“We certainly need new ideas. Do you remember Khrushchev, back in 1961, forecasting that the USSR would overtake the USA in both production and military strength in twenty years?”

Tanya smiled. “At the time he was thought pessimistic.”

“Now fifteen years have passed and we’re farther behind than ever. And Natalya tells me the East European countries have also fallen behind their neighbors. They’re kept quiet only by massive subsidies from us.”

Tanya nodded. “It’s a good thing we have huge exports of oil and other raw materials to help us pay the bills.”

“But it’s not enough. Look at East Germany. We have to have a damn wall to stop people escaping to capitalism.”

Grigori stirred. Tanya felt guilty. She had been questioning her grandfather’s fundamental beliefs while sitting at his deathbed.

The door opened and a stranger walked in. He was an old man, thin and bent but immaculately dressed. He had on a dark-gray suit that was molded to his body like something worn by the hero in a movie. His white shirt gleamed and his red tie glowed. Such clothes could only come from the West. Tanya had never met him, but all the same there was something familiar about him. This must be Lev.

He ignored Tanya and Dimka and looked at the man in the bed.

Grandfather Grigori gave him a look that said he knew the visitor but could not quite place him.

“Grigori,” the newcomer said. “My brother. How did we get so old?” He spoke a queer old-fashioned dialect of Russian with the harsh accent of a Leningrad factory worker.

“Lev,” said Grigori. “Is it really you? You used to be so handsome!”

Lev leaned over and kissed his brother on both cheeks, then they embraced.

Grigori said: “You got here just in time. I’m about done for.”

A woman about eighty years old followed Lev in. She was dressed, Tanya thought, like a prostitute, in a stylish black dress and high heels, makeup and jewelry. Tanya wondered whether it was normal for old women to dress that way in America.

“I saw some of your grandchildren in the next room,” Lev said. “They’re a fine bunch.”

Grigori smiled. “The joy of my life. How about you?”

“I have a daughter by Olga, the wife I never much liked, and a son by Marga here, who I preferred. I wasn’t much of a father to either of my children. I never had your sense of responsibility.”

“Any grandchildren?”

“Three,” Lev said. “One’s a movie star, one’s a pop singer, and one’s black.”

“Black?” said Grigori. “How did that happen?”

“It happened the usual way, idiot. My son Greg—named for his uncle, by the way—he fucked a black girl.”

“Well, that’s more than his uncle ever did,” said Grigori, and the two old men chuckled.

Grigori said: “What a life I’ve had, Lev. I stormed the Winter Palace. We destroyed the tsars and built the first Communist country. I defended Moscow against the Nazis. I’m a general and Volodya is a general. I feel so guilty about you.”