When the door opened a young girl stood there, her hair wet and tangled, tying the cotton belt of a bath-robe. Aarons guessed that she must be in her early twenties and she was very beautiful.
“Is Mrs. Orlovsky available at the moment?”
The girl smiled. “There is no Mrs. Orlovsky.”
Aarons frowned. “Are you quite sure?”
“Maybe you want Tania Orlovsky.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Tania Orlovsky.” She smiled. “You’d better come in.”
It was a much larger apartment than he had imagined, the living room was spacious, walls and ceiling white and only minimum furniture that looked as if it was Swedish, plain wood and soft leather cushions.
“Would you like a coffee?”
“Thanks.”
She came back a few moments later with a Thermos and a tray with cups, sugar and a small jug of milk.
“Help yourself.”
“Didn’t our friend in Moscow give you a password?”
“Yes, he did. I forgot all about it.” She smiled. “But I knew straightaway who you were.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “He’d told me about you. And anyway you’ve got that typical Russian look about you.”
Despite himself Aarons smiled. “What’s a typical Russian look?”
“Tragedy and worse to come.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“Not really, Americans go for it, especially if you’re Jewish as well. Sticks out from all that American optimism. Makes you a character, to be listened to. Who wants a cheerful philosopher?”
“How long have you known our friend?”
“Ever since I was born.” She laughed as he was obviously trying to work it out. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s my grandfather.”
“I didn’t even know he was married.”
“They weren’t married. He was afraid that because he was a Jew she could be harassed by the Bolsheviks. He moved her to Vienna and then here in the States. He loved her very much and she loved him too.”
“Is she still here?”
“Kind of. She died about two years ago.” She smiled. “It always seemed strange to me that two people could love one another so deeply and have to live so far apart. But I guess that was part of the loving. Caring for the other one more than you care for yourself.”
“I’ve not heard anyone use that word Bolshevik for years. Why not Communists?”
“Oh …” she said, looking surprised “… because they are Bolsheviks—they’re not Communists and never were.” She shrugged. “It was the Bolsheviks who spoilt it all.”
“How?”
“Communism would work but nobody’s ever tried it. Like Christianity would work but nobody’s ever tried that either.”
“Are you a student?”
“No way. I’m a photographer.” She gave a deprecating shrug. “I’m quite well-known.”
“What kind of photography?”
“Portraits of important people for magazines, and street photographs for myself. One pays for the other. That’s my studio on the ground floor. I bought a long lease on the whole house a couple of years ago when leases were cheap. The rent for the second floor pays for everything.”
“How long does it take for you to be in touch with our friend?”
“If it’s very brief, and verbal—an hour. If it’s documents then two days, sometimes three.”
“And how can I contact you?”
“Here, you’ve got my telephone number. I’ll give you my studio number downstairs and my answering-service number—they’ll get in touch with me wherever I am. I’ll give you a priority word so they know it’s urgent. Any ideas for the word?”
“What about Neva—the river?”
She shook her head dismissively. “Too Russian—why make the connection? I know what we’ll use—possum—like Americans use it for lying-low—playing possum—pretending to be dead.” She laughed. “It’s rather cuddly too. A bit like you.”
Aarons stood up. “I must say thank you for your cooperation. It will help a lot. I’ll be in touch.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiled. “You sound very American.”
“I am, possum. I am American.” And she laughed at his obvious confusion.
Serov had arrived mid-morning on the Saturday and had insisted on taking Aarons out to lunch at an Italian restaurant just off Times Square. When they got to the coffees Serov said, “You seem very down, Andrei, what’s bugging you?”
Aarons half-smiled. “Bugging me? Hasn’t taken you long to talk like an American.” He sighed. “I guess I’m tired of being told that the people in Moscow are just a bunch of crooks, or worse.”
“You must be used to that. You read the newspapers, you hear the radio so you know what they’re doing. You may not like it but that’s what it is.”
“I always thought it was propaganda against the Soviets. Part of the war. Capitalism versus Communism.”
“But you’re beginning to realise that most of it’s true, yes?”
“Yes.”
“What made you see the light? What made you change your mind?”
“Let’s go and sit in the park and talk.”
Serov paid the bill and they walked down to Bryant Park. They found a bench in the sun and Serov said, “So tell me, what made you change your mind? What’s new?”
“Nothing I guess. Just that people I respect, people I trust seem to be losing the fight in the Kremlin.”
“Have you just come back from a visit?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you talk to Lensky?”
“Maybe.”
“I tell you what—if Lensky’s worried about what’s going on then there’s real trouble.”
“Tell me about Lensky.”
“I don’t know all that much. He’s a Jew. Comes from a really rich family with vast estates outside Moscow and in the Ukraine. They gave them to the workers long before the revolution in ’17. He served as an officer in the Tsar’s army but came out and became a lawyer. He was always part of the group. Lenin, Trotsky, Marx, Kerensky at one time. But he was always in the background. Never looking for power. Trying to keep the peace. And on the whole he succeeded. He didn’t gossip, was always totally discreet. He knew how to analyse problems and work out the best solution.
“When I was
