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arch。 Use the American methodology to reform the ministry's medieval archival retrieval system…that was； after all； why she had been sent to the United States in the first place； the minister reminded her…but leave the important reform to the experts； the men。
Well； at least I don't have to worry about being stuck in that dead…end job anymore； Irina thought as she stared at the familiar landmark of the Church of the Archangel Gabriel。 She knew where she was。 She was in Kirov Street： Valeri's place。
Irina felt her pulse still racing。 Thoughts of her job； the quotidian tasks of her life； had failed to calm her。
She had awakened from the same nightmare。 In it； she is drowning at the dinner table。 She jumps up； goes to the window； but there is blood on the streets； and when she looks up in horror； bars across the moon。 She knows she must get out into the streets； something important is happening there； something that will otherwise leave her behind forever。 But she cannot move and； looking down； she sees with a kind of sickening despair that she is shackled to the floor。 。 。
Irina closed her eyes for a moment； then stared again out the window； across the street to her church； beautiful； forting； as if to assure herself that she was truly awake； that the nightmare was just a dream。 Put it out of your mind； she reprimanded herself sharply。
Though it was in the Sadovaya； farther out on the periphery of Moscow…Mars insisted on living with the people…Irina actually preferred Mars's apartment。 Or perhaps it was Mars himself that she preferred。 That； indeed； would be ironic。
But this apartment had its charms。 She loved to wake up in the morning to the sun shining on the remnants of the church spire； destroyed in a fierce electrical storm some years ago。 It was a reminder of how even something so fragile as faith could survive in inhospitable soil。 If the church could survive here； she had decided some time ago； so could she。 It was a reminder that she did not have to end up like her parents。
Irina turned away from the window； and could hear Valeri bustling around the kitchen。 What was he preparing？ There was bread； but no butter or milk available in all of Moscow。 It had been this way for months now； and Irina recalled her mother's harrowing stories of the war； when beets and turnips and perhaps a cabbage or two were all that were available to eat for months on end。 My God； her mother had once said； what we would have done for a bite of fresh food！ Killed each other； like as not。 Although it was said…and Mars assured her…that great upheavals were occurring every day in the Soviet Union； Irina thought that some things never changed…and never would。
Despite perestroika； she found it just as difficult…and in some cases impossible…to obtain the essentials of day…to…day life： soap； bread； fresh vegetables； toilet paper…as she had in the years before the restructuring。 The problem that no one seemed to want to face was that the old market centralism was so deeply entrenched that not even the president could dislodge it。 Though it was clear to anyone that the produce grown by private enterprise was robust and healthy； whereas the vegetables from the old collectives looked soft and withered； even the president was reluctant to encourage the anathema of more private enterprise。
In Russia； after all； such structural transformations always were paid for by enormous political risks； so it was usually better not to act than to make a move at all。 Instead； in typical Soviet doublethink； the decisions to enact new freedoms were quickly followed by decisions to severely limit those freedoms。
This would have been an utterly depressing scenario for an American…but not； it used to be said； for most Russians。 Hardship； the long； bone…chilling winters； and the even colder heart of the state apparatus； inured the Soviet citizen to disappointment。 When there is little hope； depression nourishes unwillingly。 But flourish it does； in direct proportion to alcohol consumption； which warmed the body； numbed the mind； and destroyed the spirit。
Irina stretched； got out of bed； padded down the corridor to the bathroom。 As usual； the hot water was not working； but she was used to showering in icy water。 Nevertheless； her eyes opened wide under the spray； and she gave a little reflexive shout。
Toweled dry； she dressed in fresh clothes she kept in the bottom drawer of the magnificent mahogany chest Valeri had had imported from England。
Standing in front of the mirror； she carefully applied the American makeup she had bought in the local Beryozka store； where privileged citizens like herself could buy a limited selection of imported goods。 She was a small…boned woman； with fine； high breasts； a tiny waist； and narrow hips。 Her legs were shapely （the right genes）； and had remained well…muscled （she still worked out at the ballet barre three times a week； though she could no longer harbor dreams of being a ballerina； her mother's wish for her）。 She had a peculiarly feline face； triangular； with large tawny eyes； a small nose； full； sensual lips； ears set close to her skull。 She wore her shining black hair almost shockingly short。 Altogether； she was happier with her looks than most women she knew。
In the kitchen； Valeri Denysovich Bondasenko was hunched over the illegal Toshiba 5200 lap…top puter he had smuggled into the country。 The amazing Japanese technology had done away with the bulky CRT monitor。 In its place was a flat gas…plasma screen。 The battery pack…essential in a land where power outages were a fact of everyday life…bulged from the Toshiba's plastic side。
Irina peered over his shoulder； saw the food recipe up on the multicolored screen； kissed him on the tip of his ear。
''Almost ready；'' he said distractedly。 He was a frighteningly large man； with a wrestler's meaty shoulders and the powerful forearms of a laborer。 Irina had been terrified the first time she had gone to bed with him。 His face and voice were as intimidating as his body。 When he was angry； she could feel the tension in the same way she could just before a powerful storm。
She had not wanted to go to bed with him that first time； but she could not imagine what he would do to her if she did not acquiesce。 They had met at a typical state function。 She had gone because it was her duty to go； but all the time she had been thinking of renewing her nagging spirit on her knees at the font of the Church of the Archangel Gabriel。
Then Valeri Bondasenko had spotted her。 He had herded her out of the throng as American cowboys did with cattle to the slaughter。 She had read this in a paperback copy of Lonesome Dove that she had smuggled back into the country； and which she now kept with her wherever she went。
Valeri had been charming； gracious even。 But beneath that veneer； Irina had been aware of another Bondasenko…the feared political tactician。 It was he who had masterminded the brutal crackdown against the national separatists in his own native Ukraine。 It was he who had counseled forging the still controversial promise with the leaders of the Soviet Union's Baltic states that made the subsequent crackdown in the Ukraine possible。 It was said that every m