As soon as we stepped down, the coolness of the city helped keep us awake. We lazily followed the canals leading to the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. To the left was an enormous concrete building, punctured with red-brick-bordered windows. We walked down a side street overhung with decorative arches. I sensed Gregory was elsewhere. He wasn’t at all focused on our walk. Neither was I. We said nothing, wandering without paying attention to this city we were discovering for the first time; this outing seemed to me a tedious preamble to the important part.
On the other side of the canal, the cathedral revealed itself. The sight of it shocked us out of our reverie. Gigantic, its square base stretched out in towers topped with numerous pointed domes in blue or gold, some sculpted with a spiral pattern. The first half of the building was dominated by triangular forms, softening the second half, which was all elegant curves. Colourful mosaics decorated the entire surface of the cathedral, textured spectacularly with delicate reliefs. Gregory hugged me. We were fascinated. Here, the sky was stunningly clear. From our oblique point of view, we could see tourists huddled around the main façade.
“Shall we go in?” asked Gregory, kissing me on the cheek.
“No,” I said. “I’m good here.”
I was hypnotized by the magnitude of human effort. This splendour was part of our children’s heritage.
Our children!
We still hadn't reached a consensus on names. Gregory told me I was being superstitious. My baby had had a name, and I never got to say it. I didn’t want to rush the decision.
The twins already had Russian names, but Gregory wanted to choose new, more North American ones. He didn’t want the boys to feel marginalized; moreover, the names had to be bilingual, which limited our choices. We’d drawn up lists of names, none of which were right. But very naturally, standing in front of this magnificent cathedral, the issue was resolved.
“I want them to keep their names,” I said.
There was no discussion of my decision. They were named Daniil and Vanya. We would meet them tomorrow.
That night, we jumped on each other, pausing only to kiss and absorb each other’s moans. Gregory took his time rolling my clitoris between two fingers, waiting as I shuddered, and penetrated me in one brisk, almost violent thrust. Our ragged breath dictated the rhythm. And, very soon, the sheets were saturated with our sharp, pungent sweat.
I woke up in the middle of the night, unable to get back to sleep. The hotel room seemed suddenly unwelcoming. The mattress, which was too hard, resisted my movements and the sheets had a chemical smell. The hot air from the ventilation system was blowing directly at me. I turned, groaning, toward Gregory, but the covers formed a shell around him.
The clothes I’d picked out for the meeting were laid out on the chair before me: a pair of slim pants, a top with embroidery around the neckline, and a pair of Frye boots, more comfortable and stable than heels for carrying children. I planned to bring my Herschel bag for the visit. I hadn’t bought cumbersome gifts, just a stuffed animal for each—a blue striped cat and a green monkey, also striped, in knit cotton—and a few organic cotton outfits. I played the scene of our meeting on a loop in my head, trying to imagine their smiles, and perhaps their tears. My stomach was in anxious knots; I was suddenly afraid I’d caught some bug.
I was already showered and dressed when Gregory emerged from the blankets. I sat on the bed and put a hand on his waist. He grabbed it and pulled me to him.
“Stop!” I said. “You’re going to mess me up.”
“Hey now, come on,” he said.
He pretended to undress me and I escaped, half genuinely upset. Hands on hips, I told him to hurry up and get ready. I couldn’t stand still anymore. We needed to get out of here. The room was suffocating me. I was already at the door, tensed like a runner at the starting block.
It was less than ten minutes’ walk to the orphanage. The cold air did me the most good. I still felt feverish, but less nervous. Gregory had opened a Google Map and I had brought a tourist guide, even though the route was straight and clear. I don’t know how we still managed to get lost. We ended up in an abandoned alleyway, with graffiti painted in contrasting layers of colour. Stencils, tags, and English obscenities were scrawled alongside metal structures and rusted pipes. Despite the filth, there was a certain aesthetic to the arrangement. I pulled out my phone and took a few pictures.
Piles of wet clothes and cardboard littered the ground. Grey snow sat heaped against the walls. Suddenly, a pile of garbage stirred. I jumped, grasping Gregory’s arm. He froze, moving me behind him protectively as a little brown head emerged.
It was a child.
He scanned us with vacant eyes before trying to stand. He was wearing an old man’s hat with earflaps and a threadbare down parka. Strands of greasy hair stuck to his forehead. Very shaky on his legs, he sat right back down and rummaged in his clutter for a plastic bag, which he placed over his mouth and nose. At first I thought he was hyperventilating, before I realized he was sniffing glue. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. His fingers, black with grime at the knuckles, were still plump.
I glanced at Gregory. He caught me by the elbow and dragged me quickly toward the main street, feeling it necessary to add, “We can’t save them all.” I agreed with a nod.
We passed through a poor suburban residential neighbourhood. All the houses and buildings were built of cinder blocks, the windows were in terrible shape,
