"Enough." The Potter cut her off" with an impatient wave of his hand.
"You have one answer for everything, Feliks. Enough! I've had enough of your enough! When we first met you had a ration at the food center and a dacha and a chauffeured automobile when you phoned up for one. You came home from that warehouse of yours with something for Svetochka almost every day. I wore lipstick colors nobody in Moscow ever saw before."
"Enough," muttered the Potter. He felt as if he were being tuned too high.
"You said you would take your Svetochka to Paris one day," she taunted him. "You said we would take the elevator to the top of an enormous steel tower and look out over the world and laugh our heads off."
The Potter tilted his head onto the back of his chair and closed his eyes tiredly. "What if I told you I would still take you to Paris?" he asked quietly.
She flung herself at his feet, hugged his knees. "Oh, Feliks, if only you could! Svetochka doesn't want to grow old without making love in Paris. We'd make love before dinner, the way we used to. Do you remember what an appetite you had afterward?"
"I still have an appetite," the Potter commented bitterly. He opened his legs and felt her nestle between them. "I lost my job and my ration and my dacha and my chauffeured automobile, but I never lost my appetite."
The second meeting took place in the second taxi. Oskar was driving.
"So: I passed your offer on to my potential clients," he announced, concentrating on the road, his voice drifting back over his shoulder.
"Here is their response."
He handed a note back to his passenger as he accelerated past a long line of people waiting in a corner taxi queue. A young woman in a tattered fur coat and fur hat leapt after him, desperately waving a ten-ruble note, in the back seat, the Potter unfolded the piece of paper.
There were two columns, one marked A, the other B. Nine names were listed under Column A-the entire New York rezidentura. One name, that of an African diplomat who had spent his formative years at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, was listed under Column B-the istochnik at the United Nations.
"In America, Chinese restaurants have a Column A and B on their mentis,"
the Potter noted absently. "They certainly went to a lot of trouble to say no."
"I interpret it as a sign of personal respect for you, yes?" Oskar remarked.
They were passing the zoo, and the Potter thought he could make out the bleating of some frustrated animal coming from one of the buildings; then it occurred to him that the sound might have originated in his own imagination. He leaned forward so that his mouth was close to Oskar's ear. "I have given the matter a great deal of" thought," he told him.
"So: I suspected you would."
Oskar was beginning to get on the Potter's nerves. "You are very sure of yourself,' he noted.
Oskar shrugged. "You were the novator. If you really want to get out of Russia, you will come up with something to pay your way, yes?"
Behind the taxi, a siren wailed. Oskar pulled the car over sharply to the right. A Zil limousine with lace curtains on its rear windows raced down the middle lane toward the Kremlin. Up ahead, a policeman held up cross traffic until the Zil had passed.
"That's probably- Oskar named an alternate member of the Politburo, an expert on agriculture whose star was considered to be on the rise. "I hear he has a mistress stashed away in one of those new buildings behind the zoo. So: where were we?"
The Potter said, "I lost three sleepers in six months. One of them simply disappeared. He was a physicist by training. He was inserted into America so that he could eventually take over a network of subagents working at various atomic installations. With his background in physics, he would have been in a position to evaluate their information, direct them to fill in gaps in our knowledge, that sort of thing. Four of the subagents were eventually caught and put on trial in America. Two others were never identified. I don't know the names of the two, but I could supply enough information about them-where they worked during what years, their professional qualifications, a description of the family of one, the sexual preferences of the other, so that your clients can identify them."
Oskar pulled up at a red light. Just abreast of them, a man and a woman in a Czech Skoda were arguing bitterly. "I go over it again and again,"
the Potter could hear the man yell, "and I can't find the beginning."
"The beginning of what?" the woman cried.
"The beginning of where it went wrong," the man replied. "The beginning of-" The light changed and the Czech car raced off.
Oskar threw his taxi into first and started down the street after the Skoda. "So: it went wrong," he called over his shoulder, "right after the Bolshevik revolution when some comrades proposed opening a special restaurant for members of the Party. Those who were against it argued that Communists should starve along with the working classes. Those who were for it argued that they couldn't lead the working class to paradise if they didn't have the physical strength. The matter was brought to Lenin. You know the story, yes? Lenin ruled in favor of establishing a special restaurant, Things were never the same after that, yes? I will let you off in front of the Hotel Ukraina. So, enter the lobby and buy a newspaper from the kiosk, then go on about your business."
"What about my offer?" the Potter asked.
"I will call you when I get a response, yes?" Oskar said without noticeable enthusiasm.
The blind man's white baton came down like a whip against the legs of his chair. "So much for your pulling,” he announced in a voice that left no room for discussion. "Now we will do some pushing"
The Deputy Assistant Procurator, a burnt-out middle-aged time-server with long clumps of hair pasted across his scalp like fingers, kept the Potter waiting ten minutes before he even looked up. There was a chair in front of the polished table that served as his desk, but he never offered him the use of it. "You have been summoned," the Deputy Assistant Procurator eventually said-it was at this point that he glanced at the Potter for the first time-"summoned, eh, in accordance with-" He named an article of the penal code. The Deputy Assistant Procurator shuffled through a sheaf of official looking papers with seals and signatures on the bottom of each one. "You are informed..." He removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them with the tip of his tie, then carefully hooked them back over his ears. ". . . informed, eh, that criminal proceedings have been opened against you in connection with charges of, eh, pilfering state property from the warehouse annex of the state security institution that you were formerly in command of." He lost his place and peered at the paper he was reading. "Eh, in command of. You are advised to retain a lawyer. You are further advised that the penalty, if convicted of violating the particular article of the penal code with which you are charged, is ten years at a strict-regime labor camp, confiscation of alt personal property, annulment of pension and, eh, voting rights." The Deputy Assistant Procurator looked up. "Do you have any comment to make?"
The Potter said in English, "I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions."
"What does that mean?" snapped the Deputy Assistant Procurator in annoyance.
"It is a line written by the American poet Walter Whitman."
"It doesn't help your case to be quoting an American poet."
"He is considered to be very progressive," the Potter said sarcastically.
The Deputy Assistant Procurator pushed a paper across the table toward the Potter, and held out a ball-point pen. "Sign your full name at the bottom to indicate you are familiar with the contents."
The Potter accepted the pen and looked down at the paper. It was all a mistake, of course. He had served the state too long and too well to be accused now of swiping the odd bit of clothing or an occasional lipstick from the American warehouse. Compared to some of his colleagues or superiors, the Potter's acquisitions had been extremely modest; a senior section chief had once trucked out painters and carpenters and electricians employed by the Center and set them to work rebuilding his dacha, and nobody had uttered a word. The Potter forced himself to focus on the paper. Over "Name of accused" someone had typed in "Feliks Arkantevich Turov." So it wasn't a mistake after all. Over "Race" it said "Jew." In what sense is a Jew always, ever a Jew? Piotr Borisovich had once laughingly asked, and then, suddenly serious, he had answered his own question: In the sense that every ten or twenty years, the state will go out of its way to remind him. But why was the state, which in the Potter's experience never did anything haphazardly, choosing this particular moment to remind him of his racial roots? And why was the state suddenly concerned with his penny-ante pilfering?
"I haven't got. eh, all morning," said the burnt-out Deputy Assistant Procurator, who had precisely that.
The Potter reached down and scratched his signature across the bottom of the sheet, acknowledging that criminal proceedings had been opened against him; acknowledging also that his life, or what was left of it, was spiralling out of control.
Svetochka turned up the volume on the radio so that their neighbors couldn't eavesdrop. "What did he want?" she demanded, though she could tell by his face that she might be better off if she didn't know.
"They are looking into irregularities," the Potter said vaguely. He would never survive a strict-regime labor camp; if he were tied up to the pier of old age now, imagine what he'd be in ten years. And if, by some miracle, he lived through it, Svetochka certainly wouldn't be waiting for him when he got out.
"What kind of irregularities?"
The Potter gripped his glass of tea in both hands to warm his fingers.
"There was some pilfering at the warehouse while I was the novator."
Lipsticks, makeup, earrings, perfume, cigarettes, cigarette lighters, underwear, nylon stockings, records, cinema magazines, once a dress, once a pair of women's blue jeans, all manufactured in America, had disappeared.
"How can they prove it was you who took them?" Svetochka asked.
"When they are at the appropriate stage of the investigation," the Potter said numbly, "you will tell them."
Svetochka reacted as if she had been slapped across the face. "How can you bring yourself to say such a thing? Svetochka would never do anything to hurt her Feliks."
"You will be offered the opportunity to save yourself," the Potter explained with a calmness he didn't feel. "You will hesitate long enough to convince yourself of your loyalty to me, but in the end you will do what has to be done."
"Oh, Feliks," she cried. "You can't let them do this to Svetochka."
The words seemed to echo through the Potter's head. To Svetochka! He would lose his pension and wind up in a strict-regime labor camp for ten years, and they were doing this to her. Stirring a spoonful of jam into his tea, he smiled grimly.
"You must give them what they want, Feliks."
He shook his head. "I am in a difficult position," he said. "I am not yet sure who wants what."
Svetochka nervously uncrossed and recrossed her legs, giving the Potter a glimpse of garter belt, of thigh. Once, when she had drunk too much vodka, she had admitted that, as a young girl, she planted herself in front of a mirror and practiced crossing her legs in a way that would permit the men facing her to see up her skirt. Later, when he had reminded her of this, she had denied it indignantly. But the perfection of the gesture spoke for itself.
"There was a phone call for you while you were out," Svetochka announced absently. "Someone named Oskar...”
He stopped stirring his tea. If he could give Oskar what he wanted, there still might be a way out. "What did he say?" the Potter asked.
"It was a funny message. He said to tell you he is in possession of a piece of paper, that it is divided into two columns, one marked A, the other B. He said there was one name in each column."
"One name in each column?"
Svetochka nodded. "He said you would understand. Who is this Oskar?"
"He is a middleman," the Potter answered. "He brings buyers and sellers together."
Svetochka wasn't listening. "There must be a solution," she blurted out.
"It is only a question of finding it."
"There is," the Potter said quietly.
"Then take it!"
"It would mean betraying a friend." The Potter had known all along it would come down to this. He tried to imagine what advice Piotr Borisovich would give him. We are in a ruthless business, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. We are not humanists, so why pretend to be?
Save yourself, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. If I were in your shoes, I certainly would.
On the radio, the Moscow Symphony Orchestra reached the end of one movement and began tuning up before starting another. In the audience, people coughed. Svetochka breathed a name into the silence. "Piotr Borisovich?" The orchestra launched into the new movement.
The Potter looked quickly away, confirming her guess.
"If you give them Piotr," she plunged on, thinking she was talking about the Deputy Assistant Procurator and warehouse pilfering, "they will leave you and Svetochka alone?"
"If I give them Piotr Borisovich"-the Potter felt as if he were finally getting the spiralling clay under some kind of control-"we can go to live in Paris."
Svetochka's eyes widened. "Paris," she repeated. She didn't hesitate.
"He betrayed you," she spat out. "You can betray him!"
The Potter's hand shook; tea spilled onto his trousers. "What do you mean, betrayed me?"
She avoided his eye. "When you started bringing him around, he was very polite, very respectful at first. Later, when he didn't think you would notice, he would look up Svetochka's skirt, brush the back of his hand against Svetochka's breast. Svetochka knew what he was thinking. You went off once, you said it was to Poland. Remember? You were away for ten days." She appeared to run out of words; out of breath too.
"Go on," the Potter ordered weakly.