she loved seeing her body in the darkness that emphasised her tall silhouette, and sharpened the line of her hips even more. She had always envied her mother’s hips and been angry that she hadn’t inherited them.
‘The children must stay in their rooms.’ Fear scored her father’s voice. Sasha smoothed the wrinkles on her dress and leaned towards the mirror to apply lipstick.
In the apartments around them, people were waking in horror, hovering between consciousness and sleep, not yet recognising that the life they had known was ended. Instead they rushed about chaotically in the mazes of their memory: the people they had last met, had they said anything to them, expressed criticism? Had they objected strenuously enough to the criticism of others? In their consciousness the portraits of enemies and friends flickered, and the piercing fear arose:the men in the black cars know.
People would swear that, when the knock on the door came, they would jump out the window. But the most they did was jump out of bed, get dressed, follow them down the stairs, get into the black crow and submit to their doom. That was all they were good at, all those miserable people—Sasha pursed her lips, brought her face close to the mirror again and used a handkerchief to wipe away some excess lipstick—awaiting their fate.
‘Bunny rabbit, where are you actually going?’ Kolya asked again.
‘I told you it’s none of your business, right?’ she whispered angrily. ‘The moment I leave, you go back to your room. Mum doesn’t like you sleeping here.’ She didn’t allow him to stay in her room in her absence, because he poked around in her old poetry notebooks and wrote comments that he thought were funny.
In the street a freezing wind lashed her, scratching her face like a vine. Strange how in this city a person was exposed to the whipping of several winds at the same time, as if the wind were a multiple thing made up of gusts that struck at you from every direction. The trees swayed wildly. The top of the tree next to their building was thrust against the wall. Even in her childhood she had imagined that the seeds of adversity were planted in that tree, latent malice that would burst out one day, so she was careful to give it a wide berth. With long strides she turned towards Zarubina’s alley. Zarubina was the nasty old woman who was in direct correspondence with members of the Politburo and reported in to them about dangerous intrigues. Not long ago Sasha had queued behind her at the theatre. How she would have liked to tighten her fingers around Zarubina’s yellow neck! A light shone in the old woman’s top-floor apartment; Sasha hugged the wall. When she got to the end of the alley, she couldn’t hold back a defiant glance at her big picture window (everybody said it had been enlarged to put more streets under her supervision). For some reason, in spite of the general obligation to be afraid, Sasha had no fear of the old woman with her fleshy shoe-shaped dewlap.
The black car was waiting for her at the corner, exactly as agreed. Her instructions had been carried out meticulously—she was filled with satisfaction. Now the neighbours would go back to bed, the tension would ease. This night would pass safely.
Two men sat in the front seat. ‘Hello,’ said one of them, waving his hand at the rear seat.
She climbed in. The smell of cigarettes mingled with the odour of their leather coats. The men sat up straight and said nothing.
The car swallowed up street after street. They passed by Varlamov’s house. She visualised the garden he was so proud of, and the bright lantern light that brushed the purple leaves of the plum tree, the cherry trees around it, the green benches. Sunday afternoons: she was eight or ten, a spring sun warmed her face. Everyone was devouring fruit and reviling poets and authors, making fun of Varlamov, who, in his old age, had begun writing his ‘cherry blossom poems’. He responded generously,
‘The children must stay in their rooms.’ Fear scored her father’s voice. Sasha smoothed the wrinkles on her dress and leaned towards the mirror to apply lipstick.
In the apartments around them, people were waking in horror, hovering between consciousness and sleep, not yet recognising that the life they had known was ended. Instead they rushed about chaotically in the mazes of their memory: the people they had last met, had they said anything to them, expressed criticism? Had they objected strenuously enough to the criticism of others? In their consciousness the portraits of enemies and friends flickered, and the piercing fear arose:the men in the black cars know.
People would swear that, when the knock on the door came, they would jump out the window. But the most they did was jump out of bed, get dressed, follow them down the stairs, get into the black crow and submit to their doom. That was all they were good at, all those miserable people—Sasha pursed her lips, brought her face close to the mirror again and used a handkerchief to wipe away some excess lipstick—awaiting their fate.
‘Bunny rabbit, where are you actually going?’ Kolya asked again.
‘I told you it’s none of your business, right?’ she whispered angrily. ‘The moment I leave, you go back to your room. Mum doesn’t like you sleeping here.’ She didn’t allow him to stay in her room in her absence, because he poked around in her old poetry notebooks and wrote comments that he thought were funny.
In the street a freezing wind lashed her, scratching her face like a vine. Strange how in this city a person was exposed to the whipping of several winds at the same time, as if the wind were a multiple thing made up of gusts that struck at you from every direction. The trees swayed wildly. The top of the tree next to their building was thrust against the wall. Even in her childhood she had imagined that the seeds of adversity were planted in that tree, latent malice that would burst out one day, so she was careful to give it a wide berth. With long strides she turned towards Zarubina’s alley. Zarubina was the nasty old woman who was in direct correspondence with members of the Politburo and reported in to them about dangerous intrigues. Not long ago Sasha had queued behind her at the theatre. How she would have liked to tighten her fingers around Zarubina’s yellow neck! A light shone in the old woman’s top-floor apartment; Sasha hugged the wall. When she got to the end of the alley, she couldn’t hold back a defiant glance at her big picture window (everybody said it had been enlarged to put more streets under her supervision). For some reason, in spite of the general obligation to be afraid, Sasha had no fear of the old woman with her fleshy shoe-shaped dewlap.
The black car was waiting for her at the corner, exactly as agreed. Her instructions had been carried out meticulously—she was filled with satisfaction. Now the neighbours would go back to bed, the tension would ease. This night would pass safely.
Two men sat in the front seat. ‘Hello,’ said one of them, waving his hand at the rear seat.
She climbed in. The smell of cigarettes mingled with the odour of their leather coats. The men sat up straight and said nothing.
The car swallowed up street after street. They passed by Varlamov’s house. She visualised the garden he was so proud of, and the bright lantern light that brushed the purple leaves of the plum tree, the cherry trees around it, the green benches. Sunday afternoons: she was eight or ten, a spring sun warmed her face. Everyone was devouring fruit and reviling poets and authors, making fun of Varlamov, who, in his old age, had begun writing his ‘cherry blossom poems’. He responded generously,
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