Kira leaned against a lamp post, looking straight at his face, and smiled. She did not think; she smiled, stunned, without realizing that she was hoping he would know her as she knew him.
He stopped and looked at her. "Good evening," he said.
And Kira who believed in miracles, said: "Good evening."
He stepped closer and looked at her with narrowed eyes, smiling. But the corners of his mouth did not go up when he smiled; they went down, raising his upper lip into a scornful arc.
"Lonely?" he asked.
"Terribly--and for such a long time," she answered simply.
"Well, come on."
"Yes."
He took her arm and she followed him. He said: "We have to hurry. I want to get out of this crowded street."
"So do I."
"I must warn you not to ask any questions."
"I have no questions to ask."
She looked at the unbelievable lines of his face. She touched timidly, incredulously, the long fingers of the hand that held her arm.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked. But she did not answer. He said: "I'm afraid I'm not a very cheerful companion tonight."
"Can I help you?"
"Well, that's what you're here for." He stopped suddenly. "What's the price?" he asked. "I haven't much."
Kira looked at him and understood why he had approached her. She stood looking silently into his eyes. When she spoke, her voice had lost its tremulous reverence; it was calm and firm. She said: "It won't be much."
"Where do we go?"
"I passed a little garden around the corner. Let's go there first--for a while."
"Any militia-men around?"
"No."
They sat on the steps of an abandoned residence. Trees shielded them from a street light, and their faces and the wall behind them were dotted, checkered, sliced with shivering splinters of light. Over their heads were rows of empty windows on bare granite. The mansion bore an unhealed scar above its entrance door from where the owner's coat of arms had been torn. The garden fence had been broken through, and its tall iron spikes bent toward the ground, like lances lowered in a grave salute.
"Take your cap off," said Kira.
"What for?"
"I want to look at you."
"Sent to search for someone?"
"No. Sent by whom?"
He did not answer and took off his cap. Her face was a mirror for the beauty of his. Her face reflected no admiration, but an incredulous, reverent awe. All she said was: "Do you always go around with your coat shoulder torn?"
"That's all I have left. Do you always stare at people as if your eyes would burst?"
"Sometimes."
"I wouldn't if I were you. The less you see of them the better off you are. Unless you have strong nerves and a strong stomach."
"I have."
"And strong legs?"
His two fingers were held straight while his fingertips threw her skirt up, high above her knees, lightly, contemptuously. Her hands grasped the stone steps. She did not pull her skirt down. She forced herself to sit without movement, without breath, frozen to the steps. He looked at her; his eyes moved up and down, but the corners of his lips moved only downward.
She whispered obediently, without looking at him: "And strong legs."
"Well, if you have strong legs, then--run."
"From you?"
"No. From all people. But forget it. Pull your skirt down. Aren't you cold?"
"No." But she pulled the skirt down.
"Don't pay any attention to what I say," he told her. "Have you anything to drink at your place?"
"Oh, . . . yes."
"I warn you I'm going to drink like a sponge tonight."
"Why tonight?"
"That's my habit."
"It isn't."
"How do you know?"
"I know it isn't."
"What else do you know about me?"
"I know that you're very tired."
"I am. I've walked all night."
"Why?"
"I thought I told you not to ask any questions."
He looked at the girl who sat pressed tightly against the wall. He saw only one gray eye, quiet and steady, and above it--one lock of hair; the white wrist of a hand held in a black pocket; the black, ribbed stockings on legs pressed tightly together. In the darkness, he guessed the patch of a long, narrow mouth, the dark huddle of a slender body trembling a little. His fingers closed around the black stocking. She did not move. He leaned closer to the dark mouth and whispered: "Stop staring at me as if I were something unusual. I want to drink. I want a woman like you. I want to go down, as far down as you can drag me."
She said: "You know, you've very much afraid that you can't be dragged down."
His hand left her stocking. He looked at her a little closer and asked suddenly: "How long have you been in this business?"
"Oh . . . not very long."
"I thought so."
"I'm sorry. I've tried my best."
"Tried what?"
"Tried to act experienced."
"You little fool. Why should you? I'd rather have you as you are, with these strange eyes that see too much. . . . What led you into . . . this?"
"A man."
"Was he worth that?"
"Yes."
"What an appetite!"
"For what?"
"For life."
"If one loses that appetite, why still sit at the table?"
He laughed. His laughter rolled into the empty windows above them, as cold and empty as the windows. "Perhaps to collect under the table a few little crumbs of refuse--like you--that can still be amusing. . . . Take your hat off."
She took off her tam. Against the gray stone her tangled hair and the light tangled in the leaves, glittered like warm silk. He ran his fingers through her hair and jerked her head back so violently that it hurt her. "Did you love that man?" he asked.
"What man?"
"The one who led you into this?"
"Did I . . ." She was suddenly confused, surprised by an unexpected thought. "No. I didn't love him."
"That's good."
"Have you . . . ever . . ." She began a question and found that she could not finish it.
"They say I have no feeling for anyone but myself," he answered, "and not much of that."
"Who said it?"
"A person that didn't like me. I know many people that don't like me."
"That's good."
"But I've never known one who said it was good."
"Yes, you've known one."
"And can you tell me who that is?"
"Yourself."
He bent toward her again, his eyes searching the darkness, then moved away and shrugged: "You're wrong. I'm nothing like what I think you think I am. I've always wanted to be a Soviet clerk who sells soap and smiles at the customers."
She said: "You're so very unhappy."
His face was so close she could feel his breath on her lips. "Who asked you for sympathy? I suppose you think you can make me like you? Well, don't fool yourself. I don't give a damn what I think of you and less what you think of me. I'm just like any other man you've had in your bed--and like any you will have."
She said: "You mean you would like to be like any other man. And you would like to think that there haven't been any other men--in my bed."
He looked at her silently. He asked abruptly: "Are you a . . . street woman?"
She answered calmly: "No."
He jumped to his feet. "Who are you, then?"
"Sit down."
"Answer."
"I'm a respectable little girl who studies at the Technological Institute, whose parents would throw her out of the house if they knew she had talked to a strange man on the street."
He looked down at her; she sat on the steps at his feet, looking up at his face. He saw no fear and no appeal in her eyes, only an insolent calm. He asked: "Why did you do it?"
"I wanted to know you."
br />
"Why?"
"I liked your face."
"You little fool! If I were someone else, I might have . . . acted differently."
"But I knew you were not someone else."
"Don't you know that such things are not being done?"
"I don't care."
He smiled suddenly. He asked: "Want a confession from me?"
"Yes."
"This is the first time I've ever tried to . . . to buy a woman."
"Why did you try it tonight?"
"I didn't care. I've walked for hours. There isn't a house in this city that I can enter tonight."
"Why?"
"Don't ask questions. I couldn't make myself approach one of . . . of those women. But you--I liked your strange smile. What were you doing on such a street at such an hour?"
"I quarreled with someone and I had no carfare and I went home alone--and lost my way."
"Well, thank you for a most unusual evening. This will be a rare memory to take with me of my last night in the city."
"Your--last night?"
"I'm going away at dawn."
"When are you coming back?"
"Never--I hope."
She got up slowly. She stood facing him. She asked: "Who are you?"
"Even if I trust you, I can't tell you that."
"I can't let you go away forever."
"Well, I would like to see you again. I'm not going far. I may be back in town."
"I'll give you my address."
"Don't. You're not living alone. I can't enter anyone's house."
"Can I come to yours?"
"I haven't any."
"But then. . . ."
"Let's say that we'll meet here again--in a month. Then, if I'm still alive, if I can still enter the city, I'll be waiting here for you."
"I'll come."
"November tenth. But let's make it in daylight. At three o'clock in the afternoon. On these steps."
"Yes."
"Well, it's as crazy as our whole acquaintance. And now it's time for you to go home. You shouldn't be out at this hour."
"But where will you go?"
"I'll walk until dawn. It's only a few more hours. Come on."
She did not argue. He took her arm. She followed. They stepped over the bowed lances of the broken fence. The street was deserted. A cab driver on a distant corner raised his head at the sound of their steps. He signaled the cab. Four horseshoes struck forward, shattering the silence.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Leo. And yours?"
"Kira."
The cab approached. He handed the driver a bill. "Tell him where you want to go," he said.
"Good-bye," said Kira, "--for a month."
"If I'm still alive," he answered, "--and if I don't forget."
She climbed to the seat, kneeling and facing the back of the carriage. As it slowly started away, her hatless hair in the wind, she watched the man who stood looking after her.
When the cab turned a corner, she remained kneeling, but her head dropped. Her hand lay on the seat, helpless, palm up; and she could feel the blood beating in her fingers.
V
GALINA PETROVNA MOANED, EVERY MORNING: "WHAT'S THE matter with you, Kira? You don't care if you eat or not. You don't care if you're cold. You don't hear when people talk to you. What's the matter?"
In the evenings, Kira walked home from the Institute, and her eyes followed every tall figure, peering anxiously behind every raised collar, her breath stopping. She did not expect to find him in the city; she did not want to find him. She never worried whether he would come or not. She never wondered whether he liked her. She never had any thought of him beyond the one that he existed. But she found it hard to remember the existence of anything else.
Once, when she came home, the door was opened by Galina Petrovna with red, swollen eyes. "Have you got the bread?" was the first question thrown into the cold draft of the open door.
"What bread?" asked Kira.
"What bread? Your bread! The Institute bread! This is the day you get it! Don't tell me you've forgotten it!"
"I've forgotten it."
"Oh, my Lord in Heaven!"
Galina Petrovna sat down heavily and her hands fell helplessly. "Kira, what's the matter with you? She gets rations that aren't enough to feed a cat and she forgets them! No bread! Oh, Lord merciful!"
In the dark dining room, Lydia sat at the window, knitting a woolen stocking by the light of the street lamp outside. Alexander Dimitrievitch drowsed, his head on the table.
"No bread," announced Galina Petrovna. "Her highness forgot it."
Lydia sneered. Alexander Dimitrievitch sighed and got up. "I'm going to bed," he muttered. "You don't feel so hungry when you sleep."
"No dinner tonight. No millet left. The water pipes broke. No water in the house."
"I'm not hungry," said Kira.
"You're the only one in the family with a bread card. But, Lord, you don't seem to think anything of it!"
"I'm sorry, Mother. I'll get it tomorrow."
Kira lighted the wick. Lydia moved her knitting toward the little flame.
"Your father hasn't sold a single thing today in that store of his," said Galina Petrovna.
Lydia's needles clicked in the silence.
The door bell rang sharply, insistently. Galina Petrovna shuddered nervously and hurried to open the door.
Heavy boots stamped across the anteroom. The Upravdom entered without being invited, his boots trailing mud on the dining-room floor. Galina Petrovna followed, anxiously clutching her shawl. He held a list in his hand.
"In regards to this water pipes business, Citizen Argounova," he said, throwing the list on the table without removing his hat. "The house committee has voted a resolution to assess the tenants in proportion to their social standing, for the purpose of water pipes, to repair same, in addition to rent. Here's a list of who pays what. Have the money in my office no later than ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Good night, citizen."
Galina Petrovna locked the door after him and held the paper to the light, in a trembling hand.
Doubenko--Worker--in #12 . . . . . 3,000,000 rubles
Rilnikov--Soviet Employee--in #13 . . . . . 5,000,000 rubles
Argounov--Private Trader--in #14 . . . . . 50,000,000 rubles
The paper fell to the floor; Galina Petrovna's face fell on her hands on the table.
"What's the matter, Galina? How much is it?" Alexander Dimitrievitch's voice called from the bedroom.
Galina Petrovna raised her head. "It's . . . it's not very much. Go on. Sleep. I'll tell you tomorrow." She had no handkerchief; she wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl and shuffled into the bedroom.
Kira bent over a textbook. The little flame trembled, dancing on the pages. The only thing she could read or remember was not written in the book:
". . . if I'm still alive--and if I don't forget. . . ."
Students received bread cards and free tramway tickets. In the damp, bare offices of the Technological Institute, they waited in line to get the cards. Then, in the Students' Cooperative, they waited in line to get the bread.
Kira had waited for an hour. The clerk at the counter shoved hunks of dried bread at the line moving slowly past him, and dipped his hand into a barrel to fish out the herring, and wiped his hand on the bread, and collected the wrinkled bills of paper money. The bread and herring disappeared, unwrapped, into brief cases filled with books. Students whistled merrily and beat tap steps in the sawdust on the floor.
The young woman who stood in line next to Kira, leaned suddenly against her shoulder with a friendly, confidential grin, although Kira had never seen her before. The young woman had broad shoulders and a masculine leather jacket; short, husky legs and flat, masculine oxfords; a red kerchief tied carelessly over short, straight hair; eyes wide apart in a round, freckled face; thin lips drawn together with so obvious and fierce a determination that they seemed weak; dandruff on the black leather of h
er shoulders.
She pointed at a large poster calling all students to a meeting for the election of the Students' Council. She asked: "Going to the meeting this afternoon, comrade?"
"No," said Kira.
"Ah, but you must go, comrade. By all means. Tremendously important. You have to vote, you know."
"I've never voted in my life."
"Your first year, comrade?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful! Wonderful! Isn't it wonderful?"
"What's wonderful?"
"To start your education at a glorious time like this, when science is free and opportunity open to all. I understand, it's all new to you and must seem very strange. But don't be afraid, dear. I'm an old-timer here, I'll help you."
"I appreciate your offer, but . . ."
"What's your name, dear?"
"Kira Argounova."
"Mine's Sonia. Just Comrade Sonia. That's what everybody calls me. You know, we're going to be great friends, I can feel it. There's nothing I enjoy more than helping smart young students like you."
"But," said Kira, "I don't remember saying anything particularly smart."
Comrade Sonia laughed very loudly: "Ah, but I know girls. I know women. We, the new women who are ambitious to have a useful career, to take our place beside the men in the productive toil of the world--instead of the old kitchen drudgery--we must stick together. There is no sight I like better than a new woman student. Comrade Sonia will always be your friend. Comrade Sonia is everybody's friend."
Comrade Sonia smiled. She smiled straight into Kira's eyes, as if taking, gently, irrevocably, those eyes and the mind behind them into her own hand. Comrade Sonia's smile was friendly; a kindly, insistent, peremptory friendliness that took the first word and expected to keep it.
"Thank you," said Kira. "What is it you want me to do?"
"Well, to begin with, Comrade Argounova, you must go to the meeting. We're electing our Students' Council for the year. It's going to be a tough battle. There is a strong anti-proletarian element among our older students. Our class enemies, you know. Young students like you must support the candidates of our Communist Cell, who stand on guard over your interests."
"Are you one of the Cell's candidates, Comrade Sonia?"
Comrade Sonia laughed: "See? I told you you were smart. Yes, I'm one of them. Have been on the council for two years. Hard work. But what can I do? The comrade students seem to want me and I have to do my duty. You just come with me and I'll tell you for whom to vote."
"Oh," said Kira. "And after that?"
"I'll tell you. All Red students join some kind of social activity. You know, you don't want to be suspected of bourgeois tendencies. I'm organizing a Marxist Circle. Just a little group of young students--and I'm the chairman--to learn the proper proletarian ideology, which we'll all need when we go out into the world to serve the Proletarian State, since that's what we're all studying for, isn't it?"