el.angeleyes-第78部分

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　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　be　offended？〃
　''I　had　no　way　of　knowing。''
　And　in　that　one　sentence　he　had　summed　up　for　her　the　disquiet　she　had　been　feeling　there。　Why　was　she　so　fortable；　so　free　in　Boston？　Why　did　she　not　feel　homesick　for　Moscow？　/　had　no　way　of　knowing。　Tacked　away　in　Russia；　she　had　had　no　way　of　knowing　what　America　would　be　like；　let　alone　Boston；　or　this　wondrous　Cambridge　area；　delightfully　old…fashioned；　yet　at　the　same　time；　so　excitingly　avant…garde。　A　world　within　a　world　within　a　world。　All　scrupulously　hidden　from　her　by　her　government。
　Oh；　how　she　had　wept　that　night　when　at　last　she　had　crawled　into　her　bed；　because　she　would　never　feel　the　same　about　her　home　anymore。　Doubts　so　fundamental　that　they　questioned　her　entire　way　of　life　had　crept　into　her　consciousness。　And；　once　there；　they　could　never　be　dispelled。
　The　very　worst　of　it　was　that　as　soon　as　she　got　back　to　Moscow；　it　all　seemed　like　a　dream：　the　silk　Charmeuse　teddy　she　had　swooned　over；　the　magnificent　Martha　brought　to　life　by