Arkady set a table of brown bread, cheese, tea and cigarettes and sat facing the radio as if it had come to dinner. He should have returned to Rudy’s apartment; yet here he was, a man with no will, in time for her broadcast. What apocalyptic news she had, but it didn’t matter.

“Rioting continued in Kirghizia between Kirghiz and Uzbeks for the third straight day. Armored personnel carriers patrolled the streets of Osh after Uzbeks took control of the downtown tourist hotels and directed automatic fire at the local offices of the KGB. Deaths in the unrest now total two hundred and the question of draining the Uzgen Canal to find more bodies has been raised.”

The bread was fresh and the cheese was sweet. A breeze drifted in the open window and the curtain stirred like a skirt.

“A Red Army spokesman admitted today that Afghan insurgents have penetrated the Soviet border. Since Soviet troops withdrew from Afghanistan, the border has become accessible to drug runners and to religious extremists who are urging Central Asian republics to begin a holy war against Moscow.”

The sun hung on the northern horizon, onion domes and chimney pots. Her voice was a shade huskier and her Siberian accent sounded more schooled and sophisticated. Arkady remembered her gestures, sometimes flamboyant, and the color of her eyes, like amber. Listening, he found himself leaning toward the radio. He felt ridiculous, as if he should be holding up his side of the conversation.

“Miners in Donetsk yesterday demanded the resignation of the government and the removal of the Party, and announced the start of a new strike. Work stoppages have also begun in all twenty-six mines in the Karaganda Basin and in twenty-nine mines in Rostov-on-Don. Mass rallies in support of the strikers were held by miners in Sverdlovsk, Chelyabinsk and Vladivostok.”

The news was not important; he hardly heard it. It was her voice and breath transmitted across a thousand miles.

“Last night in Moscow, the Democratic Front rallied outside Gorky Park to call for the ‘de-legalization’ of the Communist party. At the same time, members of the right-wing ‘Red Banner’ met to defend the Party. Both groups demanded the right to march in Red Square.”

She was Scheherazade, Arkady thought. Night after night she could tell tales of oppression, insurrection, strikes, and natural disaster, and he would listen as if she were spinning stories of exotic lands, magical spices, flashing scimitars and pearl-eyed dragons with scales of gold. As long as she would talk to him.

At midnight, Arkady waited across from the Lenin Library, admiring the statues of Russian writers and scholars that hovered along the roof line. He remembered what he had heard about the building being ready to collapse. True enough, the statues looked ready to jump. When a shadow emerged and locked the door, Arkady crossed the street and introduced himself.