Chernobyl

Chapter 7

Simyon Smin's wife, Selena, could not be said to be a bad woman. No one would deny, however, that she is a collector. A humbler Soviet woman would be the kind who never left home without her little string bag, the avoska, "just on the chance" that she might happen somewhere to find something worth the trouble of buying. Selena, as the wife of the Deputy Director of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station, does not have to do that. She gets what she wants, or nearly. More nearly than most. She has special stores to shop in, though she must go to Kiev or Moscow for the best of them. She even has the "distribution," that special perk of the high in rank that allows her to order food over the telephone — and not just what the local gastronom might carry, but high-quality food from the listed stores — and have it delivered to her flat or dacha. This is a source of great pleasure to Selena, who was a not quite successful dancer when she married Simyon Smin. There were no such luxuries in Selena's early life. She has eaten well since then, and if she no longer has a dancer's figure, Smin does not seem to mind. Selena has a job of her own, of course; she is in charge of cultural and physical fitness matters at the Chernobyl plant, and often, at eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon, when the handsome young couple in leotards do their daily exercises on the television to the accompaniment of a 78 FREDERIK POHL

pianist and the orders of a trainer, Selena joins the workers and leads their calisthenics. Her position technically puts her in the First Department of the plant, under the direction of Gorodot Khrenov, but Khrenov never interferes with the wife of the Deputy Director. He only makes sure that the Deputy Director knows that.

There was not much sleep on that Saturday morning for Selena Smin. At six she got up and dressed slowly, wondering what the urgent summons from the plant had meant. At seven, while she was having a cup of tea with her mother-in-law, there was another knock on the door, and this time it was a telegram:

"But I can't do that," complained Selena. "I have things to do, and the boy should not miss his school."

"He has missed it already," said old Aftasia Smin practically. That was true enough; Vassili was still curled on the couch, blond head buried under the blankets as the women talked softly. But still! Remain in Kiev to do what? Without a car, without even a telephone? "I can't even call him to find out what this is all about," she complained.

"You can do as I do," Aftasia said. "The Didchuks have a telephone."

"The Didchuks have one! And we do not! I will certainly speak to Simyon about this again." Selena thought for a moment. "And which apartment are they in, then?" she asked.

It was only one floor below. Two minutes later Selena had descended the dark stairs and knocked politely at their door. The Didchuks were at home — all of them, for it seemed that there was a child and a couple of grandparents in the flat as well as the teachers themselves. They were all awake. They were not fully dressed — the woman had her hair in curlers, the man was wearing a robe over his trousers — but they were, of course, quite polite, even welcoming, and certainly she could use their telephone.

But then it seemed she could not, really, because all of the lines to the plant were engaged. They remained engaged, were engaged on the first time she tried them and on the fifth. The

Didchuks politely went about their morning business, stepping around her when they had to come into the little living room with its small TV set and worn, brocaded couch and window that had thin, bright drapes. The old father greeted her in a mannerly way on his way to the bathroom. The old mother came out of the kitchen and offered her breakfast, which she declined graciously, but accepted a cup of tea, brought to her by the ten-year-old daughter of the teachers. Even the telephone in her own flat in the town of Pripyat did not answer; it was not engaged, but it rang uselessly until she put it down. So Smin, wherever he was, was at least not at home. "Well, what a nuisance," she declared, smiling at the young woman. "But what pretty drapes! You have done so much with this room!"

The woman said modestly, "It is difficult when we both work."

"For me too," Selena agreed, and chatted amiably with the young woman and her tiny, blonde mother-in-law while, in her mind, she tried fretfully to decide what to do with this day. A day in Kiev with the car, yes, that was always quite useful. In fact, it was a treat. There were places to go and stores to visit, and then one could count on finding a friend or two at the club for lunch. But without the car—

The thought of the club gave her an idea. "One more call, if you don't mind," she begged prettily, and dialed the Great Gate Hotel. But the operator could not find any Mr. and Mrs. Dean Garfield from America on the roster.

"You must have a room number," the operator explained. "One cannot complete a call without a room number, of course."

Selena exploded, "What nonsense! I am Selena Smin and I am making this call for S. M. Smin, the Director of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station."

The operator retreated. For quite a while, leaving Selena to hold the whispering, hissing phone while she thought wistfully how nice it would have been if she could have invited the Americans not merely to lunch at the club — pleasant though the club was — but to their own home in Pripyat, to see how a decent Soviet family lived in a decent home, not this Khrushchev tenement. (But, of course, that was only a fantasy, since one did not invite foreigners to Pripyat.) And then when the operator returned she said only, with some satisfaction, "The Americans you speak of are no longer in the hotel."

"But of course they are in the hotel! I saw them only last night!"

"They have departed," the operator said triumphantly. "Perhaps if you were to consult Intourist, they could inform you of their itinerary."

"Ah, well," sighed Selena to the young couple, who were beginning to glance surreptitiously at their watches — they would have to leave for their Saturday morning classes. "Simply one more call, if I may, just to call for a taxi."

But where was she to go in the taxi? To the club? And do what there, especially with Vassili? Who should, in any case, be on his way to school by now. And as she looked out the window, she heard distant thunder and saw that it was beginning to rain.