black, braided ponytail swinging back and forth in response to her shaking head.
“Is it any fun?” Sasha asked.
The child lowered her eyes, stole a glance at her mother, and said, “Sometimes, but not always.”
“I think misbehaving is the most fun,” said Sasha.
She held up the handsome matryoshka doll representing the different characters in Pushkin’s Ruslan and Liudmila . “I know them all,” she said proudly. “Mamma has read the book to me many times.” And she threw her arms around the neck of the kneeling Sasha thanking him yet again for his gift.
Galina watched, initially with a wary eye, and then with a sympathetic one. This fellow had a way with children, and such people, she felt, were endowed with a natural playfulness. She again thanked him for his generosity and asked teasingly:
“And what form does your misbehavior take?”
Sasha chose to treat her question seriously. “I hate rules.”
“Hmm. And why is that?”
He stood. “They are the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
Galina reflected for a moment. “Then you approve of Rasputin’s behavior?”
With her mother preoccupied, Alya took another chocolate, a breach of etiquette that brought a smile to Sasha’s face. “No, but I can understand it.”
“And yet you are a policeman.”
He shook his head no and looked around the modestly furnished flat. Whatever financial settlement the government had made with her, it could not have been generous, judging from her worn parlor chair and old Primus stove. “In return for the position at the school, I agreed, among other things, to call on you.”
“Am I to assume, then, that the decision to hire me was yours, and not the government’s? But until you arrived a minute ago, you had no idea whether I’d be suitable for the position. In fact, you still don’t know.”
Caught off guard, Sasha mumbled that he had read the file and found her well qualified.
“Without an interview? You don’t even know the extent of my French.”
Here was his chance to respond substantively. “I read some of your translations.”
Galina asked him to sit. “Would you like your tea with sugar?” He nodded yes. “Which of my books did you read?”
He remembered one author from the file. “Romain Rolland.” He paused hoping that Galina would take Rolland as her cue to fill the void. Luckily, she did, remarking:
“ Annette and Sylvie was the last one I translated . . . in fact, I think, rather well. You do know it?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Alya had retreated to a corner of the room to play with her new doll. Galina poured two cups of tea and opened the cupboard, removing a sugar bowl. Looking over her shoulder, she said:
“I had hoped to translate all seven volumes but only had time for the first.”
She brought the tea to the table, sat across from Sasha, and lit a cigarette, which she inhaled sensuously.
“Working for me you’ll have time to translate the other volumes.”
Thinking he had escaped the trap of book titles, he feigned reflection, which crumbled when she asked:
“Do you think The Enchanted Soul is equal to Jean-Christophe ? You do realize that he conceived the later works as companion pieces to the former?”
Fortunately, he had read Jean-Christophe and immediately began to review the argument in the novel about Brahms and Beethoven.
“Surely,” she said, “you are not a Brahmin?”
“Beethoven is the greater composer.”
She inhaled contentedly and eyed Sasha with just the slightest contempt. Her look unsettled him. Although she didn’t question his appointment to a position for which he had never apprenticed, he tried to justify it. “With all the poorly educated people being promoted to administrative positions, I think the OGPU felt that I, as a college graduate, would make a promising director, maybe even better than most.” The instant he said “college graduate,” the words sounded immature and immodest. “What I mean is,” he awkwardly
“Is it any fun?” Sasha asked.
The child lowered her eyes, stole a glance at her mother, and said, “Sometimes, but not always.”
“I think misbehaving is the most fun,” said Sasha.
She held up the handsome matryoshka doll representing the different characters in Pushkin’s Ruslan and Liudmila . “I know them all,” she said proudly. “Mamma has read the book to me many times.” And she threw her arms around the neck of the kneeling Sasha thanking him yet again for his gift.
Galina watched, initially with a wary eye, and then with a sympathetic one. This fellow had a way with children, and such people, she felt, were endowed with a natural playfulness. She again thanked him for his generosity and asked teasingly:
“And what form does your misbehavior take?”
Sasha chose to treat her question seriously. “I hate rules.”
“Hmm. And why is that?”
He stood. “They are the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
Galina reflected for a moment. “Then you approve of Rasputin’s behavior?”
With her mother preoccupied, Alya took another chocolate, a breach of etiquette that brought a smile to Sasha’s face. “No, but I can understand it.”
“And yet you are a policeman.”
He shook his head no and looked around the modestly furnished flat. Whatever financial settlement the government had made with her, it could not have been generous, judging from her worn parlor chair and old Primus stove. “In return for the position at the school, I agreed, among other things, to call on you.”
“Am I to assume, then, that the decision to hire me was yours, and not the government’s? But until you arrived a minute ago, you had no idea whether I’d be suitable for the position. In fact, you still don’t know.”
Caught off guard, Sasha mumbled that he had read the file and found her well qualified.
“Without an interview? You don’t even know the extent of my French.”
Here was his chance to respond substantively. “I read some of your translations.”
Galina asked him to sit. “Would you like your tea with sugar?” He nodded yes. “Which of my books did you read?”
He remembered one author from the file. “Romain Rolland.” He paused hoping that Galina would take Rolland as her cue to fill the void. Luckily, she did, remarking:
“ Annette and Sylvie was the last one I translated . . . in fact, I think, rather well. You do know it?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Alya had retreated to a corner of the room to play with her new doll. Galina poured two cups of tea and opened the cupboard, removing a sugar bowl. Looking over her shoulder, she said:
“I had hoped to translate all seven volumes but only had time for the first.”
She brought the tea to the table, sat across from Sasha, and lit a cigarette, which she inhaled sensuously.
“Working for me you’ll have time to translate the other volumes.”
Thinking he had escaped the trap of book titles, he feigned reflection, which crumbled when she asked:
“Do you think The Enchanted Soul is equal to Jean-Christophe ? You do realize that he conceived the later works as companion pieces to the former?”
Fortunately, he had read Jean-Christophe and immediately began to review the argument in the novel about Brahms and Beethoven.
“Surely,” she said, “you are not a Brahmin?”
“Beethoven is the greater composer.”
She inhaled contentedly and eyed Sasha with just the slightest contempt. Her look unsettled him. Although she didn’t question his appointment to a position for which he had never apprenticed, he tried to justify it. “With all the poorly educated people being promoted to administrative positions, I think the OGPU felt that I, as a college graduate, would make a promising director, maybe even better than most.” The instant he said “college graduate,” the words sounded immature and immodest. “What I mean is,” he awkwardly
Similar Books
