Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

"Nonsense, Dad. What are you saying? Not at all! Your Star alone is worth all the rest of them. And as to clothes, don't worry. Tomorrow we'll sort things out. You see, you couldn't visit Alexei's parents in that suit. And, most of all, you need a new shirt."

Ivan actually thought his shirt was the best thing he had on. He had bought it some days before his departure and trying it on had cheered him up – he had felt rejuvenated and dashing, like in the old days. What he liked particularly was that the shirt did not constrict his neck; although he buttoned it up right to the top.

During the past few weeks he had tidied up the apartment and one warm April day had even washed the windows. He washed them slowly, delighting in the freshness and lightness of the air coming into the rooms…

On the following day Olya took him into a big store where a sickly-sweet, suffocating scent hung on the air.

"You know, Dad, we could have bought everything at a Beriozka, of course. I've got vouchers for that. But, you see, first of all my parents-in-law are such snobs that nothing impresses them. And secondly, your Star wouldn't look right on an imported suit. So we'll find something made at home but good quality."

Wearing this navy blue suit that fitted him well, Ivan looked in the mirror and did not recognize himself.

"There we are," joked Olya, "a real retired general. Now we'll go and buy a couple of shirts and some neckties."

Back at home she tormented him by tying and untying his tie and searching for the best place to fix the Star.

"Leave it, Olya," Ivan finally begged. "It's fine like that. You're fussing over me as if I were a young lady. Anyone would think I was the one getting married…"

"Oh, if only you knew, Dad." Olya sighed. "Nothing's simple. You have to think of everything, plan everything. You have no idea of the circles these big fish move in. They're forever traveling abroad. Their apartment's like a museum. They drink coffee from antique china and the people they mix with are all like that: diplomats, writers, ministers… Hold on a minute, don't move! I'm going to take a little tuck here, while you're wearing it and I'll stitch it up afterward; otherwise the shirt will gape and that won't look very nice… You see, they're really the cream of Moscow society. Alyosha's father went to college with Gorbachev at Moscow State and they're still on first-name terms. Just think! There, one last try and I'll leave you in peace. Goodness, Dad, you're very thin. You're all skin and bone. I suppose you can't find anything in the stores in Borissov… There. That's it. Take a look in the mirror. A real superman! Tomorrow we'll go and buy you some suitable shoes. Then I'll take you out. No. The Star's too high up. Hold on. I'll move it down a bit…"

The visit to the future parents-in-law was due to take place on May 9, Victory Day. Olya had thought this date an excellent choice. They would be showing some documentary or other on television. Her father would recall the old days and would talk about his memories. This would be a good topic of conversation. They certainly wouldn't be discussing the latest Paris exhibition with him…

It was true. Nothing was totally simple.

When she had written to her father that the wedding was planned for July she had been slightly anticipating events. Alexei talked about this marriage in a somewhat evasive manner. His parents, for their part, were very kind to her. But in their very worldly kindness Olya scented the risk of all her plans collapsing. Indeed it would not even be a collapse as such. Simply a friendly smile, a sweet and mildly surprised look from beneath a raised eyebrow. "But, you poor little idiot, how could you ever hope to take your place in our milieu?"

She had noticed this smile for the first time when she had told them she was working as an interpreter at the Center. Alexei's mother smiled absently, stirring her coffee with a little spoon. Meanwhile his father grinned broadly and exclaimed in somewhat theatrical tones: "Ha! You don't say!" And they exchanged rapid glances.

"Do they know exactly what my work is?" wondered Olya, in torment. "Of course they do. But maybe they don't give a good goddamn? Or do they put up with me on account of Alyosha? Because they don't want to upset him? Surely even he must know…"

Of late this marriage had become an obsession with her. It seemed to her that if she succeeded in getting Alexei to marry her it would not only be a new era but a completely different life. Good-bye to snow-covered Yassenievo, good-bye to that room in the system-built apartment building! Now it would be downtown Moscow and a prestige building and an entrance hall with a caretaker and her husband's official car parked under the window. All this assembly line espionage would come to an end; Alexei's parents would find her honorable employment in some export trade department. And perhaps Alexei would be posted abroad, to an embassy; she would go with him and it would be her turn to pass through those customs barriers at Sheremetevo, from beyond which her clients generally waved her good-bye. Or rather not through the same barrier but straight in at the diplomats' entrance.

She had talked to Svetka about all this one day in winter. The latter, spinning her hula hoop furiously, said to her: "The main thing, Olya, you know, is not to let yourself go. You haven't got there yet. Do you remember Chekhov's story, 'The Eel'…? There it is, already caught by the gills but it gives a flick of its tail and, presto! it heads for the open sea… Now, listen carefully to my advice: get them to invite your father. He's a Hero, after all. Get him to put on ah his medals and take him along to your future parents-in-law. So it'll be a bit like a family gathering already… Well, what's embarrassing about that? The only embarrassing thing in the whole world is trying to put your pants on over your head. Go for it! I know them, these little diplomats… they're as slippery as eels. Don't believe it's happened till you've got the stamp on your passport."

She stopped spinning and the hula hoop slipped lazily to her feet. Picking up the tape measure she measured her waist.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I just can't work off all those goodies from the New Year! That's right, laugh. Go ahead and make fun of a poor, sick old woman. I find you a fiance and you don't even thank me! Once you're married you "won't know me anymore. You'll be driving around in a limousine with your little spouse. But I don't care. By then my Vovka will have become a general in Afghanistan. We'll be just as good as you… Right, I must get spinning again, otherwise the capitalists won't love me anymore."

In the morning Olya went off to work and Ivan spent the whole day strolling about Moscow. He felt like an impressive retired officer ambling with a measured tread along the springtime streets. The passersby eyed his Gold Star and people gave up their seats to him on the subway. Sitting on a bench in the park he would have liked to get into conversation with someone and quite by chance mention his daughter. Here's how it had happened. The two of them had been simple workers and their daughter was such a highflier that now she was working with foreign diplomats.

He would have liked to tell how they had bought his suit, talk about her future parents-in-law, about the leather wallet she had given him. Within its fragrant folds he had found a hundred-ruble note. "That's for your meals, Dad," Olya had explained. "I don't have time to cook lunch for you…"

One day walking past the Bolshoi Theater, he had overhead a conversation between two women who had a provincial look about them.

"No chance, I've asked. Because of Victory Day they're only selling tickets to veterans. And foreigners, of course, who pay in currency."