Tatiana

12

His wife, Irina, had died years ago. Still, whenever Arkady heard a voice like hers in the hubbub of the metro or saw a beautiful woman in full stride, he remembered her. While she was alive, the mystery had been why a woman as intelligent as Irina would cast her lot with a man as lacking in prospects as Arkady. Later, he didn’t talk about her for fear of turning her death into a “story” inevitably altered by the telling, the way a gold coin handled year after year is rubbed smooth and effaced.

Arkady remembered every detail.

They were going out for dinner and a film. Irina had a minor infection and it was Arkady’s inspiration to stop at the local polyclinic for an antibiotic. The waiting room was full of skaters, drunks and grandmothers with sniffling children in hand. Irina asked Arkady to step out and find a newsstand. She was a journalist, and for her, going without a newspaper was like going without oxygen.

He remembered a balmy evening, cottonwood fluff gathering in the air and, stapled to trees, notices that offered medicines for sale.

Meanwhile the waiting room emptied and Irina was taken in to see the doctor, who prescribed Bactrim. On the books, the polyclinic had an ample supply. In reality, the cupboard was bare, the drugs having vanished out the back door.

Was Irina allergic to penicillin? So much so that she underlined the words on her chart. But the nurse’s mind was on a letter she had received that day informing her that her son had sold her apartment and she had a week to pack. The only word she heard was penicillin. Since the polyclinic was out of oral doses, she gave Irina an injection and left the room. By the time Arkady returned with a newspaper and a magazine, Irina was dead.

Wrapped in a damp sheet, she looked as if she had washed up on shore. Apparently, as her windpipe began to close in anaphylactic shock, Irina recognized the nurse’s error and came out of the examining room with the vial in her hand. A counterinjection of adrenaline would have saved her. In a panic, the doctor snapped off the key to the pharmacy cabinet, sealing her fate. She saw. She knew.

When Arkady closed her eyes the doctor warned him not to touch the “corpus.” Arkady’s face went dark, his hands became grappling hooks and he threw the doctor against a wall. The rest of the staff retreated to the hallway and called the militia to deal with the madman. In the meantime, Arkady sat and held her hand as if they were going someplace together.

Tatiana reminded him of Irina. They were both fearless and idealistic. And, Arkady conceded, they were both dead.

• • •

The phone jarred him. It was Maxim Dal, the poet.

“Do you call everyone in the middle of the night?” Arkady asked.

“Only night people. I rarely make a mistake. The pallor, silence, malnutrition-you have all the signs. Do you have a microwave?”

“Of course.”

“I will bet you fifty-fifty that there is some forgotten food in that microwave.”

Arkady opened the microwave. Inside was a shriveled enchilada. “What do you want?”

“Do you remember our conversation about Tatiana’s notebook?”

“You were up for some sort of American prize for lifetime achievement?”

“For being alive, yes. Do you remember that I asked you about Tatiana’s notebook and whether I’m mentioned in it?”

“What does it matter? You told me you had a short-lived romantic liaison with her twenty years ago.”

“That’s the problem. Once upon a time I was a professor and Tatiana was a young student. American universities do not approve of such liaisons. They’re Puritans. If there’s a hint of scandal my prize becomes a spitball.”

“Haven’t you had enough honors in your career?”

“I’ve had a dry spell. Fuck the honor. The difference is fifty thousand dollars as a visiting poet in America or a beggar’s bowl in Kaliningrad. Have you ever been in Kaliningrad?”

“No.”

“There’s no security anymore. It’s not like the old days when a member of the Writers’ Union could compose an ode to rutabagas and be paid. It’s not like Moscow either. It’s a separate world. Really, if you ever go there, you have to let me take you around.”

Arkady yawned. His eyes felt as though they were sinking into his head. “I don’t think so. How would they even hear about the notebook?”

“Other poets. I’m not the only candidate.”

“I didn’t know that poetry was such a cutthroat occupation. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There’s only a few pages and I didn’t see your name.”

“Do you have the notebook?”

“Yes, under lock and key.”

“Have you read it?”

“No one has. No one can. Relax. Good night.”

• • •

Arkady was about to go to bed when Victor called to apologize for some of his earlier comments.

“You’re entitled to an opinion. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Wait, I was out of line. It’s the focus on Kaliningrad. Remember, I was stationed there when I was in the navy. It was a top-secret piss hole. You couldn’t even find it on the map.”

“Thanks.” Arkady took it as a vote of confidence.

“One other thing I forgot to mention. I saw Zhenya on your street today. Did you talk to him?”

“No. Where was he?”

“Outside the building.”

“Did he see you?”

“I think so, because he ducked out of sight like a squirrel.”

“Typical.”

“I just thought I’d let you know.”

Arkady was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had the sensation of being wrapped in a spiderweb, but comfortably. Snug. Tucked in. Then plunging into a black depth, a cold wind on his face. Still, no complaints. If this was sleep, so be it. Above, a fading dot of light. Below, an invisible city.

The city spread and turned to liquid. Arkady made a splash and became a torpedo speeding toward the outline of a ship. It was odd that Tatiana had fixed on a submarine accident that occurred twelve years before. Squirrel described Zhenya perfectly.

Zhenya.

Arkady’s eyes were wide open. He swung out of bed and went to his office, turning on lights along the way. The desk was mahogany with brass hardware, and on the right bottom drawer, there was a false front and a dial safe that only he knew the combination to. Nevertheless, he held his breath while he tried the handle and found it closed and locked.

Perhaps Zhenya had simply been in the neighborhood or happened to come by while Arkady was out. There were any number of explanations. Arkady didn’t believe any of them.

As he turned the dial, he could feel the tumblers fall: two turns to the right, two left, one right. With a soft pop the door eased open.

His gun, a presentation Makarov, lay on the bottom of the safe, but the notebook was gone. In its place was the form for parental permission for early enlistment in the army waiting to be signed.