phonograph rose and moved to the right, clicked off as the turntable stopped. And all was silence.
“He’s louder than the American.” Elena tried moving to the table to prepare him a thick slice of bread and a piece of cheese.
“The American is English,” Yuri explained, moving to the table and accepting the bread and cheese. “He used to be a Beatle.”
Elena worked at the Moyantka Carpet Store on the Arbat. She worked in the factory room and hardly ever saw customers, which suited her just fine. Elena and Vladimir Tsorkin cut remnants, trimmed rugs, kept the records, and supervised the cleaning and maintenance crews. Tsorkin was getting old and smelled musty like the old specials, the Oriental rugs in the locked room, but Elena liked him and looked forward to getting to work.
“I’ve got to leave, Yuri,” she said. “I’ll clean up when I come home. I’ll get something special for dinner.”
“I won’t be home for dinner,” he said between bites.
“Well, I would like to make you something special,” she said, moving to the rack in the corner, where she retrieved her coat. “It’s supposed to be cold and wet tonight. You could use the rest. You haven’t …”
He looked up at her, pausing in midbite of a piece of cheese.
“What are you so nervous about?” he asked.
“Me? I’m not nervous. I just don’t want you getting into … I don’t know,” she said.
Yuri shook his head, put down his bread, and moved to his mother at the door. He was about five inches taller than his mother and looked down at her.
“I worry about you, Yuri,” she said. “You’ve been … thinking.”
He smiled, put his arms around her, and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his head above her so she couldn’t see his face. “I’ve had a great deal to think about.”
“Don’t do anything silly, Yuri,” she said, pushing away from him and looking up into his face.
He grinned, the same grin he had grinned since he was a baby.
“I never do silly things, Mother,” he said.
“I mean … the girl,” Elena said. “You’re going to see her tonight. That’s why you won’t be home.”
Yuri didn’t answer. He continued to smile down at her like a parent at an ignorant but much-loved child.
“Bring her here,” Elena insisted.
Yuri shook his head no.
“Are you ashamed of me?”
Yuri shook his head no.
“She’s not trying to get you to … do bad things, is she?”
“No,” he said with a false laugh. “Where did you get such a crazy idea?”
“I’m late,” she said, pulling her coat around her, checking her pocketbook, counting her change, fidgeting, unwilling to go through the door and leave him.
“I’ll clean up and go to work,
Elena smiled at him, a most unconvincing smile, and went out the door.
Yuri did as he said he would do. He put the bread, cheese, and tea away and cleaned the table with a damp rag. Then he washed his face, brushed his teeth with the last of the Czech tooth powder his mother had purchased almost a year ago, and combed his hair. He had much to do. He would go down to the phone in the People’s Room of the housing complex and call Comrade Sukov-Helmst at the Telegraph Building. He would cough, speak hoarsely, say that he was going to the clinic with a terrible chill and temperature. Comrade Sukov-Helmst would be very understanding. Yuri Vostoyavek was not only a good worker who never missed a day, he was also Comrade Sukov-Helmst’s favorite nephew.
Yuri moved to the phonograph, turned the screws holding it with his thumbnail, lifted the top of the turntable, and reached down to remove the small pistol wedged among the wires.
Lydia Tkach, much to her son’s surprise, had not taken badly the news of her forthcoming expulsion from the household. At first, this had filled Sasha with relief. After she had changed the baby, Maya had left the apartment claiming that she had promised to visit Olga Stashak on the floor below.
Sasha had calmly, insistently told his mother of the decision, explained the difficulty of the situation, alluded to Maya’s discomfort while insisting that the decision, the painful decision, was his. He had painted it as brightly as it could be painted, telling her that they would be nearby, that Lydia would be with someone her own age and with her own interests. Sasha had talked, waiting, expecting to be interrupted, but Lydia had said nothing. He was afraid he was speaking too softly, that with her poor hearing she had absorbed none of it, but when he paused to ask her if she understood, she nodded. And he had gone on, talking subsidies, visits, relatives, love, understanding, the cultural revolution, the history of Russia, the history of their family as far back as his memory would allow him to recall. Sasha, sure he had begun to sweat, had refrained from reaching up to push the hair from in front of his eyes.
And still Lydia had said nothing.
“What do you think?” he had concluded.
His mother had smiled knowingly, as if she had just received confirmation of some irony she had long suspected, but she said nothing, got up, took her teacup, and moved into her room.
For five minutes after she left the room, Sasha Tkach, who in the course of his career had shot a young man and several times almost been killed himself, who had confronted rapists, murderers, drug users, and religious and political fanatics, sat trembling.
The explosion from Lydia would come later. That was it. Lydia needed time to plan, to construct a response, a scenario. She would spring it on him late at night, the next morning, sometime when he didn’t expect it. He would have to be prepared. But still he was grateful she had said nothing.
That was last night. Now it was morning, and the three of them sat at the table in silence, drinking tea, watching Pulcharia eat small pieces of boiled kasha with her fingers. Cups clinked, the baby babbled. Under the table, Maya touched Sasha’s hand reassuringly.
Minutes earlier Sasha had received a call from Petrovka, a call he should be thinking about but could not.
Lydia finished her tea, rose from the table, pulled her black dress down to remove the wrinkles, and looked at her son.
“I have three words to say,” Lydia said.
Pulcharia, startled, looked up at her grandmother and gurgled.
“Ingratitude,” Lydia said. “Irresponsibility. Disrespect.”
With that she strode across the room, grabbing her coat as she moved, and went through the door.
With the slam of the door, Pulcharia began to cry and Sasha Tkach realized that he had to rouse himself and go out in search of a missing bus and driver.
“I’m sorry,” Maya said.
“I’ve got to go,” Sasha answered, getting up.
“You did what had to be done,” Maya said, taking the crying baby from her wooden high chair and kissing her cheek.
“She was right,” Sasha said, moving to get his jacket from the closet. “I owe her a great deal.”
“We all owe our parents a great deal,” Maya said gently. “But we cannot spend our entire lives paying the debt. Parents should understand that. My parents understand that.”
“You are missing the point,” Sasha said with mounting irritation.
“And that is?” asked Maya, offering Pulcharia a bottle that the baby grabbed greedily.
“My mother should have time. She has no friends. She’s alone. Damn. There’s a stain on my jacket.”
“Take it off,” said Maya. “I’ll clean it.”
“No time,” he snapped. “I’m late.”
“I’m sorry you’re so upset, Sashaska,” Maya said.
Tkach hurried across the room and gave his wife and baby identical kisses on the cheek.
“You are blaming me, Sasha,” Maya said as he opened the front door.
“I am not blaming you, Maya,” he said with a sigh.
