After that I found myself running all over Moscow; by the time I was done, it was night.
The Moscow night was freezing cold. The dull gray sky turned black, and the snow seemed to come down even harder. I stopped by the roadside and watched it, and the leaves of the trees seemed to glow a pale white in the light from the lampposts.
My breath was so cold that it stung the inside of my mouth. On this kind of night, I wanted nothing more than to head home, drink a vodka, and go to bed.
I didn’t have much time left. Even my break time had to be used carefully.
So why was it, then, that my feet seemed to find their way to the banks of the Moscow River? Why did they head toward that white tower?
Propaganda for the Moscow Olympics danced across an electrically lit sign, and there was the most beautiful woman in Moscow, smiling down at me. Would seeing her really inspire courage?
I didn’t know. What I needed just then wasn’t a picture; it was a real smile, in the flesh.
—Don’t be a loser.
I walked through the lobby, a painting by I didn’t know who gazing down at me from the ceiling. I got on the elevator and put in my kopecks, then let the elevator carry me up the floors.
At moments like this, I was really glad we had machines. If I’d had to climb the stairs myself, I think I would have just ground to a halt long before I reached the top. Machines weren’t like that. They just diligently did whatever job you told them to do.
We needed more elevator-like kindness in the world.
Once the elevator had politely deposited me on my desired floor, I proceeded ahead, aware of the mechanical gizmos around me. There was a door and a doorbell. But in the end, a person always had to take the final step themselves.
I stopped, sucked in a breath, let it out again, then finally pressed the doorbell.
Only after I’d rung the bell did I find anxious thoughts running through my mind: Was she asleep? Or awake? Maybe practicing? Was this right before a performance? I would feel bad about that. Or maybe she was in the middle of a performance.
I was a hopeless idiot.
“Hello?” came a sleepy voice. Then, “Oh!”
I had no business seeing Stasia. What must I have looked like to her when she opened the door, as I stood there idle?
“Danya!”
If she hadn’t said my name with a smile, I couldn’t even have mustered a “H’lo.”
“This is special,” she said. “I don’t usually get to see you again so soon. Is your job done already?” Her smile was like a blossoming flower as she graced me with these words.
Fmp. I could feel the strength go out of my shoulders. I leaned against the doorframe. I didn’t try to look inside. I didn’t care who was in there.
“No, uh, this is sabotage. You won’t tell Comrade Mariya, will you?”
“Blin… Ti mne pokoye ne dayosh <You’re no end of trouble>, Danya.”
Any guy would be thrilled to hear Stasia say that. I told her I knew it all too well.
“So what would you like to do?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“I mean, if your foot is better, we could…”
Do you realize what a profound feat of my rational faculties it was to say what I said next?
“I told you. I’m on sabotage.”
I thought it took some real guts to say that faced with Stasia’s limpid eyes. Enough that maybe I could even take on GRU or MI6.
“If I hang around here, Mariya will find out. I’ve seen your face, so now I’m going to go.”
“You could have at least told me you were coming. I could have been ready for you.” She stuck out her lip.
I whispered an apology. If she’d been ready for me, I don’t think I could have held out.
—Sorry, Ivan. I guess I was nothing but a catastrophe for you.
But I’m glad I didn’t try to get you when you were coming home.
“Sorry to bug you,” I said. “I’m going now.” I stroked Stasia’s hair with my gloved hand, then turned while I still had the backbone to do it.
“Danya?”
“Yeah?”
I turned back, caught by the sleeves. An arm slid around my neck, and there were her eyes, so close to mine.
“Mn…”
Her lips were sweet and moist. Our tongues touched almost like they were pecking at each other. Then we pulled apart, a thread hanging between us.
A breath escaped Stasia: “Haah… Ahhh…” A smile came across her rose-colored cheeks. “I hope you’ll come again. I’ll have borscht ready and waiting for you.”
Dammit. What was a guy supposed to do with a girl like that?
Somehow, I managed a nod and said, “Yeah. Make sure it’s nice and hot for me.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“God… Danila Kragin. He’s a sinner, I tell you.”
Stasia heard the old woman sigh on the other end of the telephone line.
The old lady was the person she trusted most in the whole world, outside her “family.” She could tell this woman things she couldn’t tell her family.
Believing that the old woman’s response would give her absolutely, unquestionably the right answer, Stasia simply stayed quiet and waited.
The old woman—Madam Pisken—seemed to sense that Stasia was waiting for her.
“Listen,” she began softly. “You can go after him, or you can wait. Neither is the right answer, but neither will weigh you down, either.”
Stasia wound the receiver’s cord around her finger. She could tell the old woman was smiling.
“Men are idiots. What you do is, you don’t let them think their idiotic thoughts—you smile and say ‘You’re so silly.’”
“Da.”
They exchanged a few more words—and then Stasia hung up the phone.
She turned and looked around the room. Her eyes settled on the doorway where he had been standing until a few minutes ago.
The room was filled with luxurious furniture. A bed. And one thing that hadn’t changed in all this time—the little samovar.
“Durak…Danya.”