Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

A small bearded man in a burgundy suit—an actor whose name Konstantyn couldn’t remember—stepped onto the stage and the hall burst into applause. He welcomed everyone to the Miss USSR beauty competition, the first of its kind in the Union (“Second,” Konstantyn muttered), and reminded the audience of the prizes to be claimed: a victory tour around the Union, a large-screen television, and a white dress. The orchestra played the city’s anthem as the judges filed in and found their seats, solemn faces fit for a court proceeding. Irina Glebovna was the last to enter the stage. She wore a brown pantsuit with thick, armor-like shoulder pads, and her skin possessed the yellowish sheen of the embalmed. Before taking a seat, she installed herself in front of the announcer’s microphone and gave a spirited speech about the importance of a Union glued together not only by a common economy and language, but also by a common culture—three components guaranteeing peace, to be enjoyed by many generations to come.

The pageant opened with the gown round. The thirty-five contestants waited at the far end of the stage, a row of silhouettes in the dim lighting. When called, each stepped into the spotlight, and strutted down the runway holding a white paper fan labeled with a number. Unlike the hodgepodge of contestants in Konstantyn’s pageant, the young women here had a uniform look: pastel gowns, teased hairstyles, aggressive teeth-and-gums smiles.

Contestant Number 14, from Turkmenistan, bobbed a curtsy at the end of the runway.

Contestant Number 18, from Georgia, blew a kiss.

Finally the announcer called, “Orynko Bondar from Kirovka, Ukraine!”

The Minister of Culture straightened in her seat. She raised an index finger to the camera crew in warning: Be ready to cut.

Zaya marched in front of the Party members, the spotlight trailing her like a blazing eye. She wore makeup so thick it looked creamy, like something that needed refrigeration—an administrator’s doing, he assumed. Zaya’s puffy sleeves—decades out of style, Konstantyn saw now—bulged with the crown and sash. Did he still want her to put them on? He tried to catch her eye, but on she trooped, one high-heeled foot in front of the other. She appeared unshaken by the size of the audience, gazing straight ahead as if walking a tightrope. In one moment Konstantyn felt himself rising in his seat, ready to snatch her from the stage’s deep maw; the next, he egged the girl on: show them, Miss Kirovka, show them that neither you, nor your townspeople, nor your country, will be silenced.

At last she reached the end of the runway. And—nothing happened. Instead of revealing the crown and sash, she simply turned on her heel and strode back upstage, as if this had been the plan all along.

Konstantyn felt dizzy with relief. He was grateful for her disobedience. Had the spectators recognized the name? Had they caught the significance of Miss Kirovka’s presence?

Zaya rejoined the line of silhouettes. As the other contestants continued to file down the runway, domestic worries filled Konstantyn’s mind, thrilling in their newness. He thought of the shoes and coat Zaya would need for the upcoming winter, the schoolbooks he would have to procure.

His attention was wrenched back to the stage at the word “Norgorsk.” The twenty-first contestant stepped under the spotlight. Orchestral music swelled as she glided down the runway in an opal mermaid gown and a white fur shawl that glowed under the lights. Her silvery hair had been teased and crimped into a leonine mane. Konstantyn thought he had never seen someone so breathtaking, but as she approached, he realized he had.

It was Orynko Bondar. This time, the real Orynko Bondar.

Konstantyn watched in disbelief. The name the announcer had called couldn’t have been hers—Konstantyn would have caught it. She had been given a stage name, he figured, something more urban. He searched Orynko’s face for signs of trauma. She looked older, perhaps, her features settling into their adult state, but whatever trials she’d undergone during her exile seemed to have left no mark. She’d returned to her first home—the stage. She flapped her fan around her shoulders like a dove, to roaring applause. Charmingly bashful, she waved at the audience, as though she’d personally invited each one of them and couldn’t believe they’d all come.

Konstantyn turned to look at Irina Glebovna. Was this her doing? Was she using Orynko, the seasoned contestant, for some nefarious end? But Irina Glebovna seemed just as surprised as Konstantyn by the original Miss Kirovka’s reappearance. The Minister’s expression wavered between wonder and anguish as she watched her grand pageant fade away. Later that evening, Konstantyn would learn the truth from Orynko herself: the remote Norgorsk also had a Cultural Club and its director had insisted, upon discovering her, that she represent the town. The smelting factory boasted its own private airport, and the rest had fallen into place.