“I’d like Petya to go to the Polytechnic. He’s got a talent for logic—he’s already beaten Viktor Ipalyevich twice at chess. But they take only so many students.”
“How about you, Anna? What would you wish for yourself?”
“I’d like to see Stockholm.”
His face took on a look of affectionate surprise. “Why Sweden?”
“Viktor Ipalyevich has a book at home, a thick volume with pictures. Stockholm’s a city on the sea, and it doesn’t get hot in summer.” She smiled. “I don’t like hot weather.” Her host refilled their glasses. “When are you going to try to kiss me, Comrade?” Anna asked. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the intimate setting, but in any case, Anna thought the question was justified.
“Does that mean you want me to?”
“You’re doing everything possible to soften me up.” She pointed at the remains of the exquisite snack.
“Do you suppose that I’m trying to seduce you with chicken ragout and white wine?”
“Aren’t you? What do you want from me, Alexey?”
He turned serious. “I watched you that day we first met. You were standing on the ladder, and I was under you. It’s something I’ll never forget.”
She moved away. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t think it’s a pleasure to look at you?”
“But we can’t just … sit here and eat, and I tell you about Leonid, and you talk about Medea …” Anna forcefully laid her hand on his. “And then I go back home?”
“There are things I can imagine doing with you.” He stroked her thumb.
She raised his hand and pressed it against the base of her throat, expecting his fingers to set out on their own.
“I’d like to see you naked,” he said. “We could keep sitting here and talking—I won’t touch you.”
“No,” she said curtly.
He drew back his hand. “I understand.”
“Not because I’m too modest,” she went on more softly. “Not because of that.”
“But because … ?”
“I can’t undress in front of you.”
“A scar? Perhaps a third nipple?”
“I can’t let you see my underwear.”
He leaned back, smiling. “You think I can’t imagine what kind of underclothing a female house painter from combine four-one-six wears?”
“With these things on, doing a ‘striptease’ in front of you is out of the question.” She pronounced the unusual word slowly.
“You could go to the bathroom and fold your clothes in a nice neat pile. I’ll wait here.”
“Will you get undressed, too?” Anna could feel sweat forming on her upper lip.
“Good gracious, no.” Bulyagkov folded his arms as though trying to cover himself.
He pressed her with neither gestures nor looks. Anna cast her eyes around the apartment, taking in the chandelier, the pattern of the wallpaper, the brass curtain rods. From outside came the light of an interminable dusk.
“Please close the curtains.”
As if they were at the beginning of an experiment, Bulyagkov got to his feet and they moved past each other without exchanging a glance, Anna heading for the bathroom and her host for the window. Anna walked down the hall, turned into the bedroom, and stopped in surprise: The bed wasn’t made. She gazed at the blue-and-white-striped mattress with the folded duvet on top of it. Whatever the Deputy Minister had in mind for her, it wasn’t the obvious thing. When she entered the bathroom, the turquoise-colored tiles gave her the feeling of stepping into a dream. She ran her fingers over them. Where could you get such beautiful materials? The pale gray grout between the tiles wasn’t the crumbly stuff Anna had to work with on the job. She continued to discover further details as she undressed. Since Anna and her family had moved in with her father, casual living had come to an end. Viktor Ipalyevich, who had sung of many a body in his poetry, detested displays of real nakedness and wouldn’t allow Petya to sit at the table without a shirt, not even on hot summer days. Anna took off her shoes, her blouse, and her skirt; a glance in the mirror confirmed her belief that her gray brassiere was not made for a stranger’s eyes. She removed it, quickly slid her panties down to the floor, and beheld the naked house painter. Her bosom was glistening with perspiration, and her muscular arms bore witness to the countless buckets of paint she’d hauled up and down scaffolding. Anna pinned her hair back and washed herself, but she still didn’t like what she saw in the mirror. She put one foot forward, raised her chest, threw her head back; then, at last, she opened the