pozhaluista. Ya Stiva."
The old babushka's squinting eyes seemed to recognize him, but she indicated no familiarity. Instead, she closed the door and disappeared into the recesses of the apartment.
A minute later, the door opened again, and this time it was Lana. Her eyes flashed with some combination of anger and fear and something softer tenderness? "Get in, get in!" she whispered.
As soon as she had closed the door behind him, she said, "Why, Stiva? Why are you here? You promised me "
"I've been shot," he said quietly. Her eyes widened in shock, but he continued in a calm tone, "It's a minor wound, but it needs to be treated. It's already infected, and it's just going to get worse."
In truth, the throbbing in the wound had grown worse, limiting his mobility somewhat. Seeking professional medical help was not only out of the question; it was probably unnecessary. Lana had a first-aid kit, she said; she would take care of him herself. "Shot! Stiva, how?"
"I'll explain. It's nothing to worry about."
She shook her head in disbelief. "Shot!" she repeated. "Well, my darling, we will have to work fast. Father is usually home from work forty-five minutes from now." She told her housekeeper to take the rest of the day off. Then Lana led him through a comfortably furnished room lined with books, a remarkable eighteenth-century Turkmenistan flat-weave on the floor: one of the family's few remaining heirlooms, she explained.
"Come, into the kitchen, and I'll take care of your wound." The kitchen was small and smelled of kerosene. She put a kettle of water on the stove, and while she waited for it to boil, she stripped off his filthy telogreika, then gingerly peeled away his shirt, which adhered to the dried blood. He winced as she pulled at the cloth. Lana made a clucking sound. "It does not look good," she said. She made some strong black tea, which she served in glasses; to sweeten it she offered a plate of gummy chunks of sugary candles to stir in instead of sugar. "Here, you drink this while I gather my surgical instruments. Are you hungry, my darling?"
"Famished."
"I have some piroshki with meat filling, some cabbage soup, a little salt fish. This is all right?"
"It sounds perfect."
While she bustled around, ladling cabbage soup from a pot on the stove, taking food from string bags that hung from the outside of a window that gave onto an air shaft, he watched her. This was another side to Lana he hadn't seen before, a domestic,
nurturing aspect that was so different from the fiery diva, the beautiful dancer-artist. It seemed peculiar, yet wonderful, that all these aspects could coexist in one person.
"This must seem a terribly small apartment to you," she said.
"Not at all. It's beautiful."
"You've told me about how you were brought up. The wealth, the many houses, the servants. This must be a sad little place to you."
"It's warm and comfortable."
"We are very lucky to have our own apartment, you know. There are just the two of us, my father and I. The city authorities could put us into one of those foul communal apartments. We were afraid that would happen after Mother died. But because of his military record because Father is a hero they grant us this privilege. We have a gas stove and a gas water heater in the bathroom we don't have to go to the public baths like most of my friends."
"He's a Hero of the Soviet Union, isn't he?"
"Twice. He also received the Order of Victory."
"He was one of the great generals." He took a spoonful of the soup, which was hot and delicious.
"Yes. Not the most famous, not like Marshal Zhukov or his old friend Tukhachevsky. But he served under Tukhachevsky, he helped capture Siberia from Kolchak. He helped defeat General Denikin in the Crimea in 1920."
Metcalfe studied a photograph of Lana's father, and he found himself speaking. "You know, I have friends in Moscow old friends, highly placed in various ministries, people who tell me things. And I'm told that the NKVD keeps what they call a kniga smerty a book of death. A sort of list of persons scheduled to be executed "
"And my father is on it," she interrupted.
"Lana, I didn't know whether to tell you, how to tell you."
"And you think I don't know this?" Her eyes flashed with anger. "You think I don't expect it that he doesn't expect it? All of the men of his rank, all of the generals,