guy from Kiev, what’s his name?’
A few years ago Sasha had sat with her father in the garden of Varlamov’s house. ‘I’m asleep now,’ the old poet said, ‘and all the things I once believed in are sleeping with me. Poetry and beautiful ideas. Everything I was is asleep now, and if nothing unexpected happens I will sleep until my last day. Maybe death will wake me up.’
…
A body touched her body. Hot air blew on her chest. Something pointed—in the first flash of waking she imagined an arrow, but then realised it was a nose—poked at her neck. Hair tickled her cheek. Her eyes opened to cobwebbed walls, a blue wooden table and a small chair draped with her crumpled clothes. Through the window she saw blacksky, swirls of clouds nibbling at the moon. Sasha moved away from the body that clung to her. ‘Kolya,’ she whispered and pinched his face. ‘You’re nearly fifteen. You know you mustn’t sleep here.’
Nikolai woke up at once. He leaned his head on his arm and focused on her. Sometimes it seemed to her that even when he was deeply asleep he was always on the verge of waking up.
‘I can’t sleep in the same room with Vlada,’ he whined. ‘He goes on all the time about how they’re going to arrest Dad because he’s screwing poets who are spies, and Mum too, because she’s married to someone who’s screwing spying poets, and you as well because you want to be a poet-spy.’
Sasha sat up and kicked Kolya in the ribs. He yelped with pleasure. The alarm clock went off under the pillow. She rolled over and silenced it.
‘Zaichik, where are you off to in the middle of the night?’ Nikolai sat up.
‘I told you not to call me that,’ Sasha chided him. She stood up, and shivered in the cold air.
‘So how come Mum’s allowed?’
She didn’t answer. She put on a white dress, pulled on thick socks and tied a scarf around her head. She wouldn’t take off the scarf in his presence, she swore. No living soul should see her hair when it was so messy.
Nikolai curled up on the bed again. ‘You know that Vlada is smarter than we are, right?’ His voice came through the blankets. ‘If you come back here, I’ll tell you things that you don’t know. He listened to the whole meeting, and said that Mum was a lot less stupid than Dad and the others, but it won’t help. We’re all going to pay.’
‘Shut up. They’ll hear you.’
From far away came the soft hum of a vehicle. How harmless it sounded, like a fly. Soon it would grow stronger and recall the first rumbles of thunder. There was no one in the city who didn’t recognise the sound of these cars—the black crows were crossing the city at night.
In her parents’ room the bed creaked. An urgent whisper from her father; her mother was consoling him: ‘Andreyusha, it will be all right.’ The scuffle of bare feet, another creak, and he was in his wife’s arms. A low gasp. ‘Run to Varlamov in the morning. They won’t arrest him. Don’t say a word to Brodsky or Levayev.’
Her parents probably thought that they were paying the price for the meeting already, that the informer had wasted no time and now the black crow was coming. Sasha took a deep breath to drive away the spasm of forbidden pleasure that made her body shudder. Maybe now, at last, the great physicist Andrei Pavlovich Weissberg would be overwhelmed by the pure dread of his judgment day. He would no longer be able to cheapen himself with excuses. Maybe now he would repent.
The rumble seemed to be moving away now, delivering its grim news to other streets. Silence descended on the house again, except for the symphony of breathing—her father and mother, the twins Kolya and Vlada, who wasn’t asleep in any case. Tyres screeched at the end of the street, the paralysing shriek that announced the black crow’s destination. There was more frightened muttering in her parents’ room. She thought she heard her father give out a little whimper.
Sasha looked in the mirror. How
A few years ago Sasha had sat with her father in the garden of Varlamov’s house. ‘I’m asleep now,’ the old poet said, ‘and all the things I once believed in are sleeping with me. Poetry and beautiful ideas. Everything I was is asleep now, and if nothing unexpected happens I will sleep until my last day. Maybe death will wake me up.’
…
A body touched her body. Hot air blew on her chest. Something pointed—in the first flash of waking she imagined an arrow, but then realised it was a nose—poked at her neck. Hair tickled her cheek. Her eyes opened to cobwebbed walls, a blue wooden table and a small chair draped with her crumpled clothes. Through the window she saw blacksky, swirls of clouds nibbling at the moon. Sasha moved away from the body that clung to her. ‘Kolya,’ she whispered and pinched his face. ‘You’re nearly fifteen. You know you mustn’t sleep here.’
Nikolai woke up at once. He leaned his head on his arm and focused on her. Sometimes it seemed to her that even when he was deeply asleep he was always on the verge of waking up.
‘I can’t sleep in the same room with Vlada,’ he whined. ‘He goes on all the time about how they’re going to arrest Dad because he’s screwing poets who are spies, and Mum too, because she’s married to someone who’s screwing spying poets, and you as well because you want to be a poet-spy.’
Sasha sat up and kicked Kolya in the ribs. He yelped with pleasure. The alarm clock went off under the pillow. She rolled over and silenced it.
‘Zaichik, where are you off to in the middle of the night?’ Nikolai sat up.
‘I told you not to call me that,’ Sasha chided him. She stood up, and shivered in the cold air.
‘So how come Mum’s allowed?’
She didn’t answer. She put on a white dress, pulled on thick socks and tied a scarf around her head. She wouldn’t take off the scarf in his presence, she swore. No living soul should see her hair when it was so messy.
Nikolai curled up on the bed again. ‘You know that Vlada is smarter than we are, right?’ His voice came through the blankets. ‘If you come back here, I’ll tell you things that you don’t know. He listened to the whole meeting, and said that Mum was a lot less stupid than Dad and the others, but it won’t help. We’re all going to pay.’
‘Shut up. They’ll hear you.’
From far away came the soft hum of a vehicle. How harmless it sounded, like a fly. Soon it would grow stronger and recall the first rumbles of thunder. There was no one in the city who didn’t recognise the sound of these cars—the black crows were crossing the city at night.
In her parents’ room the bed creaked. An urgent whisper from her father; her mother was consoling him: ‘Andreyusha, it will be all right.’ The scuffle of bare feet, another creak, and he was in his wife’s arms. A low gasp. ‘Run to Varlamov in the morning. They won’t arrest him. Don’t say a word to Brodsky or Levayev.’
Her parents probably thought that they were paying the price for the meeting already, that the informer had wasted no time and now the black crow was coming. Sasha took a deep breath to drive away the spasm of forbidden pleasure that made her body shudder. Maybe now, at last, the great physicist Andrei Pavlovich Weissberg would be overwhelmed by the pure dread of his judgment day. He would no longer be able to cheapen himself with excuses. Maybe now he would repent.
The rumble seemed to be moving away now, delivering its grim news to other streets. Silence descended on the house again, except for the symphony of breathing—her father and mother, the twins Kolya and Vlada, who wasn’t asleep in any case. Tyres screeched at the end of the street, the paralysing shriek that announced the black crow’s destination. There was more frightened muttering in her parents’ room. She thought she heard her father give out a little whimper.
Sasha looked in the mirror. How
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