Tata would tell the story to everyone she met with great pride before showing them an important family relic—a crystal ashtray with a broken corner, which Galina had bought at a street market.

“This was my father’s,” Tata would say. “He gave it to me on my third birthday.”

To Galina’s surprise, her relations with Alov did not come to an end. Once or twice a month, he would invite her to his office to “drink tea.” Those visits would end with passionate sessions on the office divan, after which Galina would leave deeply satisfied, not so much by Alov’s prowess as a lover but by the thought of having taken revenge on her cow-eyed rival.

She had three abortions, the last of which, to her relief, had made her blessedly infertile. This, at least, put an end to the twice a year visits to the midwife to be “cleaned out.”

Galina was twenty-nine, and her face was already etched with the first faint lines of suffering. If anyone ever asked her what she liked to do best, she would answer, “Smoking.”

4

Alov ordered Galina to go to work with the American journalist as an assistant. “We need someone to keep an eye on that character. Try to work your charms on him.”

Now, they had been reduced to Alov acting as if he were Galina’s pimp.

Every day, when she came home, she would complain of him to her imaginary partner, who she thought of as her man. She had lived side by side with this man for years now; falling asleep by his side, having breakfast together, going out for walks, and sharing her most precious and secret thoughts with him. Galina’s man had strong hands, thick, dark eyebrows, and a long fringe that fell over his forehead. He was reliable and generous, able to laugh at himself, and quite incapable of displaying greed, selfishness, cruelty, or dull indifference to the troubles of others.

Galina had become resigned to the thought that she would never have such a man. Her lot in life was to scurry about like a mouse, trying to find a crumb to eat, to build her little nest, and bring up her daughter.

And yet all of a sudden, here he was, a man who appeared to have been created from her own dreams. A man too marvelous to be real—her new employer. This foreigner who spoke Russian with a slight accent; this man whom she was obliged to betray.

Nobody treated Galina like him before. Klim would offer her real coffee or sweets. From sheer force of habit, he would pull out a chair for Galina or open the door for her. When he gave her a parcel to take to the post office, his fingers brushed her own, and the mere touch of his hand would send waves of heat through her body that made her weak at the knees.

Alov asked her to tell him in detail what Klim got up to and what he thought about the politics of the Soviet government.

“He calls the revolution an experiment,” she reported, her eyes lowered. “But he enjoys working here, and he likes Soviet people. He was born in Moscow, you see, but he left Russia as a child.”

There was much more that Galina chose not to tell Alov. Sometimes, when she heard Klim talking about the USSR, she wanted to cover her ears.

“To hear the Bolsheviks speak, they’re waging war on the capitalists,” he told her once. “But they are actually at each other’s throats. They produce nothing but hatred and are obliged to consume it themselves.”

If Alov had found out about these conversations, he would immediately have included Klim on the list of enemy journalists and demanded that the Press Department deport him.

“Where’s Rogov’s wife?” asked Alov, making a note in the official file.

Galina herself would have liked to know. “He never talks about her. I tried to ask Kitty, but she told me that he had forbidden her to say anything about her mother. I didn’t like to insist.”

“You did the right thing,” Alov nodded. “We don’t want Rogov to get suspicious. Well, congratulations. You’ve done a good job, and you’ll get a bonus this month. Come to the Trade Union Committee, and you can pick up a free ticket for a lecture on ‘The Question of Rejuvenation and Immortality.’”

At night, Galina would lie in bed, eyes wide open, horrified at what she was doing.

I’m betraying the man I love—and not even for thirty pieces of silver but for tickets to lectures I don’t want to go to.

But the next day, back she would go to Chistye Prudy, say good morning to Klim, and sit down at the typewriter to take dictation of the next article. Klim would walk to and fro, thinking aloud, and Galina would stare at him. Everything inside her would seem to contract into a single point of brilliant light.

“Dearest one,” she would repeat to herself, “God give you happiness—that’s all I ask.”

5

Afrikan came in from the street, dragging in some fragrant pine logs after him, and began to lay a fire in the fireplace.

“The law courts are saying that sharing a primus stove counts as having a family with this person,” he muttered. “Along comes some woman with a can full of paraffin, fries eggs for you, and you’re done for.”

Afrikan shot a glance toward the door to see if Galina was coming. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “You listen to me, sir,” he said. “Don’t let Galina near the primus, or she’ll make mincemeat of you.”

Klim laughed. “And what about Kapitolina? Can I trust her to use the stove?

Afrikan sighed. “Sorry, sir, but you don’t understand anything.” He shuffled about for a minute, tending to the fire, and then went off to the gatekeeper’s lodge.

In fact, Galina had become indispensable to Klim. She was now his secretary, housekeeper, courier and, most importantly, a nanny to Kitty. Kapitolina had taken to calling her the “deputy mistress.”

Klim handed over all the housekeeping money to Galina with a sense of relief. Before long, his apartment was utterly transformed. Every week, Galina would go to an auction at the Church of St. Pimen where goods left over from second-hand stores were put up for sale.

Soon, Klim was the owner of a wind-up gramophone, a pair of oriental jugs, and a bronze figurine of a shepherdess that served as an inkwell. His living room was furnished with elegant chairs and an enormous mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling while the holes in the plaster were covered with cinema posters featuring Pola Negri and Clara Bow. The table was laid properly for every meal, and a full dinner service with gold trim stood in the display cabinet. The general effect, while strange, was very comfortable and convivial.

Galina and Kitty hit it off almost immediately, but Klim wasn’t sure how to act with Galina. He felt guilty to see her doing so much for him for the salary he paid. As a sign of his gratitude, he took her to a shoemaker who served the city’s foreign embassy staff and had some elegant shoes and smart, fur-lined boots specially made for her.

Kapitolina gasped when she saw the new purchases.

“Don’t let anyone see them!” she exclaimed. “You might get them pinched. Hide them in the trunk, quick!”

But Klim insisted Galina wore the boots. “A woman should give the impression of elegance at all times.”

When Afrikan found out about the presents, he told Klim he was a dead man.

6 BOOK OF THE DEAD

I’ve given several interviews to newspapers and even gone on the radio talking about life in China in the hope that my wife will hear about me and get in touch. But there are so few radio sets in Moscow, and what are the chances of Nina passing a loudspeaker on the street at exactly the right moment?

I’ve tried going to the police to find out if anyone has heard anything about a Chinese coat decorated with embroidered dragons, but it’s no use. The women in the offices are either too lazy to take on any extra work or don’t want anything do with me.

Without connections in high places, it’s impossible to fight your way through the red tape of Soviet bureaucracy, so I’ve decided to go to some high society functions in the hope of finding new friends.

These banquets are held in palaces confiscated from the Tsar and always attended by the same crowd: ambassadors and diplomats, senior officials, and People’s Commissars with their wives. By way of entertainment, they invite along certain pet poets, actors, and musicians. We foreign correspondents have taken the place of the aristocracy and are now the embodiment of “polite society.”

So far, things have not been going too well. I only have to mention the word “China” to be met by strange looks and vague mutterings: “I don’t know,” “I’ve never been there,” or “Sorry. I haven’t the time right now.” Nobody wants to be associated with the Soviets’ debacle in the Far East. Strange, as only a few months ago, every loyal Party member thought it his duty to support the Chinese revolution.

Duplicity is, in my opinion, the chief characteristic of the Soviet official. In public, the Party leaders try to look as much like workers as possible: they dress like workers, behave like workers, and even curse every time they open their mouths. But in private, in their own circle, they indulge in every extravagance imaginable.

Almost all the Soviet leaders have left their wives (old Bolshevik party members) and found themselves new girlfriends. Any respectable man these days, it seems, has to have a charming young lady on his arm.

If the masses only knew how their leaders amuse themselves! The functions I’ve been to have nothing in common with the workers’ leisure activities praised in Party leaflets. Glittering chandeliers, the delicate tinkle of china bearing the royal monogram, and imperious waiters, who once served in the household of the emperor, slipping between the tables. These old servants go about their duties with a fastidious sense of detachment as if to announce that their new clients are not fit to use plates previously owned by grand dukes.