Red Sparrow

She related the timeline of the operation, from the walk-in to the hotel meeting. No, she was unaware that there had been an incident, she knew nothing about an apparent arrest after she and the rezident had departed the Kämp. Rezident Volontov had not mentioned anything was wrong. Digtyar did not take notes, did not refer to any file. They were taping it all, looking at her face, watching her hands. She resisted the urge to look for where the cameras could be. Don’t look, don’t think, no one can help you, you have to do this yourself, this is your journey to make alone.

They took her passport and let her go home that night. Her mother came to the front door in her dressing gown, initially surprised, but it took less than a second for her face to close down, her eyes to become blank.

“Dominushka, what a surprise, come in, let me look at you. I did not know you were coming home,” her mother said flatly. Caution.

“It was an unexpected trip,” said Dominika in as normal a voice as possible. “It’s good to be home, Mama, it’s good to see you again.” Danger. Mother and daughter hugged, they kissed each other’s cheeks the requisite three times, and hugged again.

Dominika did not dare clutch her, she could not break down. They might be watching, listening. Mother and daughter stayed up and Dominika prattled on about the Finns, about life abroad. She had to sleep, she had work in the morning. Another kiss, and her mother stroked her cheek, then shuffled off to bed. She knew.

They picked her up in the morning and deposited her back at Ryazanskiy, and she told the story again, this time to three men sitting at a table with the bowl of roses in front of them, probably an audio pickup tucked among the flowers. No one spoke, but they turned the pages in an unmarked file—had that pig Volontov sent in a report that quickly? They filed out and left her alone, then filed back in and she told the story again, just the same. They were looking for changes, contradictions. Dominika had never been stared at like that in her life, worse than in ballet school, worse even than the men looking at her at Sparrow School. She felt her throat constrict, felt the rage coming, but resisted and returned their stares with unflinching eyes. She did not let them near the icy secret in her breast.

All day it lasted, then she was permitted to go home. Her mother had shchi, a rich meat stew, in the oven, the smell of dacha and vegetables and memories of snowy mornings filled the apartment. Dominika’s hand shook as she ate, her mother not eating, sitting across from her, watching. She knew.

Her mother had not played professionally in fifteen years, but got up and came back to the kitchen with a case. It was a common violin, nothing like her Guarneri, but she sat close to her daughter at the table and put it under her chin and played slowly, Schumann or Schubert, Dominika didn’t know. The violin vibrated, the notes thick and rich and red-purple, like long ago in the living room with Batushka.

“Your father was always very proud of you,” said her mother as she played. Was she consciously playing to defeat any microphones? Impossible. Her mother? “He always hoped that your enthusiasms, your patriotic duty, would sustain you.” Her eyes were closed. “He was desperate to tell you how he felt, he who had succeeded in the system. But he did not dare. He did not speak because he wanted to protect you.” She opened her eyes but continued playing, as if in a trance, her fingers firm and sure on the fingerboard. “He despised them, he would tell you now, in your time of trouble.” What had she guessed, how did she know? “His whole life. He wanted to tell you. Now I will tell you,” her mother whispered. “Resist them. Fight them. Survive.” With the last word she stopped playing and laid the violin on the table, got up, kissed her daughter on the head, and walked out of the room. The music lingered in the air, the violin was warm where it had rested beneath her mother’s chin.

The next day a succession of offices, with one man or two or three, or a woman in a suit with her hair in a bun, cloudy black and evil, who came around the desk to sit close to her, or Colonel Digtyar with the yellow caved-in skull asking her to describe the pattern of the rug in the room of the Kämp Hotel, and the doors sometimes closing softly behind her, sometimes slammed with a bang that shook the frame, We don’t believe you. Then the unbelievable, the monstrous, the impossible, the inevitable.