Natasha knew she should be ecstatic. Finally, her file was complete. She turned it in to OVIR. There was nothing to do but wait.
Her days fell into a routine. Mornings were spent with Dima making love. Afternoons were for OVIR, reading a book, waiting for the lists to be posted of those who’d been given permission and those who’d been denied. Some cooled their heels for years. Most waited months. With a mere few weeks under her belt, Natasha barely gave the results a perfunctory glance. Until she caught sight of her own name.
Under those who’d been refused.
Slava bogu. Thank God.
The words flashed through Natasha’s mind before she had the chance to censor herself and recall that she was disappointed. Crushed, really, by the latest turn of events.
“What reason did they give?” Dima demanded.
“My association with you.” Natasha secretly crowed at the notion that even the government was blessing their relationship—in its own way.
“Damn it! And we were so careful, too.”
Natasha thought now might be a good time to bring up another issue about which they thought they’d been so careful. Except Dima was in no mood to hear it.
“At least we don’t have to sneak around anymore,” Natasha said, offering what she hoped would be a silver lining. “It might be for the best. Now I can be free to help you in all sorts of ways.”
Dima nodded absently, prompting Natasha to wonder if what she was saying was actually what he was hearing. Dima pinched the bridge of his nose, squinted his eyes, and mumbled, more to himself than to her. “We’ll have to change strategies, add another person.”
Was Natasha supposed to know what he was talking about?
“Do you trust me?”
“Always,” Natasha swore, happy finally to be telling the truth, especially to herself.
“Good. Because what we’ve got planned, we can’t risk a single detail going wrong.”
“Are you going to tell your parents?” Boris sneaked up on Natasha when she thought she was home alone.
“Tell them what?” It had been a week since Natasha had received her refusal, and she had yet to fill her parents in. It should have been good news for them, yet Natasha couldn’t shake the suspicion they’d be disappointed. Once they’d committed to their sacrifice, they’d be expecting her to make it worth their while.
Boris blushed and waved his hand in the direction of Natasha’s waist. “The baby.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Natasha was operating on the premise that as long as she refused to acknowledge reality, it wouldn’t manifest as a concept identifiable by others. It wasn’t denial or wishful thinking. It was quantum mechanical thinking. The USSR was famous for erasing individuals and events from existence. She was being a patriotic citizen.
“How did you know?”
The blush acquired a second, even redder layer. Boris’s arm jerked upward in the vague vicinity of her chest. “You’re . . . um . . . bigger.”
“You’ve been tracking?” she asked, incredulous.
“Since I was twelve.” Did he seem proud of himself? Natasha’s stomach churned as she recalled all the opportunities he would’ve had, starting from when they were still young enough to go to the beach only in their underpants and ending with how often Boris still saw her laundry drying on the clothesline. She would have never guessed he had it in him.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Were you hoping to emigrate before your parents figured it out?”
Natasha hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. Not that it mattered now. “I got rejected.”
“You don’t seem too upset about it.”
First her breasts, now her emotional state? What else did Boris think he knew about her?
“You seem relieved,” he added.
Natasha did her best to snort derisively. “About being trapped here for the rest of my life?”
“With Dima?”
When had Boris become so perceptive? And when had he become so assertive?
“How do you know I’m with Dima?” Natasha challenged. And stalled.
Boris’s derisive snort proved much more successful. “Every word out of your mouth the past few months has been a diluted echo of his. Who else would you be so happy about staying for?”
“You think I’m happy about a future where the two of us are constantly watched, unable to trust anyone but each other, exiled someplace so remote we might go days without seeing another soul? Does that sound romantic?” Natasha hoped she injected enough sarcasm into her words to keep Boris from suspecting she might be sincere.
“Plus, it lets you off the hook,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The only hook Natasha had been thinking about was the one the abortionist used.
“It means you don’t have to try. The last thing you tried was getting into university. When that didn’t work out, you gave up. On everything. You’re certainly not trying to be a good teacher.”
“When those brats try to be good students, I’ll try to be a good teacher.”
“You haven’t tried to get another position, one you’d like more.”
“Like you? Tell me again how writing strings of numbers to make machines buzz is math.”
“You didn’t even try that hard to emigrate.”
“I got refused,” Natasha reminded, then added proudly, “due to my subversive activities.”
“You could reapply, but you won’t. Because then you’d have to live up to other people’s expectations. Your parents’, Dima’s. You’d have to justify their faith in you. This way, you can keep criticizing how other people live without having to do anything yourself.”
“You think it’s easy to get permission to emigrate?”
“Not if you self-sabotage.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I filed every document they asked for. I paid the official fees, and the unofficial bribes.”
“While hanging around a group of known troublemakers, playing at being rebels.”
“What qualifies you to judge? You’ve never broken a rule in your life,” Natasha taunted, even as she knew it wasn’t true.
“Maybe that’s why I got permission to emigrate.” Boris reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, presenting it to Natasha for inspection.
She accepted it gingerly, convinced he was lying, tricking her to make a point. But the papers looked exactly the way Natasha had imagined her own papers would look. The ones she hoped to bring triumphantly to Dima. The ones she was terrified of bringing triumphantly to Dima.
“I didn’t know you’d even applied.” Her head was spinning. How could Boris have pulled this off? Natasha thought she knew everything about him. That she could predict everything about him. It was the reason she dismissed Boris as being dull and reactionary. He wasn’t capable of surprising her, of exciting her. Yet here he was, revealing facets of himself she’d never imagined. How could Boris have succeeded where she—and Dima—had failed? “This can’t be legitimate. You didn’t lose your job . . .”
“I went to my boss, told him about it beforehand so he wouldn’t get caught unawares. I offered to quit. He asked me, ‘What? You don’t need money anymore?’ He said he’ll keep me on until the day I leave, if I want.”
“You have a departure date already?”
“Not yet. Mama and Papa have a few loose ends they need to tie up first.”
“They’re going?” Amazing how many secrets six people could keep in four rooms.
“I couldn’t leave them behind to fend for themselves.” Like Natasha was planning to? “I can take you, too,” Boris added, though it came out as a question.
“How?” The prospect was so preposterous, Natasha was sure he was teasing.
“If we were married.” Now he had to be kidding. “It would solve several problems at once.”
“For whom?”
“Well, you,” Boris offered. Then, seeing that rationale wasn’t picking up much traction, he switched tactics. “And your parents. We can apply for them, too. Your father has already been publicly shamed. He doesn’t have much left to lose.” Facts not in evidence. In Natasha’s experience, matters could always get worse. “As soon as we’re married,” Boris added, which created a confusing synergy between the two sentences.
“Dima,” she began.
Boris cut her off. Which was good, as Natasha had no plans for any words after that.
“What you said before, about being constantly watched and possibly exiled. Is that the kind of life you want?”
She’d been imagining the romance of her and Dima allied together against the world. Like Lenin and his wife, the formidable Krupskaya. Napoleon and his beautiful Josephine. Franklin Delano and his homely but progressive Eleanor. There’d been no child in the picture. No boiling of dirty diapers, no scrounging for milk, no being left behind to rock a cradle while Dima continued his battle for freedom. Suddenly, instead of Krupskaya, Josephine, and Eleanor, Natasha considered Jenny von Westphalen, Karl Marx’s wife, who bore him seven babies and lived in filth and poverty while her husband wrote about the workers’ struggle and why his own work should be limited to thinking.
“It won’t be like that,” Natasha said, responding more to the clash in her head than to the question Boris actually asked.
“Not if you marry me,” he confirmed.