could see her. “You’re early. That’s good.” His full, deep voice always caused Anna to wonder if he’d once been a singer.
“Why is that good?” She took off her cap.
Anton didn’t answer as he made a skillful turn in a small space and drove out onto the avenue. He paid no heed to the onrushing traffic; as he expected, all vehicles braked when their drivers realized that a ZIL government car was jumping into the inside lane. Anton accelerated, the limousine hurtled forward, and Anna was thrust back in her seat. She was so warm that perspiration ran down her spine. A bright light made her look up; Anton was overtaking the bus for Nagatino. Passengers sat in pale light. Some of them stared after the long automobile; ZIL limousines had “Special Right-of-Way.” Except for weddings, driving a black automobile was forbidden. Anna smiled: If you got married, for a few hours you enjoyed the privileges of a prominent road user. She watched the bus getting smaller, certain that the weary shapes it carried figured her for a woman who was being driven, at state expense, to visit her hairdresser or pick up packages in Granovsky Street.
Anna put a hand over her eyes. Once upon a time, she would have set out on this drive full of happy expectation; she would have gazed at her reflection in the passenger’s window and fixed her lipstick and adjusted her hair. Two years ago, when she was twenty-five, and after three years of marriage, her husband Leonid had finally been transferred to Moscow. To avoid having to live in a shared flat on the outskirts of the city, they had accepted Viktor Ipalyevich’s offer and, together with Petya, moved in with him. Anna had obtained a good position with the building combine, earning more than her husband, who drew a lieutenant’s pay; it was she who took on the chief financial burden of her four-person household.
Then, in April of that same year, her building combine had been ordered to paint the facades of several buildings along Kalinin Prospekt for the May Day celebrations. Yarov, her foreman, had opined that a new coat of paint made no sense if the rust on all metal surfaces were not removed first. There wasn’t enough time for that, he was informed, and he should use colors that guaranteed anti-rust protection. Anna had kept Yarov from gainsaying this instruction, and work had begun. The plaster was loose and dry rot had invaded many walls; nevertheless, the building combine’s skilled workers covered the facades in friendly shades of yellow and light gray. In order to meet the deadline, they had worked in four shifts. On the afternoon of April 30, a committee that included the government’s Deputy Minister for Research Planning inspected the results. Anna didn’t know who the powerful man with the greasy hair was, but the fine fabric of his overcoat gave him away as a member of the nomenklatura. While scaffolding was being dismantled and hauled away on all sides, Anna gave the arch she was working on a final stroke of her brush. Alexey Maximovich Bulyagkov stepped under her ladder and praised her flawless brushwork as the other members of the committee formed a group behind him. The Deputy Minister wanted to know how long it took for a person to learn to make such a perfectly straight stroke.
“At twelve, I joined the Pioneer Girls,” Anna answered properly. “When I was sixteen, the combine offered me a trainee position. I received training to become a skilled worker, and two years ago, I passed my qualifying examination.” She straightened her headscarf; her work clothes were tight on her, because under them she was wearing her heavy sweater and a pair of pajama pants. While she was trying to remember some of her building combine’s outstanding accomplishments, Bulyagkov asked her name.
Anna came down the ladder. “My name is Anna Tsazukhina, and I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“Are you related to Tsazukhin, the poet?”
Anna could not have said why she’d introduced herself by her maiden name. “He’s my father.”
Two members of the committee put their heads together.
“I’m an admirer of his work,” Alexey Maximovich said, setting his foot on the ladder’s lowest rung. “Of some of his work.” He held out his hand; although her own was covered with flecks of paint, Anna laid her brush aside and clasped hands with the Deputy Minister.
“All the best, Anna Tsazukhina,” he said, gazing at her with merry eyes. Then he turned, and