It had occurred to him that the canny Russian scientist might have already planned on leaving Anya and deliberately remained in this wretched place so he could conveniently bequeath it to her as their home.
In any case, Dmitri had done his real estate shopping well in advance of his announced departure. He was already established with the future mother of his child in a comfortable apartment in Charles River Park.
Adam climbed up to the porch and rang the bell to the upstairs flat. Anya buzzed, and he entered to find a cold and narrow stairway.
To his astonishment, when she opened the door she was wearing a parka.
“Are you planning to go out at this hour?”
“On the contrary,” she answered. “I am intending to stay in, and, as you will soon see, it is much colder in here than outside. You had better keep your coat on as well.”
The apartment was spare. The only source of real warmth seemed to be an electric heater—and Anya’s personality. What furniture there was looked old and tired. The single new item was a metal bookshelf—conspicuously empty.
“They were all his?” Adam asked.
“Yes,” she conceded with quiet resignation. “We were going to a Genetics Congress in London. Dmitri thought the authorities might get suspicious if they saw … too many obstetrical books.”
As he flopped into the chair, the springs twanged like ruptured banjos, making them both laugh.
“Well,” Adam observed, “I must admit that this apartment is even shabbier than you described. Doesn’t it depress you?”
“It’s not that much worse than the Russian medical school dormitories. But to what do I owe the honor of this personal visit?”
“I just wanted to look straight into your eyes. It’s the only way I can tell if you’re really happy.”
“I am really happy.” She beamed. And both of them understood that she meant it was because he was there.
They spent the next few minutes in idle chatter about their respective laboratory activities. Then Adam took the opportunity to find out more about his Russian friend.
“I know this is a stupid question,” he began. “But how did a nice girl like you ever get mixed up with an oaf like Avilov?”
“Do you insist on all the gory details?”
“I’m fascinated by gory details,” Adam replied.
“Then I had better open a bottle of wine—or two—it’s a long story.”
As he filled the glasses she had placed on the coffee table, she recounted, “It all started in Siberia.…”
“You met him there?”
“You want to hear every single chapter,” she said lightheartedly. “So I begin at the beginning—Siberia, where I was born. My father was a doctor who had the dubious pleasure of being one of Stalin’s last deportees to the land of polar bears and prisons.”
“What was his alleged offense?”
“He was guilty of being Jewish. Toward the end of Stalin’s life, he had the paranoid fantasy that a cabal of Jewish doctors were planning to poison him. So he had many arrested.
“Fortunately, my father had been decorated for bravery during the Second World War, or else he would not have been honored with mere exile. In fact, we were assigned to one of the most famous forced labor camps in the whole of the Gulag system. It was named Second River. Have you heard of it?”
“Frankly, no. It sounds like the name of a John Wayne movie.”
“Actually, it was a uniquely Russian institution called a sharashka. It was part prison and part research institute, a mixture of Alcatraz and Princeton. Its clientele were known as zeks in Russian slang. They were scientists and engineers who were too dangerous to keep in circulation but too valuable to kill. Especially those who could do research of military importance. So in some buildings they had cells and in others the most sophisticated laboratories you could imagine.
“For a while, one of our neighbors was Sergei Korolev, who—with the wave of a wand, so to say—was transformed from prisoner to chief designer of the Soviet space program.
“My father was assigned to be the prison doctor, and so we had a little flat of our own.”
“Did you have any playmates?”
“At first only my imagination. But as soon as I could talk, I would visit the laboratories where the zeks kind of ‘adopted’ me.
“When one of my favorite ‘uncles’ was rehabilitated, he got permission from the authorities for me to go to school outside the camp. After all, in Siberia it was not very likely that I would run away. Besides, Primary School Number Six was not really freedom. It was just a new kind of prison.
“Because my family name was Litvinov, even the provincial children of Vladivostok shipbuilders knew I was a zhidhovka, a ‘Yid.’
“Ironically, I didn’t really know what being Jewish meant. I asked my father to explain it to me, and all he answered was, ‘bruises in the schoolyard, insults in the army, invitations to Siberia.’ ”
“Is that what it was for you too?” Adam asked sympathetically, struck by the prism of good humor through which she viewed the most distressing events.
“No,” she answered, her pained expression belying her words. “For me it was mostly the endless game of quotas. For example, I know I did well on the entrance exam for the scientific gimnaziya. But I was only placed on the waiting list. Later in the summer my father received a note from the principal with the happy news that the parents of one of their Jewish students had been recalled from exile, which meant there was now a place for my humble, stigmatized self.”
“Were you bitter?” Adam inquired.
“On the contrary, I was delighted. In is in. Because then came the good part. I finally had a weapon to fight back with—my brain.”
She smiled. “Their ‘friendliness’ made me work like a crazy person, and my greatest joy was when they posted the grades. My fellow students never congratulated me—but I enjoyed hearing the sound of their teeth grind.”
“So you beat the quota system after all,” Adam said, raising a half-filled glass of wine in a congratulatory toast.
“Inspired by my gulagniks, I wanted to go into pure science. Of course, since it was all a kind of game to me, I was aiming even beyond the university at Vladivostok. I wanted to go to the top of the mountain—Moscow.”
“Brava,” he cheered.
“Why are you so joyous?” she asked with mock surprise. “It didn’t do me any good, getting the top grades. I was barely accepted by the local university—and even then I was demoted. They offered me a place not in pure science, but at the Institute of Medicine.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
She smiled. “My dear friend, in the Soviet Union the profession of medicine is so lowly regarded that most of its practitioners are women. Few men could raise a family on a doctor’s salary, since it was less than the monthly wage of a factory worker. Anyway, I obviously accepted the place and went through the head-breaking memorization of biochemistry and other such tortures.
“But the moment I began clinical work, everything changed. I loved the contact with other human beings, even if it was simply taking a pulse or blood pressure. The healing process was so … inspiring.”
Her description intensified Adam’s admiration for her. Indeed, from the moment he had first met Anya, he had been struck by the kindness she emanated.
In a very real sense, she was the most maternal person he had ever met. Although this was something he could never tell her.
“Naturally,” she continued, “among my irritations was the emergency room. As you know, Vladivostok is Russia’s ‘Wild Far East,’ and with so many sailors in port, their drunkenness produced horrific accidents. The worst part was having to sew up some of the same people every Saturday night. But even this had an advantage.”
“Anya, with you, everything seems to have an up side,” Adam remarked with admiration.
She nodded. “Yes, when others did the sewing, I got to deliver the babies. It made me think of obstetrics
as a speciality. So once again I applied to Moscow.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” he observed good-naturedly.
“Yes, but this time they really tricked me—I was accepted. And at the university clinic, no less. Don’t you believe that if you never give up trying, sooner or later you will get what you want?”
Adam reflected for a moment, and wondered in his heart of hearts if she still cherished the vain hope of having a child.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the night before I left, the commander of Second River allowed us to use the main hall for a farewell party. I never laughed and cried so much in my entire life.”
“Why so much of both?”
“Because I am Russian, and that is how we behave. I was happy to be getting out of that horrible place. But I was also sad to be leaving my parents. Finally, I enjoyed the look on my teachers’ faces when they met the eminent prisoners who were ten times more qualified than they were.”
Suddenly, her voice grew soft. “My father was allowed to take me to the airport,” she continued, her eyes filling with tears. “He too was overflowing with sadness and happiness, and I shall never forget his parting words to me. He embraced me and whispered, ‘Annoushka, do everything you can—never to come back here.’ ”
And now she was crying. She was not the legendary Russian admixture of happy and sad. She was racked with painful memories. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her.
And finally he did.
Her lips were so warm, her hands so loving. Anya had so much to give, and she held nothing back. It was a fiercer passion than anything he had ever known. The whole experience was like seeing his first rainbow. He had always known that the colors were there, but he had never seen them with his own eyes.
To him, Anya had, until this moment, been beauty in the abstract. Now she was real to him, and he sensed for the first time an expansion in his own emotional spectrum. To the outside world it might have seemed that she needed him. But what he now realized—to his gratification and his fright—was that he more than simply needed her. He could not live without her.
23
ISABEL
Jerry Pracht was the cause of Ray and Isabel’s first serious argument.
Her father was not disposed to allow her to see “that unbalanced dropout,” even in the most benign of circumstances. “I’m completely baffled by what you can find of the slightest interest in this character,” he told her.
“He’s lively,” she stated emphatically. “And independent. Anyway, when I spoke to Mom last night, she said that learning tennis would be a great thing. It’s a very social sport. And besides, he’s the first person I’ve ever met with an IQ higher than mine.”
Ray was wide-eyed. “What makes you believe a thing like that?”
“Well,” Isabel confessed, with a touch of embarrassment, “I asked Karl straight out.”
The doorbell rang then, and Ray glanced at his watch. It was precisely ten A.M. The boy was nothing if not punctual. They could hear him bounding up the stairs. A moment later the alleged genius manqué was standing there in a blue track suit, dangling a pair of tennis shoes that had obviously known better days.
“I think these’ll fit,” he said cheerfully. “And what’s more, they’re golden. My brother wore them when I coached him to the Bay Area twelve-and-under singles title. Anyway, try ’em on. If you need to, you can maybe put on an extra pair of socks.”
It was also clear that Jerry had reconsidered his behavior toward Ray and decided on a more diplomatic approach.
“How do you find the Berkeley undergraduates, Mr. D.?” he inquired politely as Isabel sat on a hassock and tried on the shoes.
“I only get to see the dim ones,” Ray answered, “so it’s hard to tell.”
“Well, sir, at least you can console yourself that you’re spared the worst—you don’t have to tutor me,” he said, then turned to his own pupil. “Hey, Isa, we’d better make it snappy. I only booked the court for an hour and a half.”
“That long?” Raymond asked in a disapproving tone. “It’ll absolutely exhaust her. And she’s got a load of work to do this afternoon.”
“Please,” Jerry declared. “When it comes to the pedagogy of tennis, your daughter is in the hands of a master. If she gets really bushed we can take a break, and go for a little drive.”
“A what?” Raymond’s voice registered dismay. “Do you mean to tell me you’re driving her?”
“Don’t sweat, Mr. da Costa. That was one of the few courses I aced in high school. I’ll be extra careful. I know how much you love your daughter—and how much my father loves his car.”
Realizing with frustration that had he broached the subject of transportation earlier, he could have had adequate grounds for canceling the entire encounter, Ray capitulated and hoped for the best.
“Now, I want you to be sure to be back by noon. I’ve got a whole afternoon planned for her.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. Is it definite?” the young man commented, and then addressed Isabel. “I thought we’d be able to have lunch at the club. I get a staff discount, and their hamburgers’ll blow your mind.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Raymond overruled him. “You’ll just have to ‘blow my daughter’s mind’ another time.”
The buzzer sounded again, heralding the arrival of Raymond’s first student.
Sensing the moment propitious, Jerry signaled Isabel with a nod and they both headed for the door, where he turned to reassure the overprotective father. “Stay loose, Mr. D. I’ll bring her back in mint condition.”
Isabel was far from a genius at tennis.
As she missed shot after shot she grew increasingly embarrassed, and could not seem to benefit from Jerry’s tutelage. Also, after little more than half an hour she was bushed.
“I think we should knock off early, Isa. Remember this was just your debut and you’re a little out of shape.”
“I can’t understand it,” she puffed. “I jog almost every morning.”
“Don’t let it worry you. Maybe you’re not running fast enough. In a few more weeks—especially when I teach you my atomic serve—you’ll probably make mincemeat out of me.”
At five minutes to twelve he checked his watch and proposed, “Listen, champ, why don’t we use our last precious moments to have some iced tea?”
Isabel smiled wearily. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
“I know you enjoy the shock effect of masquerading as an idiot,” she remarked as they sat down at a table on the terrace. “But just what exactly do you plan to do when you grow up?”
“That’s the whole point, Isa,” he insisted. “I am grown up. Paco Rodriguez, my coach, thinks if I work hard, in another couple of months I should be ready for the pro tour. I don’t suppose you ever read California Tennis, but they did a piece on my winning the national sixteen-and-under championship last summer. I mean, I may not be able to do much yet, but even getting mangled by the big boys could be an educational experience.”
“What about your astronomy?” Isabel asked. “Don’t you want to pick it up again?”
“Hey, I’ve never dropped it. Just because I’m not enrolled in school doesn’t mean I don’t devour every issue of Sky and Telescope. Or visit the Exploratorium or the Morrison Planetarium. And sometimes I sit up all night at my ’scope, watching the fireworks of the universe.”
“With your friend Darius?” she asked, anxious to show she remembered every word of his at their previous meeting.
A strange expression crossed Jerry’s face. His eyes grew unfocused and he mumbled quietly, “No. Not with Darius.”
“But I thought—”
“It’s a long story—and I’m not so sure you’d enjoy hearing it.”
“Try me.”
The moment he began, it was clear Jerry had been longing to tell her.
“Darius Miller was a year ahead of me at the Manchester School for so-called Gifted Children. He was a mathematical geniu
s—had his first paper accepted by Random Structures and Algorithms when he was barely twelve. And even while it was being set in type, he gave a piano recital at the Arts Center in Walnut Creek.
“Would you believe a ‘scout’ from the Hollywood Bowl invited him to play at one of their summer concerts? But his parents, who were also academics, didn’t like the idea of him wasting time on rehearsals.”
Jerry grew increasingly agitated as he continued. “Wasting time, Isa. Can you imagine such a concept when you’re just twelve years old?
“I was his only friend—and had no illusions why I got through the barbed wire of his parents’ disapproval. Not only was my dad who he is, I was such an astronomy freak, they knew we’d sit around discussing blue dwarfs and red giants instead of—God forbid—wasting time talking about girls or baseball.
“Only I was also wild—and hooked on sports. Obviously I couldn’t play tennis with Darius. Still, one day when he was at my house I introduced him to roller skating. He wasn’t exactly an athlete, but he loved it—got so carried away that he fell and broke an arm.
“You can imagine his parents’ reaction. They were so ticked off they forbade him to play with me again—even at his house.
“Anyway, I’m not saying it was all my fault—though God knows I do feel guilty—but six weeks before his fifteenth birthday, Darius killed himself.” Jerry smiled sadly. “I guess he couldn’t bear the thought of growing old.”
Isabel shuddered. Not only at the tale itself, but at the pain in his eyes as he told it.
“You must have been devastated,” she whispered.
He nodded. “And angry—very angry. They held a memorial service for him at the school. All the teachers eulogized his brilliance—what a loss it was to science and all that crap. Foolishly, they asked me to speak too.
“Admittedly, I was absolutely out of control, but at least I told the truth. I said that wherever he was now, Darius might be the one thing he never was when he was alive—carefree. I wanted to say ‘happy,’ but Karl—who’d gone over the speech with me before-hand —thought that was going too far. After all, Dr. and Mrs. Miller were really hurting.”