hallway and called the militia to deal with the madman. In the meantime, Arkady sat and held her hand as if they were going someplace together.
Tatiana reminded him of Irina. They were both fearless and idealistic. And, Arkady conceded, they were both dead.
• • •
The phone jarred him. It was Maxim Dal, the poet.
“Do you call everyone in the middle of the night?” Arkady asked.
“Only night people. I rarely make a mistake. The pallor, silence, malnutrition-you have all the signs. Do you have a microwave?”
“Of course.”
“I will bet you fifty-fifty that there is some forgotten food in that microwave.”
Arkady opened the microwave. Inside was a shriveled enchilada. “What do you want?”
“Do you remember our conversation about Tatiana’s notebook?”
“You were up for some sort of American prize for lifetime achievement?”
“For being alive, yes. Do you remember that I asked you about Tatiana’s notebook and whether I’m mentioned in it?”
“What does it matter? You told me you had a short-lived romantic liaison with her twenty years ago.”
“That’s the problem. Once upon a time I was a professor and Tatiana was a young student. American universities do not approve of such liaisons. They’re Puritans. If there’s a hint of scandal my prize becomes a spitball.”
“Haven’t you had enough honors in your career?”
“I’ve had a dry spell. Fuck the honor. The difference is fifty thousand dollars as a visiting poet in America or a beggar’s bowl in Kaliningrad. Have you ever been in Kaliningrad?”
“No.”
“There’s no security anymore. It’s not like the old days when a member of the Writers’ Union could compose an ode to rutabagas and be paid. It’s not like Moscow either. It’s a separate world. Really, if you ever go there, you have to let me take you around.”
Arkady yawned. His eyes felt as though they were sinking into his head. “I don’t think so. How would they even hear about the notebook?”
“Other poets. I’m not the only candidate.”
“I didn’t know that poetry was such a cutthroat occupation. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There’s only a few pages and I didn’t see your name.”
“Do you have the notebook?”
“Yes, under lock and key.”
“Have you read it?”
“No one has. No one can. Relax. Good night.”
• • •
Arkady was about to go to bed when Victor called to apologize for some of his earlier comments.
“You’re entitled to an opinion. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Wait, I was out of line. It’s the focus on Kaliningrad. Remember, I was stationed there when I was in the navy. It was a top-secret piss hole. You couldn’t even find it on the map.”
“Thanks.” Arkady took it as a vote of confidence.
“One other thing I forgot to mention. I saw Zhenya on your street today. Did you talk to him?”
“No. Where was he?”
“Outside the building.”
“Did he see you?”
“I think so, because he ducked out of sight like a squirrel.”
“Typical.”
“I just thought I’d let you know.”
Arkady was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had the sensation of being wrapped in a spiderweb, but comfortably. Snug. Tucked in. Then plunging into a black depth, a cold wind on his face. Still, no complaints. If this was sleep, so be it. Above, a fading dot of light. Below, an invisible city.
The city spread and turned to liquid. Arkady made a splash and became a torpedo speeding toward the outline of a ship. It was odd that Tatiana had fixed on a submarine accident that occurred twelve years before.
Zhenya.
Arkady’s eyes were wide open. He swung out of bed and went to his office, turning on lights along the way. The desk was mahogany with brass hardware, and on the right bottom drawer, there was a false front and a dial safe that only he knew the combination to. Nevertheless, he held his breath while he tried the handle and found it closed and locked.
Perhaps Zhenya had simply been in the neighborhood or happened to come by while Arkady was out. There were any number of explanations. Arkady didn’t believe any of them.
As he turned the dial, he could feel the tumblers fall: two turns to the right, two left, one right. With a soft pop the door eased open.
His gun, a presentation Makarov, lay on the bottom of the safe, but the notebook was gone. In its place was the form for parental permission for early enlistment in the army waiting to be signed.
13
Zhenya lived out of train station lockers and hustled chess. Not tedious four-hour games with locked antlers but Blitz: forty moves in five minutes. He took $50 from a ship’s cook waiting for the train to Archangel and as much from an oilman headed to the rigs of Samarkand. Zhenya’s fingers moved pizzicato, plucking pieces off the board. Boarding in ten minutes? Zhenya could fit in two games, maybe three.
His favorite site was a small park called Patriarch’s Ponds, in a neighborhood of embassies, town houses and sidewalk cafés. He sat on a bench and set out his chessboard and pieces as if musing over a difficult position. Sooner or later, someone would stop to give him advice.
In the meantime, he enjoyed the pond’s collection of swans and ducks-mallard, goldeneye, teal-dressed in iridescent feathers. He knew the names of all the waterfowl and the trees. When a boy skipped bottle caps at the swans and was led away by the ear, Zhenya heartily approved. A breeze drove cottonwood fluff to a corner of the pond. The papery seeds of elms were slow enough to catch.
The architecture school of the university was close by, and students on a midday break congregated around benches. Although they were only two years older than Zhenya, they were infinitely more sophisticated. All the students, male and female, held open bottles of beer, casually posing like models in a glossy magazine. Their jeans were torn at the knee as a fashion statement. His jeans were simply worn through. It wasn’t as if they snubbed him. They didn’t see him at all. And what kind of conversation would they have if they did notice him? Snorkeling off the coast of Mexico? Skiing in France? There were half a dozen girls in the group, including a redhead with milk-white skin who was so beautiful that all Zhenya could do was stare. She whispered behind her hand and Zhenya watched the whisper travel through the group.
“Excuse me.”
“What?” Zhenya was startled when a boy spoke to him. He was the largest in the group and wore a Stanford sweatshirt.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, but aren’t you the Chess Creep?”
“I’m what?”
Other conversations died down.
“We’ve seen you at different train stations hustling games. You’re doing the same thing here. What’s the deal?”
Zhenya felt like an insect under a microscope.
