pouring himself some wine. “Nobody gets upset about a little sideswipe.” His light eyes measured her. “But what Viktor Tsazukhin did was deliberate provocation. And so now he has to take a couple of raps on the knuckles.” He took a sip and held the glass high. “I should have opened the bottle earlier. And you, Anna, how are you?” He gestured, offering her a corner seat on the sofa.
“Why does that interest you?”
“I like your dress. Did you make it yourself?”
“I can’t sew.”
Bulyagkov skirted the coffee table, sat on the sofa, and leaned back. “This light makes your hair look red.”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her as she slipped into her seat. He placed a full glass in front of her and, without waiting for her to pick it up, clinked it with his own. “Tell me about yourself.”
“You know most of what there is to tell.”
“Far from it. For example, I wonder why your father didn’t see to it that you received some other kind of education.”
“I’m satisfied.”
“That’s not an answer.”
After a pause, she said, “Viktor Ipalyevich is a poet.”
“A man of intellect,” said the Deputy Minister, nodding in agreement. “So why would his daughter become a house painter?”
“He’s a poet—and nothing else.” Anna gripped the stem of her wineglass with two fingers. “Until my mother got sick, she worked for us all. Then she died. Man cannot live on poetry alone.”
He looked toward the window. “It’s hard when you can’t do what you have the talent to do.”
“I’m not talented,” she replied, “and I like my work. It’s well paid.” She drank, tasting the heavy wine all the way down. “Why not tell me about yourself, Comrade?”
“Oh, how boring,” he sighed. “I’m originally Ukrainian. I came to Moscow when I was fifteen, and I’ve gotten about as far as a non-Russian can.”
“Your Ministry is responsible for research planning. That can’t be boring.”
He shook his head and said, “Administrative work. Our office makes money available. In the laboratories, in the big science cities—that’s where the meaningful work takes place. We’re just puffed-up bureaucrats.” He looked at her. “What about your husband? What’s he doing this evening?”
“He’s taking care of Petya.” She straightened her upper body. “No, I’m wrong. He has to go on maneuvers.”
“Does he like his unit?” Bulyagkov drained his glass.
“He’s stationed in Moscow, and that counts for a lot.”
“It’s hard to obtain a right of abode for Moscow.”
Throughout the following hours, Anna found the Deputy Minister attentive and calm, and possessed of a charm the likes of which she’d never known. Usually, when men became confiding, they made jokes and accompanied a bit of flattery with some harmless touching. Anna had never before encountered such seriousness in a man, an almost intimidating interest that seemed to require her to show her best side. It was an effort for her to be this interesting Anna, the exertion weakened her, and she was afraid that she didn’t deserve such an elevated level of attention. She would have liked their get-together to be more relaxed, but at the same time, Bulyagkov’s steady pressure made the encounter unique. She envied his travels—not only did he know Kiev, Vladivostok, and Prague, but he’d also seen Havana and Helsinki; he liked reminiscing, and he answered her questions at length. During the conversation, he went into the kitchen and returned with an already-prepared platter—little liver pâté sandwiches, bread, and ham. Between them, they emptied the bottle of wine. Only once, in the midst of an animated description, did he lay his hand on hers; otherwise, he didn’t make the slightest attempt to touch her.
Physically, he wasn’t Anna’s type; the men she found attractive were wiry, with long limbs and thick hair. The Deputy Minister was a brawny man with a pronounced paunch; his face might have been angular once, but now it looked puffy. She liked his eyes, which had something of the Arctic wolf about them. Was it shyness that prevented her from asking him what he expected from her? As for Bulyagkov, he acted as though he thought it a natural thing for a high state official and a house painter to spend an evening together. They conversed some more, followed the zakuski with a few glasses of vodka, and darkness fell, which at that time of year meant that the midnight hour was approaching. Without explanation, Bulyagkov stood up and disappeared into an adjoining room, which Anna presumed was the bedroom. She figured that the next