We the Living (12 page)

His smile widened when he saw Kira and he nodded to her cheerfully. Maria Petrovna brought him a bowl of hot soup. She asked timidly: “Would you like some soup, Kira?”

“No, thank you, Aunt Marussia. I’ve just had my dinner.”

She knew that Maria Petrovna had but one bowl of soup left, saved for Vasili Ivanovitch; she knew that Maria Petrovna sighed with relief.

Vasili Ivanovitch ate cheerfully, talking to Kira as if she were his personal guest; he spoke to so few of their guests that Maria Petrovna and Irina did not object, watching anxiously the rare sight of his smile.

He chuckled: “Look at Irina drawing. Here she is, daubing, smudging all day long. Not bad, are they, Kira? The drawings, I mean. How’s Victor at the Institute? Not one of the last, I bet. . . . Well, we still have something left. Yes, we still have something left.” He leaned forward suddenly over his soup, his eyes sparkling, his voice low: “Have you read the papers tonight, Kira?”

“Yes, Uncle Vasili. What was it?”

“The news from abroad. Of course, there wasn’t much in the paper.
They
wouldn’t print it. But you have to know how to read between the lines. Just watch it. Just mark my word. Europe is doing things. And it won’t be long . . . it won’t be long now before . . .”

Maria Petrovna coughed nervously. She was used to it; for five years she had listened to what Vasili Ivanovitch read between the lines of the newspapers about the salvation coming from Europe, which never came. She sighed; she did not dare to argue. Vasili Ivanovitch was grinning happily: “. . . and when it happens, I’m all set to start again where they’ve interrupted. It won’t be difficult. Of course, they’ve closed my store and taken all the furniture away, but . . .” he leaned close to Kira, whispering, “but I’ve watched it. I know where they’ve taken it. I know where it is now.”

“You do, Uncle Vasili?”

“I’ve seen the showcases in a government shoe store on the Bolshoi Prospect; and the chairs—in a factory restaurant in the Viborgsky district; and the chandelier—the chandelier’s in the new Tobacco Trust office. I haven’t been wasting time. I’m ready. As soon as . . . as soon as things change—I’ll know where to find it all and I’ll open the old store again.”

“That’s wonderful, Uncle Vasili. I’m glad they haven’t destroyed your furniture or burned it.”

“No, that’s my luck, they haven’t. It’s still as good as new. I did see a long scratch on one of the showcases, it’s a shame, but it can be fixed. And—here’s the funniest thing,” he chuckled slyly, as if he had outwitted his enemies, “the sign boards. Do you remember my sign boards, Kira, gilded glass with black letters? Well, I’ve even found those. They’re hanging over a co-operative near the Alexandrovsky market. On one side it says: ‘State Co-operative’ but on the other—on the other side it still says: ‘Vasili Dunaev. Furs.’ ” He caught the look in Maria Petrovna’s eyes. He frowned. “Marussia doesn’t believe any more. She doesn’t think we’ll get it all back. She loses faith so easily. How about it, Kira? Do you think you’ll live your whole life under a Red boot?”

“No,” said Kira, “it can’t last forever.”

“Of course, it can’t. Certainly, it can’t. That’s what I say, it can’t.” He rose suddenly. “Come here, Kira, I’ll show you something.”

“Vasili,” Maria Petrovna sighed, “won’t you finish your soup?”

“Never mind the soup. I’m not hungry. Come on to my office, Kira.”

There was no furniture left in Vasili Ivanovitch’s office but a desk and one chair. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a bundle wrapped in an old, yellowed handkerchief. He unfastened a tight knot and, smiling proudly, happily, straightening his stooped shoulders, showed Kira neatly tied piles of large, crisp currency bills of the Czar’s days. They were large piles; they contained a fortune of many thousands.

Kira gasped: “But, Uncle Vasili, they’re . . . they’re worthless. You’re not allowed to use . . . or even to keep them any more. It’s . . . dangerous.”

He laughed: “Sure, they’re worthless—
now.
But just wait and see. Wait till things change. You’ll see how much there is right here in my fist.”

“But . . . Uncle Vasili, where did you get them?”

“I bought them. Secretly, of course. From speculators. It’s dangerous, but you can get them. It cost me a lot, too. I’ll tell you why I bought so many. You see, just . . . just before it happened . . . you know, before they nationalized the store . . . I owed one large bill—for my new plate-glass windows—got them from abroad, from Sweden, no one in town had any like that. When they took the store, they kicked their boots through the glass, but it doesn’t matter, I still owe the firm for it. There’s no way I can pay now—you can’t send money abroad—but I’m waiting. I can’t pay it in that worthless Soviet paper trash . . . why, abroad they wouldn’t use it in the bathroom. And you can’t get gold. But these—these will be as good as gold. And I’ll pay my debt. I’ve checked up. The old man of the glass firm has died, but his son is alive. He’s in Berlin now. I’ll pay him. I don’t like to be in debt. I’ve never owed a ruble to any man in my life.” He weighed the paper bundle in the palm of his large hand. He said softly: “Take some advice from an old man, Kira. Don’t ever look back. The past is dead. But there is always a future. There is always a future. And—here’s mine. A good idea, wasn’t it, Kira, getting this money?”

Kira forced a smile, and looked away from him, and whispered: “Yes, Uncle Vasili, a very good idea.”

The door bell rang. Then, in the dining room, they heard a girl’s laughter that seemed clearer, louder than the bell. Vasili Ivanovitch frowned. “Here she is again,” he said sullenly. “Vava Milovskaia. A friend of Victor.”

“What’s the matter, Uncle Vasili? You don’t like her?”

He shrugged: “Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. I don’t dislike her. Only there’s nothing in her to like. Just a scatter-brained little female. Not a girl like you, Kira. Come on, I suppose you’ll have to meet her.”

Vava Milovskaia stood in the middle of the dining room like two luminous circles; the lower and larger one—a full skirt of pink starched chintz; the upper and smaller one—a tangled chrysanthemum of glistening black curls. Her dress was only chintz, but it was new, obviously expensive, and she wore a narrow diamond bracelet.

“Good evening, Vasili Ivanovitch!” she sang. “Good evening! Good evening!” She jumped up, her hands on his shoulders, her pink skirt flaring, and planted a kiss on his stern forehead. “And this is—I know—Kira! Kira Argounova. I’m so glad to see you, at last, Kira!”

Victor came out of his room. Vava repeated persistently that she had come to see Irina, but he knew, as everybody knew, the real object of her visit. He watched her, smiling. He laughed happily, and teased her, and pulled Acia’s ear, and brought a warm shawl for Maria Petrovna when she coughed, and told anecdotes, and even forced Vasili Ivanovitch, who sat gloomily in a dark corner, to smile once at a joke.

“I’ve brought something to show you all,” Vava announced mysteriously, producing a little package from her handbag. “Something . . . something marvelous. Something you’ve never seen before.”

All heads bent over the table, over a tiny, round, orange and gold box. Vava whispered the magic words: “From
abroad
.”

They looked at it reverently, afraid to touch it. Vava whispered proudly, breathlessly, trying to sound casual: “Face powder. French. Real French. It’s smuggled from Riga. One of Father’s patients gave it to him—in part payment.”

“You know,” said Irina, “I’ve heard that they use not only powder, abroad, but—imagine—lipstick!”

“Yes,” said Vava, “and that woman, Father’s patient, promised to get me—a lipstick, next time.”

“Vava! You won’t dare to use it!”

“Oh . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe a tiny bit . . . just once in a while.”

“No decent woman paints her lips,” said Maria Petrovna.

“But they say they do and it’s perfectly all right—abroad.”

“Abroad,” Maria Petrovna sighed wistfully. “Such a place does exist somewhere, doesn’t it? . . . Abroad. . . .”

Snow had not come; but a heavy frost glazed the mud on the sidewalks, and the first icicles grew whiskers in the mouths of drain pipes. The sky hung clear and green, lustrous with cold glints of ice. Men walked slowly, awkwardly, like beginners learning to skate; they slipped, waving one helpless leg high in the air, grasping the nearest lamp post. Horses slipped on the glassy cobblestones; sparks flew from under the hoofs scratching the ice convulsively.

Kira walked to the Institute. Through her thin soles, the frozen sidewalk sent a cold breath up her legs. She hurried uncertainly, her feet slipping at odd angles.

She heard steps behind her, very firm, resolute steps that made her turn involuntarily. She looked at the tamed tiger with the scar on his forehead. Their eyes met. He smiled. And she smiled up at him. He touched the visor of his cap. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Kira.

She watched his tall figure walking on hurriedly, his shoulders erect in his leather jacket, his feet steady on the ice.

Across from the Institute, he stopped suddenly and turned, waiting for her. She approached. The high sidewalk sloped down abruptly at a steep, frozen, dangerous angle. He offered his arm to help her. Her feet slipped perilously. His strong hand closed over her arm and quickly, masterfully landed her on her feet.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I thought you might need help. But then,” he looked at her with a faint smile, “I suppose you weren’t afraid.”

“On the contrary. I was very much afraid—
this time,
” she said, and her smile was an answer of sudden understanding.

He touched the visor of his cap and hurried away through the Institute gates, down a long corridor.

Kira saw a boy she knew. She pointed at the disappearing figure in the leather jacket, and asked: “Who is that?”

The boy looked and made a strange, warning noise with his lips. “Be careful of
that
,” he whispered and breathed three dreaded letters: “G.P.U.”

“Oh, is he?” said Kira.

“Is he?” said the boy with a long, indignant whistle for an answer.

FOR A MONTH KIRA HAD NOT APPROACHED the neighborhood of the mansion with a broken garden fence; she had not thought of the garden, for she did not want to see it empty, even before her own closed eyes. But on November tenth she walked toward it calmly, evenly, without hurry, without doubts.

Darkness was coming, not from the gray, transparent sky, but from the corners of houses where shadows suddenly grew thicker, as if without reason. Slow whirls of smoke over chimneys were rusty in the rays of a cold, invisible sunset somewhere beyond the clouds. In store windows kerosene lamps stood on the sills, melting yellow circles on the huge, frozen panes, around little orange dots of trembling fire. It had snowed. Whipped into mud by horses’ hoofs, the first snow looked like a pale coffee with thin, melting splinters of sugar. It hushed the city into a soft, padded silence. Hoofs thumped through the mud with a clear, wet sound, as if someone were clicking his tongue loudly, rhythmically, and the sound rolled, dying, down long, darkening streets.

Kira turned a corner; she saw the black lances bowing to the snow, and the trees gathering snatches of cotton in the black net of bare branches. Then, for one second, she stopped, because she was suddenly afraid to look; then she looked into the garden.

He stood on the steps of the mansion, his hands in his pockets, his collar raised. She stopped to look at him. But he heard her and turned quickly.

He walked to meet her. He smiled at her, his mouth a scornful arc. “Allo, Kira.”

“Good evening, Leo.”

She pulled off a heavy black mitten; he held her hand for a long moment in his cold, strong fingers. Then he asked: “Foolish, aren’t we?”

“Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d come. I know I had no intention of coming.”

“But you’re here.”

“I awakened this morning and I knew that I’d be here—against my better judgment, I admit.”

“Are you living in Petrograd now?”

“No. I haven’t been here since that night I met you. We’ve often gone without food because I couldn’t drive to the city. But I’ve returned to meet a girl on a street corner. My compliments, Kira.”

“Who went without food because you couldn’t drive to the city?”

His smile told her that he understood the question and more than the question. But he said: “Let’s sit down.”

They sat down on the steps and she tapped her feet against each other, knocking off the snow. He asked: “So you want to know with whom I’m living? See? My coat is mended.”

“Yes.”

“A woman did that. A very nice woman who likes me very much.”

“She sews well.”

“Yes. But her eyesight isn’t so good any more. And her hair’s gray. She’s my old nurse and she has a shack in the country. Anything else you want to ask?”