“Philosophy and psychology,” he said with a sigh. Then he stepped back from her. “I think I am going to sneeze.”
And, indeed, he did sneeze, a serious, moist, loud sneeze that brought his mother running into the room, Ilya in her arms clinging to her neck.
“Sasha, you are ill,” she announced in the loud monotone that confirmed her growing deafness.
“I sneezed one time,” he said, holding up a finger for her to see. “One time. One sneeze. One-”
And he sneezed again.
Triumph and disapproval clouded Lydia Tkach’s face as she looked at her naked daughter-in-law.
“Here, take,” Lydia said, handing the baby to Maya.
Pulcharia came padding barefoot into the bedroom. She wore a small T-shirt that advertised a French movie called
Lydia was scurrying toward the dresser in the corner.
“Your father is sick,” bellowed Lydia. “Sick like you. Probably gave it to you.”
Sasha looked at Maya, who stroked the confused baby and shrugged helplessly at her husband. Pulcharia began to cry.
“Found it, here,” said Lydia, stepping back from the open drawer and holding up the milky bottle. For all Sasha knew, the marble-sized gray-white pellets that rattled around in it contained powdered excrement of eel.
“I am not ill,” Sasha insisted as his mother advanced on him, opening the bottle and paying no attention to his protest.
Considering the fact that he would spend all of the next day and who knew how many days beyond wandering through crowded, drafty Metro stations in the hope of attracting a serial murderer, Sasha looked at his wife and baby and then at the face of his red-nosed daughter and had the sudden urge to laugh. It made no sense. Only moments before he had been filled with anger and self-pity, but now it all seemed so absurd.
“Here,” Lydia said. In her outstretched palm rested two round pellets.
Sasha took them and winked at Pulcharia. The little girl appeared amazed at the size of the objects in her father’s hand and at the fact that he was putting them in his mouth.
“Water,” Lydia said. “Wait.”
She ran toward the outer room as Pulcharia ran after her.
“Why am I going to laugh?” he asked Maya.
“Because you are a Russian,” she said.
“And why am I taking these things?” he said.
“Because you love your mother, who drives you mad,” she said, rocking the baby on her shoulder.
Lydia returned holding up the half-full glass of water. He put the pills in his mouth, washed them down without gagging, grimaced at the strange bitter aftertaste, and handed his mother the empty glass. Maya laughed and Lydia looked at her.
“What is she laughing about?” asked Lydia. “And why doesn’t she have any clothes on?”
“She’s a Ukrainian,” said Sasha. “They laugh about things that are the pain of others and they have strange and ancient urges to run naked in the woods.”
“I hope my grandchildren do not inherit this,” Lydia said, turning her back and walking toward the door.
Sasha shook his head and looked at Maya.
“I hope they do,” he said quietly.
Then he sneezed again.
The woman on the low stage was very fat and very black. She wore a dress the color of
The woman threw her head back and sang in this huge room filled with the smoke of cigars and the sweat of many bodies pressed around too few tables. She sang loud and deep with a trill in her voice of
There were several hundred people in the room, most of them Cubans who joined the wailing black woman in choruses and sometimes for an entire song. The men smoked, looked sad, smiled knowingly, and sang with emotion, their arms thrown around each other as they grew more drunk from the bottles of rum, wine, and vodka that were brought to the tables by sweating, mirthless waiters with rolled-up sleeves.
“What do you think, Porfiry Petrovich?” asked Major Fernando Sanchez, who was dressed for the evening in a pale green button-down shirt with an open collar. Since Rostnikov was seated across from Sanchez, the major had to raise his voice.
“She sounds Russian,” said Rostnikov.
Sanchez grinned, puffed on his cigar, and looked at Elena Timofeyeva, who sat to his right. She had attempted to sit next to Rostnikov but Sanchez had insisted that she would have a far better view of the singer from his side of the table. With a nod to the dour blond man at the door Sanchez had managed to get a table very close to the low stage.
Elena wore her flower-print dress, a green background with small red-and-orange multipetaled flowers. She also wore the imitation pearls she had tucked into the bottom of her travel case. The decision to put them on had taken her five trips to the mirror and moments of near agony. When it had been time to join Rostnikov in the lobby, she walked to the door of her room, hesitated, removed the pearls, placed them on a chair, and left the room. When she got to the elevator, she changed her mind again and went back for the pearls. A young couple, probably Canadians, had held the elevator for her.
Now she sat next to Sanchez, who looked at her approvingly, evidently pleased that they were color- coordinated. On Sanchez’s left was Antonio Rodriguez, the little journalist with the thick glasses. Rodriguez seemed to be deeply moved by the music and, from time to time, he redirected Rostnikov’s attention from the stage to a new singer or group of singers waiting to come on.
It was awkward for Rostnikov to face the performers since his back was to the stage. The chairs and tables were packed so tightly together that he could turn his chair only about one quarter of the way to glimpse the stage over his shoulder.
Povlevich, the thin KGB man with spaniel eyes, sat between Rodriguez and Rostnikov. Povlevich’s eyes seldom left the black singer as he drank steadily and deeply. Though he was attentive, his face betrayed no emotion.
A tap of wood against metal and the pointing of Rodriguez turned Rostnikov awkwardly once again to the stage, where a drummer, a guitar player, and the fat black woman prepared to sing again. The drummer and guitar player were dressed in identical white shirts and pants stained with perspiration even before they began. Both men, who looked like brothers, were dark and narrow of face and body.
The low level of chatter in the room stopped almost completely and the drum began a slow beat picked up by a languid tune on the guitar. Most of the patrons already knew the song and sighed in anticipation. Then the woman began to sing
“That’s American,” Povlevich said softly under the music. “I heard the Beatles sing it.”
“The Beatles aren’t American,” said Rodriguez. “And what does it matter? American, Brazilian, Chinese.”
Povlevich shook his head and drank. Though he was turned partly toward the stage, Rostnikov was aware of Major Sanchez’s arm as it moved to the back of Elena Timofeyeva’s chair. She shifted uncomfortably as the audience joined in the chorus of the song and brought it through to an emotional conclusion.
The applause was wild, sincere. The trio onstage bowed and wiped their brows. Rostnikov turned, caught Elena’s eye, and then began to get up.
“What?” asked Major Sanchez, his arm coming down from Elena Timofeyeva’s chair.
“The rest room,” said Rostnikov.
“You just went to the rest room,” said Rodriguez.
“Perhaps an hour ago,” said Rostnikov, plotting a path through the chairs and tables. “I can only apologize for my inherited insufficiently small bladder.”
