“I don’t want to be exiled to a provincial city.”

“Nor do I. Do you imagine I volunteered?”

“Didn’t you see this coming?”

“I did, and I even considered switching jobs, but I thought the putsch had been canceled, when it had only been postponed. Naturally the plotters did all they could to keep me in the dark.”

She gave him a calculating look. “I suppose you spent last night saying good-bye to your typist.”

“You told me you didn’t care.”

“All right, smart mouth. When do we have to go?”

“Friday.”

“Hell.” Looking furious, Nina started packing.

On Wednesday, Dimka spoke to his uncle Volodya about the move. “It’s not just about my career,” he said. “I’m not in government for myself. I want to prove that Communism can work. But that means it has to change and improve. Now I’m afraid we could go backward.”

“We’ll get you back to Moscow as soon as we can,” Volodya said.

“Thank you,” Dimka said with fervent gratitude. His uncle had always been supportive.

“You deserve it,” Volodya said warmly. “You’re smart and you get things done, and we don’t have a surplus of such people. I wish I had you in my office.”

“I was never the military type.”

“But, listen. After something like this has happened, you have to prove your loyalty by working hard and not complaining—and, most of all, not constantly begging to be sent back to Moscow. If you do all that for five years, I can start working on your return.”

“Five years?”

“Until I can start. Don’t count on less than ten. In fact, don’t count on anything. We don’t know how Brezhnev is going to work out.”

In ten years the Soviet Union could slide back all the way to poverty and underdevelopment, Dimka thought. But there was no point in saying so. Volodya was not just his best chance—he was his only chance.

Dimka saw Natalya again on Thursday. She had a split lip. “Did Nik do that?” said Dimka angrily.

“I slipped on icy steps and fell on my face,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true,” she said, but she would not meet him in the furniture storeroom again.

On Friday morning a ZIL-130 panel truck arrived and parked outside Government House, and two men in overalls began to carry Dimka’s and Nina’s possessions down in the elevator.

When the truck was almost full, they stopped for a break. Nina made them sandwiches and tea. The phone rang, and the doorman said: “There’s a messenger here from the Kremlin, has to deliver personally.”

“Send him up,” said Dimka.

Two minutes later, Natalya appeared at the door in a coat of champagne-colored mink. With her damaged lip, she looked like a ravaged goddess.

Dimka stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he glanced at Nina.

She caught his guilty look, and glared at Natalya. Dimka wondered if the two women would fly at one another. He got ready to intervene.

Nina folded her arms across her chest. “So, Dimka,” she said, “I suppose this is your little typist.”