nadezhda & ruslan ii.

Nadezhda

It's a couple of weeks later. The worse of the heat wave has passed, leaving the days balmy and the evenings temperate. It's on one of these evenings, warm but with a brisk breeze, that there is a dinner at the residence of the Chairman of the Council of Ministers. Most of the council -- the higher-ups, at least -- is in attendance, along with their wives. The group is large enough for one to disappear into, though only for short stretches of time before the absence is noted.

Naturally, the residence is well guarded. There are patrols around the perimeter, and men inside the building as well.

What passes for lavish these days is not much at all, but the women wear their nicest dresses, and meat is served, and vodka is shared. There were multiple courses. An anthem was sung before the first. The post-meal gender segregation of conversation has begun, with the ministers and their cigars in a library, with the wives chatting around the table.

One slips away, though she is not a wife. She is the daughter of a widower, a respected man known for his ferocious temper and, to some, for his creatively ruthless solutions to thorny problems the council sometimes faces.

The daughter has his thick, dark hair, though not his sharp, bright blue eyes. She has her mother's eyes, tawny and warm, twinkling at times, contrite at others. Tonight she is wearing perhaps the least conservative dress of all the women in attendance. The wives are wearing three-quarter sleeved dresses with straight, narrow skirts of calf-length, in solid colors or neutral prints. Most wore hats. All wore gloves. Their heels are either nonexistent or short, blocky.

Of course Deputy Minister Kuznetsov's only child stands out. She is youth in a room full of maturity, and then there is her dress: the swinging skirt that hits just below her knees, the vibrant splashes of deep pink flowers against white, the belt of burnished leather, the cap sleeves. There are no gloves on her hands. Her hair is swept up in a silky high chignon. And her heels are, again,

far too high.

Outside the residence, there is a stark garden with rocky paths, a few flowerbeds, a plot of vegetables, and a few fruit trees. It is sparse, but it speaks to the Chairman's position that he has it at all.

She is out on a bench, sitting backwards so her feet are on some sun-burnt grass instead of the rocks of the path, slipping a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches out of her little purse.

But before she lights on, she slips her feet from their heels. Lets them brush over the dry but not yet dead grass, feeling the blades tickle her stockings.

Ruslan

Here is the problem with the dream of true socioeconomic equality, whether it stems from socialism or democracy: it is unattainable. Human beings are animals and animals, by nature, are driven to compete. There are winners and losers, haves and havenots. The faces and qualifications of those with privilege change. The fact that privilege exists does not.

Even in this brave new world where all ostensibly work toward the same goals, reap the same benefits, dine from the same unbreakable plates and live in the same poured-concrete buildings, there are strata and divisions. There are those who count their ration-tickets and save for a jar of jam, a sack of flour. And there are those who live in houses with gardens, and who invite their friends to multi-course dinners with meat and fish.

Even if the gardens are small. Even if the meat -- some of it -- was canned. And even if such dinners must be held under some patriotic pretext. Last month there was a dinner celebrating some anniversary of some victory. Tonight, the dinner celebrates the brave men and women who protect the Soviet Union against threats from within: those soulless counterrevolutionaries who would pull their great nation back into the torment of capitalism and moral bankruptcy. Those who peddle pornography and forbidden books. Those who sell national treasures across the border. Those who import contraband, and even those who, under cover of a nondescript door in a nondescript building, facilitate the defection of traitors.

Those brave men and women who have protected the Motherland were, of course, invited to the party. Yet one cannot very well have the rabble intermingling too much with the elite, and so they were served their dinner at their own table off to the side, out of the way. When the time was right they were asked to stand awkwardly and receive applause. Afterward, they have been rather mildly and inoffensively ignored, and most have already made themselves scarce.

One is still here, though. Not inside the residence. Not mingling with the mighty councillors and their wives but outside, enjoying the night, is the secret policeman with the contraband cigarettes. There is a view of the River Moskva from the Chairman's garden. It is a nice view. There is decidedly no such view from the policeman's poured-concrete tenement.

--

When Comrade Kuznetsova slips away from the party, the policeman is standing at the edge of the garden looking at the broken reflection of lights in the water. He does not turn immediately. When he does, he merely considers his fellow addict for a moment.

Then he tips her a cynical little salute from across the garden: two fingers and a smoking cigarette.

Nadezhda

There are skeletons buried in the earth, tens of thousands of years old, who are adorned with thousands of ivory beads, hats and belts of fox teeth. They are unique in their burial grounds: one or two, bedecked with thousands of man-hours of their artisan's finest work, crowned with the fangs of at least fifty animals. Dozens of other skeletons are buried around them. But a precious few stand apart.

Now a chairman of a supposedly egalitarian society lives in a house larger, finer than those of his 'equals' who are not so influential in government. He has vodka and wine. His daughter wears scandalous Western clothing and smokes contraband cigarettes, and who knows what else, and they do not stop him. Meanwhile anyone else is thrown to the ground and arrested for the same, dragged to a gulag to await sentencing.

Humanity has always been thus. May always be so.

--

She did not see him at first. She was enraptured by her feet across the grass, the sensation of the concrete bench under her hand. He heard her strike a match. Perhaps saw her cupping the flame in her hand, holding her cigarette in her lips as she lit it.

She sees him only a bit later, while she is smoking, still brushing her feet over the grass. Did not see him inside, from her slightly more honored place at a table filled with food to, ostensibly, honor him. She is a little surprised, but not much.

Smirks when he salutes.

Cocks her head.

Beckons to him with three fingers.

Pats the bench beside her.

Ruslan

He does not, of course, immediately come when beckoned. He looks out over the river, huffing a laugh to himself. Considering the invitation, perhaps, before returning his eyes to the Chairman's daughter. When he does decide to join her, he crosses the garden at his own pace, following the paths that wind and turn -- if only to give the impression of more length than there is.

The moon casts his shadow at her feet when he comes to a stop before her. He does not sit. Tonight, unlike virtually any other day or night, he is wearing his uniform. Parade dress at that, with tailored lines and crisply ironed creases. He carries a peaked cap under his arm. The band is blue: he is, indeed, secret police. The insignia is a plain red star; there are no leaves on the visor. Not a high-ranking officer, then. A foot soldier. An attack dog of the Soviet machine.

"So you are Chairman Kuznetsov's daughter," he says. "Here I thought there was a good chance you were lying."

Nadezhda

She is still looking at him when he turns back around. Even after he turned, huffed. Another woman -- or even this woman regarding most men -- would have given up and ignored him, insulted. She is no longer beckoning, no longer smirking, but she is still watching him.

Watches him look at her again. And watches him walk towards her.

She is sitting in the middle of the bench, but when he comes nearer, she does not scoot over. He doesn't sit, anyway. It would probably wrinkle his uniform.

Her eyes flick over him, taking in the crease of his slacks, the emblems here and there. A coil of smoke curls from the tip of her cigarette into the night air. After regarding him a moment, she brings it back to her lips. Looks up at him, this finely-attired comrade, as he says he thought she was a liar.

Chairman Kuznetsov's daughter smirks at him.

"You are cynical," she says, breezily observational, "even for a member of the secret police."

Ruslan

"Most counterrevolutionaries lie," he retorts, "particularly when they think they are about to be captured."

Nadezhda

She laughs at him. "Counterrevolutionary?" she echoes. "Now you are the liar. If you thought I was a counterrevolutionary, my papa's name would not have stopped you."

She smokes. Looks up at him. Adds: "You are not that sort."

Ruslan

"I am not implying you are," he corrects. "At the time, I thought you were. Now I think you are a rather spoiled girl, with a father who either indulges you too much or cannot control you at all.

"But you are right. Your father's name would not have stopped me." His smile is thin, but touched with self-deprecation. "I am too stupid and stubborn for that."

Nadezhda

Something in her eyes, no longer hidden behind expensive sunglasses, flicks sideways when he says the words cannot control you at all.

The smirk doesn't falter, though. But just like his smile on the street the other day, it no longer touches her eyes.

So many things to distract her, she thinks. So many things she could say. But she chooses the one that, to her, seems the most glaring, the most obvious, the most curious.

And it is curiosity that touches her tone when she asks: "Then what did stop you?"

Ruslan

He is mildly surprised. As though it should be obvious, "What stopped me? The fact that you did nothing wrong. Nothing important, anyway; nothing to betray your country. You merely indulged," he gestures with the hand holding the cigarette, "a minor and foolish vice. We cannot demand perfection, even in the daughter of a party hero."

Nadezhda

There's a beat of a pause. A consideration. She decides in the end to take what he says at face value, and takes a drag of her cigarette.

"Sit with me, comrade," she says, which sounds like an offer more than a command. She is in no position, after all, to be giving him commands. She knows that, at least.

A faint smirk, fainter than before. "I promise not to do anything to betray our country."

Ruslan

Almost in spite of himself, he smirks back.

And, after a beat of consideration, he does sit. There is something stiff about it, though perhaps that's not so surprising: the uniform itself is so starched and so rarely-worn that it scarcely bends. After all, wearing colors and badges and medals and caps are hardly conducive to the anonymity required of a secret policeman.

But there's also the fact that she is an attractive young female. And the fact that her father is a very, very powerful man. But here they are all the same, sitting a polite foot apart, smoking the same brand of illegally imported cigarette.

"Did they give you a name, Comrade Kuznetsova?" he thinks to ask after a while.

Nadezhda

Still, she does not scoot over. She remains as she is, that gauzy and brilliantly patterned skirt spread wide over the bench. The most concession she makes is to move the edge of that skirt closer to her thigh so he will not sit on her dress. When he sits down, though, the thick and flouncy petticoat beneath the dress pushes the edge of the fabric against the leg of his uniform. They do not touch, not by several inches, but their clothes press up against one another.

She smokes. Her posture is impeccable even then. She looks at the river and not at the secret policeman beside her. They are close enough to make one avoid interrupting them, but not close enough to indicate gross impropriety. But for some time, there is nothing even to interrupt: she smokes, and he smokes, and the river winds with the laziness of all rivers during a warm summer, and there is silence and only the breeze between them.

Perhaps oddly, she seems more relaxed like this. There's no smirk on her face while she watches the river. There's no impudent glint in her eyes. She does not prod him now. The silence is, at least for her, apparently quite a comfortable one.

Then he asks her if she has been given a name, and something about the phrasing brings back a hint of that smirk of hers to the corner of her lips. The question seems to amuse her. She glances sidelong at him, a sharpness in her eyes, but there's a twinkle to it, like moonlight sparkling off the edge of a knife.

"They did," she answers, and exhales smoke to the side. "Did they let you keep yours?"

Ruslan

For a time, there is something like truce between them. As she relaxes, he seems to as well. They smoke peacefully. No barbs, no smirks. Just a lazy river; a moon gleaming subtly off the bridge of his nose, the curve of her cheek, the glint of his cufflinks, the bracelet on her wrist.

Then the sharpness is back. The wind carries away her smoke, but not her amusement. He glances sidelong at her, a certain cool humor in the curve of his mouth.

"For the time," he replies. "Ruslan Arkadyevich Voloshyn, at your service."

Nadezhda

Since he came over, she has been holding her cigarette in her right hand, away from him. But when he introduces himself, she moves it to her left. She twists a bit at the waist and offers him her right hand for a shake.

"Nadezhda Grigoryovna Kuznetzova," she returns, though he already knew at least half of that. She smiles. "It is very pleasant to meet you, Ruslan Arkadyevich."

When her hand is returned, she takes another pull at her cigarette. "And how long, exactly, have you been at my service?" she inquires, ever playful and borderline inappropriate. "I mean our country's service, of course."

Ruslan

Actually, he already knew two-thirds of her name. It was only the first name, the one given to her, that was missing. Nonetheless he is polite enough to give her the entirety of his, as well as his hand.

Not terribly polite, though. His cigarette is still caught between his two fingers, which he keeps extended to avoid a collision. When they draw back, they both drag. He reverses his grip, the imported smoke now held between thumb and forefinger.

"Long enough, apparently, that they now trot me out at social functions like a show stallion."

Nadezhda

Her eyebrows lift at his 'stallion' remark. "Is there something you would prefer to be doing?"

Ruslan

He laughs. "No offense to your valiant father, Nadezdha Grigoryevna, but I can easily think of half a hundred things I would prefer to a banquet in his superior's home. A good bottle of vodka in the comfort of my own kitchen, for one."

Nadezhda

This catches her interest, which is to say: he should be wary of that light in her eyes.

"There is a kitchen here," she mentions, "and I am sure there is vodka."

Ruslan

[NADEZHDA, DAMMIT]

Ruslan

He casts her a disbelieving glance. Laughs again under his breath.

"Do you know how much trouble I would be in if I were caught? With you? Stealing the Chairman's vodka, at that? You may be born into the nomenklatura, but my station in life is decidedly more humble."

Nadezhda

A grin. The first one he's seen. God, it's devilish.

"That was not a no, Ruslan Arkadyevich."

Ruslan

There is a hesitation; longer than one might think. Then, slowly, Ruslan shakes his head.

"I am not untempted, Comrade Kutnetzova," he says, "but no. What is a game to you is deadly serious to me. Perhaps another time, another place."

Nadezhda

His sincerity in the admission, and the way he chooses his first few words, makes her grin fade a bit, but not from displeasure. It seems to have made her reconsider her position, somehow. She also finds that she is disappointed, and it disturbs her.

She takes a drag. That helps.

"It is not all a game to me, Comrade Voloshyn," she answers, more seriously. The both of them have retreated now into honorifics despite knowing one another's familiar names. She is looking at him as she says it, and then she looks away. One more drag. One more hit.

Then: she drops her cigarette to the rocky path, stubbing it out under a fine shoe that should never be used for such filthy work. Perhaps as a final act of defiance or rebellion in this place, she leaves the butt where it is as she rises to her feet. Smooths her skirt.

"Another time and place, then," she says, and turns to walk back to the house, her hands clasped behind her back.