nadezhda & ruslan i.

Ruslan

In the poorer part of Moscow, far from the Red Square and the Kremlin, the imposing boulevards and the towering statues of Marx, Lenin and Stalin, the picturesque river and its bridges, there is a nondescript door in a nondescript wall on a nondescript building.

The building is one of a thousand: no citadel of stone going back a thousand years but a bland, poured-concrete monstrosity of gargantuan proportions, little quality control, and absolutely no styling. A hundred crowded apartments occupy the second through seventh floors. The first floor is dominated by a garage where Party vehicles are washed and repaired and a Party-run grocery where a family might trade a large amount of rubles or a medium amount of food vouchers for a week's worth of grain, vegetable, and alcohol. There is also a small tailor's shop where a dozen or so unflattering, unremarkable fashions might be glimpsed.

Between the tailor's and the grocer's is the nondescript door. There are no markings, and the curious passerby who tugs on its handle will find it locked. Yet if one knocks after dark, and knocks just right -- three taps in staggered rhythm, followed by a pause, followed by three more -- one might find the door unlocking, then opening. One might find a fourth, secret store within: one where forbidden contraband from the West, illicit substances from Asia Minor, and perhaps even forged papers for escape might be found.

That is the rumor, anyway, unsubstantiated. It is also possible it is a KGB plant, placed there for the express purpose of identifying and capturing dissidents and discontents.

Nadezhda

It's an unusually hot summer for Moscow. It makes the girl walking down the street stand out all the more: she's of average height, but above-average beauty. She has surprising curves, especially for her youth. Her hair is subtly audacious, a bit too Western in its sheen and styling. She wears sunglasses that, if she were Western, would be much larger and more fashionable. It's easy to tell that fashion would matter to her. Which brings us to why she draws the eye on such a hot late-summer day.

She's dressed in cropped black pencil pants, and a pair of black heels that have gotten her more than a few muttered slurs tossed at her back about what sort of girl she is. Her belt is black. Her close-fitting, tucked-in sweater is black and white striped. She has a transistor radio in one hand, listening to whatever the USSR deems appropriate for her to be listening to today. In her other hand is a thin black cigarette.

Ruslan

Today, as every day, the USSR deems it appropriate for her to listen to some ghastly patriotic piece -- full-throated all-male choruses and blaring, four-to-the-floor rhythms. Through the transistor radio the music sounds tinny, distant, flat. Still, it is no small feat to have a portable machine like that to begin with. Even if she were not so outlandishly fashionable, she would turn heads for that alone.

At the corner is a policeman. Not an official policeman, mind, but one of the secret police who wears no uniform. One can still tell he is what he is. One gains an instinct for such things. It is in his bearing, which is arrogant and slouching, but ready. It is in the cigarette he smokes, which is every bit as quality and as contraband as what the girl is smoking. It is in the way his eye drifts over to her and locks, and not merely with passing sexual interest.

He is still half a block away. And before she is quite in danger of being stopped, the nondescript door suddenly flies open. A large man comes backpedaling out, stumbles over his own feet, crashes to the ground.

A cloth backpack follows, thudding against the man's chest before rolling into the gutter. The top of the backpack, which is secured by a flimsy snap masquerading as a leather strap, flies open. A small treasure trove of gaudy ornaments spills into the gutter.

"Cock-eater!" roars the man who sent him sprawling out in the first place. "Don't come back without proper payment!"

Now the policeman's attention is most definitely caught. He tosses his cigarette down, stamps it out, and begins to walk over.

Nadezhda

Between her and the policeman, a door flies open and a man is thrown out. He clatters to the ground, clutching his backpack. The girl doesn't flinch in between the full-throated all-male chorus from her radio and the equally full-throated profanity from the third man, who has once again vanished behind his nondescript door. She knows what she should do, which is keep walking. Not even look. But she pauses, looking down at the man and his treasure trove. She glances at the door briefly, then takes a drag on her cigarette.

The policeman is close enough to catch a whiff of that cigarette before she decides to go on walking. Steps around the man on the ground without offering him any assistance and continues sauntering along on her way,

right past the policeman.

Ruslan

The policeman is primarily interested in the sudden eruption behind her. Indeed, that is where his eyes have shifted and locked. That is where he is headed, his pace unhurried but his path direct.

Meanwhile, the large man is scrabbling about in the gutter, grabbing up fistfuls of baubles and trinkets, most probably fake, some small and damning proportion possibly real. It's hard to say whether or not he's noticed the policeman coming his way. He certainly hasn't noticed the girl that everyone else on this street has already noticed.

And the policeman, for his part, doesn't walk all the way over. He gets a little closer. Close enough to see. And then he turns to face the opposite side of the street, raising his eyes to one particular blank window. Very subtly, he tilts his head toward the frantic man with the backpack. And the again-locked door.

This is when the girl passes him.

A moment after, he turns and walks the way he came. Which also happens to be the way the girl has gone.

Nadezhda

She doesn't see the look to the black window, the little nod. She would wonder, if she did. Her back is to him, and so is the sway of her hips, the tall skinny heels of her shoes, the aftermath of the radio, which she is imagining is playing something else.

Takes a little while for her to notice someone behind her. Feels him more than hears him. Senses him more than sees him. So she pauses, stubbing out her cigarette on a wall, and waits to see if he passes her.

Ruslan

He does not pass her.

He stops when she does, perhaps two or three paces back, making little effort to hide the fact that he has been following her. They are a good block or so from the unremarkable door by now.

Behind them -- while she stubs out her cigarette, and while he waits -- there is a sudden, fresh commotion. A sudden rush of booted feet across a street, a sudden torrent of banging, rifle butts on a door. Shouting. A loud crack as the door gives way.

Some screaming. But not a lot. Most bystanders hunch their shoulders, lower their heads, and walk very fast. Everyone pretends not to witness anything.

Nadezhda

He doesn't pass her, and she doesn't look back. She flicks her cigarette butt away. And then she turns off her transistor radio, wasting a little bit of time with the knobs while she considers what to do.

Just then: the commotion behind them, not so far away. She doesn't startle or gasp or run away, but she does tense, looking back that way. Then her eyes skim over to the man who has been following her. Her gaze is hidden behind her shades, but it only takes a moment.

Then he can feel it. Her, looking at him.

Ruslan

Now there is no use in either of them pretending they have not seen the other. Not that he was doing that in the first place. Her little radio turns off and despite the noise of the street, everything seems quite silent.

"You do not look very much like the other girls," the policeman observes.

Nadezhda

Her head falls lazily to one side, dark hair swinging along her shoulder. "Is that so bad?" A quirk of one brow over the rim of her shades. "Is that why a policeman is following me home?"

Ruslan

He smiles.

His eyes do not.

"Very nice sunglasses. I am curious," he says, blatantly lying and making no effort to conceal this, either. "Where does one go to buy sunglasses such as yours?"

Nadezhda

To answer him, she reaches up, slipping them off and examining them briefly, as if she's never really looked to see if they are 'very nice' or not. "Thank you," she says first, sounding distracted. "I do not know."

Looks at him. Her eyes are hazel, a golden brown flecked with amber and green. "They were a gift from my papa," she explains.

"Grigory Yegorovich Kuznetsov," she goes on, as though she expects him to ask who her papa is, who he should go after next. Likely not one of the Deputies of the Council of Ministers, though.

Ruslan

The name has an effect, as it is meant to. The troublesome policeman's eyes narrow. His face, lean and hard to begin with, has no smile to spare now.

"Forgive me. I did not realize Minister Kuznetsov had a daughter. Jolly man, yes? Tall and broad, big bushy beard."

It is entirely the wrong description.

Nadezhda

She cocks her head again. "No? Perhaps you are thinking of Minister Smirnov. Though he keeps his beard very tidy."

Ruslan

"Of course, you are correct." He looks no less suspicious, though somewhat more irked now. "I must be thinking of the wrong man.

"Go on, then. On your way." He straightens, nodding her onward. "Though perhaps in the future you will be less blatant about your status. Your father is not, after all, a czar."

Nadezhda

She puts her sunglasses back on, smirking at him. "Oh? Is your papa a czar? Is that why you are so bold?"

Ruslan

People have been shipped to the gulags for less. Yet in the place of a nightstick to the face or a set of handcuffs on the wrists, she gets only a hard little smirk in return.

"My, you are an impudent one. I am only reminding you, Comrade Kuznetsova, that it is unwise for the daughter of a Party official to set herself so apart from her compatriots. Ours is a shared struggle. Those who break ranks have a bad habit of falling far and fast. More often than not they bringing their loved ones with them."

Nadezhda

She is quiet a moment, and then

walks towards him. They've only been a yard or two apart, so far. Behind him, the commotion is still going on. Neither of them are paying it much mind. There's a coldness to that. She doesn't stop when she's three feet from him, only when she's very nearly touching him. Even in her heels, she's smaller than he is. Looks up at him. He can see her eyes, warm and inviting, past the rim of her far-too-fashionable sunglasses.

"I am not so different from my people. My patriots."

She inhales, deeply.

"We share a taste for the same cigarettes."

Ruslan

She closes. There is a boldness in that: advancing on an officer of the secret police. She does not seem intimidated. Mind, neither does he. But he does seem surprised to find her suddenly so close, fashionable sunglasses notwithstanding.

Called out on his cigarettes, he scoffs. He doesn't bother to explain; it would only sound like an excuse. He only nods her onward again, that casual slouch coming back into his spine, his hands folding loosely behind his back.

"Get out of here, Comrade Kuznetsova. Before I confiscate those sunglasses and those cigarettes."

Nadezhda

She smirks. Or really: she never stopped smirking. She winks at him, brazen as her outfit, her radio, her ostentatious access to things most of her people cannot dream of.

And without a word, then, she turns, sauntering away. With a flick of her fingers on a knob, the radio comes back on, a strange backing track to her departure.