sorry for himself, blaming himself, regretting – ah, regretting - it was the door that opened the cupboard of despair, a cupboard he had climbed into before, and fought his way out of. This was where he was and this was who he was and this he knew was what he knew to do.
Often he let himself replay the sight of Tatiana when she danced because that wasn’t a regret. He had always lost the sense that he was watching a muscle and bones person hopping around on the stage. She became magical, a flow of movements weaving a story like Yoyo Ma on the cello - cutting through to the essential beauty of the music, the essence of an expression far beyond the technical performance, so that one was no longer conscious of the instrument or bow or body of the dancer.
How wondrous to be such a performer. He never got over the awesome warmth of being enveloped in the magic as he watched her dance.
But thinking of his bride brought back the pain as it always did. Yet how could he not think about her? So many people let their miseries eat them up, making them ineffective in their lives, making them liabilities, and when he found that his anger and his grief threatened his stability, he realized he could not let that happen.
Work, lots of mind-consuming work could stave off the blackness in the cupboard – lots of work and lots of music. He reached across to the passenger seat where he had a few of Rebroff’s CDs. He got a disk out while he kept his eyes on the road, inserting it by touch into the player that he had had the car dealer install. He may have to put up with this tin can on wheels, but he couldn’t give up the music.
He loved how the songs could fill his mind, obscuring the depths of darkness. He hummed along to Kalinka Malinka, marveling that Rebroff could make such dippy lyrics about his sweet little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry sound masculine and powerful. As always, Sergey sang the words to what he was looking at and thinking about, instead of snowberries, singing “The snowflakes swirl, those white butterflies dancing, dancing spiraling twirling…” It had always made Tanya laugh at his silly lyrics sung so loudly in Sergey’s full deep voice, but he felt they were never as silly as some of Rebroff’s.
He sat back in his seat while periodically bringing a half-smoked cigarette to his mouth to draw in the flavour of the Turkish tobacco. His olive green uniform was colourless in the bucket that carried him toward the atomic plant. His overcoat lay on the passenger seat, weighed down by the combat pistol in one pocket and the hefty package on top. Sabotage and nuclear meltdown soon replaced even the idle thoughts of music.
As he neared the plant, he reached into his inside breast pocket, his hand brushing against the shoulder holster of his faithful companion, a finely crafted Makarov pistol, and pulled out a still new laminated identity card, ready to present it to the guard who followed his approach from the dark interior of the gatehouse.
Sergey Andreshev, once a colonel in the KGB at the dreaded Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow, and now the new Director of Security at the Seytchan nuclear facility, manoevred (you don’t just steer this customized bucket) toward the main gate, correcting for a loose skid coming off the main road. He was pleased to see that the big large-tread tires did give the meccano-set vehicle some control on the slippery surface. Only a few tiny ice crystals tinkled glass-like as they hit the windshield.
It was only the closing of September but winter comes in fits of low freezing and deep freezing up north there near the Arctic Circle. It’ll be a good night to be working inside the plant, he thought, since the lack of heat was the last thing to worry about in there. Unlike the 18 million persons judged to be threats to the USSR that had been sent to the freezing camps in Siberia, most to never return, today’s workers at the nuclear facility had precious heat.
The J40 rolled up to the island of light surrounding the gatehouse. The guard inside put his pencil down on the crossword he was working on and got out of his chair. He pulled on his greatcoat and came out to the car. He carried himself well and, for a big man, he was clearly unexpectedly agile. His large hands were equally versatile threading a sewing needle or choking the life out of a man. Normally, he cradled a sub-machine gun on his arm but tonight he carried a white cotton sack.
Sergey cranked down the driver’s window as the gate guard approached briefly flicking the yellow beam of his flashlight across Sergey’s features, then snapped it off. The checkpoint routine was a ritual they engaged in seriously.
“Good evening, Colonel,” said the guard amiably.
Actually, Sergey had long since been promoted up from Colonel, but he still preferred to be known by that rank. It projected just the right amount of authority.
“Hi, Yuri,” replied Sergey.
Yuri’s moustache spread as he smiled at Sergey. Sergey was clean shaven but he admired how Yuri kept the beard and moustache trim, which was not an affectation as one might expect, but simply the work of a man who liked to see things done well, an artist taking pride in even the crafting of his beard, much like his dad crafed the perfect mortis and tenon joint in a cabinet.
Sergey flashed his identity card, then reached across the seat for the package wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied with butcher string.
“Ubechek slaughtered one of the precious pigs two days ago and made fresh kolbasa. You can use some?”
“What more can a man ask for, Colonel, than a piece of pig in a package? Well, maybe fur mittens… “
Yuri reached for the package. He and his family loved good sausage and sauerkraut, and Ubechek’s kolbasa was one of the best he’d ever eaten. Who would have thought to find such sausage in the beyond of Siberia? Sergey also favoured Ubechek’s kolbasa, but gave his share to Yuri; partly because Yuri’s family loved it, and partly because Yuri had access to the best home brew vodka you could find in a week’s drive. Yuri’s neighbour, two doors over, had a big greenhouse in the back of his plot. He grew the grain there that he used to make vodka. He harvested the grain and stored it in an outbuilding at his house. Technically, the making of home brew vodka was illegal. However, in the autumn, there was hardly a house in Seytchan that didn't give off the sweet aroma of distilled mash. The vodka produced by the townspeople was used as a tonic – a daily tonic for many - and for bartering. Every spring, there was a competition to determine which was the best vodka produced that year. A certificate proclaiming the superiority of the winner's vodka was highly sought after.
Yuri discovered on his first day in the village that his vodka-neighbour loved motorcycles as did Yuri. (Most relationships started with vodka in most of Russia.) The neighbour had a vintage Ural that demanded constant tinkering and adjustments to keep it at peak performance. Yuri spent what little free time he had in his neighbour's garage working with him on the motorcycle and sipping vodka and listening for information. And so the micro economy flourished in Northern Russia, and the skin-boot telegraph communicated most of what one needed to know.
Tucking the package under his arm, Yuri said, "Thank you, Colonel. My Magda baked fresh bread today and now I have something to go with it."
He pushed the sack containing a loaf of bread and a two-liter flask of clear liquid through the window to Sergey's waiting hand. With a smile, he hurried back into the warmth of the guardhouse. He inserted his key into an electric lock on the control panel and turned it to activate the gate-opening mechanism.
Sergey waited for the large heavy gate to slide across out of the way, then eased the throbbing jeep through the opening. He saw Yuri wave and go back to his crossword puzzle as the gate closed behind him. Sergey turned the CD up a notch again.
He had been briefed on the facility and had spent his week there becoming as familiar with the layout and functioning of the plant as he was with his own kitchen. When he was fully confident, he would destroy the plans and information. No incidents had happened since he arrived but several had happened shortly before he arrived.
All that he could see conformed to the information he had been given. The four-meter high chain link fence surrounded the entire compound around the plant. The top of the fence,