She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, rooting through the cupboard, hoping that Zoya would remain preoccupied with the television. Zoya called out:
— What are you looking for?
— My swimsuit.
— You’re going to the pool?
— That is where people swim, isn’t it?
Elena was trying to be sassy in an effort to hide her nervousness but it wasn’t her style and the words jarred. Zoya didn’t seem to notice:
— You want me to come?
Elena snapped back:
— No.
Zoya stood up, looking at her sister directly.
— What’s wrong?
Elena had made a mistake in being so abrupt.
— Nothing. I’m going to have a swim. I’ll see you in an hour or two.
— Mother’s coming back for lunch.
— I’ll be finished before then.
Holding her gym bag, Elena left.
In the corridor she hastened away from her sister’s room, checking up and down to make sure no one was watching. She didn’t head to the elevator, instead stopping by room 844 and trying the handle. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, shutting the door behind. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. Mikael Ivanov stepped out of the shadows, putting his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest, whispering:
— I’m ready.
He put his hand on her chin lifting her eyes up towards his. He kissed her.
— I love you.
Manhattan
United Nations Headquarters
1st Avenue & East 42nd Street
Next Day
Raisa’s awe came not from the architecture – the United Nations headquarters were not particularly tall or beautiful – but simply from being here. It was her first full day in New York City and the experience of being abroad, in the nation described as their Main Adversary, was overwhelming. Waking up in her hotel room in the middle of last night she’d been disorientated, searching the bed for Leo. When she couldn’t find him, she’d opened the curtains to reveal a view no more glamorous than a back alley and a fragment of city skyline, the edge of an office tower – a view of windows and air-conditioner units. Yet she’d stood in dumb wonder as if stretched out before her were snow-capped mountains.
She entered the lobby of the United Nations Headquarters, the only member of her delegation to attend these preliminary meetings, inspecting the General Assembly Hall where tonight’s concert was to be staged. She was to discuss the event with key Soviet diplomats, the men involved with the complex and ongoing negotiations with the American authorities. She expected the meeting to be tough. They would want to pick through every detail of her plans. Tonight’s concert was to be a gathering of United Nations envoys, representatives from almost every country and the key diplomatic event of the tour. A second concert was planned for tomorrow, intended for a public audience. It was to be filmed then broadcast around the world. After that, the delegation would travel by train to Washington DC for a final set of concerts.
As part of the chess-game-like negotiations, the Soviet authorities had insisted that the group not be taken on a tourist trail of New York City or Washington DC. Officials in Moscow were keen to avoid photos of Soviet students staring in amazement at skyscrapers or the Statue of Liberty, or salivating over hot dogs and pretzels as if they were starved and deprived. Such photos would be exploited. Despite the stated peace agenda, both sides were hunting for an iconic image that would define the tour in one nation’s favour – the image that would be remembered and disseminated around the world. These fears had resulted in two officials being appointed to stage-manage the group’s public appearances, evaluating any situations set up by their American guides. Raisa had no interest in these games being played and was annoyed that despite being in New York, the only visit she would probably ever make to the city, many of the sights were off limits. She was giving serious consideration to the idea of sneaking Elena and Zoya out of the hotel at night and taking them on an unofficial tour. It would be difficult to slip past the security and perhaps her instincts as a teacher were asserting themselves too strongly. There would be a risk. She pushed the thought aside for now, concentrating on the upcoming meeting.
Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-coloured suit. She felt uncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were tal="0" about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely travelled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending – certain that she’d been plucked from obscurity, from mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jacket. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.
In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: her shoes were plain, her clothes poor and her appearance not to the standards typical of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.
Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:
— Raisa Demidova.
He switched into an imitation American accent:
— This is Evan Vass.
She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it, loosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: he merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practising, Raisa’s English was limited.
— It is my pleasure to meet you.
Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:
— My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I have never found it funny.
Trofimov explained his joke:
— Evan has been in America so long and is so corrupted by American ways we have renamed him.
Even this light exchange left Raisa confused – to claim someone was corrupted by American ways was hardly a laughing matter, yet it seemed the remark were no more than banter. These men existed in a rarefied atmosph
ere where even serious accusations carried no danger. As Trofimov poure glass of water she reminded herself that no matter what leniency they showed each other she was not of their level and rules that did not apply to them still applied to her.
Putting the disconcerting introduction behind her, Raisa reiterated the plans for the concert, pointing out the significance of the arrangements, from the choice of songs to the blocking. There had been one meeting in her hotel last night with her American counterpart: she was about to have a second meeting in the Grand Assembly Hall. There would be a dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Trofimov smoked throughout, smiling and nodding, occasionally watching his cigarette smoke swirl in the air-conditioned currents. Vass gave no reaction, regarding her with unmoving coal-black eyes. As she finished, Trofimov stubbed out his cigarette.
— That sounds excellent. I have nothing to add. You seem to have everything under control. I’m sure the concerts will be a great success.
The men stood up. It was her cue to leave. Raisa couldn’t believe it, standing uncertainly.
— You don’t have any comments?
Trofimov smiled.
— Comments? Yes, good luck! I’m looking forward to the concert. It will be a great success. A triumph, of that I have no doubt. We will see you tonight.
— Won’t you be attending the dress rehearsal this afternoon?
— No, that won’t be necessary. And it might spoil the experience. We trust you. We trust you completely.
Trofimov stepped forward, showing Raisa to the door. The young guide was waiting outside, ready to escort her to the General Assembly Hall. Trofimov said goodbye. Evan Vass said goodbye. Raisa nodded, heading towards the elevator, perplexed by their response. They hadn’t interrogated her. They hadn’t imposed their authority. They’d behaved as if the concert that they’d spent so long seeking diplomatic permission for was of absolutely no concern.
She touched the arm of her guide, saying in English:
— Where is the bathroom?
He changed direction, taking her to the bathroom. She entered, checking that she was alone before leaning on the sink and looking at her reflection, regarding her ugly, unfashionable set of clothes, registering the tension in her shoulders. Leo’s instincts about this trip had been correct.
New Jersey
Bergen County
The Town of Teaneck
Same Day
FBI agent Jim Yates stood beside his sleeping wife, looking down at her as if she was a corpse and he was the first officer on the scene. She was wrapped up in a thick comforter in the height of summer, in a bedroom that was as hot as a sauna. Hypersensitive to noise, twirls of cotton wool spiralled out of her ears like wisps of campfire smoke. A thick black eye mask protected her in perpetual darkness, closing out the world, for she despised even this brilliant sunny morning. He leaned down, his lips hovering above her forehead and whispered:
— I love you.
She rolled onto her side, turning away from him, creasing up her face in irritation, shooing him awaywith the furrows of her brow. She didn’t lower her eye mask and didn’t reply. As he straightened up, the image flashed through his mind of taking off that mask, placing his fingertips on her eyelids, forcing them open and making her look at him – repeating, calmly, in a measured voice, not shouting, or losing his temper:
I. Love. You.
He’d keep repeating it, louder and louder until she said it back to him.
I. Love. You. Too.
He would say thank you. She would smile sweetly. And that was how a normal day should begin. A husband tells his wife he loves her, she should tell him she loves him back. It didn’t even have to be true but there was a formula to follow. That was how it worked in every other household, in every decent suburb, in every normal American family.
Walking to the window, Yates pulled back the curtain and looked out onto their garden – it was overrun, the flowerbeds choked with knee-high weeds knotted together like witch’s hair. The lawn had died a long time ago, the earth split into rock-hard chunks: jagged fissures between clumps of lank yellow grass, like the surface of some inhospitable moon. Set among the perfectly tended gardens of their neighbours it was an abomination. Yates had proposed hiring a gardener but his wife had refused, unsettled by the idea of a stranger moving in and out of the house, making noise, talking to the neighbours. Yates had suggested asking the gardener not to speak, never to come inside and to make as little noise as possible, anything so that their house wasn’t such a vision of shameful neglect. His wife had refused.
Ready to leave, he went through the exit routine, checking the windows, making sure they were shut. He stopped by the phone, making sure it was unplugged. With these checks complete, he descended the stairs. At great expense they’d been carpeted with the thickest and finest material, of exotic foreign origin, to muffle any noise. Yates left the house, pinning a note on the door:
PLEASE DO NOT RING THE BELL
PLEASE DO NOT KNOCK ON THE DOOR
Originally he’d concluded with the explanation that no one was at home. But that line had been cut since his wife was worried it might attract burglars. When he returned after work he’d take the note down. Whenever he went out, even if it was for an hour, even if it was for five minutes, he went through the checks and put up the note. His wife did not react well to disturbances of any kind.
Yates got into his car, grabbed hold of the steering wheel, but did not start the engine. He just sat there, surveying his home. He’d loved this house when he’d bought it. He’d loved the street with its beautiful front yard, located near parks and a range of stores. In the summer it smelt of freshly cut lawns and always seemed to be cooler than the city. People would wave and say hel. Nothing angered him more than people who didn’t appreciate how lucky they were to live in a country like this. The race riots in Jersey City in August last year were a disgrace, men and women destroying the very place where they lived. Those riots proved he’d been right to oppose the desegregation of public schools in Teaneck. Many people had been proud of this development, which they called social progress. Yates hadn’t said anything in public but he was sure it would lead to an influx of outsiders and that would lead to tensions. Paradise doesn’t need progress. The photographs of Jersey City had shocked him – smashed shop windows, burning cars. Maybe there were some legitimate complaints in that part of town, problems with employment, there were always problems, but only a sick man, a blind man, would trash his own home rather than trying to fix it. Yates would fight to stop the same happening here.
He pulled out of the drive, heading towards Manhattan, thirty minutes away. He’d been in the city until late last night, wanting to be certain that every member of the Soviet delegation staying in the Grand Metropolitan was accounted for. Once the final checks had been completed and he was sure that they were in their rooms, he should have returned home, to his wife. Instead, he’d visited a basement bar called Flute, off Broadway, where a part-time waitress worked, a woman he’d been seeing for the past three months. Twenty years younger than him, this waitress was beautiful and interested in the mostly made-up stories he told about the FBI. She would lie on the bed, naked, holding her head in her hands while he sat, shirt unbuttoned, recounting his adventures. Almost as good as the sex was the way she hung off every anecdote, saying Un Be Lieve Able at the end of each story, pronouncing it as though it were four words, as though being unbelievable were the highest compliment a man could be paid.
A real wife would’ve been suspicious. He’d arrived home at four in the morning, silently ascended the carpeted stairs to see his wife, Diane, curled under the blankets like a sick animal. Days went by and he never saw her in any other position. It had been too hot to sleep and he’d lain on top of the comforter, naked, still smelling of Rebecca. He hadn’t ever wanted to be a cheat. He didn’t romanticize infidelity. He’d wanted to be a good husband: he’d wanted nothing more in the world. He’d tried not to blame Diane for the guilt he felt every day. T
here were times when he was so frustrated he wanted to rip their house apart with his hands, take it down plank by plank and brick by brick. He wished he could start his life over again – he’d do everything the same, everything single thing except for Diane.
Last year his parents had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They’d held a party in their garden. Over two hundred people turned up. People had travelled from other states. Several had caught a plane. Diane hadn’t been able to make it. After two hours of pleading, after banging his hands on the table-top, after smashing the bottle of twenty-year-old wine intended as a present, after punching his hand through a glass cabinet and cutting his knuckles, Yates had been forced to go without her, turning up late, knuckles bandaged and having already downed a quart of Scotch. He’d taken over the barbecue and stood there like a dumb mute servant, staring as the meat sizzled and spat globs of fat onto the fire. Yates had ended up in the most miserable, rotten relationship in the entire neighbourhood and everyone knew it. Some days the humiliation was enough to make him want to die, literally die, his heart to clog up, his lungs to turn as dry as dust.
Diane had seen doctors and therapists y’d said more or the less the same thing. There was something wrong with her nerves. It sounded like the kind of diagnosis written a hundred years ago and Yates couldn’t believe it was being handed out now. Was there a pill that could help? They gave him pills and she’d take them but none of them did any good. In an attempt to remedy the disintegration of their marriage they’d tried for a child. The baby had been lost in pregnancy. Even though Yates had prayed for the strength not to blame Diane, he did: he blamed her for his dead child. He blamed her for the waitress – he blamed her for everything that was rotten about his life because the rot spread from her. He’d wanted the dream, the perfect marriage, children, the perfect home, he’d been able to provide it materially and emotionally, he’d been ready, and she’d trashed it with her craziness. Maybe that was the definition of craziness – to trash a good thing for no reason at all.