But on this Friday morning, with one normal day shift to go before his weekend off, Lazlo was not concerned with Chkalov’s relationship with the KGB. What occupied Lazlo’s thoughts this Friday was the plan for Tamara Petrov to spend the weekend at his apartment. This morning, before going on duty, he had cleaned the apartment, a procedure consisting of cramming the accumulation of clutter either into the garbage or into the closet. His bed linen and an assortment of soiled towels and clothing were in the back seat of the Zhiguli to be dropped off at the laundry. The inside of the Zhiguli smelled ripe as he drove along in the morning sun.
Lazlo stopped for breakfast at a pastry vendor on Khreshchatik Boulevard. The last time he’d been there the tea had been weak, so he ordered coffee. He sat on a bench in the plaza near the stairway to the metro. While he ate pastry and sipped the strong coffee from a paper cup, morning commuters disappeared into a metro stairwell like ants heading into a wine cellar. The main post office across the street reminded him of the last letter from his brother. Mihaly said Nina knew about the “other woman,” and he and Nina had rec-onciled. Mihaly would stop seeing the woman and work hard to salvage his marriage.
As he sat in the sun enjoying the warm southerly breeze, Lazlo wondered what this “other woman” of Mihaly’s was like. Perhaps Juli was a Gypsy, at least in appearance, like Tamara. If so, if he were in his brother’s position, could he be tempted away from Nina and the girls? Of course he could. Being in a profession of trying to make things right did not mean he was better than anyone else.
Perfection was for others, perhaps those without ties who could cross the frontier and live in so-called freedom.
A young woman walked past, the breeze making her cotton dress cling to her hips. Like Nina, thought Lazlo, Nina on last summer’s holiday. So young and beautiful, but not for him. Tamara was no less beautiful. Not young, his age, but still beautiful.
At the metro stairwell, a young man emerged carrying a guitar case. The man, most likely a student, was perhaps nineteen.
His hair was dark. The young man glanced at Lazlo. Dark eyes.
Gypsy eyes. The young man striking in his resemblance to the one he had killed. “Boys killing boys,” an officer at camp had said. “The strings of his violin silenced in youth,” said another. A quarter century had passed, yet he could not get the boy out of his mind. He had killed a maker of music. All those songs left unplayed. All the joy of his music unfulfilled. All because of Lazlo, the Gypsy. Tamara was the only person he’d told of the incident. Soon he would tell Mihaly. Perhaps having two people in his life know about the Gypsy would help.
After the young man carrying the guitar case was gone, Lazlo did his best to return to the present. Horns sounded, and a loud motor scooter roared past. Tonight, after a relatively peaceful day of asking questions around the metro, filling out reports at headquarters, and doing his laundry, he would be with Tamara. Tamara, who often said his constant brooding and moroseness were unhealthy, even for the Gypsy. He disposed of his garbage, went to the Zhiguli, and drove across town to a wine shop that sold a fine Hungarian vintage.
As Juli stood at the bus stop in front of the low-level laboratory building, she felt as if those waiting behind were trying to detect signs of pregnancy. Though her supervisor had promised confidentiality, Juli assumed the entire laboratory knew. She wished she could leave immediately to be with her Aunt Magda near Kiev. The bus wheezed to a stop, giving off a loud groan. Insane. Even the machines of the world seemed to know.
Mihaly sat at the back in his usual seat. Juli could see he looked worried and wondered if he already knew about the baby. But Mihaly was not looking at her. Instead he stared out the window and did not turn to her until she sat down.
“Friday at last,” she said.
“But tonight I must return to the station,” said Mihaly. “I’ll only have time to eat and take a short nap.” He looked at his watch. “I’m due back at midnight. Sorry, Juli, if my mind is elsewhere. They’ve already begun reducing power on unit four. Everyone knows she’s unstable at low power, yet they invite visitors from other ministries.
The elite in Moscow will have their experiment completed for May Day. Idiots.”
Juli thought for a moment, and said, “If something goes wrong, isn’t it simply a matter of reinserting control rods?”
“Not necessarily,” said Mihaly. “The RBMK, she’s got tentacles like an octopus. She can go into power surges. We went to the chief engineer last Wednesday, but he still insists on the shutdown. We’re doing a goddamned experiment dreamed up in Moscow. Experiment without analysis-it’s how we do things at Chernobyl.”
Power, machines, industry. What did her unborn baby mean to them?
“What kind of experiment, Mihaly?” When she spoke, her voice sounded foreign, overly calm, like a mother speaking to a ranting child.
“They want to see how long the turbines can generate emergency power after a shutdown,” said Mihaly. “They’ve picked us to be the guinea pig for the entire system. Moscow engineers wouldn’t want to lose any sleep when we can do their experiment. As if we haven’t got enough problems.”
“What problems?” Again her voice sounded distant.
“There’s been a mysterious warning light.”
Juli imagined they were discussing how she could have gotten pregnant instead of discussing the reactor. “Mysterious?”
Mihaly turned with a serious look, a technician anxious to solve technical problems. “It’s happened twice in the last week. Two separate operators catching a glimpse of a panel light in their peripheral vision. But they were on the other side of the room, and the light was momentary. Today we took turns watching the board constantly because emergency backups were off so they could be worked on. Tomorrow morning, after we shut down, electricians will install lock-on circuits, so once a light comes on, it won’t go off until we shut it off. The lock-ons should have been installed in the first place, but parts weren’t available when construction was finishing up.”
“Awards handed out for completing projects on time.” Juli felt as though she had no control over what she said, speaking as if she were one of the machines.
Mihaly went on. “There are things we can fix only when the unit is shut down. Like clogged pipes. And listen to this one. A few weeks ago, an idiot driving a front loader ran into one of the towers carrying power lines into the control building. Luckily he only buckled one of the legs. If he had knocked the tower down and we lost power, we would’ve been in real trouble. This morning we caught the same driver taking a shortcut through the yard outside the control room. After we shut down, they’ll fix the tower, and we’ve convinced the chief engineer to fence in the area. Mistakes are piling up, and we’ve got to fix them before they lead to something else.”
The guard on the bus interrupted to check their passes. The sign for Pripyat went by on the right, and Juli knew they would be at her stop soon. If only she could see Mihaly on the weekend, tell him then about the baby. In the past, she could have suggested a rendezvous. Mihaly would have met her, because in the past, the meeting would have had another purpose. It was over. The last time they had been together was weeks ago, before she found out she was pregnant.
Mihaly was looking out the window again. The bus passed a field of wildflowers blooming gold and yellow. Juli decided not to tell Mihaly about the baby tonight. Monday would be soon enough.
Monday, her supervisor would confirm her medical leave, and then she would tell Mihaly about the baby.
“Will you work all weekend, Mihaly?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll still be on the early bus Monday?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because,” said Juli, “I have to arrive early on Monday, too. I’ll see you on the early bus. We have to talk…”
Mihaly turned to her, gripped her hand. “I don’t like being torn apart by my love for you and my obligation to my family. Why can’t we simply keep our secret?”
“Big secret,” said Juli. “You tell your militiaman brother, and he tells your wife!”
“Laz didn’t tell Nina.”
“And you believe him?”
Mihaly stared straight ahead, sat silent as if he were a man of great patience waiting for the vixen’s tirade to subside. Finally he spoke quietly, calmly.
“The night I returned home from your apartment, I should have guessed Nina knew.” He continued staring straight ahead.
“But sometimes, even when we know something, we pretend not to know. We should have both known it
