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The nursing officer knocked on the door of the asylum director's office.
"Come in."
"Dr. Lebedev, may I have a word with you?"
The man looked at his watch.
"I have ten minutes."
“I saw the list of patients who will be discharged this week. There is also patient No.137."
"Yes."
"With all due respect, comrade, that man hasn't shown any progress since he was hospitalized."
"I understand your concerns about him, but I have also consulted with other colleagues and we believe he will be fine."
"He was involved in a traumatic accident."
The doctor spread his hands, “But he was here only for observation. He isn’t a danger to himself or to others, he isn’t suicidal and is able to take care of himself."
"He has stopped talking," the nurse insisted, "Does it seem normal to you?"
"Do you prefer patient No.510?"
The nurse shook her head: the patient No.510 suddenly started screaming for no reason and went on for hours, stopping only for the time necessary to take a breath. It was her ward’s nightmare.
"Patient No. 137 isn’t normal, I agree with you, but there are more serious patients who need to be treated and we need that bed," concluded the director.
Valery was discharged two days later. He collected his few personal belongings in a plastic bag and left without greeting anyone.
He has also had the clearance to go back to work, so a few days later he was already sitting in his office.
A few colleagues stopped to welcome him back, but Valery just smiled and shrugged, then went back to work on his publications and experiments.
Inevitably, especially among the new hires, rumors of his strange behaviour spread quickly and someone asked questions.
“Is everything all right with Comrade Legasov? Why does he never speak?" a young assistant asked the custodian of the building one day, after Valery had left.
"Do you know about the accident that took place a couple of months ago?"
"Very little, nobody wants to talk about it."
"Two people died, obviously the director of the institute doesn’t want to advertise what happened."
"Was Legasov involved?"
"No, but he was against that fatal experiment from the beginning, he kept repeating to his colleagues that it was too dangerous and that they shouldn't do it. However, they didn’t listen to him, conducted the experiment anyway, and there was an explosion. Legasov rushed to save them, but it was too late."
“I still don't understand why he doesn't speak. Did someone blame him and he is offended now?"
“No, but maybe he blames himself for not being convincing enough to stop his colleagues, or something. In any case, leave the poor man alone."
"This is easy," said the assistant, shrugging, "He doesn't want anyone around."
Valery was aware that his current condition wasn’t normal, but he quickly got used to it. He had never been a social animal, having stopped talking didn't make much difference, after all.
It wasn't that he didn't speak on purpose, he himself got very scared when he realized he couldn't do it anymore.
It was as if his brain had decided that there was no point in wasting words, since they had no weight or value, and served no purpose, neither to dissuade his colleagues from that crazy experiment, nor to save their lives. If no one listened to him, why make an effort to talk?
He still communicated with assistants and colleagues at his job with memos and notes, but his condition had negative implications. For example, the lunch break had become a nightmare.
Valery had tried to have lunch in the lunchroom with everyone else, but as soon as he entered, the chatter stopped abruptly and all the eyes turned to look at him.
He found it unbearable, so he made up his mind to bring his own food from home and have his meals in his office. It was rather uncomfortable, however, because the desk was always cluttered with papers and books and he, distracted as he was, ended up spilling food and drink everywhere.
In addition, the director of the asylum where he had been locked up after the accident, when everyone noticed that he was no longer talking, had recommended him to do outdoor activities, sure that the sun and long walks would be good for his psyche, so Valery decided that, at least during the summer, he could spend his lunch break in a park not far from the Institute, and one day he went to inspect it.
He kept away from the busier areas, such as the children's play area, or the picnic one, where families gathered, too crowded and noisy for him, and walked away following a little-traveled path, until he found an area hidden by a large group of ornamental bushes. Slipping between two of them, he felt like the little girl in The Secret Garden.
That area was very neglected compared to the rest of the park: the trees hadn’t been pruned for a long time, the grass was tall, and there was only a small wooden gazebo, on which the vines grew free, with a table and a bench, but all in all it was a nice little corner, quiet and peaceful.
Valery couldn't ask for anything better.
At first he only stayed long enough to eat, but soon he realized that his workload at the Institute had decreased, compared to before the accident.
No doubt the director of the asylum had advised his superiors not to overload him too much so as to preserve his mental health.
At first Valery thought of writing a long and vibrant letter of protest, because his mind had nothing wrong and he could work as much as before, however he realized that, seen from the outside, his condition was very strange. Maybe he just had to consider himself lucky to still have a job, and he had to make do with that.
Since he had more time for himself, he decided to extend his lunch break, taking a book or a crossword magazine with him, and soon it became “his” gazebo. One day, driven by a childish impulse, he even scribbled his initial, "V" on the edge of the table.
Gorbachev frowned when he saw from afar someone who shouldn't have been in the Kremlin that day.
He apologized to his interlocutor and walked down the corridor.
"Boris Evdokimovich, what are you doing here?"
"Strange question, Mikhail Sergeevič. I'm going to my office."
The general secretary put his hands on his hips, "Last week you collapsed from overwork and your blood pressure was sky high. If I remember correctly, the doctor prescribed you rest."
Boris took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and showed it to Gorbachev, "The same doctor authorized me to return to work."
"I bet you nagged him until you extorted his authorization."
"I'm fine," Boris insisted.
The general secretary sighed heavily: he didn't know anyone as workaholic as Shcherbina and he knew it was impossible to keep him away from his desk for too long, but he certainly didn't want to see his collaborator fall to the ground.
“Very well, but no overtime and or skipping lunch. If you can't find a way to keep your stress level under control, I'll personally force you to take a vacation. Did I make myself clear, comrade?"
Boris nodded respectfully, "Of course, and thank you."
When Gorbachev went back to speak to his interlocutor, Boris sighed heavily: that was a problem. The reason he always worked so hard was that he wanted his department to stand out above everyone else's, he wanted to be noticed and finally admitted to the innermost circle of the party. By now age no longer played in his favor and he would be forced to retire in a few years; after climbing to the top of the party all his life, he didn't want to give up right now.
However, he had to obey the diktat of the secretary general, otherwise the man would have put his threat into action.
"Try a walk."
"I beg your pardon?"
A Kremlin aide, who was pouring two cups of tea to take to the meeting room, turned to look at him, “I said try a walk to relax. When my husband or my sons drive me crazy at home, instead of taking the bus, I come to work on foot."
"And is it an effective method?"
"I have not yet been arrested for the murder of my family," the woman joked, then smiled, "Yes, it works."
"Thanks, I'll think about it."
The idea left him skeptical, but he realized that he had exaggerated with work in the last period: he slept little and badly, skipped meals and spent more hours in the Kremlin than at his home. That political climbing was wearing out his health.
A walk during the lunch break was a good compromise: he would follow the doctor's instructions, to disconnect from work, but it wouldn’t take too much time. He only had to decide where to go.
The streets of Moscow were a nightmare, crowded and noisy, and you risked your life at every intersection, certainly not the ideal place to try to relax, but there was a nice park not far from there, so the next day Boris went to have a look.
He entered through a secondary entrance and realized that the area wasn’t very well maintained: the water fountain wasn’t working and some tiles were missing from the driveway, but at least it wasn't crowded.
There was an old gazebo with a bench and a table, so Boris sat on it, resting his hands clasped on the table and looked around, but after less than a minute he was already annoyed, thinking only of the work he had left in the office.
"This is ridiculous and useless, I’m not relaxed," he told himself.
He was about to get up and leave when he heard a rustle in the bushes. He looked up and met the gaze of a younger man, already in his fifties, with thick glasses and reddish hair. He was wearing a suit that was creasing everywhere, so either someone had loaned it to him or he'd lost weight all of a sudden.
In fact, looking at his face, he gave the impression of having come out of a long illness.
The man stood staring at him, as if he didn't expect to see anyone there, and Boris could understand the surprise, but then the man frowned, almost offended, as if Boris had usurped a place that belonged to him.
A very un-Soviet attitude, the politician thought, but then he realized that he had placed his jacket and briefcase on the bench, occupying it all, and he heaped his things so that the man could sit down.
Valery didn’t expect to find anyone, he thought he was the only one who knew that corner of the park, and he couldn’t deny that part of him was a bit annoyed: he would have preferred to be alone.
Moreover, the man sitting at the table was imposing, he found no other words to describe him, and even when he made room for him on the bench, it seemed that he continued to occupy all the space with his presence.
Valery stood motionless for too long and the other man raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to talk, his gaze alone was all too eloquent.
“Why do you stand there like a fool? I've made room for you, so sit down."
Valery's feet moved on their own.
When he was seated next to that man, he was able to observe him better: perfectly cut hair, a tailored suit, even cufflinks engraved with the initial of his name, "B". Everything about him cried out that he was an apparatchik, but of which apparatus?
His eye fell on the "V" he had scribbled on the edge of the table.
Oh, that was vandalizing people's property, wasn't it? And if the man sitting next to him belonged to the KGB it could be traced back to him! The KGB could do everything, even compare the ink in his pen with that on the table.
Or at least, these were the rumors.
In any case, it was best not to take any chances.
He tried to clean up the scribble with his thumb unnoticed, then, when he realized he was making a fool of himself, he got up and left, not even eating lunch.
Boris watched him go, then leaned over the table to see what he was messing with: there was a scribbled "V".
Did he write it, and was frightened because he thought Boris was going to scold him?
He chuckled: what a bizarre man.
The next day, at lunchtime, Boris was in his office when the assistant came in.
"No walk today?"
"I did it yesterday and it didn't help, I didn't feel any better."
"Deputy minister, you cannot expect immediate results, you must continue to walk steadily for at least a month and have a little patience."
Since Gorbachev's threat to send him on a forced vacation was still valid, he decided to follow the woman's advice and an hour later he sat on the same bench staring at a tree in front of him, irritated, thinking that he would better spend his time in office.
Well, maybe that was why it wasn't working.
Again the same man from the day before, V, made his way through the bushes and again Boris gathered his things to make room for him.
This time the man spent less time standing like a fool before coming to sit down.
Really, he was weird.
Valery would have shouted his disappointment if he could: B was there again and seemed to have chosen that gazebo to spend his lunch break, just like him.
Unable to do anything to stop it, Valery decided that he wouldn’t be dethroned.
He sat down on his corner of the bench and this time took out the sandwich wrapped in a napkin he had brought from home and the book he was reading, trying to ignore the presence of B.
Boris ate some fruit quickly too; looking at his odd bench-mate, he thought that if he had to walk and be outdoors every day, he too could bring something to read, instead of staring into the void like an idiot.
The apples finished, Boris got up, murmured goodbye and left.
Valery answered by bowing his head.
The scene repeated itself the next day.
B had to work closer to the park than him, because Valery always came later.
In the Kremlin, probably.
The man diligently gathered his personal effects and Valery sat down, thanking him with another nod, then took his lunch, an Olivier salad with too much mayonnaise and few vegetables.
B still had some fruit and carrots. Maybe he was on a diet?
Sure, he was a big man, but to Valery he seemed in great shape for his age.
"I have problems with high blood pressure," Boris said, when he noticed that V was watching him eat, "so the doctor told me to replace the meat with fruit and vegetables for a while."
Valery blinked slowly: how did B know he was thinking about that?
He was very intuitive.
Or maybe he really was from the KGB.
Boris looked at the core of the apple that he had finished and pursed his lips, “The problem is that I'm not a rabbit and this stuff is not satisfying at all. When I get back to the office I’m so hungry that I would eat a live pigeon."
V smiled and two dimples appeared on his face, making him look younger, then he shrugged, as if to say, "if the doctor ordered it, it's for your good."
"It's for my sake, I know," Boris grumbled, "but it would be easier if the carrots taste like sausage."
Valery smiled again: the first day he had felt a strong disappointment seeing that someone else had discovered his "his" gazebo, but B was turning out to be a pleasant company.
Boris realized it only a few days later: V never spoke. Since they had first met, he had never heard him make a sound. Yet he was polite, in his own way, with his nods and his smiles.
Had he had a disease as a child? Boris knew measles caused deafness, perhaps it was something similar. Or maybe he was like that from birth.
"Was it a illness?" Boris asked the next day. There was no need to specify what he meant.
V shook his head.
"Have you always been like this?" Boris insisted, but V spread his hands, as if to say, "it just happened."
Boris understood.
They never went back to the subject.
V finished the book he had brought with him, put it away and raved in his briefcase, but then pursed his lips, irritated.
Boris realized he hadn't brought another volume to read, so he pushed a few pages of Pravda towards him, but V shook his head.
Well, he wasn't wrong in not wanting to read that pile of nonsense.
"Not even the sports pages?"
Again V shook his head.
He made a mental note that V wasn’t interested in sports.
In Moscow it was getting hotter and hotter and jackets gave way to shirts with rolled up sleeves and loose ties.
Boris was still skeptical of the therapeutic value of walking, but V's quiet but comfortable company was a pleasant diversion from the incessant ringing of telephones and typewriters of his office.
As the days went by, Boris too had learned to do without words to communicate with him. Somehow they seemed superfluous: a nod, a gesture, a smile were enough to understand each other.
V finished another book, closed it with a satisfied smile, and then pushed it towards Boris.
It was Ivan Efremov's Andromeda: evidently he liked it very much and he was lending it to Boris.
"Thanks."
Boris also had a well-stocked library at home and picked out some of his favorite titles: And quiet flows the Don, Life and Fate, For a Just Cause.
V thanked him, but didn't seem exactly thrilled with the choice.
“Oh, come on! And quiet flows the Don is a classic!" he complained, but V just shrugged as an apology, and Boris wasn't really angry: tastes were tastes, after all.
He took another mental note: V didn't like war books, too.
No, V was more of a science fiction type, in fact he had lent Boris a collection of Vladimir Obruchev's short stories. A very old edition, which the statesman treated with great care.
The books told a lot about the personality of their owner, and V gave the impression of being an idealist and a dreamer, projected into the future.
He wondered what work he did: he was a man of culture and, if he hadn't been dumb, he would have bet he was a professor.
Maybe he was a writer.
B's tastes in literature were terribly stereotyped: he loved war books that praised the exploits and courage of the Soviet people. Valery wasn’t surprised that he worked in the Kremlin, it suited him.
He didn't understand in which bureau.
After much thought, Valery had ruled out the KGB: B was too kind to be a secret agent.
V was looking for something in his bag, something that wasn't there, judging by his continuous huffs.
Finally he closed it and rested his face on his hands, pouting like a child.
It only took Boris a moment to understand.
“You forgot your lunch. You're pretty forgetful,” he observed.
It wasn't the first time he'd forgotten something. Sometimes, when V got up from the bench to go back to work, Boris had to call him back, because he had left behind his hat, a book or his briefcase.
Boris was eating some potato rosti and pushed the bowl towards him.
V hesitated, then took one, tasted a corner, and then finished it in one bite. He dipped his hand into the bowl a second and third time, under Boris' amused gaze, but when he saw that he was too voracious, he stopped and blushed.
Boris just laughed heartily.
“You can finish them if you want. Frankly, this is a great compliment to my cooking."
Valery took a note: B was an exceptional cook.
The custodian of the Kurchatov Institute lived in the suburbs and had a small vegetable garden: Valery asked him with a note if he could get him some fresh fruit and vegetables. He suspected that B hated vegetables because the ones he bought were stale and low-quality.
B was very surprised by the fruit basket that Valery put on the table, but he took a crunchy red apple and ate it, nodding his approval.
Boris was furious: an important central committee meeting had been called, but he, once again, hadn’t been invited.
What else did he have to do to prove that he was valid and capable, that his work was impeccable and that he deserved to be in that room?
It seemed that nothing he did was enough, he was still an inconsequential man.
He stormed out of the palace, and when he got to the park he was panting with exertion and anger.
So much for keeping his stress level under control.
Valery had never seen B so angry; sometimes the man was taciturn and brought some work to do from the office ("Even though the doctor told me I shouldn't do it," he had confessed to him once), sometimes he was visibly worried. But like this? Never.
He seemed ready to commit murder, and Valery wondered if he should leave him alone, but then B moved the briefcase as he always did, and Valery went to sit down.
Boris was shaking with rage and his fists were clenched when V sat down; the man took his lunch, a sandwich today, and began to eat it by taking small bites and chewing carefully. His breathing was also slow and regular and, almost without realizing it, Boris ended up adjusting his own to that of the other man.
He opened his fists, put his hands on his thighs and focused only on V, letting everything else become a vague background noise.
When it was time to go back to the office, he was much calmer.
“Thanks,” he told him.
Valery realized it only after B had left: the man occupied the whole bench with the briefcase every day and then moved it because he was actually holding the seat for him.
Even when he had thoughts that made him furious.
Even if perhaps he would have preferred to be alone.
He allowed him to enter his life, even when he was having problems.
He made room for him.
While cleaning the cat's litter box, Valery wondered what B's real name was.
Bogdan?
Budimir?
Boronislav?
Something more common, like Boris? B was anything but common, but Boris suited him.
Valentin? Thought Boris, lying in bed with his hands clasped behind his neck.
Vladimir?
Viktor? No, he didn't look like a Viktor.
Maybe something as high-sounding as Vsevolod? Nah.
Valery?
Vasily?
What was V's real name?
Valery knew it was just a game to pass the time, that he would never ask B what his name was.
It would have broken the balance between them, and would have led B to ask him more questions, to discover that he wasn’t mute from birth or due to some illness, but due to a nervous breakdown, for which he had been hospitalized in asylum, where the outcasts of society ended up.
He would find that Valery was broken inside, unstable. He would find he was so useless that he wasn't able to stop his colleagues.
He would no longer sit on the bench with him and that special friendship would end.
It was safer to leave things as they were.
It would have been simple, and certainly normal, to ask V what his name was, since they met in the park almost every day, but if he understood something about that enigmatic man it was that he was an introvert, and also easily spooked.
Even with a simple, "Hey comrade, what's your name?"
And somehow it seemed wrong: their relationship was born in silence, it grew with gestures and looks.
The words seemed out of place.
"Do we have a relationship, me and him?"
As he closed his eyes, Boris was absolutely certain of it.
Sometimes Valery wrote poetry to pass the time.
As a student he had good grades in literature and had briefly toyed with the idea of going down that path, before discovering that science was his great love, but he still dabbled in poems and nursery rhymes.
If he didn't have a notebook with him, he wrote them on the blank pages of the books.
Beyond his current condition, he had always found himself better with writing than with words, perhaps because writing allowed him to organize his thoughts, even the most complex, in a harmonious form.
Initially he didn't write poetry in the park, he considered it too personal to share, but over time he relaxed.
He also found the courage to push the book over to B for him to read.
The chatter around Valery had not diminished with time, rather it had become more insistent.
"Still not speaking?"
"He should get over it, it's been a long time now."
"That man is disturbing."
Besides, someone had revealed that he had been locked up in an asylum, although the information should have been strictly confidential, and the rumors had become even more nasty.
"In an asylum? I'm not surprised."
"They should lock him up again until he gets back to normal."
"Are we sure that he is still capable of working?"
All this behind his back, of course, no one confronted him directly: when they talked to him, everyone was extremely smiling and courteous.
He hated people's prejudices, hated their hypocrisy.
The only moment of peace was when he got out of there and went to the park, where B was waiting for him.
B didn’t judge him.
B didn't care that Valery didn't speak.
In a few months B had become the most important person in his life.
"This is because he doesn't know what happened," said an evil voice in his head, "don't fool yourself: if he knew, he wouldn't want to have anything to do with you anymore."
V was struggling with a crossword puzzle that day.
Usually he was very good, he finished them in minutes, but that puzzle was giving him a hard time.
"Problems?" Boris asked, leaning towards him.
V pouted, puffing out his cheeks, and Boris chuckled.
"Let's see, maybe I can help you."
Boris studied the crossword puzzle and soon understood what the problem was for V: the maker must have been of Ukrainian origin, because many definitions referred to his culture.
"You don't know Ukraine very well, do you?"
V shook his head.
Boris put a finger on the magazine.
“4 across: a stringed instrument. Bandura."
V wrote.
“28 down: cabbage rolls. They are the holubtsi, don't you know them?"
The other man shook his head and Boris was almost indignant.
"They are very good. One day I have to cook them for you."
V smiled.
Boris moved even closer to read the definitions, until his shoulder touched V’s.
“10 across: a traditional dance. This should be hopak, and no, don't look at me like that, I've never danced it."
V made a face as if to say, "It's a shame."
"Ohi, don't make fun of me, or I won't help you anymore."
V gestured to appease him, "Okay, okay, I'll stop."
“So, let's see… 15 down: small spring decorations. Pysanka. Don't even know these? In my house they were very common, my mother spent her winter evenings painting them. When she didn't have to mend my clothes after I got involved in a scuffle at school."
Valery secretly loved when B told him something about himself. He wanted to do it too, certainly not about the asylum, but something about his personal life.
"So, the next definition?"
Boris leaned over the crossword puzzle, and from that position he couldn't help but notice that V's hair wasn't just plain reddish. Struck by the sun, they were almost blond at the tips, while the gray began to advance on the temples. His eyes also seemed clearer, similar to the sky of that beautiful day.
For an instant Valery feared that B would hear his heartbeat, it was so strong.
They sat on that bench almost every day, but never this close. Valery felt the warmth of B's body through the polyester of his shirt and could smell the strong scent of his aftershave around him.
Valery knew the next definition, but he faked to be ignorant for B to continue to help him.
And to be so close to him.
V wasn’t wearing a ring, he wasn’t married. Somehow it suited his shy personality.
Boris didn’t believe it was because of his mutism, V would have been taciturn and thoughtful even if he could have spoken.
Boris sat on the bed and thought about the shades of his hair, the round shape of his nose.
He wondered if V was always so cautious; after all, over time he had revealed a playful streak to him.
Maybe he would have surprised him.
Perhaps, if he had been sitting there on the bed with him, suddenly V would have reached out and kissed him on his lips, looking at him with a confident smile. Maybe he would be ravenous, like when he ate the food Boris offered him.
Boris fell onto the mattress, covering his face with a moan: what the hell was he thinking?
It seemed incredible to Valery that B wasn’t married.
Or maybe he had been, but now he was divorced.
B didn't come to the park every day like Valery did. The scientist imagined that his work kept him very busy, and a wife might not like this.
He wouldn't care, he was a workaholic himself, after all. He would wait for B when he was late, keeping dinner warm for him.
And perhaps B would have leaned over him to thank him with a kiss, demanding much more than dinner, and he would have granted it without hesitation.
Valery banged his head on the table, frightening the cat: what the hell was he thinking?
"Give me your hand," B said as Valery sat down on the bench, then pressed a decorated egg to his palm. It was blue with a geometric Greek fret.
It was very beautiful, but Valery didn't understand.
"Pysanka," B said, "so next time you find it in a crossword puzzle, you will remember. I hope you like the colour."
Boris had spent a ridiculous amount of time in front of the wooden box that kept all the eggs painted by his mother, looking for the most suitable one for V. In the end he had chosen a blue one, because it reminded him of the colour of his eyes, trying not to feel too much of a sentimental fool.
Valery nodded vigorously: he liked it, it was beautiful, but he tried to make B understand that it was too much.
Too precious, too special for him.
"That's okay," B said.
B hadn't given him an ordinary gift, he had given him something personal, something that had belonged to his family.
Valery also wanted to give him something of him, but what? He had nothing with him, except the book he was reading, and so he got an idea.
He took his pen, found a blank page in the book, and wrote a short poem in a flash:
"Thank you
It's a word that sounds mundane,
detached and formal,
but it enclosed in it
much more than that
I'll never be able to tell.
Thank you."
Then he pushed the book towards B.
"It's beautiful, and it's up to me to thank you for this."
Another bad day at work, his work underestimated one more time.
Boris was almost thinking of giving up everything and changing his career, it wasn't worth the effort without ever having recognition.
By the time he got to the gazebo, V was already there.
The man immediately understood that it wasn’t a good day, but he looked at him until Boris decided to throw everything out.
"Sometimes I have the impression that I’m completely useless, that no matter how hard I try, how many tasks I complete, no one will notice and no trace will remain."
V's hand rested on his, his fingers gripping his in a surprisingly firm grip as he gazed at him fiercely.
"I know how you feel. I know, I know, I know. Nobody knows this better than me."
Then he became kinder, spread his fingers, but at that point Boris intertwined them with his.
"Thank you."
One day Valery was alone at the gazebo. Probably some commitment had prevented B from joining him.
He was preparing to go back to the Institute, when an oak leaf fell on the table.
Valery sat down again and took it in his hand: summer was nearing its end and autumn would soon arrive.
He sighed.
If it had been a mild year, they would still have enjoyed sunny days, but it was unthinkable that they could be there even during the winter, with rain and cold.
Even if neither of them had done anything to break the balance, it seemed that their partnership would end.
Probably two men who sit next to each other and communicate only with books, looks and poems was something too strange to last.
However, it wasn’t the weather that ended their meetings.
One day Boris arrived at the park and the gazebo was gone. He had been razed to the ground by a small bulldozer and the bushes that hid it from view had been pruned.
"What are you doing?" he asked a worker who loaded the pieces of wood into a van.
"This area of the park has been neglected for too long. Now it will be redeveloped: new benches and tables and also a kiosk for drinks and sandwiches."
It was right that the citizens of Moscow could enjoy a new area of the park, and it was selfish to mourn the loss of their private corner, but now he and V would no longer have a place to meet.
By the way, where was V?
If Boris had gotten to know him a little during those months, he wouldn't have taken it well.
He didn't have to look for him for long, he found him not far away, leaning his back against the broken fountain, an anguished expression on his face. He was shocked.
"Hey," he said, sitting down on the grass in front of him, "I know this is a bad surprise, but maybe... maybe it's a sign."
V looked at him, frowning: he didn’t understand.
"I consider myself to be very lucky, having met you by chance, and now we have known each other for a few months, even if in an unconventional way... what I'm trying to tell you is that there is no reason to stop to see each other only because we no longer have our corner here in the park. We could find another one, or, since it's getting cold now, we could sometimes meet at your house or my house. I cook a lot more than potato rosti. What do you say?"
It would have been wonderful to finally show B something about himself, his cat, his bookcase, his old family photos.
But to do that he would have to tell him who he was.
When there was the accident that killed his colleagues, Valery's name was also in the newspapers, and B, with his work in the Kremlin, would have taken very little to discover that he had been hospitalized in an asylum.
He didn't want him to judge him for that, it would break his heart.
Panicked, he shook his head, got up and almost ran away, deaf to the other man's calls.
The next day he had a message delivered to work: he wasn’t feeling well and would take a sick leave.
He spent the whole morning under the covers, basking in his unhappiness, and got up only to feed the cat, who kept climbing on the bed.
The night before he had drunk himself into a stupor, and now he felt awful.
He had run away like a coward and surely had hurt B, but what else could he have done?
He lit a cigarette and smoked looking up at the ceiling. His father would have reproached him: smoking in bed is the fastest way to die in an accidental fire, he always said.
He would have liked to tell B some anecdotes about his family and his life, as the man had done, perhaps in a letter, but he knew nothing about B, nor who he was, nor where he lived. And now that the park was being renovated, he would never go back there.
So, it all ended like this.
A few days later, Valery was shaving: the next morning he would go back to work, he couldn't stay at home forever.
Once finished, he put away the razor, and sat on the small sofa, not knowing how to spend the rest of the day: he had tried to write some poetry or read a book, but he couldn't concentrate, his mind kept returning to the last meeting with B.
He turned on the tv, just to have a little noise to keep him company, and started.
There was B on television, as he was having an interview with a journalist.
The overlay said his name was Boris Shcherbina and he was a deputy minister.
Boris, his name was Boris.
In front of the camera he was very different from the man who had met him at the park: severe, formal, almost solemn.
This was what the audience saw; the viewers at home would never have seen the man who shared lunch with him, who read his poems, who helped him with crosswords.
He realized that Boris had really opened up to him, showing him an intimate, almost delicate aspect of his personality, he had trusted Valery.
And he had fled like a coward.
He realized he had judged him hastily: influenced by how his colleagues treated him, he had thought that Boris would do the same. But now he understood that this was not the case: Boris was much better than his colleagues, he wouldn’t judge him for being locked up in an asylum.
Perhaps he was the only one who would have understood the trauma suffered by Valery.
So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t follow the interview at all, until he heard Boris say, "... a diplomatic career, in an embassy in the West. Always at the service of the Soviet Union, of course."
Valery blinked slowly, in shock: what? Was Boris about to leave Moscow to become ambassador or consul? Of course, it was a prestigious career, he had every reason to want to pursue it. Boris himself had confided to him that he didn’t feel appreciated where he worked now, it was completely understandable that he wanted to change.
But before he left, Valery had to tell him about himself.
He sat down at the table, took out pen and paper, and began to write.
He had no right to ask him to stay after he refused Boris' outstretched hand, but at least he owed him an explanation.
"Dear Boris,
I hope that this letter of mine finds you in good health.
I imagine you will be very busy with the preparations for the move. In this regard, I wish you the best for your new career: I’m sure it will be successful.
I’m writing to you first of all to apologize for my behavior the last time we met in the park. It was shameful of me to run away like this, you didn't deserve it, after being so nice to me all these months.
I know it's not an excuse, but at that moment I was really scared, because, knowing my name, you would also know my story.
My name is Valery Legasov, I’m a nuclear physicist at the Kurchatov Institute. If my name rings a bell to you, it's because several months ago, there was a serious accident in one of the laboratories and two of my colleagues died.
I had tried to dissuade them from that experiment, but they didn't listen to me. Maybe I wasn't convincing enough, maybe my arguments were too weak, I don't know. I only know that when I finally managed to enter the laboratory, there was nothing more to do to save them.
It was because of that accident that I became mute, it wasn't a disease when I was a child and I wasn't born like that. The doctors didn’t understand what caused my condition, but as a precaution they hospitalized me in an asylum, where I stayed for several months, because... well, the reason is obvious: I'm not normal.
Not that hospitalization has benefited me in any way, as you may have noticed.
I didn't want you to find out, I didn't want you to change your mind about me because of my hospitalization.
Not that running away gave a better impression of me, I realize it.
Finally, I want to thank you once again for these months: in a sense they have been among the most beautiful of my life. Our rendezvous in the park made me forget the bewildered looks of colleagues and the nastiness spoken behind my back.
I felt good being with you, really.
You saw that I was weird, but you never said anything.
Thanks also for telling me something about you, I wish my story wasn't so weird and depressing, but it is what it is.
I wish you the best.
Yours,
Valery."
Valery believed that it wouldn’t be easy to deliver that letter to a deputy minister, but Boris’ name was in the telephone book, like that of any other comrade.
On the first floor of the building there was a light on, but Valery didn’t have the courage to ring the bell, simply leaving his letter in the mailbox.
The next evening, Valery had just come home, threw his jacket and tie on the back of a chair, when he heard a knock.
He frowned: who could it be? He hadn't received any visitors for months, not even from neighbours. People tended to get embarrassed if he couldn't have a normal conversation, only Boris had never been uncomfortable.
He opened the door, and the statesman was the man in front of him.
"Hi Valery, I read your letter," he said, entering the narrow corridor.
He had come to him.
He was there, in his small apartment.
"Boris," he mouthed silently with his lips, then his name came to the surface, like a bubble of air rising from the depths of the ocean.
"Boris," he whispered in a tremendously hoarse voice, his vocal cords aching from disuse.
"Bo..." he coughed and tried again, louder, "Boris!"
The statesman smiled, surprised, but not so much, that Valery had found his voice again.
"It's me," he confirmed.
Valery covered the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his sturdy frame, "I'm so sorry I ran away, but I was afraid..."
"I know, you don't have to apologize."
"Boris, I have so many things to tell you."
“I guess so, but…” Boris smiled and took Valery’s face in his hands, “do you have to do it right now? Because I have other plans."
He bowed his head and kissed his lips parted in surprise, savoring Valery's delicate moan, first the upper one, then the lower one, and finally stroked them with the tip of his tongue.
Valery tilted his head and deepened the kiss, squeezing his arms tightly.
"I like your plans," Valery murmured with half closed eyes.
"Your bedroom?"
"This way."
Valery had his head resting on Boris' shoulder, while he stroked his hair.
The scientist's cat, a cute little tabby with white socks, had claimed his place on the bed and was now dozing between their legs.
"I like your bedroom," Boris said, looking around. His decorated egg lay on the bedside table, between a violet plant and the alarm clock, "It suits you."
"If I had known I would have guests, I would have tidied up."
"No, I like it that way, it's genuine, like your letter."
Valery looked up at him, "Did you like it?"
"Yes, because it’s open and honest."
Valery kissed his neck, "I'm happy."
"There is just one thing I don't understand."
"Tell me."
"Why are you talking about a move and my new career?"
"Well, you will become an ambassador. By the way, do you already know where they will send you?"
"What? No!"
Valery’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, "But you said it during an interview!"
Boris laughed, having understood the misunderstanding, "You didn't listen to the interview in full, did you? The reporter was asking me what I would have liked to do if I hadn't become a Kremlin official in my life. It was a completely hypothetical speech."
"Oh…"
"Are you always that quick to jump to conclusions?" the statesman asked with an amused smile.
"I have a lot of flaws," Valery admitted.
Boris kissed him on the forehead to reassure him: "I have some too. And regarding the interview, I admit I thought about it a few times, more or less seriously, when I was bitter and dissatisfied with my current career. But I have more reasons to stay than to leave."
Valery stroked his face with his fingertips, "Stay."
Boris caught his hand in his, "I stay."