by Zach Powers
“He awoke later under the night sky. His wound had been bandaged, the gray cloth stained through with red in the shape of the branch from a fir tree. Slowly, the memory of his father’s death came back to him, but he did not cry. He knew already, from the language of the men around him, laughing and telling stories he could not understand, that he had been captured. He began to plot then, blood still seeping fresh from the stitched wound on his chest, how to enact his revenge. He saw, in the distance, his escape. He did not then know how far away it was. He did not know the patience it would require. But if it was one thing that allowed him to become a hero, it was his patience.
“The stew is ready.”
Grandmother ladled the clear broth into three wooden bowls, filling the last with less and keeping that one for herself.
London, England—1964
Officially, the cosmonauts did not drink. But Mars had started sneaking vodka into Star City even before his brother’s launch, and had then somehow found a source for Scotch after his homecoming tour. It was rare to find Mars without a glass in hand. The radio control room was about the only place he stayed sober, and then only for those few days while there was a cosmonaut in orbit, sometimes for a day more, when Mars would talk to the silent capsule hoping for a response even though the air had already run out.
So Leonid was unofficially familiar with Scotch and recognized some of the bottles behind the hotel bar even if he did not know their names. He selected the green bottle with the yellow label. The bartender poured the glass near full. Leonid stared at the oily sheen swirling on the surface for a while before taking a sip. Usually, back in Star City, they downed their alcohol in one great gulp. He had never really considered the flavor before. Taken slowly, it did not burn so much. It did not catch in his throat.
After his second drink, he was joined at the bar by a pair of American travelers, a slim man and a sleek woman, who recognized him from his picture in the newspaper, or at least recognized his uniform. They introduced themselves, but he forgot their names immediately. He had trouble understanding their inflected English. Every other word seemed to be a mispronunciation, and they laughed so much that every sentence was broken in two by a chuckled pause. Leonid was fairly sure they were already drunk. Maybe their diction was usually as good as the Queen’s, but at the moment slurred.
The woman ordered a round, pointing at Leonid and asking the bartender for “whatever our comrade here is drinking.” Three new glasses arrived, filled to the lip with Scotch. Leonid raised his glass, unsure if the Americans would clink their glasses with his, but they did. He took some small comfort in this shared tradition. The couple downed their drinks in one long pull, so Leonid did the same. As soon as they set the empty glasses down, fresh drinks arrived for all three of them.
“Your flight finished about two weeks ago?” asked the woman.
“Yes. I have traveled since then. I feel I have traveled more since I returned than I did in space.”
“Have you been to London before?” asked the man.
“I am only ever in Russia, except for launches. I was born in Ukraine. A communal farm.”
“Any brothers or sisters?” asked the woman.
“Yes.” Leonid closed and opened his eyes. The lids felt heavy. “No. No brothers or sisters. That is how I think of my fellow cosmonauts. We have spent much time together. As family.”
“We met John Glenn,” said the man.
“Well, we were in the same room as him,” said the woman.
“He’s so quiet. Like you.” The man squeezed Leonid’s shoulder. “But also like you, he has a sort of presence about him. Maybe it comes from seeing the world as something small. Literally seeing it. There are what, ten of you who’ve shared that perspective?”
“Nadya met Glenn and Shepard in America.”
“You know her?” asked the man. “But of course you know her. It’s just hard to imagine her as an actual person. Like with the President. Or Khrushchev in your case.”
“I know Khrushchev, too, but not well. Nadya is in this hotel.”
The woman looked up, as if searching for Nadya above them. Leonid looked up, too, which set the ceiling atwirl. He wobbled on his stool. One of the Americans, he did not see which, reached out and steadied him. Leonid lowered his head and braced himself against the bar. The surface felt frigid. Was the air here conditioned? He looked around for vents, but had trouble bringing anything farther away than the bar top into focus.
“I’m sure you’re tired of this question by now,” said the woman, “but can you tell us what it’s like to fly into space?”
“Hmmm?” said Leonid. He twisted his head to see her and blinked until her face unblurred. “Ah, it’s a great thrill, the ride up on the rocket. It’s as if the whole Earth trembles, and then you pull away from the ground, but the trembling doesn’t stop. At last, the engines cut off, and you float up against the straps of your seat. Only then do you dare a peek out of the little round window, filled with black sky and the orb of the Earth, blue strung with white clouds.”
This was a paraphrase of Nadya’s description of space, the other Nadya, the one with whom he used to flirt. Her description, amended by the cosmonauts to follow, was used by the twins back on the ground to describe spaceflight.
“It sounds like quite an adventure,” said the man. “What about the rocket? What is it like? We’ve seen a model of the capsule here in London, but it’s suspended from the ceiling and we couldn’t get a good look.”
“If you can keep a secret, comrades,” said Leonid, “I’ll tell you. The capsule is quite a bit simpler than that. What you saw is the product of artists, not scientists. The real thing is more like a great metal volleyball. You play volleyball in America, yes?”
“I believe we invented it,” said the woman.
“Excellent, excellent. We play in Star City, when there is time. Outdoors when the weather is nice. Giorgi’s always organizing a game of volleyball. The capsule is like that, like a volleyball.”
“Who’s Giorgi?” asked the man.
“Who?” asked Leonid.
“You just mentioned someone named Giorgi.”
“Ah, yes. He’s a colleague. One who likes to play volleyball.” Leonid laughed and tried to smile, but he had difficulty feeling the shape of his face. He was not sure if the muscles had moved at all.
“What about the inside of the capsule?” asked the man. “Is it really like in films?”
Leonid shook his head. “I haven’t seen American films. It’s not like the spaceships in Russian films, but not so different, I suppose. If you were to look at the inside without a manual to instruct you, it would be the same sort of nonsense they make up for fiction.”
The woman placed her hand on Leonid’s wrist.
“If you ever make it to America,” she said, “we must take you to see a film.”
“Let us!” Leonid raised his glass, almost slopping the little bit of remaining Scotch onto the bar.
“How do you pilot the capsule?” asked the woman.
Leonid realized she looked a little bit like Nadya. He could have confused the two in a dark room, or outside at night. The man, though, looked like no one. He looked specifically as if he was supposed to look like no one, every feature of average size and nominal placement. Maybe instead of no one, the man looked like everyone, a twin to all of humanity.
“The capsule,” said the man.
“Ah yes. There’s Chayka.”
“What’s that?” asked the woman.
“It’s the attitude con—”
“Greetings.” A clipped voice came from behind them.
Leonid turned. It was Ignatius. He noticed that half of her jacket’s fur collar was flipped up. He reached back to adjust it, but she brushed his hand away.
She asked, “Who are your friends, Leonid?”
The couple did
not turn around to face her.
“We just met here at the bar,” said Leonid. “I’m afraid I can’t recall their names.”
The couple did not offer them.
“I hate to cut your conversation short,” said Ignatius, “but you must prepare for your next engagement, Leonid. Let me pay for your drinks.”
“They’re on us,” said the woman.
“Very kind of you,” said Ignatius. “Please note that there’s a mirror behind the bar.”
The man and woman had been looking down, but now they lifted their faces and met the reflection of Ignatius’s gaze. Leonid looked between the three of them. He was the only one to move at all.
“You know my face,” said Ignatius to the Americans, “and I know yours. It would be best if we were never to see each other again. Come, Leonid.” She gripped his elbow and guided him away from the bar.
In the lobby, she pulled him into a nook where a black telephone hung from the wall. Her expression did not change, but she locked her eyes on to his. He glanced away under the intensity of the stare, but she did not relent. After a few seconds, he looked back.
“You’re not to drink in public,” she said. “You’re not to talk to anyone you don’t know unless I’m there with you.”
“You sound like a mother.” Leonid had been enjoying his time at the bar.
“How would you know what a mother sounds like?” asked Ignatius.
The irritation left him as if spilled. Whatever enjoyment he had felt was replaced in an instant with melancholy. His face, still mostly numb, slackened. He looked down to a corner of the alcove.
Ignatius placed her hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch, comforting.
“Leonid,” she said. “Those weren’t new friends you made at the bar. They were American agents. Spies.”
Leonid kept staring at the corner. “Surely you’re wrong.”
“Did you not notice that the conversation shifted from English to Russian?”
Leonid thought back. The transition had been so seamless, the couple’s Russian so perfect.
“Don’t feel too bad,” said Ignatius. “I’m fairly sure that they drugged you. Did you tell them anything?”
“I think I was about to.”
“Then let us celebrate the good timing of my arrival. Next time, the drinks are on me.”
Ignatius placed two fingers on his chin and turned his face to hers. She was smiling, lips pressed a little too tight. He recognized the expression from Grandmother, one he had always identified as concern mixed with happiness at having something to be concerned about. Ignatius had her own agenda, yes, and he did not trust her. He could not. But she was an ally, which might turn out to be more reliable than a friend.
Ignatius led him back to his room and instructed him to take a shower. As he undressed, he found a slip of paper in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. The paper was folded into a perfect square. He spread the creases and tried to read what was on the inside. He could not make it out until he realized it was in Ukrainian, not Russian. A street address in Odessa. The bottom was signed in neither Ukrainian nor Russian, but English. Hope to see you soon! —Your Friends from America.
Star City, Russia—1964
Nadya and Leonid were scheduled to arrive back in Star City within the next few hours. It was the longest Nadya had been away since touring with Mars four years ago, and the Chief Designer was surprised each time he realized she was not around. Over the past five years, rarely had a day gone by that the Chief Designer did not stumble across her, always in the unlikeliest of locations. She would be leaning in the hallway when he emerged from the wash, or pushing a broom around the training room, which was already swept several times a week by the custodians, or walking one of the dogs out of a sterile lab, where even people, who shed considerably less, were required to wear smocks and caps. Whenever they went to Baikonur for a launch, it took hours of convincing before she would leave Star City without Kasha in tow. The Chief Designer wondered what would happen without the dogs, if Nadya would just wander away.
But no, she was coming back. That strange woman whom he had practically raised since childhood. He tried not to admit the relief he’d felt when it was her sister and not her who launched, but . . .
No, no. All the cosmonauts were like his children. He admitted to himself, usually only in the enveloping dark of night, that he had cared less for the surviving twins. He had spent limited time with them, left their minimal training to Mishin and Bushuyev. The surviving twins had not sacrificed themselves for the cause. But he could not blame them. They were all victims, and of the Chief Designer’s own crimes. In his most honest moments, he knew what held him back with the twins, even if he could not always admit it. They were living reminders of his failures.
That was what now held him back with dear Nadya, the Nadya who survived. He lacked faith in his own endeavor. Faith, he thought. He ground his artificial teeth. Any store of faith he once possessed had rotted right out of him. Years and years ago, when rocketry was at most a pastime and a hope and ultimately a fall. Faith was an old concept, anyway.
The Chief Designer stepped out of his office and found not Nadya but Giorgi in the hallway, dragging a sofa. The young cosmonaut greeted the Chief Designer loudly, then returned to his task.
“Do you need help?” asked the Chief Designer.
Giorgi paused in his efforts. “I can manage, sir. Is there anything I can help you with? You seem concerned.”
The Chief Designer smiled. Besides the other Nadya, Giorgi was the only one who ever noticed his moods. At least the subtler ones.
“No, Giorgi, I’m fine. Or I one day will be.”
Giorgi proffered a jaunty salute. “I promise that today will be a good day, sir. I’ll see you at the party.”
He crouched, grabbing the arm of the sofa, and backward shuffle-walked down the hall with the sofa in tow. He sang a song, “Kalinka,” as he went.
Wee red berry, red berry, red berry of mine!
In the garden, a berry, red berry of mine!
Ah, under the pine tree, the green needled pine tree,
I lay me now down to sleep,
swinging and swaying, swinging and swaying
I lay me now down to sleep.
* * *
• • •
GIORGI BUSTLED from room to room around the dormitory, hanging makeshift decorations from the exposed pipework that ran along the ceilings. For ribbons, he had salvaged the straps from old harnesses, the ones once used to simulate weightlessness, before Mars, on the second mission, told the engineers that dangling from wires was nothing like being weightless at all. Giorgi borrowed the yellow seatbelts from the centrifuge and shredded to strips a piece of silver insulation that the Chief Designer did not have the heart to tell him cost thousands of rubles. Giorgi cut up an old Soviet flag, weather-beaten and faded from crimson to pink. After he was done decorating, only white napkins remained in the commissary, the favored blues stolen, sliced, and suspended from the frame around the front doors.
The staff arrived in the mess hall only to discover that lunch had not been prepared. In addition to commandeering the napkins, Giorgi had sent the cooks home in order to claim the kitchen as his own. He prepared dozens of slabs of gingerbread in the Tula style, some filled with jam and others condensed milk. Any hungry engineer who grabbed for one was met on the knuckles with the backside of Giorgi’s spoon. For later, he said, and sent them to the pantry for bread and whatever else they might be able to eat with it.
In the common room, he set each table with several bottles of vodka from Mars’s stash. Giorgi had not seen Mars in several days, so the vodka was technically stolen, but Giorgi would pay for it and apologize. No one ever stayed mad at him for long. Every glass he could find in all of Star City surrounded the vodka bottles, like each table was a sprawling crystal palace with a Babelian spir
e in the middle. He poured himself two swallows and flipped the glass to his mouth, tossing the liquid straight to the back of his throat.
His guitar and balalaika were leaning in the corner, already tuned, waiting to be plucked up and strummed for vodka-soaked sing-alongs. The balalaika, a contrabass, was comically large, taller on end than Giorgi, the triangular body more than half that wide. For a laugh, Giorgi would hide behind it so all that could be seen were his arms, as if the instrument played itself.
Giorgi had been painting a new mural on the back wall of the common area, an idealized spacescape with the long curve of Earth in the lower left corner. Above it, as in the training room, the faces of the first five cosmonauts were rendered with stunning detail. Stunning not just for their likenesses to the actual people, but for the fact that Giorgi had painted each of them from memory. The paint of Leonid’s face still glinted with the last traces of wetness. There was a space to the right of the portraits large enough for another. Mishin, or was it Bushuyev, had joked that Giorgi was saving room for himself. But that space was now filled with the first lines of a poem Giorgi was writing, painted in elegant calligraphy:
The clouds are moving in the wrong
direction, I assume toward something
interesting.
