The Aeroflot attendant took the cup from him. She knew him from having had him as a passenger on many previous Moscow-Leningrad flights. He was as usual arrogant, complaining. No amount of attention was ever enough. “Sir, may I get you another cup of tea?” she asked.
“I haven’t yet had a cup of tea, so how could you possibly get me another?” he snapped.
The attendant’s contrived smile said he was right but her eyes told him to go fuck himself. When she was certain he’d gotten that message she left him to attend to someone sane.
Valkov was of a mind to follow after her and give her a swift shoe in the ass. Everyone in the plane would laugh, he thought, and some would applaud. All these flight attendants believed they were something special. To hell with her. He wouldn’t waste the energy. It was a shame, though, that he had to put up with such people. And at the same time he had to endure the odor of this woman in the seat next to him. Apparently instead of bathing like any civilized person she’d splashed her armpits and all with some dreadful Armenian perfume, all roses. She was literally acrid. Wasn’t she aware of how she reeked? The blob of her sitting there in a ten-ruble dress reading Aeroflot literature? Didn’t she know what cramped quarters there were in these Tupolev-154 jets? Most likely she’d never flown before. She was probably a dezhurnaya, a counter of linens, a watchdog who sat in the hall of a floor of some Intourist hotel to see who came and went.
Someday, Valkov assured himself, he wouldn’t have to endure such traveling companions. He’d be going only roomy first-class on an airline that served champagne as routinely as this one served canned orange juice. Even better, then he’d have friends with large, private jets who’d be eager to invite him and enjoy his splendid sense of humor and intelligent conversation. The extremely wealthy Russian émigré, that would be he. How their ears would eat up his fabrications and opinions.
Valkov leaned out over the aisle for a breath of less tainted air. The Tu-154 had done its climbing. Valkov knew from the many times he’d made this flight, his genuflections to Savich as he thought of them, that the jet would fly at this altitude for about fifteen minutes before beginning its descent into Leningrad. Another half hour altogether. He reclined his seat as far as it would go, sat back, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t at ease with his eyes closed. There was too much seething in him. He needed to have his eyes open, like a couple of flues. Otherwise he was brought to picturing too realistically his skull and being reminded that it was not much unlike all the skulls that no longer had flesh on them. With eyes closed he experienced the proximity of his teeth rooted in his jawbone, and the hole that accommodated his nose and those two that allowed his brain to peek out from its bony cavern. Usually he was easily able to deny that he was ephemeral, but at the moment he was having difficulty with it. When he got home he would manipulate Yelena into reciting all his superior qualities. He’d again prompt exactly the right therapeutic phrases from her. She would cooperate. It was easy for her to cooperate, because she believed in his brilliance. She often said so. For now, however, he was a captive there in a hardly adequate seat. He and his fury. Never in his life had he been so outraged.
Savich had summoned him to Moscow that morning. They’d met at Savich’s office at the Ministry of Trade, where they’d spent a good hour discussing business in general and tending to a few specific details. Savich appeared to be in fine spirits, nothing heavy on his mind. He complimented Valkov twice, admired his necktie, even reached across and felt the fine silk of it, and Valkov was delighted to tell him it was merely one of the ties Yelena had picked up for him last week in Paris—at Charvet; most of his ties came from Charvet. Savich also complimented Valkov by asking for his assistance in deciding who should fill an administrative post that had become vacant at the new installation in Yakut. He even went so far as to allow Valkov to see a printout of his nomenklatura. In the course of looking over this list of candidates favored for advancement, Valkov had noticed the name Nikolai Petrovich Borodin—first in line for the next opening of deputy minister.
At one o’clock Savich had suggested lunch and lightly promised it would be considerably more than the McDonald’s over on Gorky Street. They ate at the Akademi-cheskaya Stolovaya, the dining room of the Academy of Sciences, had a sumptuous six-course meal with double desserts and trivial conversation. It was most enjoyable for Valkov. Afterward, Savich had suggested they walk it off. They strolled, a couple of business associates, down Dovogomilovsk Boulevard in the direction of the Kiev Station. That boulevard was heavy with traffic and rife with exhaust fumes, not at all a pleasant place for a stroll, and Valkov wondered why Savich had chosen it. He soon found out. On the bridge over the Moscow River, a noisy, isolated spot, Savich stopped, leaned nonchalantly on the bridge rail, and turned on Valkov. With a smirking grin he called him an idiot. Valkov thought it was a jest or that he’d misheard. But Savich, in that calm, sly manner, went on to say what an ignorant, irresponsible clod Valkov was, a devious heavy-handed wretch, typical of the peasant stock he’d come from, too dumb to be trusted.
Valkov wasn’t used to being insulted. He assumed there was only one reason Savich would be subjecting him to such a personal onslaught. As soon as he’d regained his mental composure he defended his having acted contrary to Savich’s instructions regarding the Borodin matter, claiming he’d done so only in their best interests. He pointed out, as he had in Paris, the risk they’d be taking as long as Borodin was alive. The damning information Borodin possessed would come out. Borodin’s ambition would push it out, Valkov contended. He ran down the entire scenario of what would inevitably happen, all the way to putting the trapdoor of some government gallows beneath their feet. Savich seemed convinced. Valkov told him: “Possibly you’re mistaking Borodin’s competence for loyalty. I admit he’s very competent, but that is only a camouflage for his self-serving. He’ll give us up for no more than a couple of minor privileges.”
That had only fueled Savich’s contempt. Valkov was by no means a weakling, but he’d never come up against this Savich. It was perplexing the way Savich could remain composed, so calm, actually appear amiable while maligning him. All he could do was stand there and watch the subtle coordinations of Savich’s bushy, sharp-peaked brows and try to block out the criticism, his dreaded enemy, criticism, that came from those lips beneath Savich’s variegated gray brush mustache.
Valkov was trying so desperately not to hear Savich’s words that he nearly missed those about not having any more contraband diamonds come out of Aikhal. They should shut down the chain, just shut it down at once and let its links disperse. Savich said that both he and Valkov had accumulated all the money they would ever need. Never mind that initially they’d agreed to give the thing two years and it had been only about a year and a half, they’d cash in now, defect by the end of the week. He would arrange for business that would require them to be in Paris or London. Other than that they’d make no preparations that might give them away. If Valkov was as concerned as he seemed about the Borodin situation, Savich said, this was a better, cleaner way of resolving it.
Clean, Valkov thought disdainfully. He got up and went down the aisle of the jet to one of the lavatories at midship. While urinating, he pretended this yellow stream of his waste would fall on the heads of Savich and Borodin. There was obviously something going on between those two, he thought. Otherwise why would Savich go to such an extent to protect Borodin? Twice now. Last week in Paris and again today, Savich had been for saving Borodin’s ass. It seemed he valued it. They’d spent time together. They’d probably spent time in bed together. If that hadn’t already happened, Savich was maneuvering to bring it about. Homosexuals were known to be dangerous, Valkov thought. And bisexuals were even more so. Bisexuals were by their own actions duplicitous, lacked the strength of self-definition. They only respected sensation.
Valkov shook off the last drops and rehid his penis. There was used scummy water in the sink, several miniature bars of soap turning to slime on its limited surfa
ce. Valkov decided he was better off not washing his hands. He returned to his seat. Within moments the Tu-154 shuddered as its speed was abruptly reduced. The descent had begun. Valkov hardly noticed. His mind was still so overcrowded with Savich. He thought of how Savich had concocted the day, started it out with being amiable, treating him like a confidant. Savich had carried that throughout lunch and then had sprung on him with all his claws. Why? Why had Savich bothered to set him up like that? No doubt he’d had an ulterior motive, Valkov thought, but what?
It came to him.
Sweeper.
He’d been so caught up in Savich’s charm and taken so unawares by his attack that he’d forgotten to use his personal sweeper.
Savich had probably been wired.
That had to be it. The son of a bitch now had every word on tape. Valkov tried to recollect what had been said. Surely he’d incriminated himself. But then, so had Savich. Savich wouldn’t hang himself with that tape. What would he do? Savich would electronically alter his own voice to make it unidentifiable. The conversation would sound as though it had taken place between him, Valkov, and some anonymous conspirator. Could that be done? Hadn’t Savich remarked just last week that anything was electronically possible these days? What a crafty shit Savich was. All high officials were schemers, professionals in taking advantage of naive people. That was how they got where they were and were able to hang on to their privileged positions. Savich wouldn’t go to the trouble of creating such evidence as the tape unless he intended to use it. At the very least Savich had the tape now to hold over his head and keep him in line. And, as well, to ensure that if their na levo, on-the-side, Aikhal enterprise ever came to surface, it would be he, Valkov, who’d take the fall—alone. He’d done all the recruiting, the organizing. It had been Savich’s idea, but he had put it together and kept it together. He was exposed, not Savich.
No doubt Savich was sure he had him. Like an insect trapped inside an inverted drinking glass. Savich was sure he’d have to go along with defecting now. Savich hadn’t merely suggested doing it now, he’d given it the ring of an ultimatum. This wasn’t the time to defect, Valkov decided. Two shipments from Aikhal were already in process for the coming month. Larger shipments. It would be a waste to cancel them. Anyway, who was Savich to determine that they already had ample wealth? The West was expensive. One had to pay for everything. Millionaires were commonplace there. People who did nothing but swat and bounce balls around made millions. So did singers who couldn’t consistently sing on key. The requirement for being categorized as one of the wealthy had escalated. There was even a new designation: the truly wealthy. Just recently he’d read that in America, for example, there were now ninety thousand individuals worth in excess of ten million dollars. It shattered the very concept of being rich. Nothing would be worse, he thought, than his defecting and then discovering he’d not helped himself to enough.
Valkov disregarded the seat-belt sign. He knew it always came on early. There was no reason why for the next ten minutes he had to sit there bound up like some disciple of de Sade. The woman seated next to him leaned toward him and asked was something wrong with the plane that seatbelts were being required? Puffs of garlic exploded at him through her rose-burdened atmosphere. Valkov ignored her, turned away. It was important that he resolve Savich and Borodin before landing. It was one of his ways—imposing such arbitrary deadlines on himself. He believed it proved his decisiveness.
Savich and Borodin.
They were inseparable, Valkov thought. He could no longer picture one without the other popping up. He really didn’t need ten minutes of mulling to settle on how to deal with them. His foresight had seen to that. He was blessed with remarkable foresight. (He’d have Yelena add that to her list of his many attributes.) Long ago he’d bought his insurance against a Savich crisis such as this. Now it was just a matter of putting it into force. As for Borodin, he’d be even easier. This time it would come from in close where it couldn’t miss. So unexpected Borodin wouldn’t realize it had happened … until it had.
CHAPTER
29
IN KEEPING WITH SAVICH’S SUGGESTION, NIKOLAI AND VIVIAN drove to Devon that Sunday night. During the drive down, Vivian was quiet, responding to Nikolai’s attempts at conversation with as few words as possible, getting away with a mm-hmm or an uh-huh whenever she could. She didn’t request that Nikolai touch her, not even the back of her neck, which was ordinarily her absolute minimum. She kept her eyes on the highway ahead and her hands on the steering wheel.
Nikolai thought she might just be in a little emotional dip and perhaps some music would help elevate her. He put on a compact disk of Debussy preludes. After only a minute of it she told him to turn it down. Without a please. Nikolai reasoned if she wanted less volume she really wanted none, so he clicked off the Debussy. He waited and suffered until they were a few miles beyond Bristol before asking: “Have I done or said something wrong?” He had to ask twice.
Her reply was sharp: “No.”
When they arrived at the Devon house, Vivian made him a mug of hot chocolate and a toasted cheddar sandwich. Did so with silent, dutiful efficiency, as though she’d been programmed. She fixed nothing for herself, just grabbed a couple of green and bitter outer stalks of celery to chomp on and went up to bed. Twenty minutes later when Nikolai went up she was already turned onto her side and apparently asleep, which, of course, precluded the good-night peck and “Love you” that Nikolai liked to carry into his unconsciousness.
Monday morning her disposition hadn’t improved. By then, however, Nikolai had decided on what it was that had her perturbed and how best he should cope with it. Although by mere proximity he’d be taking the brunt of her premenstrual stress at least he knew he wasn’t the cause of it. He had only to weather it for its duration, which would be until she started flowing. That he be more patient than usual and not nearly so reactive wasn’t much to ask of him, he thought. After all, she didn’t have PMS every month. In fact, she’d had it only three or four times that he knew of since they’d been together. Those times there’d been some unprovoked lashing-out by her, but she’d also been able to temper it with telling him not to mind her, that at the moment she just had much too much water on the brain. “Slosh, slosh,” she’d said, shaking her head.
So far this time Vivian was far removed from making light of her condition. At the breakfast table, whatever Nikolai said, no matter how neutral, got snapped at. The words that came from his mouth seemed to get attacked in midair—like friendly planes being decimated by heat-seeking missiles, he imagined. Even when he didn’t say anything there was still some snapping. The safest thing was to get out of range. Vivian helped that by announcing she was going to an auction at a private estate in Wembworthy, some fifteen miles away. Not that she was thinking of going or did he mind if she went or did he feel like going with her, but straight-out intentional exclusion.
She left him the dishes to do while she went and got dressed. He waited until she was surely gone before doing them.
His hands in sudsy water caused him to think of how his father had never washed a dish, never once helped Irina with keeping the house. Grandfather Maksim had, often, but not his father. The most his father had ever done was rinse the brandy glasses after a visit by his party cronies, most of whom were local and district officials, ambitious and privilege-hungry. Unlike his father. It was his father’s stance that being a man and being an architect were sufficient accomplishments—a man who apparently believed it essential that he view love as unessential and an architect who would draw whatever he was told to draw, denying that he had any appetite for invention. Perhaps, Nikolai thought, beneath all his helpless self-defeat, his father really had been ambitious. Certainly his arid personality and bitter outlook had been short tethers. Practically all his father’s cronies were chosen ahead of him. It was sad. Nikolai enjoyed the squeak of the wet dishes in his fingers. He dried them and put them away correctly, wiped off the stove and countertop and hung
the dishtowels neatly on their rack.
He went out on the terrace. It was the loveliest sort of Devon day. He considered taking a long walk, perhaps all the way into Pennyworth to the baker for a loaf of fresh bread and some scones, but then he thought he might miss Savich’s call. Savich would probably ring up Churcher first thing that morning and settle matters with him, at least get them put on hold with promises of concessions. And what then, Nikolai asked himself, when this mess had been cleaned up? It was doubtful that Savich would want him to continue on his London assignment. Churcher might want him to stay, though. For tactical reasons. To have someone around he could point to as an example of misplaced trust in the Soviets. Churcher might for that petty reason stipulate that he remain on. That would be terrible servitude. On the other hand, even if he was promised, swear-to-Lenin promised, that there’d be no disciplinary measures taken, he couldn’t return to Russia. Vivian and Russia were an impossible fit. Thus he’d be going back without his heart. Under that condition the best sort of life there, no matter how cushioned and convenienced by privileges, would be the same as exile. Savich understood that. When he and Savich briefly touched upon defection, Savich hadn’t come right out and recommended it to him, but that was the impression.
Nikolai turned on the garden hose and washed bird droppings from the pavement of the terrace and the terrace furniture. He dried off the Lutyens-style teak bench and spread newspapers on it. Newspapers would be too confusing a background, he decided, so when he went into the house for the full vacuum-cleaner bags he also brought out a blue bedsheet. He spread the sheet on the table and dumped the contents of one of the bags onto it. Shards and fragments of Czech crystal. They were an impossible little heap. Nikolai used a wooden kitchen spoon to spread them into a single layer. Hunched over, he scanned them with a magnifying glass. Somewhere in the vacuum-cleaner bags of smashed crystal, he believed, were nine diamonds of a carat each. Ten days ago when he and Vivian had gleaned diamonds from the crystal they’d come up nine short of an even five thousand carats. Only by fortunate oversight had the vacuum-cleaner bags not been thrown out with the trash. In their hurry to depart for Switzerland and Antwerp they’d forgotten to put the trash out for collection, so yesterday Nikolai had salvaged the bags and brought them along, ten altogether.
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