“And an emotional one,” he agreed. “Is there any more cake?”
“No more cake,” she said. “I don’t believe in God, Porfiry Petrovich. Maybe sometime. Maybe never. I feel the need to make a connection to my history. It’s … more a meditation than a worship. I can lose myself in the ritual, the prayers, the chants. I feel as if I’m making a connection and on good days I can walk away feeling a little better.”
“Avrum Belinsky is good?”
“Very good,” she said.
“He is very young.”
“But he has studied much and been through much,” she said. “Are you bothered by my going?”
“No,” he said. “If you want to read the Bible or something at home, I don’t mind.”
“No,” she said, still touching his hand. “I don’t want to read the Bible at home. Porfiry, maybe someday I’ll believe in a god, some kind of god. We have talked about this very little. What do you believe in?”
The crowd on the television set roared. Nina giggled. Laura clapped.
“You,” he said. “Nature. Benches and spaceships and people who can move objects very slightly with their minds and dreams that sometimes become reality. Mystery. People who are not all good or all evil. Common sense.”
“You are not really answering the question,” Sarah said.
Rostnikov nodded and said, “You are going to be late. Would you like me to come with you?”
“No,” she said, getting up. “I won’t be late.”
“All right,” he said. “When the circus is over and the applause has died, I have a sink to fix.”
“She did it,” Elena said.
Iosef and Elena were sitting in his apartment. With the afternoon off, they were supposed to be making the final plans for their wedding. Iosef had hoped that she would be filled with ideas and that they might end the afternoon with something to eat and, perhaps, an hour or so in bed, just being together without their clothes. Iosef loved her smooth, full body. But it was clear that Elena was in no mood for food or love. She pushed her hair back, a sign, Iosef had learned, that she was agitated. This time he needed no sign.
“I would like to go back, confront her,” Elena said, her arms folded.
“You’ve been ordered to forget about her,” said Iosef. “Yaklovev will handle it.”
“You know how he will handle it,” she said. “He’ll find some way to get something from the widow Vera Kriskov. He’ll probably have the movie dedicated to him.”
“That is not the kind of thing the Yak wants,” said Iosef. “I know. Remember when …”
“Yes, and he doesn’t want sex,” Elena went on. “Vera Kriskov is very beautiful, you know?”
“As are you.”
“I am not beautiful,” she said. “I have a higher opinion of my looks than I once had, but I am not beautiful.”
“I am entitled to my opinion,” he said with a smile she did not return.
“She will get away with the murder of her husband.”
“She will join the legions, the thousands, who have gotten away with murder and continue to do so,” he said. “Why does this woman obsess you?”
“She doesn’t. She …”
Elena stopped. A realization struck her, one she could not quite put into words. “She has wealth, two children, beauty, and …”
“You would like the same,” Iosef said, watching her face.
“Perhaps, yes,” she said with a sigh. “He loved her.”
“Her husband?”
Elena smiled. “Grachev. He loved her. He died protecting her.”
“Let us leave it as a tragic romance,” said Iosef.
“You think like a playwright,” Elena said.
“It is an ending out of Tolstoy. If she has guilt, she will have to live with it.”
“Then she will live,” said Elena.
“Feel better?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
He leaned over to kiss her. She returned the kiss with a passion and hunger he had not expected.
Winter was still months away in Winnipeg.
It had taken Misha and Ivan only an hour to find a room they could share in the house of an old couple who spoke Ukrainian-accented Russian and who welcomed them as recent immigrants. They had stopped at a small restaurant and asked if there were places they might find a room. The incredibly thin man behind the counter had served them cherry pie and directed them to the old couple.
“We need new blood here,” the old woman had said when they carried their luggage in. “New blood that won’t freeze in the winter.
“People come from the United States. They say they love it here. They take deep breaths. The winter comes. They go home, usually at night. If they can get their car started or a ride to the airport.”
“But,” said the old woman, “you are Russians. Are you married?”
“No,” said Misha.
“Then maybe … what is your work?” the man asked.
“We are mechanics,” Ivan said.
“Mechanics? Like cars?” said the old man.
“Yes,” said Misha. “Like cars.”
The old woman motioned for them to pick up their luggage. They did and followed her to a wooden stairway.
The old man came after them and said, “My nephew, Frank. He has a garage. He is looking for help. You have papers?”
They were at the top of the stairs now. There was something familiar about the house. Ivan thought he might be comfortable. At the moment, he simply wanted to lie down on his stomach and hope that the pain in his back and behind would lose some of its anger.
“No,” said Misha.
“I understand,” said the old man. “I understand. Political?”
“Yes,” said Misha. “We are merchant marines. We jumped from our ship in Nova Scotia.”
“The water was cold,” said the man. “Even in the summer. The water was cold.”
“It was cold,” Ivan agreed, following the old woman into the room.
There were two beds. Ivan felt both relief and guilt. Knowing now about Misha’s sexual preference, he was relieved that they would not have to share a bed. Knowing that Misha had saved his life, Ivan felt guilt.
The room was large, furnished in old-country style, very simple. Ivan thought he could like it here.
“There are snowshoes downstairs for the winter,” said the old man. “The snow comes right up to the window over there sometimes. Well … should I talk to Frank?”
“Yes, please,” said Misha.
“He has friends, knows people. He can get you papers, but let me talk to him first.”
“Leave them alone to settle,” said the old woman, touching her husband’s sleeve and guiding him toward the door.
“Yes, yes. Of course. Come down when you are ready. My wife will give you something to eat.”
When they were gone and the door closed, Ivan moved in agony to the nearest bed, kicked off his shoes, and lay carefully on his stomach.
“I’ll go to a drugstore, get you something for your bruises,” said Misha.
“I-” Ivan began.
“I won’t try to seduce you,” Misha said. “Are we friends?”
“Yes,” said Ivan. “I owe you my life.”
“Then we shall be just friends,” said Misha. “I have a feeling I will not lack companionship here when I feel the need.”
