Our Woman in Moscow(75)
I hate that this reunion with my sister is as unnatural as my union with Fox, and it means about as much.
I’m surprised when the car swerves out of traffic and pulls up at an apartment building across from a large park, because the building seems old and shabby, the kind of place that was once the kind of smart, elegant residence where smart, elegant people lived, but has now fallen into neglect. Shouldn’t the Digbys be living in style, as heroes of a grateful Soviet republic?
Mr. Kedrov travels with us in the passenger seat, next to the driver. During the drive, he occasionally turned to us and reminded us of things we’d already been told, like—Now, remember family name is Dubinin, to protect privacy! And—Car will be waiting for you outside at two o’clock! He now springs out, while Fox opens my door with his usual dispatch. Once I’m free, he keeps his fingers wound with mine, as if he’s worried I might bolt at the last minute. Or possibly just to keep up the act of a tender pair of newlyweds—who knows? We step inside the lobby. There’s no doorman on duty, no porter. Mr. Kedrov proceeds to the elevators and presses a button. He rolls back and forth from his toes to his heels and chuckles at the closed metal doors of the elevator, which looks as if it was added years after the original construction. He mumbles something about the Dubinins having moved in a few months ago, when an apartment became available, because of the expected new arrival.
“Is that so? Where were they living before that?” Fox asks, in the manner of a man making conversation.
“When they first arrived, we found them beautiful housing in resort, not far from city. They learned Russian language and sent boys to Soviet school. Is quieter there,” he adds, frowning, and jabs the elevator call button a few more times.
I think I see a sheen of sweat at Kedrov’s temple. Maybe Fox notices it too. I dig my fingers into Fox’s hand and absorb the whip tension of his body alongside mine.
At last the elevator doors open with a jerk and a clang. The morning sunshine happens to be pouring through the lobby windows and door, which makes the cab seem darker than it really is. Kedrov motions us both inside. Fox urges me first, a perfect pantomime of old-fashioned courtesy. But Kedrov doesn’t join us in the elevator. He stands by the door and holds it open with his hand until we’ve both turned, then he reaches inside and presses one of the numbers on the panel. They’re Cyrillic, of course, so I can’t tell which one it is, although I know the Digbys—the Dubinins, I remind myself—live on the fourth floor. He says, “Apartment 412, they are expecting you!” before he releases the door.
We jolt upward. Fox takes my hand—I don’t know if he’s acting on habit by now, or whether he wants to comfort me. Either way, I feel comforted. How much harder it would be to face her alone! Especially with Digby by her side, and their children, and an additional child crammed inside her womb, about to enter the world at any moment. I wonder why Kedrov didn’t come up with us, keep an ear on things, and I remember there’s no need. The Digbys’ apartment must contain more microphones than a Hollywood sound stage.
The elevator takes an eternity, not nearly long enough. The cab halts with a bang and a jerk. The doors open. Fox urges me out and holds my hand as we walk down the hallway. I wear a nifty navy blue jacket over a white silk shirt and a blue silk scarf patterned in gold horseshoes for luck; light tan slacks and comfortable Oxford shoes; my hair a little longer than I like it, brushed back from my face, waving softly beneath my small, plain hat. I consider myself smart and modern; Iris will think I look mannish and severe. I long for a cigarette and a double scotch. Instead I have Fox’s hand wrapped around my gloved fingers. Ahead of us, a door opens and a tall, angular man steps out, thinning hair sleek and gold under the hallway light. He waves at us.
“Hullo there! Welcome!” says Sasha Digby.
I’m not prepared for the fury that whips through me at the sight of him. I’ve almost forgotten about Digby as an actual man, a breathing human being, because he’s lived so long as a villain in my imagination. But you can’t just hate a person in the flesh, at the moment he presents his frail humanity to you—the thinning hair, the skin that’s taken on lines and texture, the anxious blue eyes that want so badly to please you—to be forgiven. So the hatred transforms in an instant to anger.
Still, I disguise it well. You never saw such an actress! I hurry forward to clasp both of Digby’s hands and mwa the air next to each cheek. “Sasha! My God, twelve years! I never dreamed we’d meet again here!”
“Nor did I, nor did I!” He turns to Fox and holds out his hand. “Sumner Fox, by God. I thought Iris was kidding me. Sasha Dubinin.”
“Dubinin. Pleasure.” Fox shakes his hand, man to man.
“Come in, come in. Iris! They’re here! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming out like this. I know it’s hell, a trip like that, visas and diplomatic clearance and every pesky thing. I hope nobody made any trouble for you.”
“Not a bit,” Fox says. “Smooth as butter. I couldn’t believe it myself. Once the wheels went in motion, why, there was no stopping them rolling forward.”
For some reason, we still stand outside the apartment door. I suppose we’re all a little nervous of going in to face what’s inside. But a space falls after Fox’s last words, in which there is nothing else to say, so we all turn to the apartment’s interior and perform the exact same pantomime as downstairs at the elevator a moment ago—Digby waving us both in, Fox urging me a half step forward with a hand that just caresses the curve of my spine.