“You wait here. I’ll get the money, and we’ll go look at California.”
“Be careful, Grigoriy,” she whispered, then kissed him ardently.
He hurried away, wondering where they would be a year from now. From half a block away he could see that every light in his house blazed. People milled about, laughing and drinking.
He crept close enough to see Kazina radiant on the arm of Kommander Fedorov. She wore a dress new to him, and the kommander stood resplendent in full dress uniform. They made a handsome couple.
Surprisingly, the teeth didn’t bite at him. He tensed in the old way, but they were gone.
The sense of freedom left him giddy. He hurried around the house to his well-built shop. Quietly he slipped in through the door and stopped, pulse drumming in his head.
He wasn’t alone. Barely discernible noises exuded from the dark, sawdust-scented space. He peered at the workbench but could see nothing in the dim light other than a few tools out of place.
Three large electric saws dominated the center of the room. Sorted wood filled racks against the back wall, and his drafting table and books loomed on the left. The only thing against the right wall was his cot—
“Oh, Georg! Oh, my god!” exclaimed a young, feminine voice from the cot. Grisha grinned despite himself and moved quietly off to the left.
He had hidden the money in his file cabinet. Just a few more steps.
His foot hit a can of nails and knocked it over like a thunderclap in a hospital ward.
The woman gasped, and a male voice boomed out, “Who’s there? Identify yourself. I’m armed!”
“Sorry, friend,” Grisha said in a normal tone of voice. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here until after I had shut the door. Then I just tried to get my property without bothering you.”
“I didn’t hear anyone come in!” the man said.
The woman giggled. “I wonder why!”
Now Grisha could smell sex overlaying the sawdust. He thought of Valari and felt urgency.
“Well, just stay there, and I’ll be out of your life in a moment.”
“Wait,” the man said. “Who are you? Our hostess said this was her husband’s shop.”
“I’m the husband,” he said.
“But then you have just returned from New Archangel, yes?”
“Yes,” Grisha echoed, surprised that Kazina had even remembered his destination, and more surprised she told anyone else. “Why do you ask?”
“What is the celebration like over there?”
“Celebration? What celebration?”
“Haven’t you heard, man? The New Openness Treaty!”
“New what?”
“Openness!” the man and woman said together.
Finally his eyes adjusted, and he could see them in the dim light. They obviously believed themselves cloaked by darkness, as they made no effort to cover themselves.
“I don’t understand.”
“New France, California, British Canada, and the First People’s Nation have signed a treaty with us that drops political barriers and most trade and travel restrictions. The Cold War is over! We have true peace on this continent for the first time in over two hundred years.”
Grisha felt numb.
“Who cares? All are impossibly far away and none could conquer the rest of North America by themselves, or even in tandem. Peace! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes. Yes it is.” He had the money bag in his hand, he edged toward the door. New Spain lay two thousand kilometers to the south. “I must have been in transit when this happened.”
“Ah, your wife, sir,” the woman said, “she and the kommander…”
“Never mind. I know. It’s nice to see you two beginning a relationship that might go somewhere.”
“Oh, we know where we will be going,” the man said, laughing.
“Yes,” the woman said with a giggle, “right back to our spouses!”
Grisha suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.
He slipped out the door and into the dark night, jogging the four blocks to the boat harbor before slowing. The harbor lay quiet and dark.
He stopped, weighing possible actions. There might not be political asylum anymore.
But Valari was right; they had disposed of the body. Honest citizens wouldn’t do that. How would they explain that away? Tell them he fell over the side?
Valari would know, she understood the international political world. She owed him.
Grisha hurried down the dark dock to his boat. No sound or movement broke the stillness around
“Valari, are you here?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her voice sounded flat, official, disinterested.
Bright light stabbed out of the night and blinded him. Strong, rough hands seized his arms; he sensed many people around him.
“Are you Grigoriy Grigorievich?” an authoritative voice boomed.
“Yes, why?” He tried squinting to see past the glare.
“Is this the man, Lieutenant Kominskiya?”
“Yes,” Valari said with a quaver in her voice. “He’s the murderer.”
The fist materialized out of the darkness and smashed into the side of his head. Dimly he felt them drag him off the boat. The smell of salt and tar flooded his nose.
“Time to hang a fuckin’
Fireworks exploded in the air over Russian Amerika.
4
Consciousness brought pain on a level new to him. A small voice in the back of his mind noted that he must still be alive unless everything the priests taught him was a lie. He wondered if they were going to kill him.
Opening his eyes brought fresh anguish and it took three attempts before he could focus his squint at the gray expanse above him. Rock, or concrete, he decided. Slowly he turned his aching head and saw a wall of bars. So it hadn’t been a nightmare, it was real.
Grisha felt so bereft and unanchored that he knew he had to be hollow. There was no more of himself to spend. His father, the Russian Army, his wife, his lover… all had used what they wanted and then discarded him.
The pain of the bruises, cuts, and scrapes covering his body abruptly lessened and he didn’t need to wonder why. Could this profound detachment he felt actually be death? It didn’t matter, he didn’t care.
“Ah, our guest is back from the land of Winken and Nod!” an ear splittingly loud voice bellowed. “We must take him to breakfast.”
Large, rough hands grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up onto his feet. If they hadn’t continued to hold him, Grisha would have fallen on his face. Strength had fled his body and it took all his will to lift his head.
