The Russian Affair - By Michael Wallner Page 0,109

fall. Kamarovsky hadn’t been in his daughter’s company for eight years, nor did she attach any importance to a possible future meeting. Twenty years previously, her mother had informed him by post of the child’s birth. How odd, to receive such a letter in the center of the state security apparatus. He’d offered his support, but the woman had never taken anything from him. She and, later, her daughter had been clever enough to keep themselves clear of power, knowing that it could be helpful in many instances, but that its bonds could eventually become too tight to shake off.

Now she lives with a fellow from Okhotsk, the Colonel thought glumly; he wished his daughter would get over this Greater Soviet flirtation and embark upon a relationship with someone from Russia proper. Then he smiled at his own chauvinism. It would have suited him to help her get assigned to a nice apartment. As it was, she and her friend were living with four other people in a low-rent pad in the suburbs. Kamarovsky had once driven past it. He’d wanted to arrange a little graduation party for her, but she hadn’t even answered his letter. Sometimes, unbeknownst to her, he watched her from a distance; the library where she did her cramming was only a few blocks away. She’s inherited my delicate bones, he’d say to himself, with crazy pride; she’ll never have wide hips like her mother. Occasionally he’d dare to get a little closer to her, and he’d believe he recognized a kindred expression in her eyes.

Kamarovsky’s head sank onto his chest. He jumped in fright. No, he couldn’t have a seizure now, Rosa was arriving any minute! But the sudden release of his neck muscles was a sure sign. It must be the excitement, he thought as he stood up. The reflections on his daughter, the certainty that he’d never be more than an observer of her career—that had all contributed to putting him in the kind of emotional state he hated. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay upright long enough to make it to his desk, so he dropped to his knees and began to propel himself forward, a few inches at a time. If he could concentrate on something, however glassily, he might still be able to stave off the atony. However, it was a surer thing to … He raised his hand to the top drawer, where the little envelope with the tablets was always ready. He’d recently ordered some new ones; only two hours after his call to Doctor Shchedrin, a messenger had brought him what he wanted. On his knees, leaning his head against the cool wood of the desk, Kamarovsky pressed a tablet out of its packaging. The hand that was supposed to bring the medication to his mouth refused its duty and slid onto the floor. The Colonel stared at the useless hand. How ugly it was as it lay there; he didn’t know how he could get it back. And then he let himself fall. A cheek and an ear slid across the drawer handle on their way down, and his head struck the parquet floor. Kamarovsky couldn’t tell whether his hand was still holding the tablet; half fainting, he shoved his head to what seemed like the right spot. Seen from close up, the grooves between the floorboards spread out like lines of perspective and went on into infinity. He wondered why the technique for representing spatial situations, already in place by the time of the Romans’ wall frescoes, had for centuries undergone no further development and had instead been displaced by symbolic perspective. The longer he jerked his head around, the smaller were his chances of coming upon the tablet. Then his ear felt, as though through wads of cotton, a small obstacle. Kamarovsky raised his head so far that his nose and mouth came to rest on the floor. Only with the help of his lips was he able to move forward. How heavy your skull could be when your neck muscles wouldn’t play along. Kamarovsky pushed his open mouth over the pill. His tongue protruded and dropped downward, very slowly, until it felt the rounded shape, licked it, and gently raised it toward his mouth. The Colonel tasted dust and crumbs; when he closed his lips, his teeth grated on particles. He forced himself to bite down hard and worked his jaws to produce saliva. Then he swallowed and gagged until he