The Russian Affair - By Michael Wallner Page 0,116

harmonize with the times …

“When will the fellow finally learn how to construct sentences that make sense?” Viktor Ipalyevich flipped past the foreword, came to the first poem, read it in silence, and in the end held the book out at arm’s length away from him. He said, “I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it must be worth something.”

“Of course it is! My compliments.” Anna removed the packing paper and as she did so discovered a second copy of her father’s poetry volume. “Papa …,” she said, taking up this second volume. “You could do me a great favor.”

Viktor Ipalyevich gladly accepted the idea of giving his poems to the physician who’d cured Petya. “I’ll write a dedication, of course. I’ll think it over tonight and inscribe the book tomorrow.”

Satisfied with the happy solution to her gift problem, Anna departed for the afternoon shift. Interior work on the building in Karacharovo should have been completed long since, but nondelivery of materials had caused delays, and now there was an additional impediment: the impending ceremony to inaugurate the building. Since the date of the opening festivities couldn’t be postponed, it was decreed that the workers would concentrate all their efforts on finishing the section of the building that bore the official memorial plaque, which was to be unveiled by the Party secretary for Moscow. In order to avoid detracting from the visual effect of this ceremonial act, all scaffolding had to be dismantled, removed, and then, immediately after the event, put up again—a piece of stupidity that was the subject of lively discussion on the workers’ bus.

“Couldn’t we just hang white tarps over the scaffolding?” a worker cried.

Another comrade answered her: “Where are we going to get white tarps from?”

“And would someone please tell me where we’re supposed to hide the scaffolding so the Secretary won’t trip over it?” said a third. Several of the women laughed.

The bus turned into the briskly moving traffic of the Garden Ring near Taganskaya Square, the city gradually sank behind them, and the suburbs came into view. Anna was sitting next to a male colleague, a friend of hers, reading over his shoulder as he perused his copy of Izvestia. When he came to the foreign affairs section, her interest was sparked, and she sat up straight. She’d spotted a picture of the Minister for Research Planning, surrounded by a group of smiling male and female comrades; Alexey was not among them. LEADERS OF SOVIET SCIENCE TRAVELING TO STOCKHOLM, the headline read. When Anna’s friend started to turn the page, she asked him to let her finish the article. It declared that the Swedish Academy of Sciences was most eager to learn about the recent successes of its Soviet colleagues. Scientists from the fields of chemistry, medicine, and mathematics would form the main contingent, the article stated; the group of researchers would be completed by leading physicists from the atomic cities of Dubna and Novosibirsk. Anna tried a second time to find Alexey’s face among all the strange heads. Hadn’t he hinted at his travel destination? “A city where it’s never hot, not even in summer.” Wasn’t that an allusion to Stockholm? Maybe, she told herself, the original plan had been that Bulyagkov would make the trip to Sweden as the leader of the scientific delegation, and then that plan had been changed. She read the next article, which described the icebreaker Kalinin as she sailed out on her maiden voyage. Anna imagined the ship on its long journey east and thought of Leonid, who was serving in the Siberian wasteland. After her friend turned the page, Anna raised her eyes and looked out at the impressive series of residential developments that had been produced in recent years, living space for some fifteen thousand comrades.

The bus’s hydraulic doors opened with a hiss, discharging Anna and the others, who went to complex number 215 and took up their work. Why would Alexey announce that he was traveling to Stockholm and then not do it? During the past minutes, the question had kept itself hidden, but now it surfaced again and filled Anna with an uneasiness that wouldn’t go away, not even when she bent over the bucket and stirred the thickened paint.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Anna handed her gift to Doctor Shchedrin in person and was disappointed by his reaction. Such a man, she’d assumed, would be able to appreciate contemporary poetry. However, Shchedrin held the book awkwardly in his hands and said he didn’t have much time