"Van Lustbader, Eric - Angel Eyes(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

FOUR
MOSCOW/TOKYO

Mars called Irina at work and asked her to go to No. 1 Gastronome on Gorky Street during her lunch hour to pick up some provisions for his parents, which he planned to take to them on the following Saturday. He was in meetings all day, could not go himself, and he was afraid if he waited until tomorrow, the fresh sturgeon would all be gone.
Irina readily agreed. She loved Gorky Street, with its rush of sumptuously dressed tourists, its myriad shops and huge hotels, but she loved No. 1 Gastronome most of all. She felt like a child in a storybook, allowed to wander through a wonderland of magical displays. Food stuffs from all over the Soviet Union, as well as from foreign lands, were stacked on shelves and behind glass cases. There were always lines here, but Irina never minded standing in them, because it gave her more time to soak up the atmosphere.
As Mars had asked, she purchased fresh smoked sturgeon, several tins of caviar, and on impulse, a half-pound of smoked salmon all the way from Nova Scotia. It was an extravagant purchase, but she thought the exotic salmon would make Mars happy.
Afterward she strolled down Gorky Street in the wan sunshine, happy merely to be out of her dim, cramped office and in the fresh air. Of course, one had to discount the traffic fumes, but like all city dwellers, Irina was barely aware of the clouds of exhaust.
She was perhaps fifty yards from the Druzhba bookstore when she saw Valeri emerge from the entrance. She raised her arm, about to call out to him, but he had already turned away. Irina hurried after him, excited to extend her lunch hour; anything to keep her from returning to her stultifying job.
She followed him up Gorky Street, past No. 1 Gastronome, through the Soviet Square, with its monument to Prince Dol-goruky, Moscow's founder. A few streets on he turned left, disappeared into a small building with a green facade, the old Moscow Arts Theater, where, years ago, Stanislavsky had taught the Method to Soviet actors, and thereby changed the face of modern theater forever.
Chekhov's Three Sisters was playing, and photos of the actors were posted just above the schedule of times. Irina went inside. The interior was cool, musty, filled with hushed voices, but she saw no one, the lobby deserted.
She pushed through the door into the theater proper. On stage, a series of spotlights shone down on actors rehearsing a scene. Irina looked around, saw Valeri sitting near the back of the semidark theater. She took two steps toward him, then froze.
There was a stunning woman with him. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and a nose Irina would have killed for. Irina recognized her as one of the stars of the current production, Natasha Mayakova.
Irina could not move, hearing in her mind Valeri saying to her, The joke is that it is you, Irina, who has seduced me. Do you think that you are the latest in a long line of conquests for me? No. But what was she thinking? Of course, this must be a business meeting, or a visit with a friend. But in the back of her mind a perverse voice kept saying no, no, no. He's lied to you. It is something else, not business, not friendship. It is an assignation.
They were sitting very close, their heads together. She could hear Valeri saying, "Time is difficult to come by, but not for you, koshka," and Natasha Mayakova's answering silvery laughter.
He called her koshka. Darling. Irina wanted to turn away, to run, but she could not. She felt like someone watching an accident, unable to avert her gaze, caught by a perverse fascination, observing their intimacy, an outsider. And all the while, Valeri's lie felt like a slap across her face.
It was not until she was back in her office, surrounded by the drudgery of her work, that she realized how angry she was with Valeri. But why should I expect anything different from him? she thought. He lives a life unlike mine. His coinage is intimidation, coercion, and deceit.
But this bit of psychological illumination failed to make her feel any better, in fact it unaccountably depressed her all the more. She tried to throw herself into her work for the rest of the afternoon, but it was useless. She was finished for the day.
"Nova Scotia salmon!" Mars exclaimed. "What a treat!" He impulsively gave her a kiss. ''I should save this for my folks, but it looks so scrumptious, why don't you and I pull apart some black bread and dig in." They were in the kitchen of Mars's apartment. The lights were on, although it was only just twilight outside.
"You go ahead," Irina said without much enthusiasm. "I'm not feeling hungry."
''But of course you must be hungry,'' Mars said, taking down some plates from his cupboard. "It's after eight, and if I know Number One Gastronome, the lines must have prevented you from having time for a proper lunch.''
"Actually, they weren't so bad," Irina said. "I had time to get these."
Mars took the small envelope from her, opened it. "Tickets to Three Sisters'." He grinned. "Well, you certainly are full of surprises tonight."
You don't know the half of it, Irina thought unhappily.
Mars put the tickets down. "But why so sad, Irina? Did you have a bad day at the office? No, no, don't tell me if you don't want to. I know you like your privacy. But come, I see dinner at home holds no interest for you. Let's go out!"
This was Mars's solution to all things: eat, be with people, get drunk, feel life in all its diversity flow like a powerful stream all around you, until it began to seep through you then into you, until the roof of your despair was made leaky and, whether you liked it or not, life began again to wash over you.
He took her to a tiny Georgian restaurant he had discovered, where they were happy to serve him even when it was near to nine at night and other, larger, restaurants had stopped serving hot meals. It was a boisterous place, filled with good smells, the combined heat of the nearby kitchen and its cheery denizens. They ate chicken tabaka, drank pepper vodka, and most important, Mars kept her talking.
"Tell me about your family," he said. "What was your home life like?"
"Lousy," Irina said. "My father was a secret drunkard, you know, weekends, days off. But he never missed a day's work. He's been dead now a long time. He worked in nuclear engineering, but he never brought his work home, never talked about it. I suspect he drank because he had watched his parents die in the Siberian winter, and I think he could never forgive himself.''
"For what?"
"For living when they had died. He took the coat off his mother's body, the shoes off his father's feet. He remembered the feet so clearly, he said. They were blue, bloated, and cold as ice. It took him a half hour to get the shoes off. He told me once that those items of clothing saved him from freezing to death, but they couldn't stop him from remembering. He was eleven years old when that happened."
"Poor fellow," Mars said. "But he had his whole life ahead of him."
"I think a part of him died on the Siberian ice fields with his parents," Irina said.
"He was to be pitied, then."
Irina tried not to think. She could hear a voice calling, she knew what it was saying, but she didn't want to listen: KGB. Keep calm. The Siberian winter, bars across the moon, her country a prison. He's dead.
"Perhaps it all would have been different if my brother Yvgeny hadn't died," Irina said, not believing a word of it, and despising herself for dissembling. "He was killed not so far from here, on the bank of the Moskva, on a cold, clear night, a night of the full moon. He had fallen in with criminals, and he was selling- well, I don't know what, contraband of some kind, surely. He was knifed, but whether by a potential customer or by a rival, we never found out. Considering what my brother was up to, the police were understandably resistant to spending man-hours tracking down his killer. Frankly, they just didn't care. I got the impression they were glad he was dead.''
"And the family?"
"Our family was so fragile anyway, the relationships so close to cracking. My father had already been dead for many years. I think, now, that it wouldn't have taken much at all to send us spiraling down. But his, Yvgeny's, murder was like a detonation in our kitchen, our place of warmth and sustenance, the place I remember my mother always being, until the police brought us the news. She disintegrated. She ran out into the night without a coat or a care for herself. She beat her breast, tore her hair, and, on the spot where they had found Yvgeny sprawled with the knife still between his ribs, she wailed for her son. I remember dragging her away from there. She was hysterical, screaming invectives I never suspected she knew. I think she tried to bite me. At that moment, I don't believe she knew who I was."
Mars allowed a silence to close over them. The boisterous sounds of the restaurant seemed abruptly at odds with their own tiny world, and Irina found herself wanting to scream. Shut up! Shut up! Why are you all so happy?
At last Mars said, "Is she still alive?"
"Only after a fashion," Irina said.
"I'm sorry." He took her hand, stroked it with his thumb. "But words are so inadequate sometimes, aren't they?"
Irina looked into his eyes, aware of some subtle difference. It was like walking into a garden one had known all one's life, and finding that one rock had been shifted ever so slightly, but that this alteration had in some magical way transformed the aspect of the entire garden.
She said, "Sometimes nothing more is needed than being there." Something had changed in her relationship with Mars. But what was it?
The following Saturday, Mars asked her to go with him to visit his parents. Irina agreed, although she did not really know why. She suspected that she would be bored.
As it turned out, she was wrong. Mars's parents lived in a beautiful old cream-colored house on Bolshaya Ordynka Street. Its front was shaded with lime trees. It was quite near the 350-year-old Church of St. Nicholas of Pyzhi, whose architecture was so Eastern baroque, it reminded Irina of a wedding cake.
Mars's mother and father were wonderful people, warm and full of love for one another. Irina watched them covertly, almost shyly. And although they looked at each other or touched only rarely, they seemed always aware of one another's presence.
They loved the special foods she and Mars had brought, and Mars went out of his way to say that the Nova Scotia salmon was a special gift from Irina herself, Irina helped Mars's mother in the kitchen, and found that they had an easy and almost instantaneous rapport that stemmed from cooking. They shared suggestions, then little secrets they had learned. They laughed together.
Near to dinnertime, Mars's sister and her family arrived. She looked like Mars, and was very beautiful. But she seemed shy, and when Irina at length arranged to talk with her, confessed to being unhappy with her thick-waisted, heavy-legged body. "I am just what the American magazines portray Russian women to be like," she said with a sigh.
Her children-two boys and a girl-were well-behaved, and they obviously adored their grandfather, who played games with them and loved tricking them, then telling them how he did so. Often, there were gales of laughter.
The children's father, Mars's brother-in-law, worked as an architect. Mostly, he said, he drew up plans for concrete housing developments, which Irina privately thought must be the height of boredom, like driving a bus back and forth along the same route all day long. He was an altogether ordinary-looking fellow, whose face was transformed when he watched his children.