“We can protect Alexey Maximovich only when we know his fears, only when we know where he expects danger to come from. It’s the same in a doctor’s office,” Kamarovsky added. “If the physician knows where the trouble is located, the cure is easier.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Inform us.” For the first time, he’d included Rosa in his meaning. “Tell us about your meetings with him.”
“He doesn’t tell me any secrets!” Anna cried, deeply agitated.
“Oh, you can’t know that.” He put the glasses back on. “A remark, perhaps, a swipe at his colleagues, a political observation—all of that can be helpful in keeping trouble away from Alexey Maximovich.”
Anna had said nothing—because she understood. Because fear of the unseen overcame her. She’d stepped into the trap that made an undisturbed life impossible. She’d caught the attention of those whose interest one must never under any circumstances arouse. “I don’t think I can be of any use to you,” she’d said. How weak her attempt to resist had sounded.
“You underestimate yourself,” Kamarovsky had replied. “And you haven’t yet recognized the advantages that such cooperation will bring you.”
“Advantages?”
“Your father’s poems are being examined by the Glavlit. If you were to help us, I feel certain that the examination could be expedited. Viktor Ipalyevich would have really deserved no less, and it’s time for a new volume of his work to appear.” Kamarovsky leaned forward. “Naturally, your husband’s ignorance of your relationship will continue to be tolerated.”
Anna’s eyes had shifted from the table in the park to the water, where the woman, still sitting in the boat, was conversing with a younger man on the bank. She handed him the manuscript, and what she said about it seemed to please him.
Pensively, Anna stepped into the building on the quay. The elevator wasn’t working; she took the climb to the eighth floor as an opportunity to warm up. At the top, she paused to let her breathing slow down. There was no nameplate to reveal who or what might be behind that door. She rang—one quick, sharp note—and Kamarovsky used the control in the living room to buzz her in. Anna hung up her coat and hat, cast a glance at the mirror, and walked to the end of the hall. The raffia lamp over the piano was hanging too low, and Anna ducked as she entered the room. Instead of lounging on the carpet-covered sofa as usual, Kamarovsky was standing at the window. The television set was on—pictures, but no sound.
“How are things in Perovo?” A. I. Kamarovsky asked without turning around.
“The combine is currently working in Karacharovo,” Anna said, correcting him even though she knew he knew exactly where her worksite was located. “Interior finishing work in complex two hundred and fifteen.”
“And how far along is complex two-one-five?”
“We’re ahead of schedule.”
“New living space for eight thousand comrades.” He made a sign, and Anna stepped closer. “Until the triumph of socialism, our architecture was either backward or derivative.” The warm air from the radiator next to Kamarovsky stirred the curtains. Anna loved this view. The apartment building stood at the foot of the Kalininsky Bridge; she could see the frozen river and behind it the Comecon building and the Hotel Ukraina, mysteriously grandiose in the winter fog. Anna could smell the moth powder on Kamarovsky’s suit. He must have been outside; now the snow on his shoulders was melting and causing the musty odor. Had he been watching her while she sat under the statue?
“These days, our master builders no longer imitate the architecture of the West. Moscow has become an international city with its own unique character.” He still hadn’t looked at her. “Comrade Stalin had the court chapel in the Kremlin demolished. Do you know why?”
“Because it was a building associated with the clergy …”
“No.” Kamarovsky gripped the side arm of his glasses. “Because it was ugly. It looked like a bunker gone wrong. By the time it was completed, the English had already built Westminster Abbey, and the influence of the Renaissance was spreading across Europe. Only in Moscow were the princes still putting up wooden buildings.” Without having altered the position of his eyeglasses, he lowered his hand to the seam of his trousers. “Stalin just wanted to get rid of the ghastly thing.”
As though signaling that the architecture lecture was now over, Kamarovsky closed the door to the balcony and walked past Anna as though she weren’t in the room. He gestured to the visitors’