Sonia's parents were not at all pleased when she and Yezhov married. Originally from a small Ukrainian village, he was a natural student of the English language and had been awarded a position within Kiev's KGB some years earlier. Always seeking a way to advance, he had rapidly risen to the rank of lieutenant by, at first, doing fine translations of tape-recorded conversations amongst foreigners, and, later, successfully associating with tourists: an Australian woman, whom he had taught to drink vodka the Russian way, was now raising his bastard son in Sydney. For too many years, however, he had lived in a men's dormitory, and when he had not been able to stand it anymore, he had started hunting for a local bride. That is when he spotted Sonia at the bar above the Metro station on Kreshatik, and brought her a couple of vodka, champagne, and cognac cocktails. They announced their engagement a few days later—“The sooner the better,” Yezhov had said, kissing her neck. “I just don't want to lose you”—and were married within two weeks.
Her parents recognized the opportunist in Yezhov. He was no worse than the others, however, and rather than see their only child move into the woman's dormitory adjoining Yezhov's they insisted that Yezhov and she live with them. Which is exactly what Yezhov had expected. He and Sonia, whom he had never loved and grown to loathe, readily welcomed the chance to reside in the living room.
The marriage had, in one simple stroke, solved the complex problem of housing for Yezhov. For single men from the countryside, a bed in one of Kiev's dormitories was viewed as an incredible opportunity; the likely prospect of waiting ten to fifteen years for a room in a communal apartment or, if later married, one's own apartment, was ignored. Yet for Yezhov, who had been raised in a single-family dwelling in the country and who was accustomed to home cooking, that was not good enough. He was able to overlook the fact that his family's log house did not have indoor plumbing, yet he could not forget the relative privacy it provided. He simply could not tolerate living in a room with five other men, the extraneous commotion, or the barely palatable food cooked on a kerosene burner. For Yezhov, the marriage had therefore made the first trying years of city life bearable enough so that he would not have to retreat to his backwater village. There, where his ancestors had been serfs, later rich peasants, and after the Revolution, bound, again landless, to the earth as workers on a collective farm, the outlook was bleak.
At first everyone was happy. Sonia's parents who, like all Soviet parents, had expected to support the newlyweds, were pleasantly surprised with the blat their new son-in-law acquired; they never had to spend another kopeck on their daughter again. Sonia, too, was thrilled with her husband's career and all the kosmetiki and jeanzie he was able to obtain; the years ahead, she knew, would be more and more full of such material luxuries as her husband continued his rise. And Yezhov was glad to be away from his village and in Kiev, where he was getting his foot further and further in the door of the KGB.
The bliss lasted eight months. They tolerated the situation for another year. And when Yezhov assumed that he had amassed enough influence to be given an apartment of his own, he divorced Sonia. Yezhov, however, had poorly judged his status at work and just how much blat a KGB lieutenant really had. While his work was commendable, his position was by no means important enough to secure an apartment of his own. He was quite coolly received when he applied for housing.
“Nyet. No apartments!” snapped the harsh-faced woman in charge of distribution. “For single men, either a dormitory or, if you're lucky, a room in a communal apartment.”
Shocked, he refused both. After all, what had he come to the city for? The solution, of course, was the typical one: he would continue living with his ex-wife and her parents until he was given an apartment of his own. He gave Sonia the entire living-room couch and took the farthest corner for himself. Her parents balked at first, swallowing their pride and accepting only when Yezhov offered rent not in the form of rubles, but blat. They plainly did not want to go back to potatoes, cabbage, and long lines.
That, however, was a year ago and now Sonia was getting remarried.
“To your health, Mixhail Ilyich, and a long and fruitful marriage to my beautiful daughter!”
Yezhov heard joyous laughter and the clinking of glasses. They were all happy. For Mixhail it meant that he would be moving out of his parents’ crowded one-bedroom apartment where his sister, her husband, and their baby also lived. For Sonia it meant that she would no longer have to sleep only a few feet from her detested ex-husband and that she would no longer have to tolerate his occasional mounting of her in the middle of the night. And for her parents, it meant that they would be rid of Yezhov without losing any of the luxuries to which they had become so accustomed. Mixhail, a staunch member of the Party, was a factory worker with a two hundred and fifty-ruble per month income and a sure future in management.
Everyone was happy, that is, except Yezhov. Sonia and Mixhail's marriage was to everyone's advantage excluding his. He was being forced to move out, yet he had nowhere to go. He flatly refused a dormitory or communal apartment.
He recognized Sonia's lithe step coming toward the kitchen and lit another cigarette. As if to spite him, she too hummed.
“You're a filthy whore,” said Yezhov, a cigarette perched on his large lower lip. He inhaled the cigarette smoke and admired its flavor.
A brunette with heavy make-up and a waist that grew year by year, she came in laughing. “Perhaps. But that never stopped you, now did it?” With rapture and exaggeration, she continued her melody—the theme song from “The Godfather”—and reached into the refrigerator for a long, thick roll of prized salami.
“We both know why you're doing this.”
Sonia stood up and, with one hand on her pronounced hip and the other pointing the salami at him, spoke matter-of-factly. “Yes, I suppose we do.” She crossed through the tiny square kitchen and checked the hallway. When she was sure no one was coming, she leaned toward Yezhov. “But my darling Viktor, it was the only realistic way I could think of getting rid of you. I didn't want Mama and Papa to suffer for my errors. After all, you don't bite the hand that feeds you unless, of course, you have another choice. And Misha's a good man. I like him. He doesn't drink too much, he'll be a good father, and he'll always take good care of me. Oh,” she said, laughing to herself, “and he's a better lover than you, too, and I must admit that has influenced me.” Just then she spotted the briefcase at his feet and, her hands clenching, she tried not to express her true emotions. Inside the case was the gun, neatly packed away, that her husband always carried. The worst evening she had spent with Yezhov—and the one that made it clear she had to get rid of him—was three months ago. Her parents out for the evening, he had held that gun to her head, pinned her down, and, his body swelling with vodka, forced himself sexually upon her.
Now, determined not to be intimidated, Sonia slowly lifted up the meaty salami, admired it and to Yezhov said, “Yes, he's much better… much, much better.” Proud of herself, she turned and sauntered down the hallway to rejoin the others.
Yezhov, the blood racing to his face, slammed his fist on the table. “Bitch!” He puffed madly on the cigarette, a Marlboro given to him by one of the guides.
There had been a time when he was quite good to her. That, of course, was in the beginning. Few were more considerate, loving, or generous. She had been the focal point of his future and of his career. Yezhov had turned to her in as kindly a way as he now turned to the guides at the American exhibition, his new hope for the future.
He filled his lungs with smoke. Held it. Then let it slowly trickle out of his mouth. Here and there he saw lights pop on in the other buildings. From across the way came sounds of another drunken celebration, those of a birthday party, he guessed. From an apartment below blared the music of the rock group “Deep Purple.” The record was scratched, the stereo of inferior quality.
Mixhail stomped in. Though he was as tall as Yezhov, his frame was larger and much more muscular. He had a pale Ukrainian baby face
darkened with the shadows of a heavy, well-shaved beard. His hair was in disarray and his bulging eyelids were red.
“Cognac! I brought a bottle of cognac!” His intoxicated movements were quite erratic. “Where is it?”
Yezhov delighted in his cigarette and paid no attention.
“You! Where's my cognac?”
Gloating, Yezhov looked out the window. “I drank it.”
“You what?” Mixhail frantically searched the counter, the top of the narrow gas stove, and the kitchen's single cabinet. “Hah. You did not. It's right here, right on the stool where I left it.”
“She's a real bitch, you know.” He took a drag on the cigarette. “And her parents are about as greedy as they come.” Just in case Mixhail posed any problems, Yezhov let his hand drift down to his briefcase.
Putting both of his swollen hands on the table, Mixhail leaned forward. His voice lowered, smirking, he said, “You should hear what they say about you!” He burst into forced laughter, spraying saliva as he did so, scooped up the cognac, and headed back to the little engagement party.
Yezhov eyed his replacement with disdain, then wiped up the few droplets of spit that Mixhail had projected onto the table top. He had to get out of there, out of that apartment. Soon. But under no circumstance would he return to the dormitory. That meant, naturally, that he would have to find some means of distinguishing his work and himself.
The American guides, thought Yezhov. Somewhere in the assignment lay the opportunity to excel, and the premium for Nicholas Miller would undoubtedly be the largest.
IX
Nick ground his teeth. Rather like a squirrel, he scratched his hair above his ear with quick, short movements. Then he rubbed his tired eyes. Two days. Would she come to the exhibit today? He shook his head. He had to stop thinking about Olga.
In front of him, on the modular wall of the guide lounge, was the scribbled list entitled “How are you turning into a Soviet?” Nick ran his finger down the list:
1. Seeing things and buying them in large quantities (I bought four jars of mayonnaise yesterday—who knows when they'll have it again)
2. Strutting in blue jeans
3. Drinking entire glasses of vodka without blinking
4. Being nasty to everyone except children
5. Getting in line without knowing what they're selling at the other end
6. Carrying around bags just in case I find something to buy
7. Asking people their nationality
8. Getting off on gold teeth
Nick took out a pen and added:
9. Calling someone comrade
“Not bad, Nick,” said Linda, peering over his shoulder. She was one of the few guides he was close to; the months of huge crowds and long hours had put a strain on all the guides’ relationships. “It's kind of creepy, isn't it? I mean the longer we're here, the less it's like looking in at the Soviet Union and the more it's like looking out at the rest of the world.”
A few of the other guides seated in the guide lounge sipped their morning coffee and grunted in agreement.
She headed for the coffee percolator. “Can I pour you a cup?” she asked, getting one for herself.
Nick yawned. “You bet. It takes at least two cups to give me the energy to convince Sovs that rich American kids aren't the only ones who can afford college.”
He liked her. Tall and thin and attractive, he found this young woman from southern California refreshing for her ability not to get mired in the U.S.A. versus U.S.S.R. rut. Her biggest complaint about the Soviet Union was that, either from the tension or the diet, the tight ringlets in her hair had vanished and her hair had become droopy. She was also rather creative: for escape she scoured the city in her free time looking for Soviet sunglasses. Thus far she had almost two dozen varieties, ranging from a pair with bright green lenses to ones with a silvery pointed frame.
Nick accepted the cup of coffee, took a sip and rolled his eyes in delight.
“God, this tastes good,” he moaned, leaning on the large percolator.
Back home he frequently took his first cup into the shower, letting the hot water rush over his back as he tried to prepare for the onslaught of a new day.
“Wow, you guys, listen to this,” said John Kornichuk, a first generation American of Ukrainian extraction. He tugged on his right earlobe as he read a day-old International Herald Tribune, just arrived from the embassy. “A big Russian Orthodox Church official from Moscow died when he was in Rome. The Metropolitan of Leningrad and Novgorod.”
“Was it natural,” asked Nick, concentrating on his coffee, “or did someone do him in?”
“Huh?” Kornichuk, who spoke Russian, Ukrainian, German, Farsi, and a bit of Japanese, sometimes had trouble speaking plain English. “Oh, natural. Natural but weird. It says here that he was in Rome to congratulate the new Pope.” He raised his head, puzzled. “Which pope? I've lost count—there's been a whole slug this year. Anyway, it says he was in audience with the Pope and he dropped dead, just like that.” He tried to snap his fat fingers but couldn't. “He buckled over right in front of the Pope. A heart attack or something. And look at this,” he said, reading further down the page, “there's a big technology fair coming up in Vienna. All sorts of computers, seminars, and so on. I wonder if they need any guides.…”
“Forget it, Kornichuk,” said Mr. Thomas, the stocky, cigar-smoking exhibit director, coming in. “No technology fairs for you until we're finished here.” He looked around and shouted. “Everyone in the guide lounge. On the double!” He had served in the army for a number of years. “Now… the doors don't open for another half hour but there's already a huge line out there. It's going to be hectic today at best, perhaps our busiest day yet. There are a good three thousand people in line already and more coming every minute. So I want you all to go out a bit early and clean up your stands. Do a good job and get ready for a mob. Make sure everything is nailed down good and tight. We don't need any more stuff stolen.”
”I thought there wasn't any crime in the Soviet Union,” said Nick in a taunting tone.
Mr. Thomas cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Nick. I mean we don't need to have any souvenir hunters take anything else.”
Under his breath, to Linda, Nick whispered, “Like my windbreaker, your umbrella, or Randy's dictionary.”
Mr. Thomas continued. “And make sure the exits aren't blocked. Do a good job. Watch what you say.” He glared at Nick. “We don't need anyone spouting off. It's going to be crazy out there today. We'll do what we can for you. Good luck.”
“It's showtime,” groaned Linda as she got up.
Nick gulped his coffee too fast and it burned his tongue. “Shit.” He fumbled with his cup, spilling some coffee on the floor. “Damn-it. This is probably some sort of sign that the KGB is after me.”
Linda laughed. “Honestly, Nick. You and your ‘Cagey Beasties.’ You're so paranoid sometimes.”
He mulled over her words and shrugged. “You never know. This might be the day they start gunnin’ for me.”
* * *
Almost fourteen thousand Soviet visitors had passed through the exhibit by one o'clock. Dreading the afternoon crowds, Nick wondered how many more they could possibly handle before the five o'clock closing. And he wondered how much longer he could take being cramped and pinned in by so many people. Sometimes it was almost like being buried alive. He shivered. It was enough to bring out the claustrophobic in him.
Nick crossed through the large, permanent Soviet building that housed the American exhibit, and hesitated at the door of the exhibit itself. He took a deep breath, opened it, and a thick cloud of stale, moist air—trapped by the tentlike canopies suspended over the entire exhibit—rolled out. Inside, like cattle on a truck packed tightly to prevent independent movement, Russians filled the room dangerously beyond capacity.
Anything but eager to enter the confining environment, he looked for a hole, a way in, and finally in Russian said, “Excuse me, I must get through.” N
othing happened. In English: “Hey, you guys, I gotta get through to my fucking stand. Will you get the hell out of the way? Really now, move it!”
Upon hearing a foreign language, people turned and smiled. Several nodded and greeted him.
“You must get through?” asked one woman, smiling. “You are an American? A-m-e-r-i-k-a-n-e-t-s?”
Nick nodded and the woman, without further question, took him by the arm. She forced the way open for him.
“Out of the way!” she shrieked. “Move so this foreigner can get through!” She clenched her fist and pounded on those who wouldn't move. Then she turned to Nick. “There, molodoi chelovek. You go do what you have to—you can get through now. And thank you for coming to visit us.”
Speaking English when necessary to clear a passage, Nick made it through the sea of visitors to the country music stand. As always, there was an enormous crowd straining to acquire as much information as possible about the institution that, for every age group, surpassed jeanzie in popularity: American music.
Over the heads of the visitors, Nick called out to the guide whom he was relieving. “Okay, Randy, you're off. I'm on.”
Randy was the tallest of the guides, and his lanky body swayed as he rose. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and trickled down into his blondish hair.
“Thank God.” He leaned against the wall for support. “I'll bet you in the last hour at least fifty people have asked me how difficult it is to get a record in America. And at least twenty people have asked me how many meters are on each of these damned eight-track tapes. Fuck, what do they want to know that for?” Randy moved aside as Nick stepped up onto the stand. “Take it away. God, do I need to lie down.”
Nick pulled out the chair and sat down. On the wall behind him were posters of country music stars, sequin-studded singers with dazzling white smiles. On the counter in front of him was an eight-track carousel tape player, the kind used in American restaurants to provide hours of nonstop music. And on the other side of the white formica counter, pushing and straining to get closer, were well over a hundred Russians and Ukrainians. Only the luckiest had managed to wedge themselves right against the counter and they guarded their positions adamantly.
The Cross and The Sickle Page 8
