other. “Please,” I said, “I need to speak to my family.”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He smiled and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “I am your humble interrogator. Can I offer you some tea?”
“Yes.”
He made no move to fetch me tea. “My name is Anatoli Sergeyevich Semionov.”
“Anatoli Sergeyevich—”
“You may address me as Anatoli. We’ll be getting to know each other quite well, Olga.”
“You may address me as Olga Vsevolodovna.”
“That is fine.”
“And I’d like you to be direct with me, Anatoli Sergeyevich.”
“And I’d like you to be honest with me, Olga Vsevolodovna.” He pulled out a stained handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Tell me about this novel he’s been writing. I’ve heard things.”
“Such as?”
“Tell me,” he said. “What is this Doctor Zhivago about?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“He’s still writing it.”
“Suppose I left you here alone for a while, with a little piece of paper and a pen—maybe you could think about what you do or don’t know about the book and write it all down. Is that a good plan?”
I didn’t respond.
He stood and handed me a stack of blank paper. He pulled a gold-plated pen from his pocket. “Here, use my pen.”
He left me with his pen and his paper and his three guards.
Dear Anatoli Sergeyevich Semionov,
Do I even address this as a letter? How does one properly address a confession?
I do have something to confess, but it is not what you want to hear. And with such a confession, where does one even begin? Perhaps at the beginning?
I put the pen down.
The first time I saw Boris, he was at a reading. He stood behind a simple wooden lectern, a spotlight glinting off his silver hair, a shine on his high forehead. As he read his poetry, his eyes were wide, his expressions big and childlike, radiating out across the audience like waves, even up to my seat in the balcony. His hands had moved rapidly, as if directing an orchestra. And in a way, he had been. Sometimes the audience couldn’t hold back and yelled out his lines before he could finish. Once, Boris had paused and looked up into the lights, and I swore he could see me watching from the balcony—that my gaze cut through the white lights to meet his. When he finished, I stood—my hands clasped together, forgetting to clap. I watched as people rushed the stage and engulfed him, and I remained standing as my row, then the balcony, then the entire auditorium emptied.
I picked up the pen.
Or should I begin with how it began?
Less than a week after that poetry reading, Boris stood on the thick red carpet in Novy Mir’s lobby, chatting with the literary magazine’s new editor, Konstantin Mikhailovich Simonov, a man with a closet full of prewar suits and two ruby signet rings that clinked against each other when he smoked his pipe. It was not uncommon for writers to visit the office. In fact, I was often charged with giving the tour, offering them tea, taking them to lunch—the normal courtesies. But Boris Leonidovich Pasternak was Russia’s most famous living poet, so Konstantin had played the host, walking him down the long row of desks, introducing him to the copywriters, designers, translators, and other important staff. Close up, Boris was even more attractive than he had been on stage. He was fifty-six but could’ve passed for forty. His eyes darted between people as he exchanged pleasantries, his high cheekbones exaggerated by his broad smile.
As they neared my desk, I grabbed the translation I’d been working on and began marking up the poetry manuscript at random. Under my desk, I wiggled my stockinged feet into my heels.
“I’d like to introduce you to one of your most ardent admirers,” Konstantin said to Boris. “Olga Vsevolodovna Ivinskaya.”
I extended my hand.
Boris turned my wrist over to kiss the back of my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ve loved your poems since I was a girl,” I’d said, stupidly, as he pulled away.
He smiled, exposing the gap between his teeth. “I’m actually working on a novel now.”
“What is it about?” I asked, cursing myself for asking a writer to explain his project before he was finished.
“It’s about the old Moscow. One you’re much too young to remember.”
“How very exciting,” Konstantin said. “Speaking of which, we should chat in my office.”
“I’ll hope to see you again then, Olga Vsevolodovna,” Boris said. “How nice I still have admirers.”