Satinov sighed; his arthritis was painful. He had been the only person Dashka had told. She hadn’t mishandled state secrets at all.
‘It couldn’t have been that, could it?’ asked Senka, anxious again.
‘Not at all. You managed to get out of there without saying a single thing wrong.’
Senka relaxed visibly and his dark eyes glinted. ‘What a relief,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Now I really should be going.’
Satinov stood up and offered his hand. ‘Did your mother say anything for me? About the package?’
Senka looked into Satinov’s grey eyes for a long moment. ‘No. Nothing.’
Satinov understood then that Senka knew about his love for his mother – and he was glad. Their story lived on.
Wearing a blue cap, Andrei was driving a beige Lada up the drive towards an ugly government dacha, a wooden shooting lodge that looked like an oversized Swiss chalet. Four ZiL limousines were parked there as stately as royal barges. Two bodyguards, specimens of Homo Sovieticus, wearing overtight suits, fat brown ties and combover hairdos, came down the steps with the macho insouciance of KGB men on duty. Andrei showed them their identity cards for the fourth time that hour, and the guards barked into walkie-talkies, returned their IDs and gestured towards Serafima.
Andrei came round to open Serafima’s door. He watched her walk up the steps into the chalet. At the top of the steps, she looked back at him and smiled and raised her hand in a slight wave. Then she went inside.
He sat listlessly for a few minutes. Fate had brought him Serafima, and now his marriage hung in the balance. Nikolasha and Rosa had died for the romantic delusion: totalitarian love as reckless melodrama and desperate possession, an orchestra of trumpets and thunderbolts. Now he saw clearly that the real poetry of love was a meandering river, an accumulation of accidents, the momentum of details.
He reached on to the floor of the back seat and grabbed a wad of essays. Holding them against the steering wheel, he started to mark them with a red pen. Just after Stalin’s death, Director Medvedeva had hired him to teach Pushkin at School 801 where he was loved by generations of pupils for the flamboyant way he brought
Yes, thought Andrei Kurbsky, he and Serafima owed so much to the clandestine generosity of decent people who had the courage to spread the warmth of kindness even in the age of ice. But they owed most to Benya Golden, and not just a love of poetry. They had named their son Benya, and their daughter Adele, after Pushkin’s verse that Benya had recited to Serafima. And Andrei always started his classes with Benya’s words: ‘Dear friends, beloved romantics, wistful dreamers…’
Serafima was escorted through the shooting lodge, into the gardens and to the edge of the birch woods. Dapper and slim, Frank Belman waited for her in a camel-hair coat, a spotted Hermès tie, yellow slacks and a pair of Gucci loafers. He turned and came towards her, stopping a step away. She did not know what she expected him to do – but he offered her his hand formally.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ he said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind that I contacted you…’
‘No, I wasn’t surprised,’ said Serafima. ‘I knew we’d meet again one day.’
‘I’m speaking English because I know you’re an English teacher.’
‘How well informed you are.’
‘Can we walk through the woods? English was your favourite subject, along with Pushkin.’
‘You have a good memory.’
‘Of course.’
He seemed very assured, this prince of capitalist America, much more confident than the young, faltering Frank she remembered. She was not sure that any part of
‘It seems a long time ago,’ he went on.
‘Yes.’ She felt disappointed and yet relieved as she realized she wanted to go home. How could she end this tactfully?
‘You know I’m married with four children now?’ he said.
‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘And you?’
‘Yes, I’m also married and I have two children.’
He nodded. ‘You look wonderful.’
‘You seem a real American plutocrat.’ She forced a smile. ‘One of those villains we read about in our propaganda!’ She paused. ‘Frank, I’m pleased to have met you again, I really am – but I think I should go now.’
Frank looked most concerned. ‘Did I say something wrong? There’s so much I want to ask you.’
Serafima stepped back. ‘I feel the same way. There’s much to say but really there’s nothing. So if you don’t mind, I’ll leave now.’
