and herself. Enmeshed in their domestic melodrama she was only a bit player. And the longer she stayed the more trapped she felt, feeling she would be devoured if she didn't manage to escape.
It was then that she begged her agent to find her an accompanist, and went to San Francisco for a meeting with her contact from the Russian embassy. She told the man that Targov was harmless, that she was finished and would perform no further missions. Perhaps she was followed that day, perhaps that was how Stephanie Porter had learned of the KGB connection. It didn't matter. She didn't care. All she knew was that if she stayed on in Big Sur her life as a musician would be destroyed.
The last weeks there were especially mean. She sensed Irina was getting ready to reopen some old and dreadful wound. It all culminated on Sasha's sixtieth birthday when, after he jokingly accused her of being a Komsomol girl sent to extract his secrets, he confessed to her that long ago he had betrayed his closest friend. A painful story; he didn't give details and she didn't ask for any. She was too upset by the possibility that he had really found her out.
'That, you see, was the irony,' she said. 'I brooded on it through that afternoon. He had found the courage to confess his duplicity to me, but I couldn't bring myself to confess mine. Instead we made love, and then I played for him. And late that night Irina stole into my room, woke me up, stood at the foot of my bed, and told me everything in a torrent of triumph, fury and abuse.'
Sergei Sokolov was the betrayed man's name, a schoolmate of Targov's, an artist too, not nearly so talented, but sweeter, less bitter, better able to cope with the bureaucrats. He'd been best man at Targov's wedding. For years they'd been inseparable. And after the marriage the three of them were a troika, going everywhere together, dining together nearly every night.
One winter evening there was a tremendous storm. Impossible for Sergei to get home. Irina invited him to sleep over on the couch, and the next morning, over breakfast, suggested he move in. Not long after began the period Irina called 'the sharing.' She was beautiful then, and irresistible; Sokolov could not resist. Thus began her year of ecstasy: swift sweet golden impassioned afternoons making love with Sergei followed by long hard silver nights with Sasha on the marital bed. Two males, two lovers, two men she loved. Her body sang. She gave herself up to pleasure.
But the worm of jealousy was there, waiting to wriggle in and feast upon her perfect joy. Sasha must have suspected. He was paranoid anyway, abused by the blockheads, curtailed and paralyzed in his work. He had a studio on the other side of Moscow, an old garage poorly heated with a wooden stove. He would go there each day and, unable to work, would sit with gloved hands staring at his clay.
One blistering winter day (Irina only learned this later) his self-pity built up to a rage. When he could no longer stand his agony he decided to return home. It was early afternoon.
Irina and Sergei were lying naked on the couch. They didn't hear him enter, didn't turn. He took one long slow look at them, then went out to walk. He would smite them dead, then fling himself upon the frozen Moscow River from the hideous Krimsky Bridge.
Better, Irina said, if he had done so; anything would have been better than what he finally did. For as he brooded through that biting afternoon, he forged a terrible plan. At first stunned and embittered, he now saw Sergei's treason as a tool. If he employed sufficient cunning, he would be able to end Irina's affair, avenge himself, and, best of all, buy freedom in the West.
It seemed there was another old schoolmate, Anna explained, a horrid mediocre KGB official named Zabolinsky. Yes, there's always a Zabolinsky…, David thought, as Anna described how, since their school days, this man and Sokolov had been enemies. Now Sasha approached Zabolinsky, presenting him with a way to settle the ancient grudge. All he asked for in return was a pair of passports so that he and Irina could travel abroad for a year of study and 'artistic growth.'
The plan was simple. Sasha and Sergei often engaged in bitter anti-Soviet talk. Sasha would inform on Sergei, arrange for choice bits of their dangerous conversation to be overheard. Sergei would be arrested, tried, and convicted of agitation. And of course it wouldn't hurt that he happened to be a Jew.
'Irina told me all this,' Anna said, 'standing rigid at the end of my bed. The relish in her voice was positively evil. It was my last night there and she wanted me to know the truth. Sasha's plan worked. Sergei was convicted and sent to a strict regime labor camp. And then, when the visas came through, Irina, fearful and confused, agreed to take advantage and defect.
'Years later, one drunken night, after they were settled in America and Sasha had gained wealth and fame, he confessed everything, explained what he'd done and why, then wept and begged Irina's pardon on his knees.
'But she would not forgive. No matter her own infidelity, what Sasha had done could never be forgiven. Her husband, she told me again, was a common informer. Moreover, the KGB stories about him were true. 'Oh, sure, he hates them now,' she said. 'Now he can afford to call them snakes. But he's the real snake. That's what I want you to understand.'
'For a while she stood there staring down at me with this awful gloating look. 'Listen,' she said, 'I've seen the two of you fucking in the studio like a pair of randy goats. Well now, I want you to know, the circle's turned. By some miracle Sergei's finally out. This morning I told Sasha, his birthday gift. I really fixed him-he's so afraid of being exposed he'll never sculpt again.' And then she laughed.'
For a while they sat together in silence, David gently massaging the back of Anna's neck, she sobbing silently by his feet. When she spoke again she did not look at him. 'After I met Yosef and we played so well together, I knew it was time to begin my second life. And when we came here to give a concert, and I saw this city, I knew this was the place for me to live.'
She kissed his knees, then turned her face to him; he saw the tracks of tears upon her cheeks. 'Then I met you. It seemed like such a miracle-the way you looked at me, the way we fell in love. Too good almost. And all this time I've been afraid of what you'd think if you knew the terrible thing I'd done…'
David was moved: Anna's story matched Stephanie's perfectly in certain ways, but in meaning was entirely different. And he understood too how Anna saw her own small moment of weakness grossly mirrored in the Targovs' tale of treachery, deceit, and grief.
Ah, Russians…, he thought. 'Listen,' he said, 'you did nothing. Just agreed to contact this sculptor so your brother wouldn't be expelled. You think that's so terrible?'
'David…'
He took her face in his hands. 'That's nothing. Believe me. My father taught me about these things. You feel guilty because you equate your original call to Targov with his betrayal of his oldest friend. But you didn't betray him, Anna. You did just the opposite. You told them he was harmless. That's not the same. Not in any way. What you did was nothing-nothing at all.'
Later they made love, but not in the wild frisky way they often did. This time their lovemaking was gentle and solemn. Afterward he held her until she fell asleep.
In the middle of the night he sensed her restlessness. 'What's the matter?'
'It's the music,' she said. 'That sonata-no matter how hard I try I can't seem to get it right.' He heard real fear and trouble in her voice, resignation and despair. 'For years I've played it. And now, I don't know why… I just don't know, David, but now I can't.'
He turned so he could look into her eyes. 'Anna, how can this be true? You're a musician. You choose a piece, study it and master it. What's so difficult here?'
'It's not so difficult. But it resists. I wander around, get lost, and then I can't find my way out again.'
'Play it for me.'
'Now?'
'Sure.'
'The neighbors…'
'A few days ago we gave them an ambush. Now they'll have a concert.'
She got out of bed, pulled on her robe, tuned her cello, then started to play. He listened. He was no expert, but he sensed that though she started out well, and played all the right notes, the music soon lost coherence and that this was what she meant when she said she lost her way.
When she was finished she looked dismayed. 'Impossible!'
'No. But difficult. I can think of three solutions. You must choose the one that's best.'
'Tell me.'
