el.angeleyes-第17部分

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elegraph　Street　behind　the　Ministry　of　Education；　where　she　worked；　and　there　was　the　Church　of　the　Archangel　Gabriel。　Irina's　coworkers　referred　to　it　as　Menshikov　Tower；　but　she　could　not；　at　least　to　herself。
　But　then　again；　Irina　had　nothing　in　mon　with　anyone　at　the　Ministry　of　Education。　She　had　returned　from　an　extended　trip　to　the　United　States　filled　to　overflowing　with　innovative　ideas　based　on　the　American　educational　system。
　She　had　spent　the　subsequent　weeks　painstakingly　writing；　revising；　and　annotating　a　lengthy　treatise　on　how　the　Soviet　educational　process　could　be　streamlined　and　improved。　The　paper　had　been　duly　passed　around　the　ministry　without　so　much　as　a　ripple　of　ment。
　At　last　Irina　had　sought　an　interview　with　the　minister；　who　had　spent　twenty　minutes　circling　around　the　fact　that　all　the　points　she　had　made　in　her　paper　had　been　rejected。　He　had　been　so　condescending　that　Irina　had　no　difficulty　in　divining　his　message：　stick　to　your　puter　models；　to　your　statistical　research。　Use　the　American　methodology　to　reform　the　ministry's　medieval　archival　retrieval　system…that　was；　after　all；　why　she　had　been　sent　to　the　United　States　in　the　first　place；　the　minister　reminded　her…but　leave　the　important　reform　to　the　experts；　the　men。
　Well；　at　least　I　don't　have　to　worry　about　being　stuck　in　that　dead…end　job　anymore；　Irina　thought　as　she　stared　at　the　familiar　landmark　of　the　Church　of　the　Archangel　Gabriel。　She　knew　where　she　was。　She　was　in　Kirov　Street：　Valeri's　place。
　Irina　felt　her　pulse　still　racing。　Thoughts　of　her　job；　the　quotidian　tasks　of　her　life；　had　failed　to　calm　her。
　She　had　awakened　from　the　same　nightmare。　In　it；　she　is　drowning　at　the　dinner　table。　She　jumps　up；　goes　to　the　window；　but　there　is　blood　on　the　streets；　and　when　she　looks　up　in　horror；　bars　across　the　moon。　She　knows　she　must　get　out　into　the　streets；　something　important　is　happening　there；　something　that　will　otherwise　leave　her　behind　forever。　But　she　cannot　move　and；　looking　down；　she　sees　with　a　kind　of　sickening　despair　that　she　is　shackled　to　the　floor。　。　。
　Irina　closed　her　eyes　for　a　moment；　then　stared　again　out　the　window；　across　the　street　to　her　church；　beautiful；　forting；　as　if　to　assure　herself　that　she　was　truly　awake；　that　the　nightmare　was　just　a　dream。　Put　it　out　of　your　mind；　she　reprimanded　herself　sharply。
　Though　it　was　in　the　Sadovaya；　farther　out　on　the　periphery　of　Moscow…Mars　insisted　on　living　with　the　people…Irina　actually　preferred　Mars's　apartment。　Or　perhaps　it　was　Mars　himself　that　she　preferred。　That；　indeed；　would　be　ironic。
　But　this　apartment　had　its　charms。　She　loved　to　wake　up　in　the　morning　to　the　sun　shining　on　the　remnants　of　the　church　spire；　destroyed　in　a　fierce　electrical　storm　some　years　ago。　It　was　a　reminder　of　how　even　something　so　fragile　as　faith　could　survive　in　inhospitable　soil。　If　the　church　could　survive　here；　she　had　decided　some　time　ago；　so　could　she。　It　was　a　reminder　that　she　did　not　have　to　end　up　like　her　parents。
　Irina　turned　away　from　the　window；　and　could　hear　Valeri　bustling　around　the　kitchen。　What　was　he　preparing？　There　was　bread；　but　no　butter　or　milk　available　in　all　of　Moscow。　It　had　been　this　way　for　months　now；　and　Irina　recalled　her　mother's　harrowing　stories　of　the　war；　when　beets　and　turnips　and　perhaps　a　cabbage　or　two　were　all　that　were　available　to　eat　for　months　on　end。　My　God；　her　mother　had　once　said；　what　we　would　have　done　for　a　bite　of　fresh　food！　Killed　each　other；　like　as　not。　Although　it　was　said…and　Mars　assured　her…that　great　upheavals　were　occurring　every　day　in　the　Soviet　Union；　Irina　thought　that　some　things　never　changed…and　never　would。
　Despite　perestroika；　she　found　it　just　as　difficult…and　in　some　cases　impossible…to　obtain　the　essentials　of　day…to…day　life：　soap；　bread；　fresh　vegetables；　toilet　paper…as　she　had　in　the　years　before　the　restructuring。　The　problem　that　no　one　seemed　to　want　to　face　was　that　the　old　market　centralism　was　so　deeply　entrenched　that　not　even　the　president　could　dislodge　it。　Though　it　was　clear　to　anyone　that　the　produce　grown　by　private　enterprise　was　robust　and　healthy；　whereas　the　vegetables　from　the　old　collectives　looked　soft　and　withered；　even　the　president　was　reluctant　to　encourage　the　anathema　of　more　private　enterprise。
　In　Russia；　after　all；　such　structural　transformations　always　were　paid　for　by　enormous　political　risks；　so　it　was　usually　better　not　to　act　than　to　make　a　move　at　all。　Instead；　in　typical　Soviet　doublethink；　the　decisions　to　enact　new　freedoms　were　quickly　followed　by　decisions　to　severely　limit　those　freedoms。
　This　would　have　been　an　utterly　depressing　scenario　for　an　American…but　not；　it　used　to　be　said；　for　most　Russians。　Hardship；　the　long；　bone…chilling　winters；　and　the　even　colder　heart　of　the　state　apparatus；　inured　the　Soviet　citizen　to　disappointment。　When　there　is　little　hope；　depression　nourishes　unwillingly。　But　flourish　it　does；　in　direct　proportion　to　alcohol　consumption；　which　warmed　the　body；　numbed　the　mind；　and　destroyed　the　spirit。
　Irina　stretched；　got　out　of　bed；　padded　down　the　corridor　to　the　bathroom。　As　usual；　the　hot　water　was　not　working；　but　she　was　used　to　showering　in　icy　water。　Nevertheless；　her　eyes　opened　wide　under　the　spray；　and　she　gave　a　little　reflexive　shout。
　Toweled　dry；　she　dressed　in　fresh　clothes　she　kept　in　the　bottom　drawer　of　the　magnificent　mahogany　chest　Valeri　had　had　imported　from　England。
　Standing　in　front　of　the　mirror；　she　carefully　applied　the　American　makeup　she　had　bought　in　the　local　Beryozka　store；　where　privileged　citizens　like　herself　could　buy　a　limited　selection　of　imported　goods。　She　was　a　small…boned　woman；　with　fine；　high　breasts；　a　tiny　waist；　and　narrow　hips。　Her　legs　were　shapely　（the　right　genes）；　and　had　remained　well…muscled　（she　still　worked　out　at　the　ballet　barre　three　times　a　week；　though　she　could　no　longer　harbor　dreams　of　being　a　ballerina；　her　mother's　wish　for　her）。　She　had　a　peculiarly　feline　face；　triangular；　with　large　tawny　eyes；　a　small　nose；　full；　sensual　lips；　ears　set　close　to　her　skull。　She　wore　her　shining　black　hair　almost　shockingly　short。　Altogether；　she　was　happier　with　her　looks　than　most　women　she　knew。
　In　the　kitchen；　Valeri　Denysovich　Bondasenko　was　hunched　over　the　illegal　Toshiba　5200　lap…top　puter　he　had　smuggled　into　the　country。　The　amazing　Japanese　technology　had　done　away　with　the　bulky　CRT　monitor。　In　its　place　was　a　flat　gas…plasma　screen。　The　battery　pack…essential　in　a　land　where　power　outages　were　a　fact　of　everyday　life…bulged　from　the　Toshiba's　plastic　side。
　Irina　peered　over　his　shoulder；　saw　the　food　recipe　up　on　the　multicolored　screen；　kissed　him　on　the　tip　of　his　ear。
　''Almost　ready；''　he　said　distractedly。　He　was　a　frighteningly　large　man；　with　a　wrestler's　meaty　shoulders　and　the　powerful　forearms　of　a　laborer。　Irina　had　been　terrified　the　first　time　she　had　gone　to　bed　with　him。　His　face　and　voice　were　as　intimidating　as　his　body。　When　he　was　angry；　she　could　feel　the　tension　in　the　same　way　she　could　just　before　a　powerful　storm。
　She　had　not　wanted　to　go　to　bed　with　him　that　first　time；　but　she　could　not　imagine　what　he　would　do　to　her　if　she　did　not　acquiesce。　They　had　met　at　a　typical　state　function。　She　had　gone　because　it　was　her　duty　to　go；　but　all　the　time　she　had　been　thinking　of　renewing　her　nagging　spirit　on　her　knees　at　the　font　of　the　Church　of　the　Archangel　Gabriel。
　Then　Valeri　Bondasenko　had　spotted　her。　He　had　herded　her　out　of　the　throng　as　American　cowboys　did　with　cattle　to　the　slaughter。　She　had　read　this　in　a　paperback　copy　of　Lonesome　Dove　that　she　had　smuggled　back　into　the　country；　and　which　she　now　kept　with　her　wherever　she　went。
　Valeri　had　been　charming；　gracious　even。　But　beneath　that　veneer；　Irina　had　been　aware　of　another　Bondasenko…the　feared　political　tactician。　It　was　he　who　had　masterminded　the　brutal　crackdown　against　the　national　separatists　in　his　own　native　Ukraine。　It　was　he　who　had　counseled　forging　the　still　controversial　promise　with　the　leaders　of　the　Soviet　Union's　Baltic　states　that　made　the　subsequent　crackdown　in　the　Ukraine　possible。　It　was　said　that　every　move　Bondasenko　made　was　part　of　a　sound　strategy。　Irina　was　intelligent　enough　to　wonder　what　it　was　he　wanted　from　her。
　She　had　known　full　well　that　she　was　being　seduced；　but　that　knowledge　did　not　stop　the　process　from　continuing。　Whatever　Valeri　wanted；　Valeri　got；　that　was　what　everyone　said。　And　it　was　clear　that　he　wanted　her。　Irina　did　not　have　the　political　strength　to　resist　him。　No　one　did。　Still；　it　had　been　a　sad　moment　in　her　life；　to　be　brought　home　to　her　in　such　concrete　fashion　that　she　was　so　helpless　to　determine　her　own　fate。　Sitting　naked　for　the　first　time　on　the　edge　of　his　bed；　she　had　prayed　for　guidance　and　for　the　moral　strength　to　resist　his　corruption。　Then；　wiping　a　single　tear　from　her　cheek；　she　had　climbed　in　beside　him。　He　exuded　the　heat　of　a　furnace。
　She　thought　she　might　be　crushed　beneath　his　muscular　bulk；　but　he　turned　out　to　be　a　surprisingly　gentle　and　passionate　lover；　as　if　the　Valeri　Bondasenko　she　met　between　the　sheets　was　a　different　man　altogether　from　the　one　who　stalked　through　the　halls　of　the　Kremlin；　consigning　to　purgatory…figurative　and　literal…those　foolish　enough　to　oppose　his　rise　to　power。
　This　gave　Irina　some　semblance　of　hope。　She　had　not　hated　him　when　he　had　taken　her；　had；　almost　despite　herself；　been　swept　up　in　the　vortex　of　his　lust。　Soon　she　had　found　her　own；　and　knew　that　she　could　e　to　find　enjoyment　on　her　own　terms　in　this　liaison；　despite　the　fact　that　with　him；　as　with　all　of　her　lovers；　the　moment　of　his　physical　parting　from　her　brought　a　sense　of　emptiness　and　of　sadness。
　One　night；　in　this　apartment；　with　the　sleet　battering　heavily　against　the　outside　walls；　rattling　the　ancient　windowpanes；　Irina　discovered　another　layer　to　their　relationship。　He　had　still　been　inside　her；　thick　and　hot。　She　was　still　pulsing　to　then…accelerated　heartbeats。
　〃Can　I　confess　something？〃　she　whispered。　〃I　have　never　felt　like　this　with　any　other　man。〃　She　pushed　the　hair　back　from　his　forehead。　〃You　frighten　people；　perhaps　you　don't　kno