The Betrayers by David Bezmozgis

shifting beside him. Then she had grown still, her breathing become that of a sleeping person. He wished to sleep too, but his mind was too active. For a man of his vocation—civic life, politics—sleepless nights should not have been uncommon. Indeed, for months now he had been embroiled in a political struggle and a love affair, but he could not say that he had lost an entire night’s sleep. An hour here or there, certainly, but not a full night watching the chromatic spool in his head. In fact, part of what kept him awake were recollections of sleepless nights past. The sleepless nights after Tankilevich’s article ran in
Izvestia.
That article had marked the beginning of his third life. First life: rank-and-file Soviet citizen. Second life: rank-and-file dissident. Third life: the chosen among the chosen. Many sleepless nights followed: sleepless nights waiting for the knock on the door; sleepless nights in his cell in Lefortovo, parsing his interrogator’s everyword and gesture, trying to squirm his way out of the psychological maze; sleepless nights during his trial, chiseling away at the lies of his accusers; sleepless nights in solitary confinement, in conditions too brutish for sleep; and sleepless nights in the camps before a hunger strike, steeling himself for the ordeal, incanting a Hebrew phrase he had memorized, the words ringing like hammer blows:
Justice, justice, shall you pursue.
    And now what was he pursuing? Kotler asked himself.
Justice, justice,
he playfully replied.
    He swung his legs around and rose from the bed. He pulled on his trousers and his shirt. Barefoot, he padded to the window. The chickens were out, pecking.
Ma nishma,
chickens? he greeted them. Joviality in the face of adversity, that was the secret of his success. And of my undoing! he appended to himself jovially.
    Behind him, Leora stirred. He turned from the window. This was how they had spent their first, and possibly last, night alone together. Lying silently in the same bed, thinking their separate, divergent thoughts. Very like a married couple. Another of life’s scintillating ironies.
    Leora slowly opened her eyes. How lovely she looked, even when she awoke cross. He smiled at her and told her so.
    —What time is it, Baruch?
    Kotler consulted his wristwatch.
    —Early. Just past six.
    —Did you sleep?
    —I thought about it.
    Leora sat up and brushed the sheets aside. She wore her brassiere and panties. He had worn his underpants. The stuff of bourgeoisie comedy.
    —You haven’t changed your mind? Leora asked.
    —Many times, Kotler said. But it always changed back.
    She stood up and surveyed the room. Her dress lay on the floor beside the chair. She moved to pick it up. Kotler watched with admiration and longing—the longing for a thing that is slipping from one’s grasp—as she raised her arms and the dress slid down the length of her body. The closing curtain on a fine spectacle.
    —All right, then, what do you intend to do?
    Kotler looked at his watch again, as if he hadn’t looked at it a minute before.
    —If I knew where we could get one, I would like to see a newspaper. A cup of coffee would be nice too.
    —Very well, Leora said and took a determined step toward the door.
    —There’s no need for that, Leora, Kotler said.
    —No need for what? If you wish to do this, why delay? I’ll wake the lady of the house. I’ll ask her for a newspaper and a cup of coffee. And then we can get to the business at hand. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish. Or isn’t that the point?
    —That probably is the point. As usual, you’re more astute than I. I had visions of something grand and involved, but likely it will be nothing of the kind. As is often the case in life, one imagines an opera and gets an operetta. If that. Still, I’d prefer to do this in a civilized manner. No banging on doors. No rousing from sleep. The time for that is past.
    —From what I have seen, Baruch, the time for that is not