He tossed away a cigarette; there was no doubt he had been waiting for her. They knew it too, the boys and the girl with their black cases.

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes sure,” she said.

He began to walk away, and she went beside him, uncertain.

“I may have a journey to go on,” he said. “A trip. I cannot tell exactly when return. Perhaps now will be last night I am here for some time. I would like if you come to visit, stay. Stay with me for a time.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to be in by eleven. It’s almost eleven now.”

He lifted his eyes, as though to look at the sky, tell time by the moon, but perhaps only to remember. “Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

“Where are you going?”

“A short journey. If I am summoned, and if I…Well. A plan I did not expect so suddenly to, to.” He lifted something vague with his hand. He might have meant hatch or come to fruition or ripen. He looked at the watch on his wrist; she didn’t remember that he had worn one before. “Well. No time. I should have thought.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded lightly, lifted his hand again, this time to mean good-bye or no matter or so long. “Do svidanya,” he said.

Kit watched him go. Then she looked back to where the others stood, watching and waiting, as still and alert as observers at an argument or a kiss.

“Okay,” she said, not loud enough for them to hear. Then she waved and called out to them: “Okay! It’s okay!”

She turned, feeling their eyes on her, and ran down to where Falin was opening his car with a key.

“Wait,” she said. He looked up to see her. “I want to go.”

“Your curfew.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “If the bombs fall, I don’t want to be in my dorm room.”

“No?”

“I mean I won’t be glad I was there. That I kept the rules to the end.”

For a long time he stood with his hand on the door. “Perhaps may not be the end,” he said.

“Anyway,” she said. “Anyway.”

In the dark of the car he put his hands on the wheel but for a time didn’t start it. His hands were gloved. He put one over her own clasped cold hands.

“You said you wanted me to stay away from you,” she said.

“No,” he said, “no you are wrong. I did not want that. Not that of anything.”

“You were afraid of me,” she said. “Afraid that I’d put you in danger. I didn’t know I could. You sent me away, and I guess I understood why, but still.”

“Oh my dear,” he said. “You could be no danger to me. No. Nothing you could do.”

“Well then. Why.”

“It was not you who made danger for me,” he said. “It was I who was dangerous for you. I wanted you to be not near me, so you would not be…caught. Hurt.”

She knew it was so: saw him again in his garden, how he turned to her, telling her to go. She knew it was so, that for her sake he had sent her away, though he hadn’t wanted to, not that of anything. “What danger? Tell me.”

“In English,” he said, “danger is something not yet come, yes? Something that waits or threatens. Around the corner. Close behind.”

“I guess.”

“There is no danger then any longer,” he said. “What was to come, has come.” A passing car’s lights stroked his car’s interior, his ghost hands, his face, and went away. “Do you know, I thought I had ceased to want things, Kyt. And this I thought was very well. Much to gladden me, nothing to want. But one last thing I wanted. I wanted you to be near. This night.”

He took his hand from hers. “But if you cannot,” he said.

“I will,” she said. “If it’s what you want.”

His smile, that had never before asked anything of her, anything for himself. For his poems he had asked, but not for himself. In the thundery storm-dark evening he had said I need you. And then nothing more.

He started the car. She crossed her hands in her lap and looked ahead. She would ask him nothing more, not where he was going, nor why. The car went out of town and out across the fields to the west, to his house at the end of the road. Every turn of the wheels, every step of her feet toward his door, took her into another world unknown to her, and she could only go on, for the old worlds behind were gone. She would just be with him and be glad, and gladden him if she could.

She thought at first that nothing had changed inside his house. The standard lamp with its flowered shade shone on the brown bearlike sofa, the card table held papers and books. Then a gleam or wink in the corner drew her eye. He had a television.

“Yes,” he said, seeing where she looked.

It was a dull bronze color, and set up on a chrome stand: its gray eye closed.

“These,” he said, and touched the antennae, “these have name in English. Rabbit’s ears. I was told this.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Did you also know,” he said, “that the radiation or broadcast of television waves goes on always, passing through air, through houses, through bodies even?”

“I guess so.”

“Yes. I knew but did not think of it till I bought this. Until it was turned on, and revealed them to be here. Then I thought of them, passing always through here, only unknown to me.”

“They might make it a law,” she said. “To leave it on all the time, so they don’t get wasted or lost.”

She could tell that for a moment he pondered what she had said, before laughing.

“Oh hey,” she said. “This is new too.”

It was a phone. A tiny oval phone of the kind she thought belonged only in the pastel bedrooms of teenage girls in movies. “A Princess,” she said.

“Yes, is its name,” he said. “Look.” He lifted the receiver, and its dial lit up, aglow in the corner where it had been installed. “It seems to me a thing found maybe undersea,” he said. “Among pearls and treasure. Do you know the name of this color?”

“Um,” she said. “I guess it’s aqua.”

“Yes!” he said, surprised. “Is Latin word for water. So you see.” He put the receiver to his ear. “Like shell you listen to. From this might come poems. More than from car radio of Orpheus.”

He cradled the receiver with an odd gentleness. Kit felt a dark apprehension suddenly, a certainty of loss.

“Ah,” he said, lifting his eyes. “Excuse me. I saw as we came in Miss Petroski’s light on. I must speak to her one minute. One minute only.” He made a motion with his hands to say she must sit down, and went to the door that separated his rooms from the Petroski house; he knocked, and his small knock was as uniquely his, or uniquely Russian, as the way he washed or held a glass of tea. He seemed to hear a voice, and went in.

Kit sat. When he was gone, though, she stood again, and walked the cold room. A big gas heater, clad in metal made to look like wood, breathed hotly, but still she was cold. On the card table where last summer they worked there were a few papers scattered in the familiar lamplight. The small square letters of his English hand.

In this tongue I like poison more than food,

Choose clamor over song, like rain not sun

It was a poem, or the beginnings of one, words crossed out and other words inserted, the few lines rewritten many times. The accents of the lines were marked with pencil ticks.

A storm for which I had no name

Broke all the eggs in Russiaville;

The roofs of Russiaville off came

And flew away like flapping wings

He was trying to write in English.

In pity and wonder she touched the sheets. It was like watching an athlete who’s had a dreadful accident learning to walk again, using all his knowledge and strength to do the simplest things. How long would it take him? You couldn’t know, because you couldn’t know when you were done. She could never know it of herself, either: she had learned this language at the same time as she had learned to see and hear, and yet she would never know, because you never came to a time when you could say Done. Not until you were shot, like Pushkin. Or like Rimbaud, until you just stopped for good, for ever.