Colum McCann - Dancer

November 12

He has arrived then surely! Leningrad tonight, no flight out to Ufa until early morning, so there he must stay. We have waited for a call but there is nothing. Ilya keeps lifting the receiver to make sure there is a tone for the operator to put us through. I am convinced a call will come in the moments between Ilya lifting the receiver and setting it down. No sleep. Mother seems agitated, perhaps she understands what is happening. Surely it would have been worse not to tell her. If only she could speak. What cruel fate. We are full of questions. Is he traveling on his own? Will they say terrible things to him? Does he still have friends in Leningrad? Will they allow him to walk in the city? Will the newspapers report his visit? There is a rash on my arm, similar to Mother’s shingles. I am frightened beyond compare now, even the success of my banquet hardly matters. Ilya has finished the last repairs and he has found kumis for us to drink.

November 12–13, morning

The night turned slowly to day. The sky broke gray and the wind whipped outside. Snow piled up on the windscreen of the car provided to bring us to the airport. The driver refused to enter our house, so Ilya took him a steaming cup of tea. He flicked the windscreen wipers in thanks. The driver’s face was red and shaven and stern. (He looked suspiciously like the man who used to pilot the Driving School car.) Nuriya fretted over her bitten fingernails. I allowed her to wear a dab of lipstick, she threatened a tantrum otherwise. We put on our coats. Mother slept through our preparations and then Milyausha arrived to look after her. I looked at Mother and wondered if she had any idea that her son was coming back more than twice as old as when he left. If he puts a foot wrong they will surely throw him in prison and he will have to live out the seven years.

November 13

The roses I had bought were beautiful but the air wilted them by the time we reached the airport. It was like holding money and watching it devalue. We were taken to a waiting room, a small gray box with three chairs, a window, a table, and a silver ashtray. Three officials waited with us. Their hard looks wilted the roses even more. I was flooded with the awareness that I had no need to apologize for what Rudik did in the past — they were not my actions. The officials seemed to relent under my gaze. They even offered Ilya a cigarette. The skies cleared and we mistook a flock of birds for the plane. My stomach clenched with nerves. The flock broke up north and south and moments later the plane broke through. It listed sideways and then our view of the runway was obscured. We were taken from the waiting room into the arrivals area. Twenty guards with machine guns were lined up against the walls. Nuriya whispered: Uncle Rudik.

Eight-thirty

I held my breath for surely the whole fifteen minutes it took for him to emerge through the sliding doors. How my heart skipped! Rudik wore a coat of a material I did not recognize, a colorful scarf, a dark beret. His grin reminded me of when he was young. One suitcase in his hand. He put the case carefully on the ground and stretched out his arms. How was it possible to ever hate him? Nuriya ran to meet him first. He lifted her in the air and swung her around. He kept his arm around her and came towards me, kissed me twice. A photographer came up behind us and bulbs flashed. Rudik whispered that the photographer was from Tass, that he would be accompanying us for the day. He said: Pay no attention to him, he’s a donkey. I laughed. I had Rudik back, the true Rudik, dearest brother, not the one they created with so many lies. He held my face, stared into my eyes and took the roses from me, said they were wonderful. Then he pulled off my headscarf and I felt the deep shame of my grayness. He kissed me and said I looked beautiful. On closer inspection he too looked worn, there were deep lines on his face and crow’s-feet around his eyes. He was a little thinner than I expected. He lifted Nuriya in the air again and clenched her tight and spun her and all seemed well. I am home, he said. He was accompanied by a large Spanish man, Emilio, who he said was a bodyguard and a medical person of some sort. He was a huge man but his hands were soft and his eyes kind. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tucked beneath his collar. Rudik met Ilya for the first time. You are welcome to Ufa, said Ilya. Rudik shot him a look but then smiled. There were also two French officials, hovering around, loath to leave Rudik’s side. How strange it was to hear Rudik speak French as if born to it, but when he turned to me he switched to Tatar. He wanted to go see Mother immediately, but I said she was still sleeping and the doctor had advised a short visit in order not to tire her. She is sleeping? he said. He looked at a beautiful wristwatch: But I have less than twelve hours.

Nine-thirty

The argument was settled by the officials who said it was necessary that he check into the Rossiya first. Nuriya, Ilya, and I accompanied him in the black ZIL, along with his bodyguard. We were squashed. For a moment I thought of apologizing to them that it was not a Western limousine, but I caught myself and felt a surge of anger. Rudik sat by the window, holding Nuriya’s hand. She told him about a book she was reading. He seemed interested and even questioned her on the plot. He looked down at his watch, then took it off abruptly and stuffed it into Nuriya’s hand. It was a double watch — it told the time also in a display of digital numbers. He said Nuriya should give it to a boyfriend. She blushed and looked at her father. Can I keep it for myself, Uncle Rudik? He said of course and she put her head on his shoulder. He looked out the window as we drove. Look, the streets are paved. Rudik didn’t recognize a lot of the places, but when he did he shouted things like: I climbed that fence when I was seven. We drove past the lake where he used to skate. He commented on the flags: Remember? he said. He had a pair of tiny earphones hanging around his neck and when I asked him about them he reached into his pocket for the tiniest recording machine I had ever seen. He put the earphones over my head, pressed a button, and Scriabin filled the air. Rudik promised to give me the machine before he left. He whispered that he needed it for the rest of the day, it blocked out the noise of the Tass photographer who kept asking him ridiculous questions. He patted the palm of my hand: I am so nervous, he said. Can you believe that I am nervous? His voice sounded different. I wondered what he was nervous about? Being arrested, seeing Mother, or just being here? He said: Everything seems smaller. Then he turned to Ilya and talked for a while about how the seat latches on the flight from Leningrad didn’t work. The tray, he said, kept falling in his lap.

Ten-fifteen

The ZIL pulled up outside the hotel. The French officials ran from their car to greet us and the bodyguard stayed close to Rudik. But Ilya seemed a little despondent. He said there were still things to do at home and maybe it was best if he left to prepare them. He said that he’d get a tram back and see us later. Rudik shook his hand a second time. We went upstairs to his room. It was enormous but there was no fridge. He threw the roses on the bed where they landed in a heap. He paced, looking behind window shades and even the picture frames. He unscrewed part of the phone. Then he shrugged and said something about his whole life being bugged, it didn’t matter whether it was the KGB or the CIA. Then he put his suitcase on the bed and opened it with a small key. It was not packed with his own clothes as I expected, but with the most unbelievable array of perfumes, scarves, jewelry boxes, brooches, all the most beautiful things. Nuriya grabbed his arm and put her face close to his shoulder. I was only allowed to bring one suitcase, he said, and they took their cut at the airport. Nuriya lay on the bed and touched everything. Rudik knew all about the perfumes, where they were made, who wore them, who designed them, the ingredients, and where they came from. This is what Jackie O wears, he said. He even had a bottle for Mother, a special gift from a lady in New York, wrapped in beautiful ribbons. A bottle of Chanel for me. Nuriya and I sprayed each other’s wrists. Then he clapped his hands for silence, took a small box from the suitcase, gave it to me. Inside was the most gorgeous necklace I have ever seen, diamonds and sapphires. An immediate thought: Where will I hide it? He instructed me to put it on and wear it with pride. It felt cool and heavy against my neck. Surely it had cost him dearly. He kissed both my cheeks, said it was good to see me.