Her eyes flew over the printed lines. She couldn’t immediately grasp the sense of what she was reading, obscured as it was by convoluted official language.
Kamarovsky ended her uncertainty: “It looks as though we shall soon be holding a new volume of Viktor Ipalyevich Tsazukhin’s poetry, fresh from the press,” he said. “The committee has arrived at the view that the submitted poems are morally and politically conducive to the formation of the Soviet character and to the elevation of the citizens’ social consciousness. The committee accordingly authorizes without reservation the publication of the collection and undertakes to have the volume printed by the government press with the help of public funds.”
Anna kept her eyes fastened on the paper. It was dazzlingly clear to her that she was, once again, on the point of letting herself be bought. Her first reaction was the wish that the price would be sufficiently high. Her words of gratitude were succinct, she rose to go, and the Colonel accompanied her to the hall stand. While she slipped into her coat, she asked, “How did you get over it when your wife left you because of your work?”
“Ah, that.” He turned toward the piano and smiled. “I still had music. It unites the things we’ve been talking about today. It’s analytical in construction, yet it makes an immediate connection with our emotions.”
“Do you play often?”
“Every free minute I have.” He walked her to the door.
As A. I. Kamarovsky listened to the sound of Anna’s footsteps fading away down the stairs, he imagined what she would say if she knew that there had never been a Mrs. Kamarovsky. The Colonel was sure: The subtle affliction that would bind Anna to him from that day forward, his tragic submission to his sense of duty, and his calculated display of an almost erotic relationship with the Party would serve to motivate this particular female agent. His lie, therefore, was in a good cause. He sat at the piano and clumsily played a few bars. Neither his abilities nor his strength sufficed for more. He felt the vague presentiment returning, and this time, concentrating on music making wouldn’t help him out of the crisis. Breathing heavily, he closed the score and waited. He was waiting to see whether the atonic seizure would set in a second time and overcome him before he could do anything about it. When it failed to materialize, he dared to stand up and move toward the desk with cautious steps. As he did so, he made sure not to come too close to furniture and other objects. He opened the drawer, took out the little envelope, suppressed his horror at verifying that a single tablet was all it contained, and swallowed the tablet. In the interval before the medicine began to take effect, he sank down onto the chair and concentrated on the thing lying closest to hand, which was Anna’s report.
TEN
In the morning, mother and son snuggled behind the curtain for a long time. Petya told her about a new teacher who was in the habit of sitting on her desk; when she did so, you could see under her skirt. Anna listened to the sounds he made when he breathed, checked his eyes for redness, and asked when the last time he’d taken his temperature was. Eventually, she made breakfast. The boy liked having a holiday from school; he got dressed cheerfully and was eager to go outside.
They reached the building across from the Lenin Library right on time. The policeman on duty told Anna how to get to Doctor Shchedrin’s Institute for Histamine Determination. The receptionist there explained that the doctor was with another patient and suggested that she and Petya have a seat. With every minute that passed in the pretty waiting room, Anna’s fears grew. She let Petya play with a toy tank.
“I’m sorry, my treatment room is still occupied,” Shchedrin said by way of greeting. His white coat was buttoned up, and he’d been to the barber since their last consultation.
“Does Petya have to go to the hospital?” Anna blurted out.
“Only for the adjustment,” the doctor said, nodding. “Please follow me.”
“What adjustment?” Taking Petya’s hand, Anna went with Shchedrin into the little kitchen that adjoined the waiting room.
“As you see, we’re overbooked.” He closed the door. The windowless room gave Anna the impression that she was about to receive some news of a particularly confidential nature.
“Your son has asthma,” the doctor said. “The original cause may have been