BOOK I by Genevieve Roland Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Genevieve Roland
nervously uncrossed and recrossed her legs, giving the Potter a glimpse of garter belt, of thigh. Once, when she had drunk too much vodka, she had admitted that, as a young girl, she planted herself in front of a mirror and practiced crossing her legs in a way that would permit the men facing her to see up her skirt. Later, when he had reminded her of this, she had denied it indignantly. But the perfection of the gesture spoke for itself.
"There was a phone call for you while you were out," Svetochka announced absently. "Someone named Oskar...”
He stopped stirring his tea. If he could give Oskar what he wanted, there still might be a way out. "What did he say?" the Potter asked.
"It was a funny message. He said to tell you he is in possession of a piece of paper, that it is divided into two columns, one marked A, the other B. He said there was one name in each column."
"One name in each column?"
Svetochka nodded. "He said you would understand. Who is this Oskar?"
"He is a middleman," the Potter answered. "He brings buyers and sellers together."
Svetochka wasn't listening. "There must be a solution," she blurted out.
"It is only a question of finding it."
"There is," the Potter said quietly.
"Then take it!"
"It would mean betraying a friend." The Potter had known all along it would come down to this. He tried to imagine what advice Piotr Borisovich would give him. We are in a ruthless business, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. We are not humanists, so why pretend to be?
Save yourself, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. If I were in your shoes, I certainly would.
On the radio, the Moscow Symphony Orchestra reached the end of one movement and began tuning up before starting another. In the audience, people coughed. Svetochka breathed a name into the silence. "Piotr Borisovich?" The orchestra launched into the new movement.
The Potter looked quickly away, confirming her guess.
"If you give them Piotr," she plunged on, thinking she was talking about the Deputy Assistant Procurator and warehouse pilfering, "they will leave you and Svetochka alone?"
"If I give them Piotr Borisovich"-the Potter felt as if he were finally getting the spiralling clay under some kind of control-"we can go to live in Paris."
Svetochka's eyes widened. "Paris," she repeated. She didn't hesitate.
"He betrayed you," she spat out. "You can betray him!"
The Potter's hand shook; tea spilled onto his trousers. "What do you mean, betrayed me?"
She avoided his eye. "When you started bringing him around, he was very polite, very respectful at first. Later, when he didn't think you would notice, he would look up Svetochka's skirt, brush the back of his hand against Svetochka's breast. Svetochka knew what he was thinking. You went off once, you said it was to Poland. Remember? You were away for ten days." She appeared to run out of words; out of breath too.
"Go on," the Potter ordered weakly.
"Ten days you were away. He dropped by. He said he was looking for you, but we both understood that he knew you were not in Moscow. We drank some vodka. Svetochka was lonely without her Feliks. Before she knew what had happened, we were in-" She burst out furiously, "Does Svetochka have to draw you a picture?"
"I don't believe you," the Potter cried. "You are lying."
"If Svetochka is lying," she retorted, her voice barely audible above the music, her eyes flashing, "how would she know that Piotr Borisovich was circumcised?"
"So: you got my message?"
"I got it."
Oskar seemed just as tense as the Potter. "You understood it, yes?"
"I understood it," the Potter acknowledged. He watched the trolley cars slide noiselessly past in the street below. What sound they made was dampened by the storm windows fitted over the regular windows. Someone had been very lazy. In summer such windows were usually taken off. Maybe it wasn't a question of cold, though. Maybe it was a question of security. Cotton had been stretched along the sill between the windows
"There was a phone call for you while you were out," Svetochka announced absently. "Someone named Oskar...”
He stopped stirring his tea. If he could give Oskar what he wanted, there still might be a way out. "What did he say?" the Potter asked.
"It was a funny message. He said to tell you he is in possession of a piece of paper, that it is divided into two columns, one marked A, the other B. He said there was one name in each column."
"One name in each column?"
Svetochka nodded. "He said you would understand. Who is this Oskar?"
"He is a middleman," the Potter answered. "He brings buyers and sellers together."
Svetochka wasn't listening. "There must be a solution," she blurted out.
"It is only a question of finding it."
"There is," the Potter said quietly.
"Then take it!"
"It would mean betraying a friend." The Potter had known all along it would come down to this. He tried to imagine what advice Piotr Borisovich would give him. We are in a ruthless business, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. We are not humanists, so why pretend to be?
Save yourself, he could hear Piotr Borisovich saying. If I were in your shoes, I certainly would.
On the radio, the Moscow Symphony Orchestra reached the end of one movement and began tuning up before starting another. In the audience, people coughed. Svetochka breathed a name into the silence. "Piotr Borisovich?" The orchestra launched into the new movement.
The Potter looked quickly away, confirming her guess.
"If you give them Piotr," she plunged on, thinking she was talking about the Deputy Assistant Procurator and warehouse pilfering, "they will leave you and Svetochka alone?"
"If I give them Piotr Borisovich"-the Potter felt as if he were finally getting the spiralling clay under some kind of control-"we can go to live in Paris."
Svetochka's eyes widened. "Paris," she repeated. She didn't hesitate.
"He betrayed you," she spat out. "You can betray him!"
The Potter's hand shook; tea spilled onto his trousers. "What do you mean, betrayed me?"
She avoided his eye. "When you started bringing him around, he was very polite, very respectful at first. Later, when he didn't think you would notice, he would look up Svetochka's skirt, brush the back of his hand against Svetochka's breast. Svetochka knew what he was thinking. You went off once, you said it was to Poland. Remember? You were away for ten days." She appeared to run out of words; out of breath too.
"Go on," the Potter ordered weakly.
"Ten days you were away. He dropped by. He said he was looking for you, but we both understood that he knew you were not in Moscow. We drank some vodka. Svetochka was lonely without her Feliks. Before she knew what had happened, we were in-" She burst out furiously, "Does Svetochka have to draw you a picture?"
"I don't believe you," the Potter cried. "You are lying."
"If Svetochka is lying," she retorted, her voice barely audible above the music, her eyes flashing, "how would she know that Piotr Borisovich was circumcised?"
"So: you got my message?"
"I got it."
Oskar seemed just as tense as the Potter. "You understood it, yes?"
"I understood it," the Potter acknowledged. He watched the trolley cars slide noiselessly past in the street below. What sound they made was dampened by the storm windows fitted over the regular windows. Someone had been very lazy. In summer such windows were usually taken off. Maybe it wasn't a question of cold, though. Maybe it was a question of security. Cotton had been stretched along the sill between the windows