Just as she was about to put her key in the lock the door opened, and a slim blond girl of about eighteen stood there. Vasili was behind her. Tanya cursed inwardly. It was too late for her to run away or pretend she was going to a different apartment.

The blonde gave Tanya a hard, appraising stare, taking in her hairstyle, her figure, and her clothes. Then she kissed Vasili on the mouth, threw a triumphant look at Tanya, and went down the staircase.

Vasili was thirty but he liked girls young. They yielded to him because he was tall and dashing, with carved good looks and thick dark hair always a little too long and soft brown bedroom eyes. Tanya admired him for a completely different set of reasons: because he was bright, brave, and a world-class writer.

She walked into his study and dropped her bag on a chair. Vasili worked as a radio script editor and was a naturally untidy man. Papers covered his desk, and books were stacked on the floor. He seemed to be working on a radio adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s first play, The Philistines. His gray cat, Mademoiselle, was sleeping on the couch. Tanya pushed her off and sat down. “Who was that little tart?” she said.

“That was my mother.”

Tanya laughed despite her annoyance.

“I’m sorry she was here,” Vasili said, though he did not look very sad about it.

“You knew I was coming today.”

“I thought you’d be later.”

“She saw my face. No one is supposed to know there is a connection between you and me.”

“She works at the GUM department store. Her name is Varvara. She won’t suspect anything.”

“Please, Vasili, don’t let it happen again. What we’re doing is dangerous enough. We shouldn’t take additional risks. You can screw a teenager any day.”

“You’re right, and it won’t happen again. Let me make you some tea. You look tired.” Vasili busied himself at the samovar.

“I am tired. But Ustin Bodian is dying.”

“Hell. What of?”

“Pneumonia.”

Tanya did not know Bodian personally, but she had interviewed him, before he got into trouble. As well as being extraordinarily talented, he was a warm and kindhearted man. A Soviet artist admired all over the world, he had lived a life of great privilege, but he was still able to get publicly angry about injustice done to people less fortunate than himself—which was why they had sent him to Siberia.

Vasili said: “Are they still making him work?”

Tanya shook her head. “He can’t. But they won’t send him to hospital. He just lies on his bunk all day, getting worse.”

“Did you see him?”

“Hell, no. Asking about him was dangerous enough. If I’d gone to the prison camp they would have kept me there.”

Vasili handed her tea and sugar. “Is he getting any medical treatment at all?”

“No.”

“Did you get any idea of how long he might have to live?”

Tanya shook her head. “You now know everything I know.”