asked Akhmadulina incredulously. “They rejected me even from the Cultural Committee of the Russian Republic.” With his chestnut brown hair, amber eyes, and long eyelashes, Strupatsky was an extremely handsome man. Wherever he went, he nourished the hope that Moscow writers could be not only interesting but also good-looking.
Anna greeted Vadim Kozhevnikov, whom her father had designated as a materialistic, corrupt hack ever since his war novels and spy stories had made him a ruble millionaire. “Well, well, my friend, where have you parked your new car?” Viktor Ipalyevich asked mockingly, standing at the window and pretending to search the street.
“Good evening, my dear Viktor. How lovely to see you after such a long time,” said the easygoing Kozhevnikov, ignoring his host’s jab. The two men sported the same style of beard, but Kozhevnikov was portly, and his little goatee capped a double chin.
“Have you delivered another irrelevant, blood-soaked volume to the Glavlit?” Viktor Ipalyevich asked, needling his colleague even as he embraced him.
“These days, no one but you has the nerve to propose dissident poems,” the bestselling author said, accepting a glass of Five-Star Tsazukhin. Chattering away, the two men retreated to the sleeping nook.
After eight o’clock, the apartment filled up quickly. The toothless Vagrich brought news of the person who’d been named editor in chief of Novy Mir. Amid general disappointment, the writers speculated that the new editor would toe the Party line even more assiduously than his predecessors. One of the younger authors said, “The days of Aleksandr Tvardovsky are gone forever.”
“True,” Akhmadulina agreed. “The magazine’s been worthless ever since Tvardovsky got the ax. They don’t dare attack anybody now, except the Chinese and the junta in Chile.”
While Anna was rearranging some dishes, she identified the sensation she had—she felt like a stranger—and realized that she’d felt that way whenever her father had invited his literary colleagues into the Tsazukhin home. This time, too, was like being in the midst of a race of people who communicated in their own coded language. As for her, she hardly spoke during the party, except to respond to requests for her recipes or to describe her ongoing battle against Petya’s allergies; she limited herself to providing fresh supplies of food and drink. This limitation didn’t spoil the party for her, but it helped her see even more clearly that the man with whom she lived under one roof, day in and day out, belonged to a rare species. Tonight, among people of his own kind, he blossomed.
Rosa Khleb appeared, accompanied by a couple who were both actors. Anna had conveyed her father’s invitation to Rosa halfheartedly and had secretly hoped that her friend wouldn’t have time to attend the party, but there she was. Her companions were part of the Taganka Theater Company and had starring roles in Yuri Lyubimov’s currently acclaimed production of The Tempest. Even though Viktor Ipalyevich evinced a lively interest in the arrival of these two artists, he was particularly electrified by the coming of the Khleb. “We meet again, sooner than expected!” he cried over the others’ heads, pushed his way through the crowd, and kissed Rosa’s hand. She’d chosen to wear her sailor outfit, which gave her (as many of her clothes did) the air of an adolescent angel. Anna was amazed at how young Rosa could look when she set her mind to it.
Word went round the gathering that a reporter for the Moscow Times had come to pay her respects to the poet, and soon the writers were crowding around Rosa. She’d read Strupatsky’s latest collection of short stories and asked him some critical questions. The author gave evasive answers that were supposed to be funny, but Rosa laid him low with a few sentences: “Your ambivalent attitude toward the present is reflected in your book, Comrade. When I read it, I wasn’t completely sure, because you’re such a skilled craftsman. Unfortunately, meeting you in person has confirmed the impression of emptiness I got from your texts.”
Anna admired Rosa for giving Strupatsky her frank opinion and inwardly agreed with her. In the course of the evening, Anna had heard nothing but self-adulation and general wound licking from her father’s colleagues. They complained about the oppressive censorship, which made it impossible for them to write “the Truth.” The experimental philosopher Vagrich even let himself go so far as to say that his work should be judged not by what it contained but by what it did not contain.
Returning from a brief stint in