"You were the 'Voice of Smolensk,' the 'Conscience of the Comintern Youth,' " Anna said, quoting from the inscriptions on his decorations. "Your testimony carried weight."

"I'd like to know what kind of significance that still has today," he said, instinctively lowering his voice.

She poured out the b.u.t.termilk. "Who else can I ask, Papa? n.o.body talks about those things."

"What would be the point? That's all in the past. The Party healed itself from within a long time ago." The sausage slices were getting thinner and thinner.

"Politicians' plat.i.tudes," she said, teasing her father with one of his own favorite expressions.

"I never gave testimony at any trial." Viktor Ipalyevich thought for a moment and then added, "However, my doctor was arrested."

"What do you mean, your doctor?" Neither of them had yet touched any of the food on the table.

"Doctor Mikhoels. He removed my ganglion." Viktor Ipalyevich showed Anna his right hand. "It was on my middle finger. I could hardly hold a pen. The doctor was pretty arrogant, but a good surgeon. It was the only time I was ever questioned." He held up a slice of sausage to the light. "Respected physicians were accused of forming a conspiracy. It was said that their goal was to poison the Party leadership."

"Why in the world would they have wanted to do that?"

"It's hard to understand without some historical context. The fact that they were doctors wasn't really the point." Viktor Ipalyevich took a bite and chewed it. "In 1948, the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee was dissolved. From that time on, Pravda referred to Jews as 'rootless cosmopolitans.' Of the thirteen physicians who were arrested, eleven were Jews. Doctor Mikhoels was among the accused."

"And did you testify?"

He shook his head. "That wasn't required of me. There were plenty of others available for that."

"What happened to Doctor Mikhoels?"

"He remained alive, but he had to leave Moscow. They took him somewhere."

"But ... haven't you ever wondered ... ?"

"No." He threw himself against the back of his chair. "I'm an artist. I represent my own minority."

"What happened to Doctor Mikhoels's family?"

"I have no idea. His family-what does that matter to you?"

"Were they deported, too?"

Her father was getting exasperated. "The man operated on my ganglion! How should I know what happened to his family?"

Anna spread b.u.t.ter on a piece of bread and cut it into small pieces. "If a non-Russian had a family member who was convicted in one of those trials, what would have been his lot? The survivor's, I mean. What do you think would have happened to him?"

"A non-Russian? No, no. Most of the Jews who were executed were native Russians."

"But let's suppose a Hungarian-or a Ukrainian, say-had someone in his family who-"

Viktor Ipalyevich laid both hands noisily on the table. "Enough. I don't know where we're supposed to be going with all this. Let's eat, and then Petya and I are going for a walk."

"What's a Jew, Grandpa?" The gentle voice came from the depths of the sleeping alcove.

"That's what you get," Anna's father grumbled to her. Then he called out, "If we come across one, I'll show him to you."

The small, tousled head appeared. Petya climbed up onto his chair, and his mother served him his bread and b.u.t.ter. "How are you today?" she asked, stroking his head.

"I feel good. Can we go to the park?" he asked Viktor Ipalyevich.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"I think I'll have a bath today." Anna examined her fingernails. If she soaked in the tub long enough, the paint spatters would (she thought wistfully) go away.

A short while later, she heard the two walkers heading down the stairs. Anna was glad to have some quiet minutes alone in the apartment. The water wasn't as hot as she'd hoped; she heated some in the kitchen, added it, and dropped her clothes. Although the bathtub was too short, she lolled in the water as best she could. Her plashing echoed from the tiled walls, and she quickly grew weary. She soaped her hands and laid them on her stomach. What if-she wondered-what if Alexey made his confession to forestall mine? The thought was there suddenly, as if it had arisen from the steam. Anna breathed more slowly. Had he figured out what she wanted to confide to him, perhaps because he'd known it for some time already? She raised her head, and water dripped from her hair. The idea seemed so ridiculous that she laughed out loud. Why the devil had he told her about his father's trial? Alexey Bulyagkov was a Deputy Minister: For the first time, Anna pondered why, when he actually made more decisions concerning research planning than the Minister himself, Alexey was still that Minister's deputy. Did the reason have to do with his family background, with his father's long fall from grace? A non-Russian, she thought: a Ukrainian. When she was a Pioneer Girl, she'd been taught the doctrine of the different national paths to socialism. In her workaday life, she'd realized that the lovely theory she'd learned had been supplanted by the concept of Russian primacy. Even in such a subsidiary structure as Anna's building combine, the nationalistic hierarchy was unmistakable: Although Valdas, the Lithuanian, coordinated every building project the combine undertook, the Russian, Yarov, remained the foreman. When the materials elevator broke down, it wasn't the Russian women you saw hauling the heavy buckets, it was the Kazakh women. In the light of this observation, Anna found it remarkable that a foreigner, a Ukrainian who'd fled to Russia, had made it all the way into the Central Committee's inner circle.

She noticed the wrinkled skin on her fingers; her bath had cooled. Since she couldn't get any warmer water to flow out of the faucet, she reached for a bath towel. She'd just finished drying her legs when the telephone rang. Of late, most calls had been for Viktor Ipalyevich; the government press had questions about setting the poetry volume, and the poet was under pressure to deliver the completed ma.n.u.script. Expecting that she would have to apologize for her father, she picked up the phone.

The man at the other end of the line spoke Anna's name without introducing himself. "I'm in Moscow," he said, as though this piece of information alone sufficed to explain his call.

Had she not seen that television program a few days previously, she wouldn't have had the remotest chance of identifying the caller by his voice.

"Don't you know who I am?" Nikolai Lyushin asked, practically insulted.

"How did you get this number?"

"You can figure that out yourself, Comrade." He laughed harshly. "I know hardly anybody in Moscow, and I have no plans for this evening. Therefore, I'm taking the liberty of inviting you to come out with me."

"Why would you ask me out?"

"During our little quantum chat, you showed that you were a gifted student. And so I thought you might wish to delve into the subject a little more deeply."

The safest answer would have been a no, but Anna's time in Kamarovsky's service had taught her to sense, behind every event, the presence of another event. Lyushin's proposal had a deeper meaning, and it was her duty to fathom that meaning. Therefore, she said, in a slightly friendlier voice, "It's already pretty late."

"Don't they say that the Moscow night never ends? I'm sitting in the Ukraina hotel, and I'm bored to death. Just a little drink, Comrade-what do you say?"

"I have to wait until my son comes home. Can you call back in half an hour?"

Delighted by her apparent change of heart, he said, "I'll reserve the best table!"

She stood before the sofa, lost in thought. Although the floor was wet under her feet, she didn't go back into the bathroom, but instead opened her telephone book. There was only one person she could ask for advice. Anna looked up the number of the Moscow Times. She hadn't talked with Rosa since Dubna, and so some flowery greetings would have been in order, but Anna skipped all courtesies and went directly to Lyushin's offer.

Rosa asked, "Has he said what he wants?"

"At first, I thought he'd come here on account of this television program, The Open Ear. Don't you and your colleagues know why he's in Moscow?"

"So Lyushin turned on the charm for you, did he?" Rosa asked, ignoring Anna's question. "But he knows about you and Bulyagkov."

"Should I turn down the invitation?"

"Well, he can hardly start fumbling with your underclothes in the restaurant of the Ukraina hotel."

"It's not so far from the restaurant to his room."

Rosa laughed. "You mean you'd like to go there?"

The question was a provocation, and still it caught Anna off guard. At that moment, it became clear to her that she had a real desire to put a few scratches on Nikolai Lyushin's dandified facade. She asked, "Shall I inform Kamarovsky?"

"I'll take care of that," came the immediate reply. "You should go to the Ukraina. Wouldn't you enjoy turning one of the most brilliant heads in Russia? Order the most expensive things on the menu, bleed the fellow dry, thank him for a pleasant evening, and leave the restaurant." She hesitated, as if there were still something she wanted to say. "Call me up afterward, no matter how late it is."

While Anna, now dressed in a bathrobe, was wiping up the wet floor, she heard the light footsteps and the heavy footsteps mounting the stairs together. She went to the little vestibule, opened the door for father and son, and looked for her blue dress in the wall closet. Petya told her about a dog that had almost been run over. When Viktor Ipalyevich saw that Anna was making preparations to go out, he turned ostentatiously to his poems.

SIXTEEN.

The physicist was wearing a light gray suit inappropriate to the season and a blue shirt that set off his burnished hair. He'd secured one of the much-requested alcove tables. As Anna approached, he stood up and offered her the seat next to his on the upholstered banquette. She noticed that he had unusually small ears and a liver spot on his chin. Anna sat on the wooden chair across from him.

"The band's behind you if you sit there," he said, trying to change her mind.

She looked over her shoulder. The little stage was empty. "How did you get my telephone number?"

He laughed. "The hotel in Dubna keeps complete lists of its guests. There was only one house painter in your delegation. Riddle solved."

Although a gla.s.s of wine was in front of him, Anna got a whiff of stronger liquor. She spread her napkin on her lap.

"It's wild game week in this restaurant. They have Manchurian venison. Or would you prefer capercaillie, or maybe some hazel grouse?"

"What are you having?" she asked, ignoring his display of esoteric culinary information.

"We could start with snipes' eggs. The red wine is outstanding."

She consented to the wine but wanted no appetizer. There was noise behind her as the musicians came back from their break and took up their places. Their stage was a semicircular platform thrusting out from the back wall and festooned with flower garlands. Above the stage hung a chandelier.

"Tell me about your father," Lyushin said, opening the conversation. "What's he writing at the moment?"

"How do you know who my father is?" Anna had been happy to learn about the hotel guest list, because it meant that Alexey had nothing to do with Lyushin's information, but now mistrust was reawakened.

"You gave yourself away!" Lyushin plucked happily at the corner of the tablecloth. "Your name was on the delegation's list as Anna Tsazukhina. Even in Moscow, Tsazukhin's a rare name. Can we expect a new volume of verse from your father soon?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music, which began as he was speaking.

The band launched into a lively tune, and the sudden volume of sound put an end to the conversation. The waiter came and took their order, bending down and bringing his ear close to Lyushin's mouth. "We'll have Manchurian venison," the physicist said. Then, addressing Anna again, he asked, "Did you by any chance watch The Open Ear the other afternoon?"

They discussed the broadcast and the interview until the waiter brought a new carafe of wine and filled their gla.s.ses.

"You have a perfect neck," Lyushin said. As he leaned forward, she smelled the alcohol on his breath again. "I'm glad you came."

She drew away from his touch and asked, "What brings you to Moscow?"

"I have an appointment with the Minister tomorrow," he answered. His casual tone failed to mask his desire to impress her.

"Are you going to meet Bulyagkov, too?" Now that Lyushin had brought up the Ministry, Anna was certain that Alexey knew he was in the capital.

"Of course. Without your friend, no research project gets off the ground." He clinked gla.s.ses with Anna and drank.

"Will the Ministry give you the resources you need?" she asked, daring to probe a little deeper.

"I like to think about our afternoon in Dubna. When you were wearing nothing but a woolen blanket." His hand played with Anna's knife. "You were a joy to behold. For those of us who live in barren isolation, such sights are rare." Seeking an excuse not to look at him, she turned around and faced the bandstand, where the portly fiddler was beginning a pa.s.sionate solo. "What shall we do afterward?" Lyushin asked. "Will you show me Moscow?"

"I work the early shift tomorrow." Even though Anna hadn't expected anything different, she was disappointed at the predictable course the encounter was taking. How nice it would be to be cuddled up with Petya in their sleeping nook right now, listening to Viktor Ipalyevich's sardonic commentary on the television offerings. She drank some of the heavy wine and let her eyes wander over the room, where every table was occupied.

"Is this your first time in the Ukraina?" Lyushin asked, interrupting her gazing. "Frightfully baronial, but still impressive, don't you think?"

All of a sudden, the situation appeared so grotesque to her that she stood up and excused herself. On the way to the ladies' room, she crossed paths with the waiter, who was bringing Lyushin's order of snipes' eggs. She hurried past the band and up some stairs; the female washroom attendant eyed her, calculating what sort of tip she might be likely to give. Anna leaned on a sink, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and washed her face with cold water.

A strange scene awaited her upon her return. Something had flown into the violinist's eye. He stood at the front of the bandstand, helplessly holding his instrument at arm's length, while his colleagues tried to remove the offending speck with their handkerchiefs. Entranced, the diners stared up at the stage, as though they were watching a group of acrobats performing a difficult trick. The fiddler cried out in pain and begged his comrades in G.o.d's name not to be so rough; then he sprang backward, fending off the others with his bow and shouting that he required medical attention. After a moment, he stepped forward again and began to speak, just as if his speech were part of the performance. "Please excuse me, but my pain is too great," he said. "Is there a doctor in this esteemed audience?"

n.o.body responded to the violinist's appeal, whereupon he actually bowed and then, with both eyes tightly shut, staggered off the stage. The ba.s.sist took over as announcer and informed the public that it would unfortunately be impossible for the group to continue without a violin. The members of the band formed a row, faced the audience, bowed as their injured colleague had done, and left the bandstand, accompanied by irritated applause. They marched past Anna, who then returned to her table and found Lyushin eating with apparent delight.

"Most delicious," he said, holding out a skewered snipe's egg to her. A half-full gla.s.s of vodka was on the table in front of him; between bites, he tossed down the remaining half. "It's not only poets who are poetic," he declared in a surprisingly loud voice. "Some sort of lyricism is granted to every creative person. We scientists, for example, possess as much imagination as writers do."

The waiter brought another gla.s.s of vodka.

"How else could we have named the streams of cosmic elements 'proton showers' or 'electron sheaves'? In order to characterize the quantum numbers of particles that have existed only in theory until now, we ascribe magical properties to them. Theoretical physics is the poetry of the sciences!"

Anna looked on as her companion got steadily drunker.

"The poetic in us is the longing to see into the depths of things, to comprehend their connections, to call out to the pa.s.sing moment and say, Stay awhile! Do you understand that, Anna?" It was obvious that he needed no encouragement to go on. "And I have succeeded!" He reached for his gla.s.s. "I have brought the moment to a halt. And I needed no Mephistopheles to help me do it!" He spoke the last words so loudly that a couple at a nearby table turned around. "Similar projects are under way in j.a.pan and the States," he continued more softly. "But they haven't got as far as we have. Not even close. They can't come up with any conclusive formula." He pointed at himself with his fork. "I can."

Anna's initial irritation had turned into amus.e.m.e.nt, which now gave way to curiosity. "The last time I saw you, you said you'd failed."

"It depends on how one fails," Lyushin said. He pushed his plate away and treated himself to another swallow of vodka. "I need more time, more time! But the dogs are breathing down my neck. They're after me like hyenas."

"Who's breathing down your neck, Professor Lyushin?"

A man in a black overcoat approached the part of the restaurant where gilded columns screened off the recesses containing individual tables from the rest of the dining room. His upper body leaned forward from the waist as he headed toward his goal. Anna noticed him first. While she was still wondering why he hadn't handed in his outer garments at the cloakroom, he entered the circle of light shed by the chandelier. With his hat on his head, Alexey looked to Anna like a Party leader from the provinces. In the shadow of the hat brim, his eyes were invisible, but his nose and cheeks were red from the cold.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he said, coming to a halt in front of the table.

At first, Lyushin had trouble reconciling Bulyagkov's presence with that time and place. Holding his gla.s.s in his right hand, he pointed at the newcomer with his left as if he'd forgotten the newcomer's name. "What are you doing here?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," Bulyagkov said to Anna.

She felt as though she'd landed in a scene from some anachronistic farce. There sat Lyushin, the charmer, too drunk to function; there stood Alexey, the lover, who seemed to have caught Anna red-handed; and here she crept, the crafty serpent, getting what she deserved.

"How did you find me?" Lyushin asked.

"My Ministry pays your expenses," Alexey answered.