按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
soup in some tiny neighborhood shop filled with steam and gossip； then move on； drifting through their city； a part of it yet somehow apart； creating their own world。
Now more than ever Irina was burning with curiosity about Natasha's relationship with Valeri。 She could not be seeing him at night； unless they met very late； and as Irina was ing to understand； an actor could allow neither drunken days nor sleepless nights while she was working。
At the same time； Irina found herself feeling guilty at having lied to Natasha about her name。 It was no longer exciting to hear Natasha call her by the name of Katya Boroskaya； instead she longed to be called by her real name。 Yet she could think of no way to tell Natasha that her name was Irina Ponomareva。 What excuse could she give for her falsehood？ Besides； despite her growing friendship with Natasha； she was loath to give up her reason for contacting her in the first place： to find the link with Valeri。
It was so incredibly wearying to be a spy and to be feeling close to the person on whom you were spying。 Often； on their walks； Irina forgot why she was there and； for a brief time； would luxuriate in her newfound friendship。 Then reality would intrude and in some subtle way that disturbed and depressed her； she would withdraw from the shared intimacy with Natasha。
At night in bed； alone； Irina would think of her relationship with Natasha。 It seemed terribly unfair that her one chance at true friendship should be tainted； so distorted by lies and deceit。
Her nights with Valeri became more fevered； fueled by a kind of desperation pulled from Irina's very core。 Their lovemaking was increasingly wild； animalistic； exhausting； so that afterward Irina would plunge into the most absolute slumber； from which Valeri was obliged to shake her awake in the morning。
Then； over his protestations； she would climb upon his naked body； spread her legs across his loins； moving until she felt his response； then engulf him with her mouth until he arched off the bed； exploding。
In an orgy of self…destruction； she could no longer tell the difference between lust and love。 And Valeri's groans of sexual arousal and release would haunt her all day； echoing in her ears while she watched him talking intimately with Natasha Mayakova； until tears of hatred and self…pity clouded her eyes。
Irina； Irina； Irina。 She would recite her name silently as if it were a prayer or an enchantment that would ensure she remembered who she really was。 The trouble was； she no longer knew who Irina Ponomareva was。 Somewhere along the line her identity； her self； had been misplaced or covered over so thoroughly that she had forgotten where to look for it。
At Mars's apartment； after he fell asleep after their tepid love…making； she would stare at the ceiling and； before she herself fell into a shallow； troubled sleep； she would promise herself that tomorrow would be the day when she would confess everything to Natasha； so that they would have an opportunity to start all over。
But she awoke each morning knowing that she could never go through with it。 What was done was done。 She could never go back； sanitize the emotions that were sure to be raised by the truth。 Would Natasha forgive her for using her； or would she never want to see her again？ With a profound sense of foreboding； Irina knew that she could not take the chance to find out。 Her relationship with Natasha was already too precious for her to jeopardize it in any way。
And yet she knew that she was jeopardizing it every time she and Natasha were together； when there was a possibility that she might slip or that someone she knew would recognize her and use her real name。 Worse； she suspected that she hated Natasha as much as she cared for her； despised her for her relationship with Valeri； the unknown nature of which Irina found increasingly maddening。
Irina had begun to experience an odd sense of fragmentation； as if her life had been an eggshell that had abruptly been struck against a stone； turned into jagged bits； all with their own structure； but each with far less than the whole。 Some essential truth was missing； and had been； she realized； for some time； even before she had met Valeri。
Irina knew that she had been given a glimpse of that truth… that heart of things that； when she understood it； would e to mean more to her than anything else…in America。
In Boston she had watched the kids pouring out of the universities。 She had walked the tree…lined Cambridge streets with them； had eaten pizza and Coke alongside them； had bought clothes where they did； had listened to their music； first in snatches from passing cars； then in jukeboxes in the pizzerias； then in the dance clubs late at night。
One evening she had been invited to a party along with everyone else…including the chef…of the local pizzeria。 She had； of course； declined； but moments later thought； Why not？
It was as close to all…out chaos as Irina had ever been。 The noise level was tremendous。 Her glass shook in her hand and her teeth ached from the vibrations。 It was wonderful； as liberating； in its way； as sitting in the darkened movie theater； watching Elizabeth Taylor being Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf？ But different。 So different。
Everything was spontaneous； from the laughter to the ings and goings of people； from the informality to the wide range of conversation topics： Kierkegaard on the meaning of death； Woody Allen on the meaning of life； Tom Cruise on the meaning of sex。 It was dizzying； wild； captivating。 Irina had not wanted to leave。
There was a young man there； with hair the color of a bear's pelt。 He wore it short on the sides； long and flowing on top； so that he was continually brushing it back from his forehead。 He had watched her drifting slowly from group to group in the party with a shyness that made Irina's heart ache。
At one point； when she was standing on the edge of the crowd and he was dancing with a thin； sandy…haired woman； he had accidentally brushed against her； spilling the contents of the glass over her。
〃Oh； I'm sorry；〃 he said。 〃I'm so sorry。〃
〃It's all right；〃 Irina said。 〃It's only club soda。〃 And then； because he obviously could not take his eyes off her； 〃Shouldn't you get back to your dance partner？〃
She ran into him again in the kitchen。 It was late； and the crowd had begun to thin out。 Irina was putting a slice of cold pizza in the microwave； and he had stopped her。
〃Don't you know anything？〃 he said。 〃You can't use foil in there； it'll pop all over the place。〃 He put the pizza on a paper plate； shoved it in； turned on the microwave。
They shared the slice。
〃You're the Russian； aren't you？〃 the young man said。
〃Yes。〃
〃Your English is excellent。 I wish my Russian was as good。''
〃How good is it？〃 Irina asked him in Russian。
〃Only so…so； I'm afraid；〃 he said in the same language。
〃You need to speak more； that's all；〃 Irina said； switching back to English。 She found that she wasn't in the least nostalgic for anything Russian。
All of a sudden the young man leaned forward； kissed her on the lips。 〃I've been wanting to do that all night；〃 he said in a rush。
〃Did you think I'd