Han Ong

Would you pour me another cup of tea, Maria Nikolaevna?

he asked, clinking his cup.

Natasha sat down, unable to come to her senses.

Muratov embraced his wife.

She picked up a pencil and some scrap paper and wrote, You're going to be arrested.

I'm going to leave in half an hour, he wrote back.

Then he ripped up the paper and set it on fire.

He waited for the flames to graze his fingertips and then threw the remains in the ashtray.

He picked up a fresh piece of paper and wrote, Train Station, and showed it to Natasha and Maria Nikolaevna.

Right now, Muratov said.

Alone?

Natasha asked.

Muratov nodded.

Then Muratov went into the closet and took out the folder that held what Captain Popov had come for.

He removed a stack of illustrated pages and returned to the kitchen.

Muratov took a baking sheet from the oven, placed several pieces of paper on it and brought a match to them.

Maria Nikolaevna grabbed the match out of his hand.

How many times have I asked you, Boris Ivanovich, to leave the household duties to me?

Maria Nikolaevna squeezed into the corridor where she lifted up the edge of the worn linoleum.

She pushed the drawings under the linoleum and then inserted the edge of the strip back under the threshold.