Page 22

Chapter Nineteen

Petyr

I ’d seen photographs in Ogonyok that looked less opulent than the Smirnovs’ dacha.

It sat nestled behind a tall iron gate, surrounded by pines dusted with the remnants of spring frost. The house was built in the old imperial style: three stories high, painted a soft cream with green trim, and wide wooden shutters flanking every window like it was posing for a postcard.

The front porch alone was the size of the apartment I shared with Vera back in the city.

Inside, it was all polished wood, oil paintings in heavy gold frames, and the faint but persistent scent of beeswax and pine needles. Not the fake pine used in cleaning fluid, but real pine, cut from actual trees, the kind no one I knew could afford to burn.

It took every ounce of discipline I had not to gape like a boy fresh off the kolkhoz. I kept my posture straight, my smile warm, and my reactions muted, like I’d seen all this a hundred times before. But I hadn’t. Not even close.

The vodka helped.

We were a few glasses in now. Good vodka, the kind that went down smooth and clean, without leaving a chemical burn in the back of your throat—and the four of us sat around a dining table long enough to host a Party congress.

The chandelier above us sparkled like icicles. Real crystal. Not imitation.

A Rachmaninoff record spun softly on the gramophone in the next room, threading its way through the candlelight and conversation. The second piano concerto was moody, and impossible not to feel in your ribs.

Vera’s parents were in fine form. Her father was leaning back in his chair, a fresh pour in his glass and a satisfied gleam in his eyes, like a man convinced he’d already won an argument.

“I’m just saying Vera,” he began, for the third time, “if you joined the Leningrad Party Committee, it wouldn’t be some act of nepotism. You’re capable, articulate, and you look good in a suit.”

Vera rolled her eyes, but she was barely smiling. She looked flushed from the drink and the warmth, her red hair pinned back with the precision of someone groomed to appear perfect at all times.

“I look good in a lot of things, Papa. Doesn’t mean I want a desk job writing speeches for men I can’t respect.”

Her mother sighed—an elegant, disappointed sound. “You and Petyr could do so much more with yourselves. You’re both wasted in that factory.”

I forced a polite chuckle and took a sip of vodka. I was already sweating beneath my collar.

They didn’t mean it cruelly. They never did. But that was the worst part, really—that casual assumption of superiority. The way they saw the world as a two-tiered system: real people, like them, and everyone else who existed to serve.

Vera, to her credit, didn’t rise to the bait. She just swirled her drink and said, “I want to earn my place. I’m not interested in a title just because it comes with a nicer car and privileges.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, of course.

I glanced sideways at her, watching the soft pull of her mouth as she sipped her drink.

Vera had never explained it out loud to her parents, but I understood.

If she took their job offer, if she entered their gilded world, she’d be watched.

Controlled. Everything she did would be dissected, and Mira would be the first thing cut out of her life like a tumor.

They wouldn’t say it, but they’d make sure of it. Mira didn’t belong in their world.

Neither did I.

And yet here I was, playing the part. Holding Vera’s hand when prompted, nodding in all the right places, making a show of admiration for a house I wanted to burn down with my mind.

All I wanted was to be in bed right now, tangled up in Dimitri’s arms, not seated at some bourgeois table pretending I cared about careers, politics and designer curtains.

I missed Dimitri so much it ached.

There was a hollow space inside me that nothing filled anymore.

Even the vodka, smooth as it was, only took the edge off.

Every time I blinked, I saw Dimitri’s eyes.

Every time the conversation lulled, I heard his voice.

And when Vera’s parents talked about babies and futures and five-year plans, I thought about how Dimitri looked when I kissed him.

How peaceful he became when no one was watching. Like the world hadn’t ruined him yet.

I looked down at my glass, realized it was empty, and poured myself another. The record clicked to an end and the silence that followed was too clean, too complete.

“More music?” Vera asked, already rising to change the record.

Her mother nodded. “Play something brighter. That last one made me want to slit my wrists.”

Vera flashed a tight smile, but didn’t answer.

I stayed quiet, staring into the clear surface of my glass, pretending it showed me nothing at all.

Vera returned from the gramophone with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she already knew it was going to irritate someone.

The needle dropped with a soft scratch, and within seconds, the room filled with the clinking swagger of Soviet-approved jazz.

Bright horns, syncopated piano, something with just enough swing to feel illicit.

Her father frowned at the shift in tone but said nothing. Her mother, ever the curator of appropriate moods, tightened her mouth like she’d bitten into a lemon.

“Much better,” Vera announced breezily as she slid back into her seat beside me.

And then, as predictably as snowfall in February, came the baby talk.

“You know,” her mother began, swirling her glass and eyeing us like we were prize livestock, “you should start a family soon. At least one child. Two would be better.”

“Oh, definitely two,” her father chimed in. “Siblings are important. They teach you how to share. How to build the next generation of the motherland.”

I nearly laughed. Or groaned. Maybe both. Instead, I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand and plastering on a smile that passed for polite in company like this. Broad enough to show I was listening, but not so wide it could be interpreted as sincerity.

Vera rolled her eyes again, but didn’t speak this time. Maybe she was tired. Or maybe she was thinking what I was thinking: that if we gave them even a single inch, they’d take our entire imagined future and redecorate it with prams and Party medals.

I kept my expression pleasant, even thoughtful. I didn’t discourage them. Hell, I was almost tempted to make a game out of it. Name the future kids. Comrade Masha, born under a red star. Little Pavel, junior Komsomol pioneer. The possibilities were endless and horrifying.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want children. Not here. Not in this twisted, crumbling dream of a country where love had to be buried and identities shaved down to their dullest edges. What kind of father would I be, raising a child in a world where I couldn’t even be myself?

The conversation veered, as conversations did, from the hopeful to the dire.

“You know what I heard earlier this week?” Vera’s father said, lowering his voice and leaning in like we were plotting a revolution. “Belarus and Ukraine both declared independence.”

That sobered the room fast. Even the jazz felt suddenly too loud.

“What?” Vera sat up straighter.

He nodded, eyes gleaming with something between pride and fear. “Latvia’s expected to follow any day now. The whole damn thing’s coming apart.”

Her mother gasped like someone had dropped a Fabergé egg.

“No one told me,” I whispered, though I was sure the surprise on my face said it for me.

“No one told anyone,” he muttered, swirling his vodka. “They’re trying to keep it quiet, but it’s happening. Gorbachev’s lost control.”

Vera’s mother glanced at the door, then lowered her voice even further. “If he hadn’t started this perestroika nonsense, none of this would be happening. What’s to become of us if… ”

Her husband shushed her with a quick motion, his eyes darting to the walls like they might sprout ears.

I took another sip of vodka, watching them.

Not just listening—watching. The fear was genuine, but it wasn’t about war, or famine, or a country cracking open at the seams. It was about them.

About what would happen to their dacha, their status, their carefully manicured place in the Soviet hierarchy if the system collapsed and left them floating in the rubble.

I felt something flicker in my chest. Not hope, exactly.

But a grin crept onto my face before I could stop it.

Because for the first time in a long time, I realized they were scared.

People like them, the ones who never questioned the system because it had always worked for them, they were truly frightened.

And that meant something could change.

Vera yawned suddenly, loud and obviously fake. I caught the performance and matched it with a knowing glance.

“Well,” she said, rising with that practiced grace of hers, “it’s been a long day. Petyr and I should get some rest.”

Her mother opened her mouth, probably to press the baby issue one more time, but Vera cut her off with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Come along, Petyr.”

I rose dutifully, set my empty glass down, and took her hand like we were in love and not just faking this together.

We left the chandelier and the crystal and the reek of polite, poisonous conversation behind us and headed upstairs, away from the people who’d never understand what it meant to want something more than survival.

* * *

The guest bedroom was too warm, the radiator ticking like a metronome for insomniacs.

I stood beside the bed, peeling off my shirt and trousers and folding them into a neat square, like I always did, and found a pair of pajamas in the dresser—stiff cotton, striped, probably something her father wore once or twice and then forgot about. They smelled like cedar.

Behind me, Vera sat at the little vanity tucked between the window and the closet, bent over a jar of what looked like axle grease.

She dabbed it onto a cotton pad and began scrubbing at her eyelids, black smudges blooming like bruises.

Her red hair was down now, cascading over her shoulders like a spill of firelight.

In the mirror, I saw her face coming into focus as the makeup disappeared—bare, vulnerable, still almost unfairly beautiful.

I slid under the heavy blanket and sank back into the mattress with a sigh, the springs creaking beneath me. She picked up a hairbrush and began brushing her hair in long, even strokes. It was hypnotic.

Not for the first time, I felt a pang of regret. Not because I wanted her, but because I should. Any man would, wouldn’t they? Any normal man. She was gorgeous, kind, clever, brave. A dream. And I was broken in exactly the wrong way to appreciate it.

She met my gaze in the mirror. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft enough that I almost missed it over the brushing.

“Petyr,” she said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

My breath caught. I blinked, once, twice. “What do you mean?”

But I already knew.

She paused her brushing. The silence stretched.

“Everything’s coming apart,” I breathed. “What do you think would happen if it all collapsed? Would we be freer? Would we still have to… live like this? A lie?”

I closed my eyes. And just like that, I was with Dimitri. I saw us in a sunlit kitchen, coffee on the stove, his smile lighting up the room. No fear, no hiding. Just us. It was so clear in my mind it hurt.

Vera set the brush down with a faint clatter.

“It’ll be chaos,” she said, voice even. “That’s how revolutions always start. And usually how they end, too.”

I opened my eyes, watched her through the dim light.

“Maybe we’ll get a little more freedom. But it won’t last. Wicked men always find a way back into power. And it’s almost always men. At least, that’s how it works here.”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “Power doesn’t care who it crushes.”

She finished brushing, set the brush aside, and padded over to the bed in her slip. She slid under the blanket beside me.

We lay there for a moment in silence, both staring up at the ceiling. “So,” I said, nudging her shoulder with mine, “should we start making the babies now or later?”

She barked out a laugh—sharp, genuine—and it infected me. Soon we were both giggling like kids trying not to get caught, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. My ribs hurt by the time we calmed down.

“God,” she said, wiping her eyes. “We’re such a mess.”

“We’re this close to being the perfect Soviet couple,” I said, holding my thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Except for, you know, everything.”

She chuckled, and then I sighed.

“I wish he was here,” I whispered, and the humor drained away. “Dimitri.”

“I know,” she whispered, curling onto her side to face me. “You’re just not man enough for me,” she added with a grin.

“I know,” I replied, and for a moment, it felt like the warmest truth in the world.

But then she sighed too, a heavier sound. “My heart shattered today, when I saw my parents walk through that door.”

I turned my head, watching her in the faint moonlight.

“I knew Mira would be devastated,” she said. “And I looked at her face—really looked—and I saw right through the smile she was trying so hard to wear. And I thought... maybe I should end it. End us. Spare her from this endless performance.”

I didn’t answer right away. She turned onto her back again, staring at the ceiling like it might offer absolution.

“All we ever do is lie to everyone around us,” she said. “Maybe it’s kinder to let it go.”

I rolled onto my side and looked at her. “But what if it does change?” I said. “What if everything they said about the West is true? I’ve heard things. That people like us can live more openly. No disguises. No fake marriages. Just… life.”

She exhaled, and something caught in it—half a sob, half a laugh.

“I bet it’s a lie,” she whispered. “Everything that gives me hope turns out to be one.”

I reached for her hand, warm and soft in mine.

“Vera,” I said, “if things really changed, wouldn’t you want to wake up next to Mira without shame? Wouldn’t you want to walk down the street holding her hand, not worrying who saw you?”

She didn’t answer.

I leaned closer. “Because I’d cut off my arm just to wake up with Dimitri every morning.”