Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

Zaya looked blank.

“Sixteen,” Konstantyn intervened. This was Orynko’s age.

“Engaged or married?”

Zaya shook her head.

“Children?”

“What about them?”

“Do you have any, or are you expecting.”

“She’s sixteen,” Konstantyn repeated.

“If she bleeds between the legs it’s possible.”

“I don’t bleed between the legs,” said Zaya.

Both Konstantyn and the administrator turned to her in surprise. The subject had never come up, but Konstantyn had assumed it was because Zaya was tending to it on her own, stoically, the way women did.

The administrator ticked something on her page. Seeing the look on Konstantyn’s face, she said, “I don’t make the questions.” At last she asked Zaya, “Name and provenance?”

“My name is Orynko Bondar, from Kirovka, Ukraine,” the girl announced, in a stage voice Konstantyn wished she’d save for the stage. He tensed, the gravity of the moment settling on his shoulders like a lead coat. The original Orynko Bondar had been carted away hundreds of kilometers to prevent her from being here today, from uttering those simple words. Konstantyn was ready to pull out a small envelope of cash in case the administrator recognized Miss Kirovka’s name and refused to add it, but it appeared that no such directive had trickled down to her. “How about a stage name? Something a tad more”—the woman paused, choosing her words—“urban.”

Something a tad more Russian, he knew she’d meant. “We’re keeping the name.”

The administrator shrugged, recorded the name, and opened the dressing room door for the new contestant. Fumes of aerosols, eaux de toilette, and singed hair burst forth, as did the sounds of spraying, peeling, and other torturous acts. The administrator rushed down the corridor to tend to the girl with the hair rollers, who had begun retching again.

Zaya and Konstantyn stood at the doorway. He could accompany her no further. He was supposed to hand off the suitcase with the marriage-registration dress, bathing costume, makeup, crown, and sash, but found himself unable to do so. The dressing room threw a cold, cutting light on Zaya’s skin. He had an urge to yank her away from it, reverse his horrid plan. He could no longer convince himself that, once the face of Miss Kirovka’s double was broadcast around the Union, she would be safe. After all, he had not been able to predict Orynko’s exile.

“You don’t have to do this,” he blurted. “We can turn around, go home.”

With that last word, “home,” the future rearranged itself in a splendid vision. His home would be hers, too. He’d sleep on a cot in the corridor, give her the entire room. Never would the girl suffer again. He’d enroll her in school, a good school, where she would be surrounded by knowledgeable people—much more knowledgeable than Konstantyn—who would teach her about the dynamics of flight, planetary orbits, anything she had ever wondered about.

“Kostya,” she said softly, “I’m living out a girl’s dream.” Her face was closed to him, as though she were already gone. She took the suitcase, stepped into the dressing room.

—

The Palace of Culture lectorium dwarfed the one in Kirovka. Its four curved balconies hummed with spectators waiting for the show to begin. A red runner carpet—the catwalk—bisected the stage. To the right a television crew hustled around a nest of cables. To the left stood the judges’ table, the six brass nameplates designating the seats waiting to be filled: MINISTER OF CULTURE, CHAIRMAN OF COUNCIL OF MINISTERS, STATE COMMITTEE CHAIRMAN, PROCURATOR GENERAL, PAINTER, COMPOSER. Snatches of melody rose from the narrow orchestra pit, where the musicians were warming up.

Konstantyn sat in the second row, main level. He was so close to the stage, he could smell its newly varnished floor. He tried to let himself sink into the cheerful chatter around him. He envied the other spectators their simple motive for being here—to enjoy themselves, watch a good show.

The lights dimmed. An oboist blew a piercing note, joined by the woodwinds, brass, strings, timpani. Konstantyn had heard an orchestra tune only a handful of times in his life and, despite his nervousness, the sound of the instruments joining in a single voice made him shiver with pleasure.