It was a compact space: a living room with a dining table, a bedroom so small the bed almost filled it; a kitchen that was crowded with two people in it; a cramped toilet with a washbasin and shower, and a tiny hall with a closet for their clothes. When the radio was on in the living room, they could hear it all over the flat.
They quickly made it their own. Zoya bought a bright yellow coverlet for the bed. Volodya’s mother produced a set of crockery that she had bought in 1940, in anticipation of his wedding, and saved all through the war. Volodya hung a picture on the wall, a graduation photograph of his class at the Military Intelligence Academy.
They made love more now. Being alone made a difference Volodya had not anticipated. He had never felt particularly inhibited when sleeping with Zoya at his parents’ place, or in the apartment she had used to share; but now he realized it had an influence. You had to keep your voice down, you listened in case the bed squeaked, and there was always the possibility, albeit remote, that somebody would walk in on you. Other people’s homes were never completely private.
They often woke early, made love, then lay kissing and talking for an hour before getting dressed for work. Lying with his head on her thighs on one such morning, the smell of sex in his nostrils, Volodya said: ‘Do you want some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ She stretched luxuriously, reclining on the pillows.
Volodya put on a robe and crossed the tiny hallway to the little kitchen, where he lit the gas under the samovar. He was displeased to see the pots and dishes from last night’s dinner stacked in the sink. ‘Zoya! he said. ‘This kitchen’s in a mess!’
She could hear him easily in the small apartment. ‘I know,’ she said.
He went back to the bedroom. ‘Why didn’t you clean up last night?’
‘Why didn’t you?’
It had not occurred to him that it might be his responsibility. But he said: ‘I had a report to write.’
‘And I was tired.’
The suggestion that it was his fault irritated him. ‘I hate a filthy kitchen.’
‘So do I.’
Why was she being so obtuse? ‘If you don’t like it, clean it!’
‘Let’s do it together, right away.’ She sprang out of bed. She pushed past him with a sexy smile and went into the kitchen.
Volodya followed.
She said: ‘You wash, I’ll dry.’ She took a clean towel from a drawer.
She was still naked. He could not help but smile. Her body was long and slim, and her skin was white. She had flat breasts and pointed nipples, and the hair of her groin was fine and blonde. One of the joys of being married to her was her habit of moving around the apartment in the nude. He could stare at her body for as long as he liked. She seemed to enjoy it. If she caught his eye she showed no embarrassment, but just smiled.
He rolled up the sleeves of his robe and began to wash the dishes, passing them to Zoya to dry. Washing up was not a very manly activity – Volodya had never seen his father do it – but Zoya seemed to think such chores should be shared. It was an eccentric idea. Did Zoya have a highly developed sense of fairness in marriage? Or was he being emasculated?
He thought he heard something outside. He glanced into the hall: the apartment door was only three or four steps from the kitchen sink. He could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Then the door was smashed open.
Zoya screamed.
Volodya picked up the carving knife he had just washed. He stepped past Zoya and stood in the kitchen doorway. A uniformed policeman holding a sledgehammer was just outside the ruined door.
Volodya was filled with fear and rage. He said: ‘What the fuck is this?’
The policeman stepped back, and a small, thin man with a face like a rodent entered the flat. It was Volodya’s brother-in-law, Ilya Dvorkin, an agent of the secret police. He was wearing leather gloves.
‘Ilya!’ said Volodya. ‘You stupid weasel.’
‘Speak respectfully,’ said Ilya.
Volodya was baffled as well as angry. The secret police did not normally arrest the staff of Red Army Intelligence, and vice versa. Otherwise it would have been gang warfare. ‘Why the hell have you bust my door? I would have opened it!’
Two more agents stepped into the hall and stood behind Ilya. They wore their trademark leather coats, despite the mild late-summer weather.
Volodya was fearful as well as angry. What was going on?
Ilya said in a shaky voice: ‘Put the knife down, Volodya.’
‘No need to be afraid,’ said Volodya. ‘I was just washing up.’ He handed the knife to Zoya, standing behind him. ‘Please step into the living room. We can talk while Zoya gets dressed.’
‘Do you imagine this is a social call?’ Ilya said indignantly.
‘Whatever kind of call it is, I’m sure you don’t want the embarrassment of seeing my wife naked.’
