Dancer - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Colum McCann (Book Four) #5

Book Four

Russia 1987

November 5, 1987

The thought of plane touching down next week. Landing on the ice, finally skidding to safety. He might be arrested on his stopover in Leningrad. Ilya says there will be no scheming, yet I am not sure. They could take him away for his seven years and who could stop them? I woke up perspiring. After breakfast I put on my coat and walked to the department store on Krassina. Everyone was walking around in the warmth. There were rumors of a shipment of toaster ovens but none came. In the afternoon Nuriya showed me the painting she has made for Rudik — crows along the Belaya and a single white seagull flying above the cliff. She wrapped the painting in butcher’s paper and said she would find a ribbon for it. She cannot contain her excitement, but at her age it is hardly surprising. Equal, I suppose, to my nervousness. Nuriya went to bed early and we could hear her tossing and turning. In Mother’s room I tried to tell her that Rudik will be coming in a few days. For a moment Mother’s eyes lit up with moisture as if to say: But how could that be? Then they fluttered closed again. How peaceful she looks when she sleeps and yet how terribly tortured when awake. The doctor has given her a couple more months. But what use is a couple of months when she has nothing to live for and no real body in which to live it out? Her mind continues to slip away. Ilya said perhaps Mother has stayed alive to see Rudik. Then he asked me if I am not old enough yet to forgive. Forgive? Does it matter? There is the simple reality that there is no soap and the handle of the toilet is broken.

November 6

There is much to do: darn the tablecloth, clean the window ledges, fix the table legs, let down the hem of Nuriya’s dress, boil Mother’s nightgown. Ilya was asked to do odd jobs at the Opera House. It is good news. More money.

November 7

Revolution Day. Blizzard across Ufa. The cold keeps us inside. The snow was three feet high in the graveyard and Ilya could not go out to prepare Father’s plot. A forty-eight-hour visa seems worse than allowing Rudik no time at all. The flights alone will take a whole day.

November 8

I watched Mother’s lips. It is an effort in mind-reading. Perhaps Ilya is correct that she has kept herself alive these last few years just for one more look at him. But you cannot cure three decades in a moment. The thought is pure stupidity. We have heard they are arranging a special room at the Rossiya Hotel. It is said that they have refrigerators which make ice cubes. Who would want them? In the afternoon the snow relented. A trip to the department store yielded no new nightdresses, but the second attempt to boil Mother’s was more successful. Deep in the cupboards I found an old gown with the faded imprint of tomato stains from the shingles. She has kept everything, even Rudik’s shoes. The toes are still scuffed and the backs are broken from the way he always stuffed his feet in.

November 9

Even the nursery rhyme in school today seemed to have implication: If you can’t find your way back, why did you leave in the first place? At the market we searched for sugar. Nuriya offered to barter the precious silver necklace we got for her fifteenth birthday. But still there was no sugar to be found. She cried. What is to be done? Ilya’s salary is two weeks in arrears. What can we use to sweeten the cakes? Perhaps there will be some miracle at the market — truckloads of sugar will arrive just in time, herring, sturgeon, and we will celebrate under a large white tent, drinking champagne to the music of an orchestra. Ha! Ilya has, at least, managed to find the parts for the bathroom plumbing.

November 10

There were teenagers behind the mosque wearing leather jackets. Their hair was untidy and they wore badges on their sleeves. Nuriya said she did not know them. One can imagine this sort of thing in Moscow or Leningrad, but here? People talk of another thaw, but do they not know that a thaw always brings a dirty stench?

November 11

Ilya says it takes great control not to tell anybody at the Opera House. The older workers have not dared speak Rudik’s name for years. And some of the dancers have only ever heard it spoken with viciousness. Ilya says the younger ones are dreadfully rebellious. If they found out they might try to greet him at the airport. Nuriya is counting the hours until his return. The days pass too slowly for her. She keeps changing outfits and looking in the mirror. She has a photograph of when Rudik was a teenager. I hope she will not be shocked when she sees him. The good news: Ilya found a half-kilo of sugar this evening and a shipment of beetroot came in from the countryside. All is not lost.

November 12

He has arrived then surely! Leningrad tonight, no flight out to Ufa until early morning, so there he must stay. We have waited for a call but there is nothing. Ilya keeps lifting the receiver to make sure there is a tone for the operator to put us through. I am convinced a call will come in the moments between Ilya lifting the receiver and setting it down. No sleep. Mother seems agitated, perhaps she understands what is happening. Surely it would have been worse not to tell her. If only she could speak. What cruel fate. We are full of questions. Is he traveling on his own? Will they say terrible things to him? Does he still have friends in Leningrad? Will they allow him to walk in the city? Will the newspapers report his visit? There is a rash on my arm, similar to Mother’s shingles. I am frightened beyond compare now, even the success of my banquet hardly matters. Ilya has finished the last repairs and he has found kumis for us to drink.

November 12–13, morning

The night turned slowly to day. The sky broke gray and the wind whipped outside. Snow piled up on the windscreen of the car provided to bring us to the airport. The driver refused to enter our house, so Ilya took him a steaming cup of tea. He flicked the windscreen wipers in thanks. The driver’s face was red and shaven and stern. (He looked suspiciously like the man who used to pilot the Driving School car.) Nuriya fretted over her bitten fingernails. I allowed her to wear a dab of lipstick, she threatened a tantrum otherwise. We put on our coats. Mother slept through our preparations and then Milyausha arrived to look after her. I looked at Mother and wondered if she had any idea that her son was coming back more than twice as old as when he left. If he puts a foot wrong they will surely throw him in prison and he will have to live out the seven years.

November 13

The roses I had bought were beautiful but the air wilted them by the time we reached the airport. It was like holding money and watching it devalue. We were taken to a waiting room, a small gray box with three chairs, a window, a table, and a silver ashtray. Three officials waited with us. Their hard looks wilted the roses even more. I was flooded with the awareness that I had no need to apologize for what Rudik did in the past — they were not my actions. The officials seemed to relent under my gaze. They even offered Ilya a cigarette. The skies cleared and we mistook a flock of birds for the plane. My stomach clenched with nerves. The flock broke up north and south and moments later the plane broke through. It listed sideways and then our view of the runway was obscured. We were taken from the waiting room into the arrivals area. Twenty guards with machine guns were lined up against the walls. Nuriya whispered: Uncle Rudik.

Eight-thirty

I held my breath for surely the whole fifteen minutes it took for him to emerge through the sliding doors. How my heart skipped! Rudik wore a coat of a material I did not recognize, a colorful scarf, a dark beret. His grin reminded me of when he was young. One suitcase in his hand. He put the case carefully on the ground and stretched out his arms. How was it possible to ever hate him? Nuriya ran to meet him first. He lifted her in the air and swung her around. He kept his arm around her and came towards me, kissed me twice. A photographer came up behind us and bulbs flashed. Rudik whispered that the photographer was from Tass, that he would be accompanying us for the day. He said: Pay no attention to him, he’s a donkey. I laughed. I had Rudik back, the true Rudik, dearest brother, not the one they created with so many lies. He held my face, stared into my eyes and took the roses from me, said they were wonderful. Then he pulled off my headscarf and I felt the deep shame of my grayness. He kissed me and said I looked beautiful. On closer inspection he too looked worn, there were deep lines on his face and crow’s-feet around his eyes. He was a little thinner than I expected. He lifted Nuriya in the air again and clenched her tight and spun her and all seemed well. I am home, he said. He was accompanied by a large Spanish man, Emilio, who he said was a bodyguard and a medical person of some sort. He was a huge man but his hands were soft and his eyes kind. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tucked beneath his collar. Rudik met Ilya for the first time. You are welcome to Ufa, said Ilya. Rudik shot him a look but then smiled. There were also two French officials, hovering around, loath to leave Rudik’s side. How strange it was to hear Rudik speak French as if born to it, but when he turned to me he switched to Tatar. He wanted to go see Mother immediately, but I said she was still sleeping and the doctor had advised a short visit in order not to tire her. She is sleeping? he said. He looked at a beautiful wristwatch: But I have less than twelve hours.

Nine-thirty

The argument was settled by the officials who said it was necessary that he check into the Rossiya first. Nuriya, Ilya, and I accompanied him in the black ZIL, along with his bodyguard. We were squashed. For a moment I thought of apologizing to them that it was not a Western limousine, but I caught myself and felt a surge of anger. Rudik sat by the window, holding Nuriya’s hand. She told him about a book she was reading. He seemed interested and even questioned her on the plot. He looked down at his watch, then took it off abruptly and stuffed it into Nuriya’s hand. It was a double watch — it told the time also in a display of digital numbers. He said Nuriya should give it to a boyfriend. She blushed and looked at her father. Can I keep it for myself, Uncle Rudik? He said of course and she put her head on his shoulder. He looked out the window as we drove. Look, the streets are paved. Rudik didn’t recognize a lot of the places, but when he did he shouted things like: I climbed that fence when I was seven. We drove past the lake where he used to skate. He commented on the flags: Remember? he said. He had a pair of tiny earphones hanging around his neck and when I asked him about them he reached into his pocket for the tiniest recording machine I had ever seen. He put the earphones over my head, pressed a button, and Scriabin filled the air. Rudik promised to give me the machine before he left. He whispered that he needed it for the rest of the day, it blocked out the noise of the Tass photographer who kept asking him ridiculous questions. He patted the palm of my hand: I am so nervous, he said. Can you believe that I am nervous? His voice sounded different. I wondered what he was nervous about? Being arrested, seeing Mother, or just being here? He said: Everything seems smaller. Then he turned to Ilya and talked for a while about how the seat latches on the flight from Leningrad didn’t work. The tray, he said, kept falling in his lap.

Ten-fifteen

The ZIL pulled up outside the hotel. The French officials ran from their car to greet us and the bodyguard stayed close to Rudik. But Ilya seemed a little despondent. He said there were still things to do at home and maybe it was best if he left to prepare them. He said that he’d get a tram back and see us later. Rudik shook his hand a second time. We went upstairs to his room. It was enormous but there was no fridge. He threw the roses on the bed where they landed in a heap. He paced, looking behind window shades and even the picture frames. He unscrewed part of the phone. Then he shrugged and said something about his whole life being bugged, it didn’t matter whether it was the KGB or the CIA. Then he put his suitcase on the bed and opened it with a small key. It was not packed with his own clothes as I expected, but with the most unbelievable array of perfumes, scarves, jewelry boxes, brooches, all the most beautiful things. Nuriya grabbed his arm and put her face close to his shoulder. I was only allowed to bring one suitcase, he said, and they took their cut at the airport. Nuriya lay on the bed and touched everything. Rudik knew all about the perfumes, where they were made, who wore them, who designed them, the ingredients, and where they came from. This is what Jackie O wears, he said. He even had a bottle for Mother, a special gift from a lady in New York, wrapped in beautiful ribbons. A bottle of Chanel for me. Nuriya and I sprayed each other’s wrists. Then he clapped his hands for silence, took a small box from the suitcase, gave it to me. Inside was the most gorgeous necklace I have ever seen, diamonds and sapphires. An immediate thought: Where will I hide it? He instructed me to put it on and wear it with pride. It felt cool and heavy against my neck. Surely it had cost him dearly. He kissed both my cheeks, said it was good to see me.

Ten-forty-five

I suggested he rest before going to see Mother but he said: Why? Then he laughed: There will be plenty of time to sleep in hell. If he couldn’t go home yet he wanted to drive around the city and see more sights. In the hotel lobby there was another long argument about scheduling and itinerary, but eventually it was agreed — we would drive in a convoy for a few hours. We drove slowly in the snow. The Opera House was closed; our old house on Zentsov Street had been knocked down long ago; the hall on Karl Marx Street was locked up; and the road to the Tatar graveyard was impassable. We parked the car a hundred yards down the hill from the entrance. Rudik begged the driver to find him some snowshoes. The driver said he had nothing except what he wore on his feet. Rudik looked over the seat. Give me those. He thrust some dollars at the driver. Rudik’s feet were too small for the driver’s boots but Nuriya offered him her socks which he stuffed in. The bodyguard wanted to accompany him, but Rudik was angry: I’ll go on my own, Emilio. We watched from the car as Rudik negotiated the drifts and climbed the iron fence and disappeared over the hill. Only the tops of the graveyard trees appeared above the snow. We waited. Nobody said a word. The snow piled up on the windows. When Rudik finally returned — after trudging through the deep drifts — I could see that the sleeves of his coat were soaking wet, also the knees of his trousers. He said he had used a branch to clear some of the snow away from Father’s headstone. I was sure he must have fallen somehow. He said he had listened to hear the thud of trains across the Belaya but there was none. We drove away. The light was glorious. It bounced off the snow everywhere. The wild dogs near the factory stopped barking and for a moment everything was still.

Twelve-fifteen

The bodyguard fished in his pocket for a small bottle of pills and Rudik took three without water. He said he had a flu, that the medicine cleared his head. Nuriya said that she too felt a hint of cold, but Rudik refused to give her any pills, said they would be too strong for her. At the railway station he bought sunflower seeds. I haven’t tasted them in years. He ate two, spat out the shells, and threw the rest away. We passed Sergei and Anna’s old house and slowed down. I thought I might see Yulia at the airport in Leningrad, he said. Perhaps she is dead. I told him I knew nothing of her. He said that she used to send letters to him but they had dried up over the years.

Twelve-thirty

At our house two more officials were waiting. Ilya sat by the banquet table but rose to shake Rudik’s hand, their third handshake. Ilya looked into his eyes but Rudik was distracted. Too many people! He beat on his chest with his gloved fists and roared a terrible curse in Tatar. And then he began making a fuss with the French officials. He wanted to be left alone. I gathered up my courage and hushed him, then guided the officials out of the house. Rudik thanked me, said he was sorry for shouting, but they were nothing but donkeys, his whole life was surrounded by braying donkeys. He was terribly anxious to see Mother but first I had to explain to him all the difficulties, that she could not speak, that her eyesight was failing badly, that she might slip in and out of consciousness. He didn’t seem to be listening. Outside the house we could hear the French and Russian officials arguing. Rudik was afraid they would insist on coming back in so he took a chair and slid it under the door handle. He told his bodyguard to stay by the door. How nervous we all were. He took off his overcoat, his colored scarf, draped it on the hatrack and entered Mother’s room. She was sleeping. He pulled up a chair beside her, bent down, and kissed her. She didn’t stir. Rudik looked up at me, pleading, wondering what to do. I gave Mother some water and her tongue moved to her lips. He held a beautiful necklace to her throat. Mother shifted but did not open her eyes. Rudik mashed his hands together like he was suddenly seven years old again. He whispered to her urgently. Mother. It’s me. Rudik. I told him to give her time, that she would wake eventually, he must have patience.

Twelve-forty-five

I decided to leave him alone. As I left I saw him slip the earphones off his neck as if they might muffle anything Mother might say. I stood outside the door. He continued to whisper, although I couldn’t make out what he said. For a while it seemed as if Rudik was speaking a foreign language.

One-thirty

He came out of Mother’s room. His eyes were rimmed red. Emilio, he said, calling for his bodyguard. Rudik said that Emilio was a masseur with some knowledge of medicine, he might know of some way to make Mother feel better. His stupid Western ideas, I thought, how could his medicine be any better than what we had already given Mother? I hated that monstrous man as he walked towards Mother’s room. What right did he have to interfere? I hissed at Rudik but he ignored me and slammed the door.

Two o’clock

The bodyguard came out. He smiled at me and spoke in a broken English that was impossible to understand. Finally he made gestures in the air. It seemed he was telling me that Mother must once have been a beautiful woman. I changed my mind about him, despite his ponytail. He took many helpings from the banquet table and made sounds to say that things were delicious. And then he sat quietly for the rest of the day.

Two-thirty

I entered. Mother was awake. Her eyes were fully open as if startled. Rudik was hunched over her and there were tears in his eyes. He was alternating between Russian and Tatar. Mother’s lips were moving but it was impossible to make out her words. Rudik reached for my hand. Tell her it’s me, Tamara, he said. She knows your voice. She still doesn’t know that it’s me. I leaned across and told Mother: It’s Rudik come back to see you. There was a flicker in her eyes although I did not know whether she understood. I will sit here until she recognizes me, said Rudik. I will not move. I pleaded with him to come out and enjoy the banquet but he said that he was not hungry. I pleaded again. No! he shouted. And then I did something that I will never forget. I slapped Rudik once on the side of the face. His head turned in the direction of the slap and he stared at the wall. I could not believe myself. The slap was so hard that it stung my hand. Rudik slowly turned his head and looked at me for an instant. Then he bent down to Mother again. I will come to your dinner table, Tamara, when I am ready. I closed the door. A terrible feeling went through me when I stepped into the living room. Nuriya was staring at her new wristwatch, which was loudly beeping. She couldn’t stop it.

Two-forty-five

Ilya filled the bodyguard’s plate once more. They drank kumis together. The bodyguard showed Ilya a game of sorts. The bodyguard plucked a hair from his head and then closed his eyes and told Ilya to place the hair between the pages of the book. With his eyes closed, the bodyguard started feeling the book with his fingers, lightly touching the pages. It was an old masseur’s trick which helped him keep his touch. The bodyguard was so good at the game that he could feel the hair eight pages away. The snow blew against the window.

Three o’clock

I created a plate for Rudik, pickled meat, cabbage salad, hard-boiled eggs. The door creaked when I opened it. I was surprised that he smiled at me. He seemed to have forgotten I had slapped him. There was something good in the air between us again, a distance had been bridged. Rudik did not eat the food but held the plate as if he might. Then he made room on the seat and I slid onto the chair beside him. We watched Mother’s lips moving minutely. Her hair was spread on the pillow. She’s saying your name, I said. What? he replied. I said: She’s saying your name, look at her. He paused a long time but then he began to nod vigorously. Yes, she’s saying my name. Just then he said something about the flags along the lake, about the radio and times when he would listen to music as a child. I couldn’t understand him, he was talking gibberish. I took his hand. The chair was awfully small for the two of us.

Three-thirty

I left the room. The bodyguard was fiddling with a book, feeling its pages. He asked for another helping of cake.

Four o’clock

Rudik came out of Mother’s room. He looked stiff, but his face betrayed nothing. He nodded at Nuriya and Ilya and went to the window. He parted the curtain where, outside, the officials were sitting in their cars. Rudik turned. He signaled something to his bodyguard. He was feigning happiness, I’m sure. The bodyguard opened his suitcase and Rudik handed out the last of his presents, more jewelry and makeup and chocolates. Then he flapped his arms to get warm even though the house was toasty. Well, he said. He dug down into his pocket and threw a sheaf of rubles on the table. It was a lot of money. Nobody moved. Outside, one of the cars beeped. The flight to Leningrad was due to leave soon. The snow was still falling. At the door he pulled his beret down, hugged Nuriya and shook Ilya’s hand yet again. I stepped across to him at the threshold. She didn’t recognize me, he said. I whispered in his ear: Of course she did. We repeated ourselves. No, she didn’t. Yes she did. He looked at me and smiled a half-smile. My face still stings, he said and for a moment I thought he was going to slap me back, but he didn’t. He twirled his scarf and then turned his back and went out to the car. We stood there with all our new possessions.

* * *

Yulia, my dear, let me guess, you still don’t have a piano?

He was panting somewhat from the five flights of stairs. I gasped, unaware that at my age such deep surprise was still a possibility. He smiled at his own little joke, introduced his companion, Emilio, and apologized for calling so late at night. He said he felt awful for bringing no gifts, but that he had already given everything away. I embraced him as he studied the darkness of the apartment from the vantage of the threshold.

Same old Yulia, said Rudi. So many books that you can’t see the wallpaper.

How did you find me?

I have my means.

The electricity was off again in the building. I lit two candles and the light flared. Emilio stayed at the door and shook the snow off his shoulders. I invited him in and he was a little surprised at what he called my perfect Spanish. I explained that the language had been much of my life and he went to the bookshelf to look at my collection.

I pulled my dressing gown tight, then stepped behind the partition that divided the room. Kolya was sleeping. He grumbled at first when I woke him, but then he sat upright. Who? he said and he leaped out of bed, his hair tousled.

Put whatever food we have on the table, I whispered.

In the bathroom I rouged my cheeks with my knuckles, looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. The ghosts of my life had walked out to greet me at sixty-two years of age.

Hurry, called Rudi. I have only an hour or so.

Out on the table Kolya had spread a loaf of bread and some leftover cucumber salad. The bottle of vodka was already open but the glasses beside it were empty. The candles made nervous points against the darkness.

We’re honored, I said.

Rudi waved his hand: They wanted me to go to a dinner at the French embassy, he said, but they bore me.

So they let you come back?

They allowed me forty-eight hours to see Mother. My flight was delayed. It leaves from Pulkovo in a few hours.

A few hours?

I didn’t even get to see the Kirov. They managed the visit so that it would be closed.

Your mother? I asked. How is she?

Rudi smiled but didn’t reply. His teeth were still strikingly white as if making an argument against the rest of his face. There was a short silence as he looked around the room. He seemed to be searching for other figures to come out from the shadows. Then he clasped my hands suddenly and said: Yulia, you have lost none of your beauty.

Pardon me?

Not a day older.

And you, I replied, are still a liar.

No, no, no, he insisted. You’re still beautiful.

I am an old woman, Rudi. I have accepted my headscarves.

He reached for the vodka, poured out three small glasses, looked at Kolya, wondered aloud if he were old enough to drink. With his teenage gait Kolya went to the cupboard to get a fourth glass.

Your son? whispered Rudi.

In a manner of speaking, I said.

You are married again?

I hesitated, shook my head. They had been long years of poverty and struggle for Kolya and me. My translating skills were as good as useless: there was no longer such a call for foreign literature and many of the publishing houses had been closed down. I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a new life, already half-exhausted. I had begun to take on some menial cleaning jobs to put bread on the table. But my joy was in the fact that Kolya had grown into a good young man, tall, dark-haired, reclusive. Seventeen years old, he had given up the chess but he was working on becoming an artist — he had begun by drawing landscapes, solid and real, but he was branching out now, blurring the edges. He believed that change needed a reason, otherwise there would be no respect for the past: he wanted to paint through the traditions in order to find the new. He had done a series of portraits of Lenin, using milk. The paintings were history as parody — nothing showed up on them until held to a candle or a match. Kolya hadn’t sold any but kept them under his bed and his favorite was one that he’d accidentally left near a heating pipe and only the nose had emerged. Above his bed he had written a quote from Fontanelle from one of my old books: It is true that the philosopher’s stone cannot be found, but it is good to search for it.

What panicked me was that Kolya would soon be coming up to his military service. The thought of it was horrific — war closing off parts of him as they had closed off parts of my parents — and I often woke at night in a pool of sweat with visions of my son rounding a corner in a village in Afghanistan, a rifle strapped across his chest. Kolya, however, thought he had found a way to circumvent the system: when giving a urine sample, he said, he would prick his finger with a pin and allow a drop of blood to fall into the sample. If his urine showed an excess of protein he could skip the military. It often occurred to me that Kolya had somehow inherited my father’s spirit, although he looked nothing like him, of course. He had the tenacity, the intelligence, and the temperament. He had taken an interest in my family history and was amplified by the echoes he had found — inevitably, through his questions, he had discovered Rudi.

I scanned Kolya’s face for a reaction to the visit but he was, surprisingly, unruffled.

Emilio, I noticed, had taken a translation of Cervantes from my shelf. But instead of reading it he was feeling through the pages as if divining the words, his eyes closed. Rudi explained that he’d put a hair in the book earlier when they were alone in the room and now Emilio was searching for it, something Emilio liked to do to pass the time.

I surround myself with crazy people, said Rudi.

Rudi reached for the bottle of vodka and poured two more glasses. He smiled at me in our small and awkward silence. A quarter of a century had gone by and while the difference in age may have become less pronounced, a thin curtain of embarrassment had been drawn in the space between us. We began desperately talking around it. He sat forward, with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palms, his eyes sparkling with the same old delight.

Tell me everything, he said.

He lifted the glass to his mouth, waited for me, and so I tried to unravel what I had thought had been firmly spooled — my apartment, my divorce, my street.

Do you still translate?

On the odd occasion, I replied, but I’d rather not talk about it, I’d rather hear about you.

Oh everyone hears about me, they always get it wrong.

Even you?

Yes, even me. But I get it wrong on purpose, he said.

On purpose?

Of course, nobody knows me.

It was as if, between the two of us, we were playing a bizarre form of chess, that we were each trying to lose all our pieces, to get down to the final king, topple it over and say: Here, now, the board is yours, explain to me my loss.

Just then there was a deep thump and the electricity came on again and the room was pooled in bright light.

Turn them off please, said Rudi, I prefer candles.

Emilio’s hands lay in the center of the book.

Rudi said loudly: Medicine please.

Emilio closed the book, took out a bottle of pills from his pocket, threw it into Rudi’s lap. Rudi took four pills in quick succession. There was a mist of sweat on Rudi’s forehead but he wiped it away with a sweep of his hand. I wondered what it was that, on other days, Emilio found beneath Rudi’s skin.

And are you still dancing? I asked.

They will put me down dancing, he said.

I couldn’t help but believe him — one day they would exhume Rudi and find his bones set in an attitude of leap, or perhaps even a bow, rising up to say: Thank you, thank you, please allow me to do it once more. He had no idea what he would do if he ever retired, perhaps choreograph. He had made some movies in the West, but he said they were all nonsense, and besides he was not built for the camera, his was a stage body, he needed an audience.

An audience indeed, I thought.

Ah-ha! Rudi said suddenly.

He reached into his pocket, took out a wallet, and thrust it across the table at Kolya. There was no money in it but the wallet was beautiful, its edges trimmed in gold.

American snakeskin, he said.

Kolya stared at it: For me?

Rudi put his arms behind his head and nodded. For a brief moment the jealously of my youth returned. I wanted to take Rudi aside and tell him that there was no need to show off, that he was acting like a spoiled boy at a lifelong birthday party. But perhaps there was something deeper in the way he had given the wallet to my son. It occurred to me that Rudi wanted to be left with nothing, in the same way that he had left before. Kolya flipped through the empty wallet and Rudi slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

Watching them together slipped a knife between my ribs and hit my heart exactly.

Emilio continued his search in the book but after a few moments he began to doze. I went to the window. Outside, the dark brushed the city and the wind unleashed the snow. Down below three cars sat in the street. I pulled the curtain back further, saw a shadow and then a flash of light from a camera. A photographer. I turned away instinctively and closed the curtains.

How come they let you back?

Raisa Gorbachev, he said.

Have you met her?

He shook his head, no.

But she got you a visa?

He didn’t respond but then said curiously: We have always absorbed our own disintegration.

I didn’t know quite what to say, not sure if it was self-pity or pure nonsense. I almost laughed. But it was impossible to get angry at Rudi for becoming what he had become. Something about him released people from the world, tempted them out. Even Kolya had begun to move his chair closer. We poured a little more vodka and talked briefly then of my father’s gramophone; my mother’s lessons; the night Rudi arrived in Leningrad; his dances at the Kirov. He had seen RosaMaria once, he said, but had fallen out of contact with her. There was almost a second-handedness to our conversation, as if we had talked it all before, and yet that didn’t matter: what we lacked was made up for by the tenderness of his visit.

We silently toasted each other and then he flicked a look at his wrist as if he expected to see a watch there, but his arm was bare.

Emilio, he said loudly, what time is it?

The Spaniard awoke with a start: We should leave, he said, closing the book shut.

Just a few more minutes, said Rudi.

No, we really must leave.

A few more minutes! Rudi snapped.

Emilio waved his hands in the air, a gesture he had surely learned from Rudi: Okay, he said, but we’ll miss our plane.

He put the Cervantes book back in the space on the shelf. I had a vision of a day in the future, cold and rainy, when Kolya and I would take the book from the shelf and touch its pages to feel for a tiny bump.

Rudi sat back in the chair, perfectly calm, took a minute to become the focus of the room once again.

Then, without missing a beat, he stood up quickly: My drivers are downstairs. They’ll think I have defected again.

He pulled on his coat and spun on his heels: Can you believe it?

What?

After all these years, he said.

He carefully screwed the bottle top back on the vodka and stared at the table as if gathering strength for something to say. He stepped across, held my shoulders, bit his lip and whispered: You know, my own mother didn’t recognize me.

What?

She didn’t know who I was.

I recalled my father’s story about the workcamp and the bullet and how he said that we never escape ourselves. I considered telling Rudi the story, but he was already wrapped in his scarf, about to go.

Of course she recognized you, I said.

Why should she? he asked.

I wanted to come up with a perfect rejoinder, to bring him back to earth, to receive another thrilling smile, another surprise, but he was turning the handle. I went to hug him. He took my face in his hands, kissed me on each cheek.

Wait, I said.

I went to the cupboard and took out the china dish that had belonged to my mother. I opened the lid of the box. The dish felt cold and brittle. I handed it to him.

Your mother showed me this years ago, he said.

It’s yours.

I can’t take it.

Take it, I said. Please.

You should keep it for Kolya.

Kolya already has it.

Rudi blindsided me with a smile and took the dish in his hand.

Exits and entrances, he said.

Emilio thanked us for our hospitality and went downstairs to alert the drivers. Rudi followed slowly, his knees bothering him. I stood at the iron railing with Kolya and together we watched him go down.

So that’s him? said Kolya.

That’s him.

Not much, is he?

Oh, I’m not so sure, I said.

And as if on cue Rudi paused in the light on the third-floor stairwell, threw his scarf over his shoulder and performed a perfect pirouette on the concrete slab, the china dish clutched to his chest. He stepped slowly to the next landing, through the rubbish and broken bottles, stopped once again in the arc of light and his shoes sounded against the concrete as he spun a second time. No remorse. Kolya put his arm around my shoulder and I thought to myself: Let this joy extend itself into the morning.

In the lobby Rudi pirouetted one final time and then he was gone.