Polar Star by Martin Cruz Smith

people off,” Slava said. “The crew on the
Eagle
are usually great guys. Susan is generally an angel. Why is everyone nervous? We’re in American waters.”
    “A Soviet boat is Soviet territory,” Arkady said. “They should be nervous.”

7 To a fanfare of trumpets white lines emanated from a red star. Natasha pushed the fast-forward button to the image of a white clockface on a blue background. Fast forward again to the slanted logo of
Novosti News
, then the silent picture of a man reading accounts of stale events into two microphones, then fast forward again until finally a slim girl in a skintight Lycra warm-up outfit appeared on the television screen. She had a dappling of freckles across her nose, hoop earrings and braided hair the color of brass. She began stretching like a willow bending in a strong wind.
    In the ship’s cafeteria, facing the glow of the connected television and VCR, outfitted in sweat suits and aerobic gear, twenty women of the
Polar Star
tilted grudgingly like sturdy oaks. When the girl bent forward and touched her nose to her knees, they took only slight bows, and when she ran lightly in place, the women sounded like an enthusiastic, thundering herd. Though Factory Worker Natasha Chaikovskaya was in the lead, not far behind her was Olimpiada Bovina, the massive chief cook of the crew’s galley. Like a little ribbon on an oversized box, apowder-blue sweatband decorated Olimpiada’s brow. Sweat leaked from the band, welled around her small eyes and flowed poignantly like tears down her cheeks as she pursued the graceful, tireless acrobat on the screen.
    When Slava called her name, Olimpiada abandoned her trotting and puffing with the wistful reluctance of a masochist. They talked to her at the back of the cafeteria. She had the fruity voice of a mezzo-soprano.
    “Poor Zina. A smile is gone from the galley.”
    “She was a hard worker?” Slava asked.
    “And cheerful. So full of life. A tease. She hated to stir the macaroni. We have macaroni often, you know.”
    “I know,” Arkady said.
    “So she would say, ‘Here, Olimpiada, is some more good exercise for you.’ We will miss her.”
    Slava said, “Thank you, Comrade Bovina, you can—”
    “An active girl?” Arkady asked.
    “Certainly,” Olimpiada said.
    “Young and attractive. A little restless?”
    “It was impossible to keep her in one place.”
    Arkady said, “The day after the dance she didn’t come to work. Did you send someone for her?”
    “I needed everyone in the galley. I can’t have all my girls wandering around the ship. I run a responsible kitchen. Poor Zina, I was afraid she was sick or overtired from the night before. Women are different, you know.”
    “Speaking of men …” Arkady said.
    “She kept them in line.”
    “Who was at the head of the line?”
    Olimpiada blushed and giggled into her hand. “You will think this is disrespectful. I shouldn’t say.”
    “Please,” Arkady said.
    “It’s what she said, not what I said.”
    “Please.”
    “She said that in the spirit of the Party Congress she was going to democratize her relationship with men. She called it ‘Restructuring the Males.’ ”
    “There weren’t one or two men in particular?” Arkady asked.
    “On the
Polar Star
?”
    “Where else?”
    “I don’t know.” Olimpiada suddenly became discreet.
    Slava said, “You’ve been very helpful, Comrade Bovina.”
    The chief cook chugged back to her position in the class. The girl on the screen spread her arms and rotated them; she seemed light enough to fly. Through the power of television, all across the Soviet Union this young dancer had become the new ideal of Soviet women, a shining, bobbing icon. Sleek Latvian women, Asiatics in felt tents and settlers in the Virgin Lands all watched the show and copied her every move. Thanks to the VCR, the ladies of the
Polar Star
could follow suit, though looking at their broad backs and outstretched powerful arms, Arkady was put less