Her voice almost a whisper, Musya said, “I can’t believe it.”
Boris hung his head. “I know. Of all the stupid things I’ve done, this is the worst. Now I’m involved, I guess, with a gang that’s selling stolen merchandise on the black market. There’s a big crackdown. That’s why we can’t report this to the militsiya. I’m already involved.”
Musya’s eyes blinked. “You’re right. It would be suicide to go to them. We have to keep this quiet.”
“Da, da, da. And tell no one. Absolutely no one. Can you do that, Musya?”
She eagerly nodded her head. “I’ll do anything for you, Boris. You know that.”
She pushed herself out of the chair and came stumbling forward. Falling to her knees, she dropped her head in Boris’ lap.
“I’m scared, Boris, so scared.”
His hands in her thin hair, he said, “Ts-s-s, don’t worry. I’ll go see Sergei—he’s the one in contact with those hooligans—and get this whole affair straightened out. Somehow I’ll find the gang and set matters right. I’ll let them know I’m not an informant. Then they’ll leave us alone.”
“But it might be dangerous talking to them directly. Oi, Boris, you’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
He rubbed the back of her neck. He felt where bone melted into muscle, where muscle lined up into spine. This was what marriage was all about, knowing certain parts of your spouse’s body better than your own. That was the definition. But what was the meaning?
“I’m going to be thirty-six next week, Musya.”
“I’ll get you a wonderful present. Jeanzi or a record of American jazz. Or maybe a nice new fur hat. Something spectacular, something—”
He turned away from her, certain she didn’t understand what he was trying to say. “I’ve been thinking a lot about all I haven’t done. It sounds so old—thirty-six. I’ll be forty in a few years. My life might be half over.”
She kissed his hand. “But thirty-six is young, Boris. You have so much ahead. You’re so young, so strong.”
He shrugged. “Don’t you understand? Musya, I’m frightened.”
He dared not bring up the subject of children. Yes, he wanted a son or daughter, a child to take care of. But how many abortions had Musya had? Five? Six? At least that many. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Musya would not change her mind. She claimed to carry some illness in her genes and swore she would therefore never be a mother.
“It scares me, you know, this birthday,” he said. “Almost half my life is over and I’ve never really gotten down to living. I’ve always been so afraid of disappointing people, of hurting others.”
“Boris, your father’s been dead almost two years. It’s time you broke free.”
“Da, da. You know what I really want to do?” he said, recalling the only place he’d been truly happy. “I want to write. I want to go out to the dacha at Zarekino and think and write. Start a novel. A war novel set at the palace itself.”
Within eyesight of the burned-out palace of Zarekino, his father’s cabin was nestled between a silvery river and an almost endless birch forest. Boris would start his story there at the outbreak of the Great Fatherland War. He’d write how the Fascists captured the palace on their march to take Leningrad, then settled in for the 900-day blockade, using one wing as a barracks, the other as a stable.
“There’s so much to be inspired by—the palace, Tyotya, her hounds. You know how she almost single-handedly drove the Fascists out of the palace.”
He’d heard so many stories about Tyotya and her family, all members of a circus, and how they had been forced to perform for the Nazis. Then the others had been killed. Only she, a knife thrower, escaped, later returning to use her talents for a bloody revenge.
“Now she lives alone out there, no electricity, no plumbing. Just her and the hounds she raises.” He shook his head in frustration. “I can no longer worry so much about hurting others. There’s only so much—”
Boris was cut short by Musya’s fingers settling on his crotch. She didn’t hear a thing, he thought. Sex. Whenever things got serious, Musya turned to sex.
“Musya, please…”
He tried to press her head away from his lap, but she was locked in place. She sunk her nails into his thighs, dragging them upward. Boris shook his head. There was no escaping. There never was. What could he do? Whenever he tried to hold back, she taunted him by telling him what a real man would want to do to her.
He flinched, then sat stock-still as her fingers pressed hard into his genitals. She grabbed at his belt, wrenched it open, and one by one unfastened the buttons of his pants. Finally, she yanked his shirt out, then dove against his abdomen.
“You have such a cute tummy,” she gasped, kissing his navel. “And all your furry hair here drives me crazy.”
With a free hand, she shoved him back so that he was spread-eagled with his legs draped over the couch. Boris lay there looking at the ceiling as she tugged at his pants.
“Bozhe moi,” she moaned.
A tense knot formed in his throat. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t pretend any longer. Things had to start changing, changing now.
“Musya,” he said, and sat up.
He reached down, surrounded her head with his hands and nudged her back. She wouldn’t budge and instead clawed out at his belly.
“Ai!” he cried. “What are you trying to do, take a blood sample?”
She sat back, her large lower lip puffed out.
“But Boris,” she muttered in a girlish pitch, “I love you so much and…”
He looked at her, hair a mess, one cheek purplish where the burglar had struck her. He simply couldn’t perform this charade anymore. For at least the past two years he’d acquiesced to her desires because he didn’t want to hurt her. But no more. He had to start considering himself. He would take care of this business with the black marketeers, then tell her the truth.
“Not now, Musya. Please, not now.” He touched his head. That’s how he’d evade her. “My head is killing me.”
Yes, it was true. He was wonderfully, deeply in love. But not with her, not with Musya, his wife.
Chapter 8
Several hours later Boris made his way into the water closet and turned on the faucet. As he waited for the water to run hot, he stared at himself in the mirror. Gravity was winning. The bottom eyelids were just a tiny bit droopy. So were his cheeks. It wasn’t too bad—the little pockets of extra flesh didn’t really sag yet—but for the first time Boris had a clear vision of what he’d look like as an old man. He could see how his face would melt with age. The curly, blond hair would slip back and his forehead would slope further back, and one day that hair would turn a dull gray. Those worry lines above his eyebrows would become permanent creases. And when his full cheeks fell, his face would become jowly.
He didn’t like the vision. As a child, adults had always pinched his cheek and commented on his bright visage. Such a happy face, they always said. But as an adult his face was growing sadder and sadder. Unless he redirected his life, he would grow into an old man with the face of a melancholy clown.
Funny, he thought. No one had ever promised him anything specifically, but he’d always assumed that adulthood would be better than this. Next year, his parents had told him as a boy, you’ll be taller and able to see over the counter. Next year, when you’re a little older, you’ll be able to do that. Next year… next year… next year…
Everything was an entreaty that life itself would yearly become easier and better. It hadn’t, though, and he was almost angry with his parents for misleading him. He’d waited all these years, tried to do all the right things. But life kept getting worse around him. He hadn’t done anything to make it so bad, of that he was sure. He’d just waited patiently and, for the most part, honestly.
To try to increase his opportunities at happiness, he’d tried only one strategy: to look happy. Act carefree and everything will be fine, he’d always a
ssumed. Look happy and people won’t cross or question you.
To maintain the happy exterior, though, he’d sacrificed a bit of himself at each step along the way. Over time he’d chiseled away his own wishes, his own dreams, and sacrificed them for the sake of others. He saw how as a boy he always tried to please his parents. Now, as an adult his every action was determined by what his father would think. And everything that went sour, he’d always assumed, had been his fault. With an upbringing like his—the best schools, the best summer camps, the best contacts—he could have been a great Communist leader by now. Yet here he was today, his life half over, an ordinary truck driver.
There was so much to mourn, he thought. The dreams he’d let slip through his fingers, the parents he’d lost. Why, he always wondered, had his mother’s heart failed when he was just ten? They said it was because of the war, because she’d nearly died of starvation during the Blockade. But what was the real reason? And why had he never found his father before he was lost forever just two years ago? He loved them both desperately; he saw that now. Yet all that was left of them were memories.
For the first time he understood why his face was growing not just old, but unhappy. Time was wearing his mask thin. Gradually, he sensed his inner feelings—the bundle of conflicting regrets—showing up on the outside. If he didn’t do something—if he didn’t stop worrying about hurting others—he would become a sad old man who’d forgone his happiness.
Boris flashed his best smile in the mirror, raised his arms, and flexed his muscles he-man style. Gravity wasn’t going to win; happiness wouldn’t lose. He would take control of his destiny.
He wondered if he hadn’t already made some decisions along the way, at least partial ones. His father had pushed him to become a young, loyal Pioneer, then later a Komsomol. But Boris never shone, never became a brigade leader or a real activist. Nor had he joined the Party as an adult. In his own silent way he had resisted, had recognized that his personal dreams lay elsewhere. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the socialist doctrine—hadn’t the government always taken care of him, hadn’t it always provided free medicine and education, then guaranteed work?—it was simply that he knew a life of politics was not for him. So he had to follow his heart. Nothing would come of searching for yesterday.
“Boris! Boris, darling!”
He cringed. All this meant, of course, he must reveal the truth to Musya. Not eventually. Soon. He’d been so afraid how Musya would take the news that he’d put off telling her for over two years. She’d scream and cry, he was sure; he feared she might even throw herself into the Fontanka. It would be so easy if only she didn’t love him so much.
“Your tea’s nice and hot!”
“I’ll be right out, Musya, my—” He cut himself off. He had to start being honest right now.
Reaching down, Boris felt the water run pure yet just as cold as ever. He shook his head. No hot water. They must be doing repair work down at the city’s central heating plant, perhaps cleaning the boilers for winter. He took a deep breath and bent over. In doing so, his rear end bumped against the opposite wall. He twisted to the side, leaned over the sink, and splashed his face with the chilly water. Everything about the apartment was great except the tiny water closet. As his father always joked, there wasn’t even enough room for toilet paper. Hence the torn sheets of Pravda. Hence the communal shower outside the apartment and down the hall.
Minutes later, wearing a fresh shirt and sweater, he stood outside on the balcony. From this corner perch he watched the bundled pedestrians below hurry down Nevsky and across the Anichkov Bridge. With his wife right behind him, he held his glass of tea.
“Careful, it’s hot,” chided Musya, her breath spewing out like smoke. “Spill some into the saucer and sip at it. That’s right. Do you taste the strawberry jam in it? That’s from the wild berries you picked out at the dacha.”
He tasted the sweetened black Georgian tea. “It’s good.”
“It’ll make you strong, too. In a bit I’ll go out and get you fresh black bread, some sweet Leningrad cheese, and if I can find it, some Doktorskaya sausage.” She wrapped her arms around him from behind. “How’s your head?”
“Fine. Just a little scratch.”
“That bandit hit you so hard! I’m so glad you’re all right.” She hugged him for warmth. “You have to come back in. There’s a fall chill in the air.”
Gazing beyond Nevsky over the waters of Fontanka, he said, “In a minute.”
A fine mist hovered over the silvery river. Someday he’d write about this intersection of street and water where tsar and revolutionary had crossed. Someday, too, the three-arched Anichkov Bridge and its four statues, each depicting a youth taming a wild horse, would be his in fiction.
“I’m going to get everything straightened out,” said Boris.
“Good.”
“There’s no city more beautiful than Leningrad—its rivers, canals, bridges, palaces.”
“Of course not. We’re the Venice of the north.”
“Nyet. Venice is the Leningrad of the south,” he countered. “Just look at what beauty and history we have around us.”
He swept his hand toward the rich red palace diagonally opposite and across the river. A prime example of Russian Baroque architecture, it had tall columns, figurines, and deep-set, elaborately decorated windows.
“That’s the Beloselsky-Belosersky Palace. Alexander III’s brother lived there, the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich.” He nodded toward a large colonnaded palace directly across the street. “That’s the Anichkov Palace. Nicholas and Alexandra lived there for a while. Then the Dowager Empress called it home until the Revolution.”
Musya laughed. “I thought your father taught you to be a good Communist.” She looked toward the red building. “That’s the Party headquarters.” Indicating Nicholas II’s former residence, she said, “And that belongs to the Leningrad Young Pioneers.”
“I know that. And you know that Papa was a great Communist. He loved Leningrad. He understood its history, where we came from. That’s why all this was restored after the Blockade—to help us understand how we arrived here.” Boris shrugged. She’d never understood him or his dreams. “Anyway, I’m going to tell that gang that I won’t have anything to do with them. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. Then I’m going to write.” An electric trolley bus passed below, its wires snapping with blue electricity. “First I want to go the dacha. Zarekino’s where I grew up—in my heart, that is—so I’ll start there. I’m thinking about quitting my job.”
“Boris!”
“I really might.” But he didn’t want to discuss the future with Musya. They had none together. “Listen, I have to go. I want to find Sergei and get this ugly business straightened out.”
Without letting her say a word, he turned back through the French doors and into the apartment. It was approaching noon and he had to get moving.
“Can’t we talk?” called Musya, trotting after him. “Let me get you something to eat. You’re as thin as a matchstick.”
“Later.”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to. If they started now, the words would come shooting out like steam from a kettle. Just grab your coat, he told himself, and get out of here. He scanned the sofa.
“But Boris!”
“Musya, where’s my jacket? I was wearing it when I—”
“Boris!”
He stopped and slowly turned to her. She came to him but he held out an arm and halted her before she could embrace him.
“We have a great deal to talk about, Musya. So much.” He angrily shook his head.” A lot of things have to change… are going to change.”
She nodded like an eager schoolgirl. “Yes, yes, my love.”
“You don’t understand!” He couldn’t look at her. “Where’s my jacket?”
She pointed across the room. “Probably in the armoire.”
Boris held his breath. Suddenly, his head began to pound, and he touched the bandage above
his ear.
“Boris, what’s the matter?”
Staring at the armoire, he couldn’t speak. Then he was moving forward slowly, drawn to the tall piece of furniture. He wove around the overstuffed couch, pushed aside the end chair. Something happened here, something he couldn’t remember.
“I… I…”
He rushed up to the cabinet and placed both hands on it. His palms moved over the wood as if he were a craftsman rubbing in oil. There was a secret here that he wanted to extract from the piece of furniture. No matter how hard he tried, though, he still couldn’t make sense of what had happened.
Musya’s voice broke right behind him. “What’s the problem?”
He spun around. Her tiny eyes riveted him with a questioning, yet innocent look.
“I don’t know,” mumbled Boris. “Maybe it was a dream.”
His left hand rose to a splintery gash in the wood. In his mind he saw the intruder rush up behind him, hurl the cleaver at the back of his head. Boris had ducked, but the chopper had bit here, into the armoire.
“I had this dream,” he began. “It must have been after that fellow knocked me out. I dreamt that Lila Nikolaevna was in here dead. I… I saw a bit of her coat hanging out.” He touched a spot where he imagined the material to have been. “And then I opened the door. She was inside. Dead.”
She threw her hand to her mouth. “I know you can’t stand her, Boris, but what an awful wish.” Then she reached out and tried to pull him to the sofa. “Boris, you shouldn’t go out. You’re not well. You’ve had a big shock. Now come here and let me give you a massage. That’ll calm you. Everything’s fine.”
“But… but…” he said, one hand still on the armoire. Hadn’t he seen something else?”
“Boris, that was just a dream. A very odd dream. Besides, it’s impossible. Lila Nikolaevna’s out of town. You know that.”
He gazed at her dark eyes set in the pearly white skin.
“Boris, come here. Now.”
She grabbed him and pulled him away from the armoire. He withdrew his hand, backed away from her.
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