He phoned her place of work and caught her just before she left. “I can’t make it tonight,” he said. “I’ve got to go to the Bolshoi with the boss.”

“Can’t you get out of it?” she said.

“Are you joking?” A man who worked for the first secretary would miss his mother’s funeral rather than disobey.

“I want to see you.”

“It’s out of the question.”

“Come after the opera.”

“It will be late.”

“No matter how late it is, come to my place. I’ll be up, if I have to wait all night.”

He was puzzled. She was not normally so insistent. She almost sounded needy, and that was not like her. “Is anything wrong?”

“There’s something we have to discuss.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you tonight.”

“Tell me now.”

Nina hung up.

Dimka put on his overcoat and walked to the theater, which was only a few steps from the Kremlin.

Jerome Hines was six foot six, and wore a crown with a cross on top: his presence was immense. His astonishingly powerful bass filled the theater and made its echoing spaces seem small. Yet Dimka sat through Mussorgsky’s opera without hearing much. He ignored the spectacle onstage. He spent the evening worrying alternately about how the Americans would respond to Khrushchev’s peace proposal and how Nina would respond to his ending their affair.

When at last Khrushchev said good night, Dimka walked to the girls’ apartment, which was a mile or so from the theater. On the way he tried to guess what Nina wanted to talk about. Perhaps she was going to end their relationship: that would be a relief. She might have been offered a promotion that required her to move to Leningrad. She might even have met someone else, as he had, and decided the new man was Mr. Right. Or she could be ill: a fatal disease, perhaps connected with the mysterious reasons why she could not get pregnant. All these possibilities offered Dimka an easy way out, and he realized he would be gladdened by any one, perhaps even—to his shame—the fatal illness.

No, he thought, I don’t really wish her dead.

As promised, Nina was waiting for him.

She was wearing a green silk robe, as if about to go to bed, but her hair was perfect and she wore a little light makeup. She kissed him on the lips, and he kissed her back with shame in his heart. He was betraying Natalya by relishing the kiss, and betraying Nina by thinking of Natalya. The double guilt gave him a pain in his stomach.

Nina poured a glass of beer and he drank half of it quickly, eager for some Dutch courage.

She sat beside him on the couch. He was pretty sure she had nothing on under the robe. Desire stirred in him, and the picture of Natalya in his mind began to fade a little.

“We’re not at war yet,” he said. “That’s my news. What’s yours?”

Nina took the beer from him and set it on the coffee table, then she held his hand. “I’m pregnant,” she said.