1

Two seemingly unrelated events prompted Mr. George Smiley to reemerge from his questionable retirement. The first thing happened in Paris, in the steamy hours of August, when Parisians habitually abandoned their city to the blazing sun and carloads of tourists.

One day in August, at twelve o'clock on the fourth of August, the church bell had just struck, and the factory bell had just rang. In an area once home to poor Soviet immigrants, a stocky woman of about fifty, carrying a shopping bag, emerges from the shadows of an old warehouse. Energetic and goal-oriented as usual, she walked down the sidewalk towards the bus stop. The street is dark and narrow, with closed doors and windows, and there are a few outdated inns with many cats. For some reason, it's so quiet. Warehouses that deal with spoiled items are still open during the holidays. The vague breeze did not dissipate the heat, and the stench of the exhaust gases seemed to rush straight to her body, but her Slavic face was uncomplaining. Her clothes and figure were not suitable for such a hot day. She was so short and fat that she had to sway from side to side to move forward. The plain black dress had no waist or ornamentation, only a white lace around the neckline, and a large metal cross that had been caressed but had little value hanging from the chest. The shoes on their feet, which walked upside down, crackled, leaving a solemn and regular tapping sound between the closed portals. The shabby shopping bag, which had been stuffed since early in the morning, leaned her body slightly to the right, making it clear that she was used to carrying heavy burdens. However, she's not entirely uninteresting. Her gray hair was curled into a bun at the back of her head, but she still left a strand of lively bangs that danced on her forehead with the rhythm of the march. Her brave and humorous look made her brown eyes shine. Above her boxer-like chin, her mouth seemed ready to burst into a smile at any moment, even for no reason.

When she arrives at the bus stop, where she usually waits, she puts down her shopping bag and massages her hips with her right hand to the area where she connects her spine. This is a daily movement that she has been doing recently, and it slightly relieves the discomfort of her body. She works as an inspector in the warehouse every morning, but the high stool she sits on at work has no backrest, which makes her resentful. "Demons!" She cursed in a low voice of rage. With a curse in his mouth, the black elbow behind his back also began to flick, like a big black crow with wings ready to fly. "Demons!" She scolded again. At this moment, she suddenly noticed that someone was looking at her, so she turned around and looked up at the tall man standing behind her.

Apart from her, the man was the only one waiting for the bus, and in fact, the only one on the street at the moment. She had never spoken to him, but she had long been familiar with his face: so massive, so uneasy, so drenched in sweat. Yesterday she had seen this face; I also saw this face the day before yesterday; And, as far as she remembers, she had seen it the day before yesterday - oh my God, she's not an activity log! For the last three or four days, the sluggish, longing giant, waiting for the bus or wandering the sidewalk outside the warehouse, has become a street scene for her; Even, it has become a recognizable type, though she is still unrecognizable. She felt that the man seemed to be under a major manhunt, like many Parisians in recent days. She saw a lot of fear on their faces, and fear made them afraid to greet each other even when they walked on the road. Maybe everywhere it was, she didn't know. And, more than once, she sensed that this man was interested in her. She wondered if he was a police officer. She had thought about asking him, because she had the arrogance and confidence of a city-dweller. He looked like a policeman in a depressed manner, and his sweaty suit and useless raincoat hanging from his wrists resembled an old uniform, as well as a policeman. If she guessed correctly, this man was a cop, then—it was time for the spate of thefts over the past few months to make her inventory check work a mess, and the idiots had finally taken some action.

However, the stranger had been staring down at her for a while. Even now, he was still staring straight at her.

"My back hurts, sir." In the end, she confessed to him. She speaks French slowly, but with elegant and clear pronunciation. "My back is not big, but it hurts a lot. You're a doctor, maybe? Orthopedic surgeon? ”

Then, she looked up at him, wondering in her heart whether he was sick or not, and whether her joke was out of place. His cheeks and neck glistened with oil, and there was a faint confusion in his dark eyes. His gaze seemed to look beyond hers, looking at some of his own intimate questions. She was going to ask him—maybe you're in love, sir?" Did your wife cheat on you? - She really thinks about pulling him to a café for a glass of water or herbal tea. But at that moment, he suddenly looked away at his back, then turned back over her, and looked across the street. She felt that he was really scared, not just wary, but terrified. So perhaps he was not a policeman, but a thief, though the difference between the two, which she knew very well, was often negligible.

"Your name is Maria Andreavina Ostrakova?" He asked suddenly, as if the question scared him.

He spoke French, but she knew it wasn't his native language, as she did. And he pronounced her name word for word, the full name, and let her know where he came from. She immediately recognized his pronunciations, and the shape of his tongue that pronounced them, but she was too late to make out the type she had not been able to identify, and she was terrified.

"If so, who are you?" She raised her chin and asked rhetorically with a calm face.

She took a step forward. The difference in height between the two is even more abrupt. The man's appearance reveals his unpleasant personality. Looking up, Ostrakova could clearly see his vulnerability, just as much as his fear. His wet chin curled into a sinister grin, and his lips twisted to make him look strong and powerful, but she knew he was only there to drive away incorrigible cowardice. He seemed like a man who strengthened himself with heroic deeds, she thought. Or, in the form of a crime. He's a guy who doesn't have any spontaneous behavior, she thought.

"You were born in Leningrad on May 8, 1927?" The strange man asked.

She will most likely answer yes. But in hindsight she wasn't sure. She saw his suspicious gaze as he looked at the approaching bus. She saw that indecision, almost panickedness, had seized him, and it made her think—that it was a forerunner in the light of later developments—that he might be forcing her to comply. He didn't, but asked the next question, in Russian, and in the obnoxious tone of the Moscow bureaucracy.

"In 1956, you were allowed to leave the USSR in order to take care of your sick husband, the traitor Ostrakov? Have another task in mind? ”

"Ostrakov is not a traitor." She interrupted him and replied, "He's patriotic. She involuntarily picked up the shopping bag and clutched the handle.

In order to drown out the sound of the approaching bus, the strange man raised his voice and ignored her rebuttal: "Ostrakova, your daughter Alexandra who remained in Moscow has asked me to greet you, and several other official institutions will greet you as well. I want to talk to you about Alexandre, don't take this bus! ”

The bus stopped. The driver knew her and reached out to help her carry her shopping bag. The strange man lowered his voice and said something even more terrifying: "Alexandre has a serious problem and needs her mother's help. ”

The bus driver called her on the bus so she could continue on the road. In the way he usually jokes with each other, he pretends to be rude and says, "Come on, Mom." This kind of hot day is not suitable for romance. Bring your bag and let's go! The driver yelled.

Laughter rang out from the bus, and then someone roared - old woman, let the whole world wait for you! She felt the strange man's hand grasp her arm very unprofessionally, as if a clumsy tailor was fumbling for a button. She broke free. She wanted to tell the driver something, but she couldn't; She opened her mouth, but forgot how to speak. The only thing she could do was shake her head. The driver yelled at her again, then waved his hand and shrugged. Cursing came and went - the old woman, drunk in broad daylight, lived like a prostitute! Ostrakova stayed where she was, watching the bus gradually pull out of sight, waiting for her vision to return to clarity, her heart no longer beating wildly. Now, it's me who needs a glass of water, she thought. I'm strong enough to protect myself. God bless me from cowardice.

She followed him into the café, faltering. Exactly twenty-five years ago, in a labor camp, she fell off a coal pile and broke her leg in three places. On the Fourth of August, a day she would never forget, a message from a strange man was coercive and reminded her of her long-lost lameness.

This café is the only one on the street, if not the only one in Paris, with neither a jukebox nor neon lights – and it is open in August – but the pool tables are at bay from early morning until late at night. As for the others, it's just the usual daytime bustle discussing politics, horse racing, and other Parisian favorite topics; Several prostitutes whispered to the side, as usual; The young waiter, with his shirt dirty and an unhappy face, led them to a table in the corner. Dirty Kembari labels indicate that this is the table where reservations are reserved. Then, a ridiculous old drama was staged. The strange man ordered two cups of coffee, but the waiter protested that he could not just come for coffee by keeping the best seat in the house during the day; The boss has to pay the rent, sir! The strange man could not understand his cannon-like dialect, so Ostrakova had to translate for him. The strange man blushed, ordered two egg rolls with ham and fries, and two bottles of Alsatian beer, without asking Ostrakova's opinion at all. Then, getting up and going to the bathroom to regain his courage — so confident that she wouldn't run away — he returned to his seat, his face sweat dried, his ginger hair neatly combed, but they were now indoors, and the stench of his body reminded Ostrakova of the Moscow subway, the Moscow trams, and the Moscow interrogation rooms. The short walk from the bathroom to his seat convinced her more than anything he had ever told her of the fear that was already in her heart. He was one of them. The repressed swagger, the brutality of the beastly nature that was carefully concealed on his face, the heaviness with which he now placed his wrist straight on the table, and the pretended reluctance to twist bread from the basket as if with a pen dipped in ink—everywhere brought back her ugliest memories, memories of a humiliated woman living under the weight of Moscow's vicious bureaucracy.

"So—" he said, as he began to eat his bread. He chose the crusty end. Although he had a pair of hands that seemed to be able to crush bread in a second, he used his fat fingertips to tear off small pieces delicately, as if this was an official way of eating. As he took a small sip, his eyebrows raised, and it looked like an exclamation: I, a stranger, in this foreign land. "Do people here know that you lived a depraved life in the Soviet Union?" He finally asked, "Maybe the city is full of prostitutes, and they don't care." ”

Her answer was already on the tip of her tongue: my life in the USSR was not degenerate, it was your system that was degenerate.

But she didn't say anything, and remained silent. Ostrakova had already made a secret vow to get rid of her temper and quick talk, and at this time, she resisted the pressure of the moment, and through her sleeve, tightly twisted the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, and ordered herself to keep her oath, as she had done a thousand times in the past years, when these interrogations were part of daily life—when was the last time you heard from your husband, the traitor Ostrakov? Name who you've been in contact with in the past three months! During that painful experience, she also learned other lessons from being interrogated. At this moment, she was revisiting those lessons, which belonged to a whole generation ago, but they were as clear as yesterday: Don't be tough, don't provoke the other person, don't try to get the upper hand, don't play with cleverness, superiority, or learning, don't let anger or disappointment, or even the occasional feror of hope on a question be misguided. Respond to stupidity with stupidity, respond to conformism with conformism. And only two secret beliefs held in the deepest and deepest part of her heart could make her endure all this humiliation: her hatred for them, and her hope that one day she would overcome them, and miraculously reclaim her deprived freedom from their hands through their complicated and clumsy proceedings.

He pulled out a notebook. If he was in Moscow, he would have her file in front of him, but this is a Parisian café, and he pulls out a sleek black leather-covered notebook. In Moscow, this is something that even officials have to rely on luck to have.

Whether it's a file or a notebook, the opening line is the same: "Your original name is Maria Andreavina Logova, born in Leningrad on May 8, 1927. He repeated, "On September 1, 1948, at the age of twenty-one, you were married to the traitor Ostrakov Iger. He was an infantry captain in the Red Army at that time, and his mother was Estonian. In 1950, this Ostrakov was stationed in East Berlin and, with the assistance of the Estonian emigrant reactionaries, defected to fascist Germany, leaving you in Moscow. He first obtained residency and later became a French citizen in Paris, and he also corresponded with anti-Soviet elements. When he defected, you didn't have children and weren't pregnant. Is that correct? ”

"Correct." She said.

In Moscow, her answer would have been "Correct, Comrade Captain." Or "Correct, Comrade Investigator". However, in the noisy French café, such a formal name is clearly inappropriate. The skin on her wrist had lost sensation. Loosening, she let the blood flow flow again, then tightened the other piece of skin.

"As an accomplice to Ostlakiv's defection, you were sentenced to five years in a labor camp, but were released in March 1953 for a general amnesty following Stalin's death. Is that correct? ”

"Correct."

"When you return to Moscow, you know that you will not be approved, but you still apply for a passport to travel abroad, and you want to meet your husband in France. Is that correct? ”

"He had cancer." "If I don't apply, I'm out of my duty as a wife," she said. ”

The waiter brought a plate of egg rolls and fries, as well as two bottles of Alsatian beer. Ostrakova asked him to bring him a lemon tea, she was thirsty, but she didn't like beer. While talking to the boy, she also tried to communicate with him with a smile and a gaze, but in vain, he coldly rejected her. She realized that she was the only woman here except for the three prostitutes. The strange man set the notebook aside, looking like a hymn, and scooped up forks and forks of food. At this moment, Ostrakova clenched her wrist tightly, and Alexandre's name pierced her heart like a bleeding wound, and she repeatedly pondered hundreds of "serious problems" that "urgently needed her mother's help".

The strange man eats while continuing to brutally trace her history. Does he eat it because he likes it, or does he eat it because he doesn't want to attract attention anymore? She concluded that he had to eat it as a last resort.

"In the meantime—" he said as he ate.

"At the same time." She whispered involuntarily.

"At the same time, while you pretend to care about your husband, the traitor Ostrakov," he continued with his mouth stuffed with food, "you have a relationship with the so-called music student Glickman Joseph." This Jew has committed four social crimes, and you met him in a labor camp. You and this Jew are living together in his apartment, right or not? ”

"I was alone."

"The relationship with Glickman led you to give birth to a daughter, Alexandre, who was born in the maternity hospital of the October Revolution in Moscow. The parents named on the birth certificate are Glickman Joseph and Ostrakova Maria. The girl was registered under the surname Glickman, a Jew. Correct or incorrect? ”

"Correct."

"In the meantime, you continue to apply for a passport to travel abroad, why?"

"I already told you that my husband is sick. It is my responsibility to proceed with the application. ”

He took another big bite, so rudely that she could see the many cavities in his mouth. "In January 1956, the authorities magnanimously approved your passport on the condition that your daughter Alexandre remain in Moscow. You have exceeded the approved deadline and have remained in France, abandoning your daughter. Correct or incorrect? ”

The door to the street is glass, as are the walls. A large truck is parked outside, and the café is in the shadows. The young waiter put down her tea so heavily that he didn't even look at her.

"Correct." She spoke again, and took the opportunity to look at her interrogator, who knew what was going to come next, and therefore forced herself to let the man know that she had neither hesitation nor regret in these matters. "Correct." She said again defiantly.

"In order for the authorities to give your application a favourable consideration, you signed a pledge to the national security services promising to carry out several tasks for them during your stay in Paris. First, convince your husband, the traitor Ostrakov, to return to the Soviet Union—"

"It was 'trying' to convince him," she said with a faint smile, "and he didn't listen to my advice." ”

"Second, you also promised to provide information on the restoration activities and members of anti-Soviet emigrant groups. You only made two worthless reports, and then there was no follow-up. Why? ”

"My husband looks down on these groups and has cut ties with them."

"Without him, you can still be involved in these organizations. You have signed a consent form, but you have not fulfilled your responsibilities. True or not? ”

"Yes."

"You just abandoned your daughter in the USSR? Leave it to a Jew? Just to devote your energy to taking care of the enemies of the people, the traitors of the country? Are you just ignoring your responsibilities? Staying in France beyond the duration of the permit? ”

"My husband is dying, and he needs me."

"And what about your daughter Alexandre? She doesn't need you? Is a dying husband more important than a living daughter? A traitor? A traitor who is the enemy of the people? ”

Ostrakova let go of her wrist and unhurriedly grasped her tea, studying the glass held up in front of her, the lemon floating on the water. Through the glass, she saw the filthy mosaic floor. Through the floor, she saw Glickman's lovely, cruel, tender face approaching her, urging her to sign, to do, to promise whatever they asked. It is better for one man to be free than three to be slaves together, he whispered; With parents like us, it is simply impossible for a daughter to have a future in the USSR, whether you stay or leave, it makes no difference; Leave, and then we'll try to figure out how to take the next step; Sign everything, and then go away and fly high, living for the three of us; If you love me, let's go......

"They've had a hard time, all the time." Finally, she said to the strange man in an almost nostalgic tone, "You're too young. They lived hard, even after the death of Stalin, and still did. ”

"Did that criminal Glickman still write to you?" The strange man asked with a sense of superiority and a clear understanding of everything.

"He never wrote a letter." She lied, "How could he, a heretic whose life is restricted, write letters?" It was my decision to stay in France. ”

Describing herself as pessimistic, she wants to fight for as much space as possible within their power.

"Since I came to France 20 years ago, I haven't heard from Glickman." Regaining her courage, she continued, "I heard that he was angry with me for my anti-Soviet behavior. He didn't want to hear from me anymore. By the time I left him, his heart was already yearning for transformation. ”

"He didn't write to tell you about his daughter?"

"He didn't write to me, he didn't bring any information. I've already told you. ”

"Where is your daughter now?"

"I don't know."

"Has she been in contact with you?"

"Of course not. I only heard that she went to the National Orphanage and changed her name to another one. I'm sure she didn't know I existed. ”

The strange man picked up the food in one hand and put it in his mouth, and held the notebook in the other. He stuffed his mouth, chewed vigorously for a moment, and then gulped down his beer. However, the smile full of superiority resurfaced.

"Now, this criminal Glickman is dead." The strange man announces that his little secret has finally been revealed. He continued to eat.

Suddenly, Ostrakova wanted those twenty years to be two hundred years. She wished that Glickman's face had never looked down on her, that she had never loved him, that she had never cared for him, that she had never cooked for him, that life of exile dependent on the help of friends, that day after day drunk with him in that one-room apartment, deprived of the right to work, playing music, having sex, getting drunk, walking in the woods, and ignoring them by the neighbors.

"The next time I go to jail, or you, they'll take her away. Either way, Alexandre will be taken away from us. "But you can save yourself." ”

"I'll decide then." She replied.

"Decide now."

"We'll talk about it then."

The strange man pushed the empty plate aside and picked up the sleek French notebook in both hands again. He turned a page, as if on to a new chapter.

"Now about your criminal daughter, Alexandre." He declared, his mouth stuffed with food.

"Criminals?" She whispered.

To her surprise, the strange man listed a new list of crimes. In his gushing statements, Ostrakova loses the last shred of attention to the present. Her gaze was fixed on the mosaic floor, and she saw many lobster shells and breadcrumbs. But her heart returned to the Moscow court, and her own trial was once again staged. If not her trial, it's Glickman's—but it's not Glickman's, so whose is it? She remembered that the two of them had been uninvited observers when they attended the trials. It was a judgment of friends, albeit by chance, who questioned the absolute power of the authorities, worshipped unacceptable gods, painted illegal abstract paintings, or published politically dangerous love poems. The chattering customers in the café have become a noisy crowd waving flags for the national police; The sound of ping-pong on the billiard table turned into the sound of the iron door crashing. On a certain day, she escaped from a national orphanage located on a certain street, and as a result, she had to undergo several months of imprisonment. On a certain day, she insulted the state security services, and was imprisoned for several more months for misconduct, followed by several years of deportation. Ostrakova felt her stomach twist, and she thought she might be sick. She reached out and grabbed the teacup with both hands, and saw the red pinch marks on her wrists. The strange man continued to state that she heard that her daughter had been imprisoned for two more years because she refused to work in a factory. God help her, why doesn't she help herself? Ostrakova asked herself, incredulous. Where did she learn this? What did Glickman teach her in the short time before they took her away, so ingrained that she rebelled against all indoctrination? Fear, ecstasy, and surprise twined in Ostrakova's heart, but a word from a strange man made it all disappear in an instant.

"I didn't hear that," she whispered after a moment, "I'm a little distracted." Can you say that again? ”

He said it again. She looked up and stared at him, trying to recall all the tricks that had been warned of her, but there were too many, and she was no longer shrewd. She no longer had Glickman's shrewdness, if she had ever had, to discern their lies and get ahead of their tricks. All she knows is that in order to save herself, to reunite with her beloved Ostrakov, she committed a felony, the greatest crime of being a mother. The strange man began to threaten her, but the threat seemed meaningless. If she is unwilling to cooperate, he said, a copy of the document she promised to carry out a mission for the Soviet authorities, it will be sent to the French police. Copies of her two useless reports (which he knew knew she had only written to silence the bandits) would circulate among the surviving Parisian immigrants – although, God knows, there are very few "them" in the immigration circles these days! Why, however, did she have to succumb to pressure to accept this priceless gift when this person, this system, out of an inexplicable act of generosity, offered her a chance to make amends for herself, and for her daughter? She knew that her prayers for forgiveness, day and night, thousands of candles, thousands of weeping, had been answered. She asked him to say it again. She asked him to push the notebook away from his irritated face, and she saw the corners of his feeble mouth raise a smile, and he was so stupid that he asked her for forgiveness, and asked the crazy, God-given question again.

"If the Soviets decide to get rid of this corrupt sociopath, would you want your daughter Alexandra to follow in your footsteps and come to France?"

In the weeks following the meeting, all the work was quietly going on — secretly visiting the Soviet embassy, filling out forms, signing guarantees (proof of residence), and laboriously navigating through one French department after another — Ostrakova carefully watched her every move, as if she were tracking someone else's movements. She prayed often, but even she prayed carefully, in several different Orthodox churches, lest anyone notice her overly reverent manners. Some churches are actually small houses scattered in the 15th and 16th arrondissements, with special double crosses nailed to the plywood, and old rain-soaked Russian notices on the doors, either looking for cheap accommodation or teaching piano. She went to the Soviet Church abroad, the Church of the Apparitions, the Church of St. Seraphim in Salov. She went to every church. She rang the doorbell until someone answered, a church deacon, or a woman in black with a sickly face. She gave them money, and they made her kneel on the clammy ground in front of the candlelit idols, smelling the spices until she was slightly drunk. She made a promise to God Almighty, she thanked him, asked for his guidance, and she even asked him what he would do if the strange man came to him in the same situation, and she reminded him that she was under pressure after all, and if she didn't obey, they would destroy her. At the same time, however, the common sense in her heart that she did not want to give in was constantly questioned, and she asked herself again and again why she, the wife of the traitor Ostrakov, the lover of the dissident Glickman, the mother of the rioters and sociopaths, whom they had made to believe, be singled out for such an extraordinary grace of forgiveness.

At the Soviet Embassy, when she first went to make a formal application, she was treated with a courtesy she had never dreamed of, completely inappropriate for her status as a traitor, renegade spy, and mother of unruly disruptors. Instead of rudely ordering her to the waiting room, they escorted her to the interview room, where a young personnel officer displayed excellent Western etiquette and even helped her through the application process when she hesitated or cowered.

She didn't tell anyone, not even those closest to her—though those closest to her weren't really very close. The irritable man's warning rang in her ears day and night: "If you act rashly, your daughter will not want to be free again."

And, who can we turn to but God? Looking for her half-sister Valentina, who lives in Lyon and is married to a car salesman? The mere thought of Ostrakova in the company of intelligence officers from Moscow was enough to drive her crazy and run up and down to find her sniffing salt so that she wouldn't faint. In the café, Maria? Big daylight, Maria? That's right, Valentina, and he's telling the truth. I had an illegitimate daughter with a Jew.

Calm and waveless is the most terrifying thing for her. Weeks passed; At the embassy, they said her application would be "given preferential consideration"; The French authorities assured her that Alexandre would soon acquire French citizenship; The irritable strange man convinces her to move Alexandre's date of birth forward so that she can be given the surname "Ostrakova" instead of "Glickman"; He said that the French authorities would be more receptive to such a situation; The outcome seems to be the same, although she did not say much about the child's existence during the interview. Now, suddenly, there were no other forms to fill out, no other obstacles to clear, and Ostrakova could only wait, not knowing what she was waiting for. Will the strange man reappear? He no longer exists. A ham egg roll with fries, some Alsatian beer, and two slices of bread with it were clearly more than enough for him. What kind of relationship he had with the embassy, she couldn't imagine. He told her to go to the embassy and they would wait for her; He was right. But when she mentioned "your gentleman", or even "your tall blonde gentleman who came to me before," she only got a smile that knew nothing.

And just like that, whatever she was waiting for faded away. At first, she longed for it, then there was no hope, and she didn't know why it had changed or when it had happened. Has Alexandre arrived in France? With her papers, did you set off on the journey? Ostrakova began to think that she should have done it. Indulging in a new sense of disappointment, she sneaks into the faces of young girls on the street and speculates about Alexandre's appearance. When she gets home, her eyes automatically turn to the footrest at the door, hoping to see a handwritten note or quick note: "Mom, it's me." I'm staying at a hotel ......" or a telegram with the flight number, arriving in Orly to-morrow, to-night; Or not Orly, but Charles de Gaulle? She was not familiar with airlines, so she also visited a travel agency just to find out. Flights are available from both airports. She also considered paying for a phone so Alexandre could call her. However, after all these years, what else could she expect? Reunited with an adult daughter who has never been together? Back then, she turned her back on her flesh and blood, and twenty years later, she hoped to regain the joy of family? I have no rights to her, Ostrakova told herself solemnly; What I have is only a debt to her, with my obligations. She asked the embassy, but they didn't know anything further. The formalities are all done, they say. That's all they know. What if Ostrakova wanted to send money to her daughter? She asked slyly - so that she could pay the fees, for example, the visa fee? - Maybe they can give her an address, an office where they can find her?

We're not the post office, they told her. Her coldness frightened her. She didn't go again.

After that, she was obsessed with the blurry photos they had used for her to affix on the application form. The only photos she had ever seen were the exact same photos. Now, she really wished she had one by her side, but she didn't expect it at the time, it was so stupid, she thought she would see me soon. Those photos had been in her hands for less than an hour! With the photo, she hurried out of the embassy and rushed to the competent department; By the time they left, the photos had gone into another bureaucratic process. But she had scrutinized! Oh my God, she looked at every photo carefully, whether it was the same or not. On the subway, in the waiting room, and even on the sidewalk before entering the authorities, she stared at the lifeless photographs of her daughter, trying to find traces of the man she had loved dearly in the expressionless gray shadows. But failed. All the while, every time she mustered up the courage to think about it, she always imagined that the growing child clearly had the appearance of Glickman, as it did when she was born. It is impossible for such an energetic man not to leave a permanent imprint. However, Ostrakova could not find the slightest trace of Glickman in the photo. He consistently asserted his Jewish identity as part of his lone revolution. He was not an Orthodox Christian, he was not even religious, and he hated Ostrakova's implicit piety as much as he did with the Soviet bureaucracy — though he used Estrakova's tongs and curled his sideburns to make himself look like a Khasidian, he said. However, in the photographs, Ostrakova could not see a drop of his blood, nor a glimmer of his fire, although according to the strange man, his raging fire had made her immortal.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they had dug up the bodies and taken these pictures," Ostrakova said to herself in her apartment. After this thorough observation, she spoke for the first time of her deepening doubts.

Toiling in warehouses and spending long nights alone in a cramped apartment, Ostrakova racked her brains to find someone she could trust, someone who would not condemn or forgive, who would understand the bumps of her journey, and, most importantly, who would ruin her chances of reunion with Alexandre by revealing them to the outside world—they had taught her that recklessness would ruin her chances of reunion. Then, one night, I don't know whether it was God or herself, found the answer from memory: General! She thought, sat up from her bed, and lit the lamp. Ostrakov had personally mentioned this man to her! Those exiles are a catastrophe, he always said, you must stay away from them, as far away from the plague. The only person you can trust is General Valadimir. He's an old devil who loves to play with women; But he's a man, he's connected, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

But Ostrakov said these things twenty years ago, and even an old general can't live forever. Not to mention - what is Valradimir's surname? She never knew. Even the name Valadimir—according to Ostrakov told her—came after he joined the army; Because his real name was an Estonian name, unsuitable for use in the Red Army. Nevertheless, the next day, she began her first visit to a bookstore next to St. Alexander Nevsky's Cathedral where she could find out about the Soviet diaspora. She asked for a name and even a phone number, but no address. The phone has been deactivated. She went to the post office, begged for help, and finally got a 1956 telephone guide with the title of the "Baltic Freedom Movement" and an address in Montparnasse. She's not stupid. She searched the address and found at least four other organizations listed in the same place: the Riga (Latvian capital) group, the Association of Victims of Soviet Imperialism, the Freedom Latvian Forty-Eight Committee, and the Tallinn (Estonian capital) Freedom Committee. She still vividly remembers Ostrakov's harsh criticism of these organizations, even though he had paid his dues. Even so, she arrived at the address and rang the doorbell. The house was no different from the chapels she usually attended: quirky, and always with a closed door. At last, an old white Russian man came to open the door, wearing a cardigan with crooked buttons, and a cane, with a look of superiority.

They were gone, he said, "and the cane knocked on the cobblestone pavement." Moved out. It's over. The larger group had kicked them out of the business, he added with a smile. There are too few of them, too many organizations, and they quarrel like children. No wonder the tsar was defeated! The old man had a mouthful of ill-fitting dentures, and his thinning hair would cover his scalp and hide his baldness.

"But what about the general?" She asked, "Where has the general gone?" He's still alive, or—"

The old man squeezed out an unnatural smile and asked if it was business.

"No, it's not." Ostrakova said slyly, remembering the general's reputation for being a shy woman. The old man laughed, his teeth rattling. He laughed again and said, "Oh, General! "Then he brought her a card with a purple stamp stamped with a London address and handed it to her." "Even if he goes to heaven, he will chase the angels and make them restless, absolutely." That night, after everything around her had fallen asleep, Ostrakova sat at her dead husband's desk and wrote a letter to the general. She writes in French rather than Russian to give herself a more detached feel, and the tone of her letters is the frankness that lonely people can confide in strangers. She tells the General about her love for Glickman, and it gives her relief to know that the General has loved women just as Glickman did. She immediately confessed that she had gone to France as a spy, and at the same time explained that she had cobbled together two trivial and frivolous reports at a despicable price for her freedom. That's against your heart, she said; Fiction and lies, she said; Nothing at all. But the existence of those two reports, as well as the pledge she signed herself, have placed heavy restrictions on her freedom of handcuffs. Then she talked about her heart, and she went to various Soviet churches to pray to God. Ever since the strange man with the ginger hair came to her, her life had become vain; She felt that her life lacked a natural and rational explanation, even if that explanation could be painful. She told him unreservedly that, however great her guilt, it had nothing to do with her efforts to bring Alexandre to the West, but because she had decided to stay in Paris and take care of Ostrakov until the end of her life, which, after Ostrakov's death, she said, the Soviet authorities said nothing would let her go back; She made herself a traitor.

"But, General," she wrote, "if I can see the Creator face to face tonight, and pour out all that is in the deepest part of my heart, then what I tell him will be what I will tell you now." My child, Alexandre, was born in agony. Day and night, she constantly fights with me, and I fight with her all the time. Even in the womb, she was her father's child. I don't have time to love her; All I know is that she was a little Jewish fighter made by her father. But, General, I know: the person in the picture is neither Glickman's child nor my child. They deliberately steal the day, on the one hand, because they think that this old woman is very willing to be fooled, and more importantly, because of their hateful tricks. ”

As soon as she had finished writing, she put the letter in an envelope and sealed it so that she would not read it again, lest she change her mind. Then she carefully applied the stamps as many as she had lit for her lover.

For the next two weeks after the letter was sent, nothing happened, but it was an unusual relief for her. After the storm there will be peace, and she has exhausted her modest strength—she confesses her vulnerability, her betrayal, and the grave sins she has committed—and the rest is in the hands of God, and in the hands of the generals. The disruption of the French postal service did not worry her. This, she argues, is another obstacle that the people who shaped her destiny will have to overcome, if they are really strong-willed. She went to work as usual, and the back pain no longer bothered her, which she took as an omen. She even made herself calm and contemplative again. Anyway, she thought: Alisandre is better in the West—if it is really Alexandre, but if Alexandre stays where she is, it is no worse. Slowly, however, another thought arose in her mind, seeing through the fallacy of this optimism. There was a third possibility, which was the worst-case scenario, and what she thought was the most likely, that Alysandre was being used for ominous or even evil purposes; They forced her, just as they had forced Ostrakova before, to misuse the kindness and courage that her father, Glickman, had bestowed upon her. Therefore, on the evening of the fourteenth day, Ostrakova could not help but cry with emotion. With tears streaming down her face, she walked through most of Paris, looking for a church that was still open, all the way to the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. The church is still open. She knelt down and prayed for hours to St. Joseph, who was not only a father and guardian, but also the origin of Glickman's name, though Glickman must have scoffed at it. The day after she sought the help of the Holy Spirit, her prayers were answered. A letter appeared. There are no stamps on the envelopes and there is no postmark. She had attached the address of her place of work just in case. By the time she arrived, a letter was waiting, most likely delivered by hand during the night. It was a short letter without the sender's name and without an address. The letter was not signed. Like the letter she sent, it was written in pretentious French, and the handwriting was evident from the hand of an arbitrary old man, and she knew at once that it was the general's reply.

Madame: "At the beginning of the letter, like a command," your letter has arrived safely in the hands of the recipient. A friend of ours will be in touch with you shortly. He was a gentleman of good man, and he would identify himself with the other half of the landscape postcard attached to the letter. Please don't mention this to anyone until he arrives. He will come to your apartment between 8 and 10 p.m. and ring the doorbell three times. I have absolute confidence in him. Trust him completely, ma'am, and we will assist you as much as we can. ”

In addition to a sense of relief, Ostrakova also secretly found some amusement from the dramatic tone of the letter. Why wasn't the letter delivered directly to her apartment? She thought it was strange; Why do I feel safer just because he gave me half a postcard of the British landscape? It was a scenic postcard of Piccadilly Circle (a bustling neighborhood in central London), carefully torn diagonally – not cut – in half. The side where the writing should be written is all blank.

To her surprise, the messenger sent by the general visited that night.

He rang the doorbell three times, as had been promised in the letter, but he ought to have known that she was in the apartment—he must have watched her enter and turn on the light—she heard the click of the letterbox, louder than usual, and when she reached the door, she saw half a postcard of the scenery lying on the doormat—the doormat she had checked from time to time when she longed to see letters from her daughter, Alexandre. She picked up the postcard and went straight to her bedroom, her half of which was tucked into the Bible. That's right, the two coincided, God was on her side, and St. Joseph interceded on her behalf. (But what an unnecessary boring idea, really!) She opened the door, and he slipped past her into the room, like a shadow: a little demon with a black coat trimmed with a velvet neckline, giving him an operatic air of intrigue and rebellion. Her first thought was that they had sent a dwarf to catch the giants. He had bowed eyebrows, a deep-grained face, and in front of the doorway mirror, he took off his hat, revealing a shaggy black hair above his pointed ears, slightly combed with his small palms—so stark and comic that Ostrakova would have laughed rudely at him on any other occasion.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she immediately felt that he had an unusual solemnity. Tonight, he looks like a busy salesman who has just gotten off the plane; She also sensed that he was a new face in the city, that he was clean and tidy, that he exuded a travelling air - that tonight, he just wanted to talk about business.

"You have received my letter safely, ma'am?" His Russian is fluent and has an Estonian accent.

"I thought it was a letter from the general." She replied, feigning a stern attitude towards him—she couldn't help but say.

"I brought it for him." He replied solemnly. He reached into the pocket of his clothes, and Ostrakova, afraid that he would be like the strange man, pulled out a black leather notebook. But what he took out was a photograph that was enough at a glance: the pale, shiny countenance, the expression of contempt for all women, not only her, a look that the heart longed for, but did not dare to really do it.

"That's right," she said, "that's the stranger." ”

Looking at his growing joy, Ostrakova immediately understood that he was what Glickman and his friends called "our people"—not necessarily Jews, but people with hearts and powers. From this moment on, she called him "The Magician" in her heart. He must have been full of clever tricks, she thought, and his happy eyes sparkled with magic.

For most of the night, she talked to the magician with a passion she hadn't had since she left Glickman. First of all, she repeated the matter from the beginning, and when she thought about it, she could not help but be secretly surprised that she had omitted so many details in the letter, and the magician seemed to really understand. She told him how she felt, her sorrows, her terrible inner turmoil, and she spoke unreservedly of her suffering. The strange man seemed so clumsy—she continued, and doubted—it was like his first time, she said—that he had neither strategy nor confidence. It's weird to think of the devil as a fool! She talks about ham omelets, fries, Alsatian beer and his laughter; She felt that he was a timid and depressed dangerous man—definitely not a man who liked women—and the diminutive magician agreed with most of her opinions, as if he had known the ginger-haired man for a long time. She trusted the magician as the general had commanded; She was tired of suspicion. She kept recalling, kept telling, and was sincere and frank. It seems that when she was young, in her hometown, she and Ostrakov, the young lovers, hugged each other on the night when they thought they would never have a chance to see each other again, and whispered their affection in the sound of approaching guns; It was as if she and Glickman were waiting for the knock on the door to take him back to prison. She poured out his alert, understanding eyes, his laughter and his suffering, and she immediately felt that his sympathetic suffering was the better side of his non-Orthodox and even antisocial nature. And, in the course of the continuous telling, gradually, her woman's intuition told her that she was fueling a passion in his heart—not love, but a strong, special hatred that made every little question he asked had a special meaning. She didn't know who he hated, or what it was, but whoever had caused the magician's anger, whether it was the ginger-haired stranger or someone else, she couldn't help but worry about them. She recalls Glickman's passion, a broad, never-ending passion for fighting injustice, betting randomly on different issues, ranging from large to small. The magician's passion, on the other hand, is a single pillar of fire, focused on a target she cannot see.

But at any rate, when the magician left—my God, she thought, it was almost time for her to go back to work—Ostrakova had spoken to her heart, and the magician reciprocated with the same emotions that had been buried in memories for so many years until tonight, a complex feeling for Alexandre, for herself, for the two men who had died. As she sorted out her cups, plates, bottles, and jars, she laughed out loud and laughed at her woman's stupidity.

"I don't even know his name!" She said loudly, shaking her head self-deprecatingly. "How can I find you?" She once asked him, "If he comes to me again, how will I inform you?" ”

She couldn't, the magician replied. But if there is a crisis, she can write another letter to the general, but write his name in English and send it to another address. "Mr. Miller." He said cautiously, pronouncing her name in French, and giving her a card with the address of London in capital letters. "But be careful," he warned, "and you must write in a roundabout way." ”

Throughout the day, and for many days afterward, the figure of the magician at the time of his farewell lingered in Ostrakova's mind, and she kept remembering him slipping past her and down the dimly lit staircase. His last glance, with a fiery look of determination and excitement: "I promise to save you, thank you for asking me for help." His little pale hands moved down the wide railing of the staircase, like a handkerchief waving outside the window of a train, and kept saying goodbye, gradually shrinking and shrinking, until he disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.