t misunderstand me. Of course, I am always loyal and our principles . . . of course, it is a fine sentiment and I appreciate it . . . but then, what’s the difference to the . . . future citizen?”