young man, even younger than I. We’d been together nearly a decade and that exquisite pain was still there. He stood as the train doors opened.
“Something most unusual happened this week,” he said, taking my bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “I had two unexpected visitors.”
“Who?”
Borya pointed to the path that ran along the tracks, where we’d walk if we had something important to talk about. He took my hand and helped me cross. A train passed, going in the opposite direction, and rustled the bottom of my skirt with a gust of air. I could tell from his gait, a step faster than usual, that he was both excited and anxious. “Who visited you?” I asked again.
“An Italian and a Russian,” he said, his speech matching his pace. “The Italian was young and charming. Tall with black hair, very handsome. You would’ve liked him very much, Olya. He had such a wonderful name! Sergio D’Angelo. He said it’s quite a common surname in Italy, but I’ve never heard it. Beautiful, isn’t it? D’Angelo. It means of the angel.”
“Why did they come?”
“You would’ve been delighted by him—the Italian. The other, the Russian, I don’t recall his name—he didn’t speak much.”
I took hold of his arm, forcing him to slow down and tell me what he had to say.
“We had the most wonderful conversation. I told them about my time studying in Marburg as a young man. How much I had enjoyed traveling to Florence and Venice. I explained how I’d wanted to go to Rome as well, but—”
“Why did the Italian come?”
“He wanted Doctor Zhivago.”
“What did he want with it?”
Like a confession, Borya told me the story—about D’Angelo and the Russian and a publisher by the name of Feltrinelli.
“And what did you tell him?”
We stopped speaking as a young woman hauling a rickety cart filled with petrol cans passed us, then he continued. “I told him that the novel would never be published here. That it doesn’t conform to cultural guidelines. But he pressed on, saying he thinks the book could still be published.”
“How could he think such a thing if he’s never read it?”
“That’s why I gave it to him. To read. To get an honest assessment.”
“You gave him the manuscript?”
“Yes.” Borya’s demeanor changed, and he looked his age again. He knew he’d done something that was not only irreversible, but dangerous.
“What have you done?” I tried to keep my voice down, but it came out like steam escaping a kettle. “Do you even know this person? This foreigner? Do you have any idea what they’ll do when they intercept it? Or maybe they have it already. Did you think of that? What if this D’Angelo of yours isn’t even really an Italian?”
He looked like a spanked child. “You are thinking too much of this.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It will be fine. Feltrinelli’s a Communist,” he added.
“Fine?” My eyes watered. What Borya had done was akin to treason. If the West was to publish the novel without permission from the USSR, they would come for him—for me. And a brief stay in a labor camp wouldn’t be punishment enough this time. I needed to sit, but there was nowhere to sit except in the mud. How could he be so selfish? Had he thought of me even once? I turned and began walking back.
“Stop,” Borya said, coming after me. A shade fell across his bright eyes. He knew exactly what he’d done. “I wrote the book to be read, Olga. This could be its only chance. I’m ready to accept the consequences, whatever they may be. I’m not afraid of what they might do to me.”
“But what about me? You may not care what happens to you, but what about me? I’ve gone away once…I can’t…They can’t take me again.”
“They won’t. I’ll never allow it.” He put his arms around my shoulders and I leaned against his chest. It was as if I could feel a new separation between our heartbeats. “I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“You gave them permission to publish. We both know that. And that’s if they are who they said they are. There is no good outcome. I can’t go back there,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I won’t.”
“I’d rather burn Zhivago than let that happen. I’d rather die.” His words felt like running a hand under cold water after burning it on the stove—the pain might be soothed while the water runs, but as soon as you turn