She is lying in bed, in our house in the wealthy Party neighborhood of Rublovka, a quilt tucked tight around her. Zhenya lies beside her, humming to himself, while I button up my lightweight autumn coat. “I’m sorry, Andrei,” she says, holding out a thermometer. “You’ll have to take Yulia to the park by yourself today. I’ve got a fever.” But I’d just seen her holding the thermometer to her bedside lamp. I open my mouth to say as much, but there’s permafrost in her eyes when she looks my way, and I clamp my jaw back shut. Papa sinks to his knees at her side. “No, Nina, don’t be silly. If you’re ill, then I must stay with you. I’ll make you soup—do you want some tea? Maybe I can fix a nice roast for you. I’ll send Yulia to the Party grocer to pick us out a nice cut of beef.” “For heaven’s sake, I already have a blanket if I want to smother myself. Take care of our daughter.” She nods at me. “I just need some peace and quiet, and you need to get out more.
