"Antonina Pavlovna and I were neighbors in the sanatorium," Leo explained.
"And he was a perfectly ungracious neighbor, I must complain," Antonina Pavlovna laughed huskily. "He wouldn't wait for me--and I wanted so much to leave on the same train. And, Leo, you didn't give me your apartment number and I had a perfectly terrible time trying to get it out of the Upravdom. Upravdoms are one of the unavoidable nuisances of our era, and all we of the intelligentsia can do is bear with it with a sense of humor."
She took off her coat. She wore a plain black dress of new, expensive silk in the latest fashion, and foreign earrings of green celluloid circles. Her hair was combed back severely off her forehead and two trim, sleek coils were flattened against her cheeks smeared with a very white powder. Her hair was an incredible orange, the color of a magnificent string of amber that swung like a pendulum, striking her stomach, when she moved. Her dress fitted tightly, slanting sharply from very wide hips down to heavy legs with very thin ankles and very small feet that seemed crushed under their disproportionate burden. She sat down and her stomach settled in a wide fold over her lap.
"When did you return, Tonia?" Leo asked.
"Yesterday. And oh, what a trip!" she sighed. "These Soviet trains! Really, I believe I lost everything I accomplished in the sanatorium. I was taking a rest cure for my nerves," she explained, pointing her chin at Kira. "And what sensitive person isn't a nervous wreck these days? But the Crimea! That place saved my life."
"It was beautiful," Leo agreed.
"But, really, it lost all its charm after you left, Leo. You know, he was the most charming patient in that dull sanatorium and everybody admired him so much--oh, purely platonically, my dear, if you're worried," she winked at Kira.
"I'm not," said Kira.
"Leo was so kind as to help me with my French lessons. I was learning . . . that is, brushing up on my French. It is such a relief, in these drab days, to stumble upon a person like Leo. You must forgive me, Leo. I realize that I may be an unwelcome guest, but it would be too much to expect of a woman if you asked her to give up a beautiful friendship in this revolting city where real people are so rare!"
"Why, no, Tonia, I'm glad you took the trouble to find me."
"Ah, these people here! I know so many of them. We meet, we talk, we shake hands. What does it mean? Nothing. Nothing but an empty physical gesture. Who among them knows the deeper significance of the spirit or the real meaning of our lives?"
Leo's slow, faint smile was not one of understanding; but he said: "One could forget one's troubles in some engrossing activity--if it were permitted these days."
"How profoundly true! Of course, the modern woman of culture is organically incapable of remaining inactive. I have a tremendous program outlined for myself for this coming winter. I'm going to study. I propose to master ancient Egypt."
"What?" asked Kira.
"Ancient Egypt," said Antonina Pavlovna. "I want to recapture its spirit in all its entirety. There is a profound significance in these far-away cultures, a mysterious bond with the present, which we moderns do not appreciate fully. I am certain that in a former incarnation . . . You are not interested in theosophy, are you, Leo?"
"No."
"I can appreciate your viewpoint, of course, but I have given it a thorough study and a great deal of thought. There is a transcendental truth in it, an explanation for so many of the baffling phenomena of our existence. Of course, I have one of those natures that long for the mystical. However, you must not think me old-fashioned. You mustn't be surprised if I tell you that I'm studying political economy."
"You are, Tonia? Why?"
"One cannot be out of tune with one's time, you know. To criticize, we must understand. I find it surprisingly thrilling. There is a certain peculiar romance in labor and markets and machines. Apropos, have you read the latest volume of verse by Valentina Sirkina?"
"No, I haven't."
"Thoroughly delightful. Such depth of emotion, and yet--completely modern, so essentially modern! There is a verse about--how does it go?--about my heart is asbestos that remains cool over the blast-furnace of my emotions--or something like that--it is really superb."
"I must admit I don't read modern poets."
"I'll bring you that book, Leo. I know you'll understand and appreciate it. And I'm sure Kira Alexandrovna will enjoy it."
"Thank you," said Kira, "but I never read poetry."
"Indeed? How peculiar! I'm sure you care for music?"
"Fox-trots," said Kira.
"Really?" Antonina Pavlovna smiled condescendingly. When she smiled, her chin pointed further forward and her forehead slanted back; her lips opened slowly, uncomfortably, as if slithering apart. "Speaking of music," she turned to Leo, "it is another essential item on my winter's program. I've made Koko promise me a box for every concert at the State Philharmony. Poor Koko! He's really very artistic at heart, if one knows how to approach him, but I'm afraid that his unfortunate early upbringing has not trained him for an appreciation of symphonic music. I shall, probably, have to be alone in my box. Oh--here's a happy thought!--you may share it with me, Leo. . . . And Kira Alexandrovna, of course," she nodded to Kira and turned to Leo again.
"Thank you, Tonia," he answered, "but I'm afraid we won't have much time for that, this winter."
"Leo, my dear!" she spread her arms in a wide gesture of sympathy, "don't you think I understand? Your financial position is. . . . Ah, these are not times for men like you. However, do not lose courage. With my connections . . . Koko cannot refuse me anything. He hated to see me leave for the Crimea. He missed me so much--you wouldn't believe how glad he was to see me back. He could not be more devoted if he were my husband. In fact, he couldn't be as devoted as he is. Marriage is an outmoded prejudice--as you know." She smiled at Kira.
"I'm sure the Crimea has helped your health," Leo said hastily, coldly.
"Ah, there's no other place like it! It is a bit of paradise. The dark, velvet sky, the diamond stars, the sea, and that divine moonlight! You know, I've wondered why you remained so indifferent to its magic spell. I thought you were essentially unromantic. Of course, I can understand the reason--now."
She threw a swift glance at Kira. The glance froze, as if seized and held by Kira's fixed eyes. Then Antonina Pavlovna's lips slithered into a cold smile and she turned away, sighing: "You men are strange creatures. To understand you is a whole science in itself and the first duty of every real woman. I've mastered it thoroughly in the bitter classroom of experience!" She sighed wearily, with a deprecatory shrug. "I've known heroic officers of the White Army. I've known brutal, iron commissars." She laughed shrilly. "I confess it openly. Why not? We are all moderns here. . . . I've known many people who misunderstood me. But I do not mind. I can forgive them. You know--noblesse oblige."
Kira sat on the arm of a chair, watching the toes of her old slippers, studying her fingernails, while they talked. It was dark beyond the window, when Antonina Pavlovna glanced at a diamond-studded wristwatch.
"Oh, how late it is! It's been so delightful that I haven't noticed the time at all. I must hurry home. Koko is probably getting melancholy without me, the poor child."
She opened her bag, took out a little mirror and, holding it delicately in two straight fingers, inspected her face carefully through narrowed eyes. She took out a little scarlet bottle with a tiny brush and smeared a purplish blot over her lips.
"Delightful stuff," she explained, showing the bottle to Kira, "infinitely better than lipstick. I notice you don't use much lipstick, Kira Alexandrovna. I would recommend it strongly. As woman to woman, one should never neglect one's appearance, you know. Particularly," she laughed, a friendly, intimate laughter, "particularly when one has such valuable property to guard."
At the door in the lobby, Antonina Pavlovna turned to Leo: "Don't worry about this coming winter, Leo. With my connections . . . Koko, of course, knows the highest . . . why, I'd be afraid to whisper some of the names he knows an
d . . . of course, Koko is putty in my hands. You must meet him, Leo. We can do a lot for you. I shall see to it that a magnificent young man like you is not lost in this Soviet swamp."
"Thank you, Tonia. I appreciate your offer. But I hope that I'm not quite lost--yet."
"Just what is his position?" Kira asked suddenly.
"Koko? He's assistant manager of the Food Trust--officially," Antonina Pavlovna winked mysteriously with a brief chuckle, lowering her voice; then, waving a hand with a diamond that flashed a swift spark in the light of an electric bulb, she drawled: "Au revoir, mes amis. I shall see you soon."
Slamming the chain over the door, Kira gasped: "Leo, I'm surprised!"
"By what?"
"That you can be acquainted with such an unspeakable . . ."
"I do not presume to criticize your friends."
They were passing through Marisha's room. In a corner by the window, Marisha raised her head from her book and looked at Leo curiously, startled by the tone of his voice. They crossed the room and Leo slammed the door behind them.
"You could have been civil, at least," he stated.
"What do you mean?"
"You could have said a couple of words--every other hour."
"She didn't come to hear me talk."
"I didn't invite her. And she's not a friend of mine. You didn't have to be so tragic about it."
"But, Leo, where did you pick that up?"
"That was in the same sanatorium and it happened to have foreign books, which is a rare treat when you have to spend your days reading Soviet trash. That's how we got acquainted. What's wrong with that?"
"But, Leo, don't you see what she's after?"
"Of course I do. Are you really afraid she'll get it?"
"Leo!"
"Well, then, why can't I speak to her? She's a harmless fool who's trying to amount to something. And she really does have connections."
"But to associate with that type of person. . . ."
"She's no worse than the Red trash one has to associate with, these days. And, at least, she's not Red."
"Well, as you wish."
"Oh, forget it, Kira. She'll never come again."
He was smiling at her, suddenly, warmly, his eyes bright, as if nothing had happened, and she surrendered, her hands on his shoulders, whispering: "Leo, don't you see? Nothing of that type should even dare to look at you."
He laughed, patting her cheek: "Let her look. It won't hurt me."
Leo had said: "Write to your uncle in Budapest at once. Thank him and tell him not to send us money any longer. I'm well. We'll struggle on our own. I have written down the exact sum of everything you sent me. Have you kept track of what you spent here, as I asked? We'll have to start repaying him--if he's patient, for the devil alone knows how long it will take."
She had whispered: "Yes, Leo," without looking at him.
He had noticed her gold wristwatch and frowned: "Where did that come from?"
She had said: "It's a present. From . . . Andrei Taganov."
"Oh, really? So you're accepting presents from him?"
"Leo!" She had whirled upon him defiantly, then she had pleaded: "Why not, Leo? It was my birthday and I couldn't hurt his feelings."
He had shrugged contemptuously: "Oh, I don't mind. It's your own business. Personally, I wouldn't feel comfortable wearing something paid for with G.P.U. money."
She had hidden the cigarette lighter, and the silk stockings, and the perfume. She had told Leo that the red dress had been made for his return. He wondered why she did not like to wear it.
She spent most of her days in the halls of the Winter Palace, saying to the gaping excursionists: ". . . and it is the duty of every conscientious citizen to be acquainted with the history of our revolutionary movement in order to become a trained, enlightened fighter in the ranks of the World Revolution--our highest goal."
In the evenings, she tried to tell Leo: "I have to go out tonight. I've promised Irina . . ." or: "I really must go out tonight. It's a meeting of Excursion Workers." But he made her stay at home.
She looked into the mirror, sometimes, and wondered about the eyes people had told her were so clear, so honest.
She did not go out at night. She could not tear herself away. She could not satisfy the hunger of looking at him, of sitting silently, huddled in an armchair, watching him move across the room. She would watch the lines of his body as he stood at a window, turned away from her, his hands spread on his waistline, holding his back, his body leaning lightly backward against his hands, one tense, sunburned muscle of his neck showing under dark, dishevelled hair, thrilling as a suggestion, a promise of his face which she could not see. Then she would rise and walk hesitantly toward him and let her hand run slowly down the hard tendon of his neck, without a word, without a kiss.
Then she could think, with a cold wonder, of another man who was waiting for her somewhere.
But she knew that she had to see Andrei. One evening, she put on the red dress and told Leo that she had promised to call on her family.
"May I go with you?" he asked. "I haven't seen them since my return and I owe them a visit."
"No, not this time, Leo," she answered calmly. "I'd rather you wouldn't. Mother is . . . she's so changed . . . I know you won't get along with her."
"Do you have to go tonight, Kira? I hate to let you go and to stay here alone. I've been without you for such a long time."
"I've promised them I'd come tonight. I won't stay late. I'll be back soon."
She was putting on her coat when the door bell rang.
It was Marisha who went to open the door and they heard Galina Petrovna's voice sweeping through the room, approaching: "Well, I'm glad they're home. Well, if I thought they were visiting others and neglecting their old parents and . . ."
Galina Petrovna entered first; Lydia followed; Alexander Dimitrievitch shuffled in behind them.
"Leo, my dear child!" Galina Petrovna swept toward him and kissed him on both cheeks. "I'm so glad to see you! Welcome back to Leningrad."
Lydia shook hands limply; she removed her old hat, sat down heavily, as if collapsing, and fumbled with her hairpins: a long strand of hair was falling loosely out of the careless roll at the back of her neck. She was very pale and used no powder; her nose was shiny; she stared mournfully at the floor.
Alexander Dimitrievitch muttered: "I'm glad you're well, my boy," and patted Leo's shoulder uncertainly, with the timid, frightened look of an animal expecting to be hurt.
Kira faced them calmly and said with cold assurance: "Why did you come? I was just starting for your house, as I promised."
"As you . . ." Galina Petrovna began, but Kira interrupted:
"Well, since you're here, take your coats off."
"I'm so happy you're well again, Leo," said Galina Petrovna. "I feel as if you were my son. You really are my son. Everything else is just bourgeois prejudices."
"Mother!" Lydia remonstrated feebly, hopelessly.
Galina Petrovna settled down in a comfortable armchair. Alexander Dimitrievitch sat apologetically on the edge of a chair by the door.
"Thank you for coming," Leo smiled graciously. "My only excuse for neglecting to call, as I should have, is . . ."
"Kira," Galina Petrovna finished for him. "Do you know that we haven't seen her more than three times while you were away?"
"I have a letter for you, Kira," Lydia said suddenly.
"A letter?" Kira's voice jerked slightly.
"Yes. It came today."
There was no return address on the envelope; but Kira knew the handwriting. She threw the letter indifferently down on the table.
"Don't you want to open it?" Leo asked.
"No hurry," she said evenly. "Nothing important."
"Well, Leo?" Galina Petrovna's voice boomed; her voice had become louder, clearer. "What are your plans for the winter? This is such an interesting year we're entering. So many opportunities, particularly for the young."
"So
many . . . what?" Leo asked.
"Such a wide field of activity! It's not like in the dying, decadent cities of Europe where people slave all their lives for measly wages and a pitiful little existence. Here--each one of us has an opportunity to be a useful, creative member of a stupendous whole. Here--one's work is not merely a wasted effort to satisfy one's petty hunger, but a contribution to the gigantic building of humanity's future."
"Mother," Kira asked, "who wrote all that down for you?"
"Really, Kira," Galina Petrovna drew her shoulders up, "you're not only impertinent to your mother, but I think you're also a bad influence on Leo's future."
"I wouldn't worry about that, Galina Petrovna," said Leo.
"And of course, Leo, I hope that you're modern enough to outlive the prejudices we've all shared. We must admit that the Soviet Government is the only progressive government in the world. It utilizes all its human resources. Even an old person like me, who has been useless all her life, can find an opportunity for creative toil. And as for young people like you . . ."
"Where are you working, Galina Petrovna?" Leo asked.
"Oh, don't you know? I'm teaching in a Labor School--they used to be called High Schools, you know. Sewing and fancy needlework. We all realize that a practical subject like sewing is much more important to our little future citizens than the dead, useless things, such as Latin, which were taught in the old bourgeois days. And our methods? We're centuries ahead of Europe. For instance, take the complex method that we're . . ."
"Mother," Lydia said wearily, "Leo may not be interested."
"Nonsense! Leo is a modern young man. Now, this method we're using at present. . . . For instance, what did they do in the old days? The children had to memorize mechanically so many dry, disjoined subjects--history, physics, arithmetic--with no connection between them at all. What do we do now? We have the complex method. Take last week, for instance. Our subject was Factory. So every teacher had to build his course around that central subject. In the history class they taught the growth and development of factories; in the physics class they taught all about machinery; the arithmetic teacher gave them problems about production and consumption; in the art class they drew factory interiors. And in my class--we made overalls and blouses. Don't you see the advantage of the method? The indelible impression it will leave in the children's minds? Overalls and blouses--practical, concrete, instead of teaching them a lot of dry, theoretical seams and stitches."