“Potanin is here?”
“He is. I listened to soldiers speak of him and of others. He is here now, and I must find a way to speak to him, but not at his post. It must be here in the town and quietly if possible.”
“You do not know where he lives?”
“No, and I cannot ask. I must watch, listen, and hope for a word or to meet someone I know. That truck driver, the one who brought us to town, he knows him.”
“But he is gone!”
“Of course, but he will return. ” Evgeny peered into the street. “I do not like this. Something is wrong! Something feels wrong! I am afraid.” He looked at her. “Do not think me a coward, but we are so close now, and this feeling, this sense, this foreboding — I do not like it.
“That truck driver? He was kind to give us the ride, but what is he to us? Nothing! Suppose he is picked up by the police and just to get them off his back he speaks of us? Suppose we were seen getting out of the truck? It was night, I know, but there is always somebody up and about, and people report on their neighbors, their own families, even! So what are we? Nobody! He could inform on us with a clear conscience. It is better to trust nobody.”
“What of Potanin?”
“I do not worry about him. Not much. He believes he will make a little from dealing with me. He will let me go over, thinking I will come back with a fat piece of whatever it is for him. He lives well, that one. He eats well, he has a few things to give to the girls, and he sends a few things to his family in Irkutsk. Because of him, they live well, too.”
A big Kama truck growled past, laboring with its heavy load on the icy street.
“I must be careful,” he grumbled. “On my feet I can move only slowly, and I think they look for me. I think they look for a man with crippled feet.”
“I can go. I am not afraid.”
He hesitated. “It is a risk. If you are stopped — ?”
“I will be in trouble,” she said, “but nothing is gained without risk, and how long can we stay here?”
She was right, of course. They had no right to be here. He knew the owner was a sick man and was far away in Khabarovsk in a hospital. There had been business between them, and sometimes furs had been stored here. Nevertheless, if he returned and found them here, he would drive them out at once. The risk was too great.
“Whatever you do,” Zhikarev warned, “do not go to the post. Do not go nearer the river than you must. They are very suspicious, and they shoot first and ask questions of the body.
“Potanin likes to live well, and there is a small place” — he traced an imaginary diagram with his forefinger — “here. There is a woman there who makes little pastries and has tea. Also” — he looked up at her — “she does a bit of business. She will have a bit of cheese and some sliced meat, and she makes an excellent borscht.
“Potanin goes there. This our driver told me while you slept. He goes there each day for a bit of something before going on duty. He reads a little, that one. He will be a round-faced one with black hair, and he will have a book.”
“A book?”
“He is always with a book. He reads the old ones, Pushkin, Gogol, Chekhov — ”
He paused. “Speak to him of books. You will have his attention at once. You understand? He is friendly but aloof. I mean he does not mix. He is not one of your vodka-swilling young officers who stagger home from duty.
“He will have a drink, of course, but all who approach him want favors; others are afraid because he is a soldier and wears that uniform. As for receiving things from across the border, many of his superiors come to him for a bit of something now and again. But speak to him of books and you will not be brushed aside. He will be curious. I know him.”
She put on her coat and the fur hat. She was shabby, she knew. Her clothing was old and much worn. However, there would be many like her here, and it was well that she would not attract attention. She must be as unobtrusive as possible.
“You have some rubles?”
“Enough. Say a prayer for me, Father. I shall need it.”
She went out and closed the door behind her. Ah, he said to himself, she called me Father! I wish I were her father. To have such a child could make a man proud. Yet he was frightened. She had been long away from towns and people, and things in Russia had changed.
She walked steadily, stepping carefully because of the ice, but not wanting to attract attention by hurrying too much. As she walked she was alert to all around her.
A Volga went by, slowing a little for slippery places. Another Kama was parked at the corner. As she passed it, she felt dwarfed by its size. Few people were on the street. The Volga had gone on ahead of her and was pulling off to one side near an official-looking building of concrete, squat and ugly.
She had to pass right by it, but she kept her head down and walked on. Two people were getting out of the Volga, a big man who stamped his feet to warm them and a woman. She was a young woman, dressed very well, but obviously an official.
As she passed the Volga, the woman turned around. She was a sharp-looking, very attractive brunette. Her hair was drawn back, and her eyes were large. For an instant their eyes met, and she saw a puzzled expression come into the woman’s face. Natalya walked on, her heart beating heavily.
Had she been recognized? But how could she be? Who knew her? Or cared about her?
Forcing herself not to look back, she continued on, rounded a corner, then went off down another street. Then she came back to the little place of which Evgeny had spoken.
She went in. Several people were present, but no young officer. She ordered tea and a bowl of borscht that turned out to be surprisingly good.
She ate slowly and had another cup of tea. He did not come. At last she arose, paid, and left. At the door she took a moment to straighten her coat and put on her gloves, studying the street. Emerging, she looked again up and down and then deliberately chose a way that would avoid the street along which she had come. Her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to avoid looking around to see if she was followed.
Several times she changed direction, but the streets were virtually empty in this quarter. She hurried on, returning to the little room in the corner of the old building.
Evgeny Zhikarev was waiting inside. He reached both his hands for hers, drawing her quickly inside, and then closed the door.
“Ah! You do not know how frightened I have been! I have imagined all sorts of things! Please, are you all right?”
“I am all right, but he did not come. Your literary lieutenant did not come. I sat and waited. I drank my tea slowly, but he did not come.”
She took off her coat and hat, fluffing her hair a little after the hat’s confining. “There was a car, a Volga with two people in it. The woman looked straight at me. For a minute I thought — ”
“Two people? What was she like, this woman?”
“Dark hair, very striking. A handsome woman, she had manners like an official. She looked right at me.”
Zhikarev could feel his heart beating, and there was a sick feeling in his stomach. “And the man? A tall, soldierly man? Very strong?”
“That’s the one. Do you know them?”
“I know them.” Evgeny Zhikarev sat down suddenly. “She is Comrade Kyra Lebedev. She works with Colonel Zamatev, and the man was Stegman.” He gestured to his crippled feet. “He did this to me.”
He limped across to the fire and added coal from the bucket. He straightened up. “We have no time, then. Why else would they be here but for us?”
“She knows you by sight?”‘
“Of course. She has been to my shop. We spoke of furs together. She would recognize me at once.”
For a long time they were silent, each thinking, frightened, understanding what impended. “We have no choice,” she admitted. “I must return to the tearoom. I must meet Potanin. “