Sashenka

A gaggle of elderly men and women sat in a half circle of canvas chairs in the evening light, warmed by the hot asphalt—the mottled men in fedoras, white vests and shorts, displaying creased old bellies and white-furred chests, the swollen women in cheap sandals and sundresses with floppy hats, broad in hip, white skin burning raw. The men were reading the newspapers or playing chess, while the women talked, pointed, laughed, whispered and talked more.

At their center was Marfa, Vanya’s fishwife of a mother, a cheerful walrus in a straw hat.

“Hey, there’s my daughter-in-law,” Marfa cried out raucously. “Sashenka, I’m telling them about the May Day party and who turned up at the dacha. They can’t believe it.”

Her father-in-law, Nikolai Palitsyn, an old peasant, pointed proudly at Sashenka. “She talked to HIM!” said Nikolai. “HIM!” He raised his eyes to heaven.

“But HE mentioned how much he admired Vanya!” added Vanya’s mother.

Sashenka tried to smile but Vanya’s parents were a source of danger. The courtyard was in its way quite select: these were all the parents of bosses but any gossiping was reckless, and could prove fatal.

“Hello, Comrade Satinov,” called out the old Palitsyns.

Satinov waved, impeccably smart in tunic and boots.

“I’m showing Hercules the new car,” Sashenka said. “Can you believe them?” she whispered. “How can we shut them up?”

“Don’t worry, Vanya will keep them quiet. Now tell me what’s happened,” he said.

“Mouche called. They’ve arrested Gideon. I thought it was all over except for a few special cases. I thought…”

“Mostly it’s over but it’s our system now. It’ll never be over. It’s the way we make our USSR safe, and we’re living in such dangerous times. Probably it’s nothing, Sashenka. Gideon’s always been a law unto himself. He’s probably got drunk, told a stupid joke or groped Molotov’s sourpuss wife. Remember: do and say nothing.”

A Buick drew up and the driver opened the door.

“It’s Vanya.”

Sashenka was not surprised to see her husband looking bleary, unshaven and exhausted—it was the hours he worked, and the stress.

“What is it?” he asked, before he even kissed Sashenka or greeted Satinov.

“I’m going upstairs to play with the children,” said Satinov.

“Did you know about Gideon’s arrest?” Sashenka asked her husband, while, for the benefit of the geriatrics and the guards, she pretended to look at the car.

Vanya took her smooth hands in his big ones. “Rest assured, they’re very pleased with me at the moment. I don’t know any details but they mentioned it to me and I just said, ‘Let our comrades check him out.’ Understand? I promise you this doesn’t touch us in any way.”

Sashenka looked into Vanya’s reassuringly proletarian face, taking in his lined forehead, greying temples and crumpled uniform. She was so relieved that they were safe. Gideon was a special case, she told herself, a European writer who knew foreigners, who visited whorehouses in Paris, who gave interviews to English newspapers. Once again, she was grateful for her husband’s rock-like stability. Then she remembered Benya’s sarcasm about his “boisterous” hard work, which, in turn, was obscured by a delicious memory of Benya’s lips on her body earlier that day. A trickle of unease ran down her spine.

Upstairs, Snowy and Carlo were chasing Satinov round the apartment. Sashenka came in as they caught Satinov and tickled him.

“Tell me, Uncle Hercules,” said Snowy, sitting astride her godfather, “where do cushions live?”

“Cushonia, of course.” Satinov had helped Snowy develop her fantasy world. “Are they Wood Cushions, Sky Cushions or Sea Cushions?”

“Hercules, you’re such a sport,” said Sashenka. “You’ll be marvelous when you have your own!”

“I love these children,” said Satinov as he surrendered to them, allowing Carlo to pull off his boots.

Carolina came in to announce that dinner was ready.

19

Gideon was numb with fear as the car crossed Red and Revolution squares, then climbed the hill toward Lubianka Square. His vision crumpled as five mountainous storeys of grey granite and three of yellow brick overshadowed the car, which turned through a side gate into Lubianka Prison.

His mind kept working. He thought remorsefully of his brother, whom he had not seen for almost ten years and whom he had not telephoned since 1935. Surely Samuil had understood that it was risky for them to be in contact? But where was he now?

Gideon remembered his brother at the mansion on Greater Maritime Street, in that study crammed with Edwardian bric-a-brac, clanking on his Trotting Chair. How could it be that he had ceased to exist?