We the Living (72 page)

“What of it? It’s a very good name and very popular. You know, Fimka Popova, she had a Red christening week before last and that’s what she called her brat—Octiabrina. Even got a notice in the paper about it. Her husband was so proud—the blind fool!”

“Now, Sonia, you shouldn’t insinuate . . .”

“Listen to the respectable moralist! That bitch Fimka is known as a . . . Oh, to hell with her! But if she thinks she’s the only one to get a notice in the paper about her litter I’ll . . . I’ve copied some other names here, too. Good modern ones. There’s Marxina, for Karl Marx. Or else Communara. Or . . .”

Something clattered loudly under the table.

“Oh, hell!” said Comrade Sonia. “Those damn slippers of mine!” She wriggled uncomfortably on her chair, stretching out one leg, her foot groping under the table. She found the slipper and bent painfully over her abdomen, pulling the slipper on by a flat, wornout heel. “Look at the old junk I have to wear! And I need so many things, and with the child coming . . . You would choose a good time to write certain literary compositions and ruin everything, you drunken fool!”

“Now we won’t bring that up again, Sonia. You know I was lucky to get out of it as I did.”

“Yeah! Well, I hope your Kovalensky gets the firing squad and a nice, loud trial. I’ll see to it that the women of the Zhenotdel stage a demonstration of protest against Speculators and Aristocrats!” She fingered the pages of the calendar and cried: “Here’s another good one for a girl: Tribuna. Or—Barricada. Or, if we prefer something in the spirit of modern science: Universiteta.”

“That’s too long,” said Syerov.

“I prefer Octiabrina. More symbol to that. I hope it’s a girl. Octiabrina Syerova—the leader of the future. What do you want it to be, Pavel, a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t care,” said Syerov, “so long as it isn’t twins.”

“Now I don’t like that remark at all. It shows that you . . .”

They heard a knock at the door. The knock seemed too loud, too peremptory. Syerov, his head up, dropped the newspaper and said: “Come in.”

Andrei Taganov entered and closed the door. Comrade Sonia dropped her calendar. Pavel Syerov rose slowly to his feet.

“Good evening,” said Andrei.

“Good evening,” said Syerov, watching him fixedly.

“What’s the big idea, Taganov?” Comrade Sonia asked, her voice low, husky, menacing.

Andrei did not turn to her. He said: “I want to speak to you, Syerov.”

“Go ahead,” said Syerov without moving.

“I said I want to speak to you alone.”

“I said go ahead,” Syerov repeated.

“Tell your wife to get out.”

“My husband and I,” said Comrade Sonia, “have no secrets from each other.”

“You get out of here,” said Andrei, without raising his voice, “and wait in the corridor.”

“Pavel! If he . . .”

“You’d better go, Sonia,” said Syerov slowly, without looking at her, his eyes fixed on Andrei.

Comrade Sonia coughed out a single chuckle from the corner of her mouth: “Comrade Taganov still going strong, eh? Well, we shall see what we shall see and we don’t have long to wait.”

She gathered her lavender kimono, pulling it tightly across her abdomen, stuck a cigarette into her mouth and walked out, the slippers flapping against her heels.

“I thought,” said Pavel Syerov, “that you had learned a lesson in the last few days.”

“I have,” said Andrei.

“What else do you want?”

“You’d better put your shoes on while I’m talking. You’re going out and you haven’t much time to lose.”

“Am I? Glad you let me in on the little secret. Otherwise I might have said that I had no such intention. And maybe I’ll still say it. Where am I going, according to Comrade Mussolini Taganov?”

“To release Leo Kovalensky.”

Pavel Syerov sat down heavily and his feet scattered the pile of sunflower-seed shells over the floor. “What are you up to, Taganov? Gone insane, have you?”

“You’d better keep still and listen. I’ll tell you what you have to do.”

“You’ll tell me what I have to do? Why?”

“And after that, I’ll tell you why you will do it. You’ll dress right now and go to see your friend. You know what friend I mean. The one at the G.P.U.”

“At this hour?”

“Get him out of bed, if necessary. What you’ll tell him and how you’ll tell it, is none of my business. All I have to know is that Leo Kovalensky is released within forty-eight hours.”

“Now will you let me in on the little magic wand that will make me do it?”

“It’s a little paper wand, Syerov. Two of them.”

“Written by whom?”

“You.”

“Huh?”

“Photographed from one written by you, to be exact.”

Syerov rose slowly and leaned with both hands on the table. “Taganov, you God-damn rat!” he hissed. “It’s a rotten time to be joking.”

“Am I?”

“Well, I’ll go to see my friend all right. And you’ll see Leo Kovalensky all right—and it won’t take you forty-eight hours, either. I’ll see to it that you get the cell next to his and then we’ll find out what documents . . .”

“There are two photostats of it, as I said. Only I don’t happen to have either one of them.”

“What . . . what did you . . .”

“They’re in the possession of two friends I can trust. It would be useless to try to find out their names. You know me well enough to discard any idea of the G.P.U. torture chamber, if that idea occurs to you. Their instructions are that if anything happens to me before Leo Kovalensky is out—the photostats go to Moscow. Also—if anything happens to him after he’s out.”

“You God-d . . .”

“You don’t want those photostats to reach Moscow. Your friend won’t be able to save your neck, then, nor his own, perhaps. You don’t have to worry about my becoming a nuisance. All you have to do is release Leo Kovalensky and hush up this whole case. You’ll never hear of those photostats again. You’ll never see them, either.”

Syerov reached for his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “You’re lying,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve never taken any photostats.”

“Maybe,” said Andrei. “Want to take a chance on that?”

“Sit down,” said Syerov, falling on the davenport.

Andrei sat down on the edge of the table and crossed his legs.

“Listen, Andrei,” said Syerov. “Let’s talk sense. All right, you’re holding the whip. Still, do you know what you’re asking?”

“No more than you can do.”

“But, good Lord in Heaven, Andrei! It’s such a big case and we’re all set with a first-class propaganda campaign and the newspapers are getting headlines ready to . . .”

“Stop them.”

“But how can I? How can I ask him? What am I going to tell him?”

“That’s none of my business.”

“But after he’s already saved my . . .”

“Don’t forget it’s in his interests, too. He may have friends in Moscow. And he may have some who aren’t friends.”

“But, listen . . .”

“And when Party members can no longer be saved, they’re the ones who get it worse than the private speculators, you know. Also a good occasion for first-class propaganda.”

“Andrei, one of us has gone insane. I can’t figure it out. Why do you want Kovalensky released?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“And if you’ve appointed yourself his guardian angel, then why the hell did you start the whole damn case? You started it, you know.”

“You said that I had learned a lesson.”

“Andrei, haven’t you got any Party honor left? We need a good smashing bang at the speculators right now, with food conditions as they are and all the . . .”

“That doesn’t concern me any longer.”

“You damn traitor! You said it was the only copy of the letter in existence, when you turned it in!”

“Maybe I was lying then.”

“Listen, let’s talk business. Here—have a cigarette.”

“No, thank you.”

“Listen, let’s talk as friend to friend. I take back all those things I said to you. I apologize. You can’t blame me, you know how it is, you can see it’s enough to make a fellow lose his mind a little. All right, you have your own game to play, I had mine and I made a misstep, but then we’re both no innocent angels, as I can see, so we can understand each other. We used to be good friends, childhood friends, remember? So we can talk sensibly.”

“About what?”

“I have an offer to make to you, Andrei. A good one. That friend of mine, he can do a lot if I slip a couple of words to him, as you know, I guess. I guess you know that I have enough on him for a firing squad, too. You’re learning the same game, I see, and doing it brilliantly, I must hand it to you. All right, we understand each other. Now I can talk plain. I guess you know that your spot in the Party isn’t so good any more. Not so good at all. And particularly after that little speech you made tonight—really, you know, it won’t be so easy on you at the next Party purge.”

“I know it.”

“In fact, you’re pretty sure to get the axe, you know.”

“I do.”

“Well, then, what do you say if we make a bargain? You drop this case and I’ll see to it that you keep your Party card and not only that, but you can have any job you choose at the G.P.U. and name your own salary. No questions asked and no ill feeling. We all have our own way to make. You and I—we can help each other a lot. What do you say?”

“What makes you think that I want to remain in the Party?”

“Andrei! . . .”

“You don’t have to worry about helping me at the next purge. I may be kicked out of the Party or I may be shot or I may be run over by a truck. That won’t make any difference to you. Understand? But don’t touch Leo Kovalensky. See that no one touches him. Watch him as you would watch your own child, no matter what happens to me. I am not his guardian angel. You are.”

“Andrei,” Syerov moaned, “what is that damned aristocrat to you?”

“I’ve answered that question once.”

Syerov rose unsteadily and drew himself up for a last, desperate effort: “Listen, Andrei, I have something to tell you. I thought you knew it, but I guess you don’t. Only pull yourself together and listen, and don’t kill me on the first word. I know there’s a name you don’t want to be mentioned, but I’ll mention it. It’s Kira Argounova.”

“Well?”

“Listen, we’re not mincing words, are we? Hell, not now we aren’t. Well, then, listen: you love her and you’ve been sleeping with her for over a year. And. . . . Wait! Let me finish. . . . Well, she’s been Leo Kovalensky’s mistress all that time. . . . Wait! You don’t have to take my word for it. Just check up on it and see for yourself.”

“Why check up on it? I know it.”

“Oh!” said Pavel Syerov.

He stood, rocking slowly from heels to toes, looking at Andrei. Then he laughed. “Well,” he said, “I should have known.”

“Get your coat,” said Andrei, rising.

“I should have known,” laughed Syerov, “why the saint of the Comm-party would go in for blackmail. You fool! You poor, virtuous, brainless fool! So that’s the kind of grandstand you’re playing! I should have known that the lofty heroics are a disease one never gets cured of! Come on, Andrei! Haven’t you any sense left? Any pride?”

“We’ve talked long enough,” said Andrei. “You seem to know a lot about me. You should know that I don’t change my mind.”

Pavel Syerov reached for his overcoat and pulled it on slowly, his pale lips grinning.

“All right, Sir Galahad or whatever it’s called,” he said. “Sir Galahad of the blackmail sword. You win—this time. It’s no use threatening you with any retaliation. Fellows like you get theirs without any help from fellows like me. In a year—this little mess will be forgotten. I’ll be running the railroads of the U.S.S.R. and buying satin diapers for my brat. You’ll be standing in line for a pot of soup—and maybe you’ll get it. But you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that your sweetheart is being . . . by a man you hate!”

“Yes,” said Andrei. “Good luck, Comrade Syerov.”

“Good luck, Comrade Taganov.”

Kira sat on the floor, folding Leo’s underwear, putting it back into the drawer. Her dresses were still piled in a heap before her open wardrobe. Papers rustled all over the room when she moved. Down from the torn pillows fluttered like snow over the furniture.

She had not been out for two days. She had heard no sound from the world beyond the walls of her room. Galina Petrovna had telephoned once and wailed into the receiver; Kira had told her not to worry and please not to come over; Galina Petrovna had not come.

The Lavrovs had decided that their neighbor was not shaken by her tragedy; they heard no tears; they noticed nothing unusual in the frail little figure whom they watched sidewise when they crossed her room on their way to the bathroom. They noticed only that she seemed lazy, for her limbs fell and remained in any position, and it took her an effort to move them; and her eyes remained fixed on one spot and it took a bigger effort to shift her glance, and her glance was like a forty-pound sack of sand being dragged by a child’s fist.