Ralph Peters (11 page)

Naritsky waited for her down the block, posing against his automobile. Even before she could distinguish the expression on his face, Valya knew that Naritsky was very pleased with himself. For waiting all the while. The thought
i
of him sickened her now and, for a moment, she could not imagine how she had ever allowed him to touch her, to have her. But even at her most self-pitying, Valya could not tolerate such mental flaccidness for long. She had
enjoyed
her times with him. And the sex had been all right. Not as sheerly athletic as with Yuri. But far more imaginative. Naritsky was vulgar. And that part of her was vulgar too.

Yet, handsome though he was, it was not sex that had attracted her to Naritsky. She could do without sex. And she had not run out man-hunting the moment Yuri left for central Asia. But Naritsky had seemed like a chance, a last chance.

Once, Yuri had seemed like a chance too. To a young,
very foolish girl. And she had thought she was being so wise. An Army officer would always have a job. And Yuri was so bright, so much the ideal of what an Army officer should be. Everyone had predicted a great future for him. But this was not a country of great futures.

Of
ficers, Valya thought, in a split second of disgust. Lives as stiff as their uniforms. In a country falling apart, where everything had been falling apart for decades, where nothing ever quite worked, where no dream ever quite came true, Yuri had seemed so strong and safe and capable of providing a worthwhile life. But there was nothing to it. And behind the rough uniform cloth he had hidden a love that did not even respect itself. Yuri and his slobbering devotions. A love all weakness. When she needed him to be strong. Men were filth.

And what does that make me? Valya asked herself.

Naritsky. Smiling. By his late-model automobile. Not too flashy. Naritsky was too clever for that. Naritsky was clever in so many ways. But he had been an ass when it mattered.

A friend had put them in touch. There's this guy. Works with foreigners. Business. You know. Nothing illegal. Not really illegal. You know. Anyway, he's got friends. But he needs a good English interpreter. A few extra roubles. Odd hours. Supplement your income. And he can get the nicest things. Let me show you . . .

The nicest things. Men aren't really my vice, Valya decided. I'm the tart of nice things. When it all went to pieces, she had considered, for an instant, destroying all of the material goods Naritsky had given her. But the mood passed like an inkling of terror, forcibly suppressed. She knew that she did not have the strength to cut and tear and throw away the only primary colors in her gray world.

And Yuri? I'm not a good woman, Yuri. I lied. And when you had to choose, you chose your army. What did you expect?

Yet, she knew that she would never tell him a thing. And if he found out, she would deny. And, anyway, he would forgive her. Everything. Yuri was hopeless.

Thank God for that, she thought.

Well, she had failed. She had convinced herself that she could control the situation with Naritsky. That she could use him. But now, wobbling out of a clinic on a lifeless October afternoon, there was no denying her failure. She had not controlled a thing. Naritsky had used her as his whore, paying her off in clothes and little toys that blinded her to everything else. And they were trifles to him.

She had considered turning him in. But there would have been no point in it. Naritsky had too many friends. And it would have been far cheaper for him to buy off the militia than it had been to buy her off. Minor consumer electronics. Or just the European condoms he refused to use.

She had actually imagined that Naritsky would marry her, that it would only take a divorce from Yuri. But Naritsky had never intended to marry anyone. Thank God she had not written to Yuri, hadn't really started anything.

She had been a fool.

Drunken, Naritsky had laughed in her face.
"
You're spoiled goods, my darling.
"

Later he had sought, lavishly, to make up for that single, killing, honest remark. But Valya had finally grasped the extent of her folly.

Now Naritsky preened against the side of his little blue car, jacket thrown open despite the cold air. A rich man in a country that grew poorer by the day. A country that, after a hundred years of promises, could not provide adequate birth control devices to its people. A country that still could not feed itself. All the promises. Like the promises a man made to a stupid mistress.

As Valya approached, Naritsky gestured toward her but did not really move. He had selected an expression of concern that made Valya want to shout,
"
Liar, liar, liar
.

"
Are you all right?
"
he asked.

Valya pulled her light stylish jacket closer against the chill, tucking in her scarf. She nodded. This was no place for a scene, no time for final decisions. And Naritsky seemed to sense something. He did not touch her but merely opened the car door. Automatically, she moved to get in.

Then she stopped.

"
I need fresh air. I want to walk.
"

Naritsky looked at her, unsure.

For a moment, she imagined that he feared her. Some scandal. But he would be easily capable of managing that. She was the one with something to fear, with everything to lose.

"
Valya,
"
he said, in his warm, convincing voice.
"
You're in no condition to walk. You need to rest. Get in.
"

Unexpectedly, Valya lost her temper.
"
I'm
walking
. Do you understand?
"
Then she stopped, as surprised by her reserve of energy as by her loss of selfcontrol.

"
It's too far,
"
Naritsky said, with an unaccustomed edge of uncertainty in his voice.

"
I'll get a trolley.
"

"
Please. You're not well. You need to rest.
"

He was already back in control of himself. It was as if he could see into her, know everything about her. While she could not look into him at all. And she had considered herself so wise, the master of men.

"
Don't speak to me as though I were a child,
"
she half shouted.

"
Valya. Please.
"

"
I want to walk. And don't follow me.
"

Naritsky backed away, palms open, as if he had been accused of an infraction of the criminal code. He opened his mouth, then chose not to speak.

Valya took a last, heartbroken, furious look at him, and turned away.

"
I'll phone later,
"
he called after her.
"
To see
...
"

She forced herself to think of sex with Naritsky, and with others. Making herself sicker now with the images, even though she recognized that it was all emotional and physical reaction, with no intellectual honesty in it. She thoughtlessly swore that she would never let another man slop his weight on top of her ever again, then she began to choke with laughter at her brazen dishonesty. And her physical illness returned, nearly dropping her against a wall lathered with tom posters:
The Future Belongs To Us!

Lies, lies, lies. A world of lies. Promises broken before they could be fully articulated. She forced herself to move along, eager to be well out of Naritsky's sight.

The back streets through which her journey took her seemed dismally gray and poor. All her life she had wanted to climb out of this plodding squalor. But there was nowhere to go. All of the good men were hopeless fools. And the bad men helped only themselves. Reformers came, but the reforms always failed or, still worse, worked halfway. Nothing ever worked more than halfway in this country. The reformers disappeared. But the reactions against the reforms, too, only worked halfway. As Valya walked along the broken pavement, the sickness in her made her feel as though she were slowly sinking, as though all her life she had been slowly sinking but had not noticed because everything around her was sinking as well.

She looked up at the balconies hung with wash, collecting the tiny particles of poison that haunted the Moscow air. She did not understand how others could tolerate it so easily, accepting the decayed communal apartments, where families shared one another's dirt and secrets, the struggle for poor food, and men who never gave a thought to their women except when they were aroused or drunk or both.

As she passed a butcher shop, Valya automatically glanced in the window. White-aproned attendants stood about slackly, crowned with undersize white hats. The display cases were empty. But the display shelves in the window were decorated with pictures of various meats and sausages, as though the passerby might be fooled into visions of abundance.

Even the sight of photographed food made Valya feel sicker. The nation of empty shops. Of empty wombs. She felt unreasonably cold.

Around the corner, a line had formed, but for once Valya had no interest in what had suddenly become available. Her only concern was to find the quickest way past the huddling women in their coats that smelled of storage. A few idle men had joined the line, as well, and they looked Valya up and down.

Valya laughed to herself. And if you could have seen me an hour ago? If you could have seen the bloody mess of me. Would you have wanted me then?

Probably. And then they would have complained about the waste left on them. They were all pigs.

Valya stumbled slightly and almost lost her direction. The nearest faces regarded her sullenly, as though she might attempt to push into the line. She heard the word
oranges.
And it was a remarkable thing to think of oranges appearing wondrously, magically now, in October, with the groves where oranges grew engulfed in war. Surely, these would be the last of the year. But she had no appetite for oranges now.

Perhaps Yuri was fighting amid the orange groves. What a pretty place that would be to have a war. Perhaps Yuri was happier with his tanks and guns and soldiers than he had ever been with her. In his letters he offered no details of his life, only maudlin reminiscences.

Valya tried to focus her eyes, her efforts. To decide where she was really going. She tried to think about trolleys and bus stops, routes and schedules. But she was uncertain of this street. Abruptly, she changed her direction.

Her thoughts would not come clear. All of the faces she passed appeared identical. Even their scars were identical. Horrible scars. She began to cross a bridge slumped over a drainage canal. She idly touched the old wrought-iron work, a rusted reminder of past centuries, cold under her fingers. Then she found herself gripping the oxidized spearheads, clinging to the bridge, struggling to remain on her feet. A wave of unexpected pain rippled up from her belly to her stomach and she began to spill a bit of saliva from the corner of her mouth. Now, too late, she felt a growing wetness at the top of her legs. It was a joke. Another punishment. Valya, the girl who was in control of everything. Closing her eyes, she gripped the railing still harder, praying not to fall to the pavement. But closing her eyes only made it worse.

She opened her eyes. And the pain suddenly receded. But the wetness was still there, quickly losing its warmth, sliming down over the inside of her thighs.

For a long moment, she could only stare into the filthy murk of the canal. Spotted with oil rainbows. So still. Necklaces of garbage on the banks. Islands of junk expelled from high windows. When leaves floated down, the water seemed to reach up and clutch them, anxious to coat them with its filth. The high walls of the apartment buildings lining both sides of the canal were flecked like old, sick skin.

She needed a toilet but had no idea where to look. It was a country that could not even receive its own waste properly. Suddenly Valya imagined that she would die before she found anyone or anything that would help her. Two grandmothers scuttled by, commenting sourly about public drunkenness and sparking Valya back to life, into a powerless, frozen rage.

She had dirtied herself. She had dirtied her entire life. And what if Yuri ever found out? She would lose even that. The bare minimum of safety.

She made herself walk. She went into the first open building she could find and tried to clean herself in the shadows of a basement stairwell. Her underpants were slopping with blood and a thick wetness, and her handkerchief was too small to cope with the problem. At first reluctantly, then resolutely, she pulled the silk scarf from around her neck. Another gift from Naritsky. And she began to clean her thighs, struggling not to lose her balance or to faint, no longer even caring if anyone saw her.

She leaned back against the wall, drinking in the dead air. She released the silken rag from her hand, and it fell heavily to the floor. As her eyes learned the darkness, she saw a row of dustbins, some with newspapers overflowing their collars. Determinedly, she tore off the cleanest-looking pages and bunched them, then held them against herself, trying to bring enough pressure to stop the bleeding. She was awash with sweat, and very cold.