around with no evidence to support them,’ said Valeria. She brought her hand up to her face and divided it horizontally at eye level, then plucked at the air with her fingers until her hand moved towards the sky, as though giving a sign that her words had evaporated. Sasha was charmed by the perfection of this gesture every time her mother made it. The guests, still traumatised by the very mention of Bliumkin’s name, did not take in the way she softened her reprimand. ‘You’re still young, and you don’t know that this isn’t our way of behaving.’
Sasha watched: her father now picked up on the caressing tone. He glanced at his wife in surprise. She was looking straight ahead. Her body relaxed, and her chin sank.
Sasha turned away, finding it hard to breathe. It was unbearable to watch this miserable woman not daring to defend her dignity. All of her friends knew about her husband’s infidelity. Now she could see the whole evening from her mother’s point of view. Valeria had been enlisted in the effort to help her husband’s lover, and the sight was so saddening that Sasha knew she had to kill her compassion dead, so it could never emerge again, making her incapable of venting her anger against her father.
‘Of course. I hope the whole thing is a misunderstanding,’ Levayev sputtered. Valeria poured him a healthy shot of vodka, and he sipped it with a faint gurgle of pleasure. ‘But it’s impossible to set things right if we don’t know the source of the inaccuracy.’
‘What a loss the death of Kirov is,’ Konstantin Varlamov lamented. ‘He had a rare talent for stating things accurately.’
‘Perhaps Comrade Varlamov could list his friends for us and ask our advice…’ Brodsky chuckled, gaily surveying the shock he caused to everyone who could hardly believe he was crazy enough to invite another litany of names.
‘It’s really not necessary!’ Osip Borisovich blurted.
‘No need at all,’ Emma Feodorovna groaned, glancing in despair at Varlamov, who looked like a statue come to life. ‘A dreadful idea.’
‘It’s actually very necessary,’ Brodsky declared.
‘It would be too much, and besides, we’ve talked enough about sad things,’ Valeria called out. ‘Emma Feodorovna, how is your new collection of poems coming along?’
‘Please let the esteemed poet Varlamov address his friends to help Nadya,’ Brodsky repeated like a stubborn child.
A chill ran down Sasha’s back. She thought she understood why he was so amused: Brodsky could think in abstractions and he respected power; he always looked for the principles guiding events, and this was because it was mostly impossible to find out who was responsiblefor a certain act or from what building an order had been issued. He was often tormented by the question of who had empowered something to happen, determined its effects and restricted its outcomes; he was always disturbed when lawless voids opened up in his world, the chaos of visible but faceless power. He had dedicated years to deciphering the logic of arrests and betrayals, and had concluded that they had no chance of being saved. Nadya would name names, and they would all be arrested. All he could do now was deride his unhappy friends, who still clung to the hope that it was possible to escape their fate. Sasha no longer dared to look at his pale face, on which an amused grimace was fixed, as if he had no more strength, and had only one last expression left. She shrank back and sat, panting, on her bed.
‘They didn’t answer my last letter,’ Varlamov said. ‘They’re preoccupied by important matters.’
‘Preoccupied! And how could they not be?’ Emma interrupted. ‘These days everyone is busy.’
‘They arrested Radek and Pyatakov, Rykov and Yezhov,’ Varlamov whispered. For a moment there was only the tortured breathing of the defeated people in the room. ‘And Tukhachevsky and Yakir, and that fellow Petrovsky, plus Bukharin and Zinoviev, and also the
Sasha watched: her father now picked up on the caressing tone. He glanced at his wife in surprise. She was looking straight ahead. Her body relaxed, and her chin sank.
Sasha turned away, finding it hard to breathe. It was unbearable to watch this miserable woman not daring to defend her dignity. All of her friends knew about her husband’s infidelity. Now she could see the whole evening from her mother’s point of view. Valeria had been enlisted in the effort to help her husband’s lover, and the sight was so saddening that Sasha knew she had to kill her compassion dead, so it could never emerge again, making her incapable of venting her anger against her father.
‘Of course. I hope the whole thing is a misunderstanding,’ Levayev sputtered. Valeria poured him a healthy shot of vodka, and he sipped it with a faint gurgle of pleasure. ‘But it’s impossible to set things right if we don’t know the source of the inaccuracy.’
‘What a loss the death of Kirov is,’ Konstantin Varlamov lamented. ‘He had a rare talent for stating things accurately.’
‘Perhaps Comrade Varlamov could list his friends for us and ask our advice…’ Brodsky chuckled, gaily surveying the shock he caused to everyone who could hardly believe he was crazy enough to invite another litany of names.
‘It’s really not necessary!’ Osip Borisovich blurted.
‘No need at all,’ Emma Feodorovna groaned, glancing in despair at Varlamov, who looked like a statue come to life. ‘A dreadful idea.’
‘It’s actually very necessary,’ Brodsky declared.
‘It would be too much, and besides, we’ve talked enough about sad things,’ Valeria called out. ‘Emma Feodorovna, how is your new collection of poems coming along?’
‘Please let the esteemed poet Varlamov address his friends to help Nadya,’ Brodsky repeated like a stubborn child.
A chill ran down Sasha’s back. She thought she understood why he was so amused: Brodsky could think in abstractions and he respected power; he always looked for the principles guiding events, and this was because it was mostly impossible to find out who was responsiblefor a certain act or from what building an order had been issued. He was often tormented by the question of who had empowered something to happen, determined its effects and restricted its outcomes; he was always disturbed when lawless voids opened up in his world, the chaos of visible but faceless power. He had dedicated years to deciphering the logic of arrests and betrayals, and had concluded that they had no chance of being saved. Nadya would name names, and they would all be arrested. All he could do now was deride his unhappy friends, who still clung to the hope that it was possible to escape their fate. Sasha no longer dared to look at his pale face, on which an amused grimace was fixed, as if he had no more strength, and had only one last expression left. She shrank back and sat, panting, on her bed.
‘They didn’t answer my last letter,’ Varlamov said. ‘They’re preoccupied by important matters.’
‘Preoccupied! And how could they not be?’ Emma interrupted. ‘These days everyone is busy.’
‘They arrested Radek and Pyatakov, Rykov and Yezhov,’ Varlamov whispered. For a moment there was only the tortured breathing of the defeated people in the room. ‘And Tukhachevsky and Yakir, and that fellow Petrovsky, plus Bukharin and Zinoviev, and also the
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