lived a comfortable life free from material cares. He smoked cigars that couldn’t be found in any ordinary Moscow shop, and he wore arch supports in his shoes; under normal circumstances, he would have had to wait until his splayfeet became chronic before his application for such a luxury as shoe lifts would have been approved. The box of pills that Anna had obtained from Shchedrin’s private dispensary was not a mere convenience, it was a distinction; such a gift couldn’t be dismissed as a bribe, like real coffee or cotton towels. Her little boy’s life was about to undergo a vast improvement.
Now Viktor Ipalyevich started trying to figure things out: It was an ordinary weekday, and in a few hours, his daughter’s afternoon shift would begin. There had been nothing in the mail that could explain Anna’s words. What reason was there to celebrate? He went through the family birthdays; none of them fell in March. “So what’s the occasion?” he asked, as mildly as possible.
“Be patient!” Anna called out, relieved to find that he was playing along without resistance, but still searching her imagination for a way to avoid bruising his class warrior’s pride. She boned the meat, tied it around a bundle of herbs and vegetables, seasoned it, browned it with garlic and onions, and put it all in the oven. After scrubbing the onion smell off her hands, she took the bottle of Soviet Champagne out of her shopping bag and gathered up two large glasses and a shot glass for Petya.
“That’s all for today,” she said by way of inviting her father to remove his writing materials from the table, which she then began to set.
“Smells great,” Viktor Ipalyevich declared. He went to the sofa, sat down, and paged through his notes, all without looking at her. After she returned to the kitchen, he followed her movements through the open door. She added tomato puree and caraway seeds to the roasting meat, cuddled with Petya, who had come running into the kitchen, sat him on the work surface, and let him watch as she cut up the pork. After arranging it on the porcelain dish with the violet pattern, she called to her father to open the Champagne. Viktor Ipalyevich popped the cork. The wine spilled over the rim of Petya’s little glass, and the boy contorted himself to lick it.
“To the health of a distinguished poet—my father.”
“I’m not going to respond to you until you explain the reason for this mysterious announcement.”
She served father, son, and herself some meat, put the rest on the stove to keep warm, and came back into the room with one hand behind her back.
“You’ve got mail, Papa.” She laid the Glavlit decision on the table next to his plate.
For a moment, he considered challenging her lie—he knew their mailbox had been empty—but his curiosity was too great, and it was followed by disbelieving amazement. With his fork in one raised hand and the document in the other, the poet read the news of his pardon.
“This is almost three weeks old,” he said, pointing to the issuance date and trying to cover up his emotion by being gruff.
Anna, too, had noticed that Kamarovsky had apparently held on to this reward for her work until he thought the proper time had come to reveal it. “You know how bureaucrats are,” she said.
“Good God,” her father murmured. He pressed his lips together, but his agitation, hot and irrepressible, overcame him. He stood up, laid the document on the middle of the table, and took off his cap. Gray, frizzy hairs stuck up in all directions, and his white pate contrasted with the brown skin of his forehead. Shaken, his shoulders slumping, the poet stood over the table, supporting himself on its top and muttering while a thread of saliva dripped from his mouth. His grandson gave Anna a perplexed look as his own small lips began to tremble. Happy though she was, Anna wouldn’t give in to sentimentality; instead she cried, “But that doesn’t mean the food should get cold!”
Viktor Ipalyevich sank down onto his chair as though a hand had been laid on his shoulder. He cut himself a bit of pork and took a bite. Tears ran down his cheeks. After a while, he spoke. “I must … before anything else, I have to …” he said. “The proper sequence!” He raised his head. “The proper sequence is very important. Will you help me, Petya?”
“With what, Dyedushka?”
“We have to