The Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia

that fall the university got a new staff member. He was in his mid- forties, had close-cropped gray hair, and always wore a suit. His job title was Security Adviser. There had been someone in that role before him, a retired military man of advanced age. He had had no presence and, as far as Lyosha knew, no job title. This one was different. "I think we've got our First Department now," Lyosha said to Darya.

"First Department" in the Soviet Union existed in all organizations that had anything to do with state secrets—which, in that country, covered many if not most organizations—as well as organizations engaged in what was called "ideological work," such as the media or any educational institution. First Department staff reported to the KGB rather than the head of the organization where they ostensibly worked.

In October, Darya went on maternity leave. This left Lyosha alone in charge of the gender studies center. It also meant that Lyosha temporarily took over the administrative duties of assistant dean. He was told that in this capacity he needed to have an introductory meeting with the new security adviser, whose name, as it turned out, was Yuri Gennadyevich Belorustev. He had an office in an old dormitory building. Lyosha recognized the office: a wall of shelves crowded with thick binders; stained wallpaper on the other walls; two well-worn chairs with wooden armrests; a not-quite-matching desk; a potted plant; and white lace curtains on the windows. Lyosha's uncle and cousin, military officers both, had identical offices. This one seemed too small for Yuri Gennadyevich. Or too old. Or a stage set.

"Let's use the informal pronoun with each other," said Yuri Gennadyevich. "This is a friendly conversation."

Lyosha waited. You cannot say no when someone older than you proposes switching to the informal pronoun. Yuri Gennadyevich had a peculiarly soft, treacly voice.

"Do you have students in your department who are restless?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You know, nationalists, radical communists, homosexuals—"

"I don't think keeping abreast of students' personal lives is part of my job description."

"Well, you just make sure to let me know."

Yuri Gennadyevich called Lyosha once a week after that. Lyosha tried not to say a word that could be interpreted as meaning anything. That was difficult to manage on the phone. Sometimes, Yuri Gennadyevich asked Lyosha about a particular student, who Lyosha knew was troubled. It was hard not to notice, but Lyosha pretended to be oblivious. "Do you think he needs psychological help?" Yuri Gennadyevich would ask.

Not from you, Lyosha would think. He would say, "I'm not sure what you mean."

He saw Yuri Gennadyevich every day. The old security adviser must have spent his days sleeping in an armchair in his office. Yuri Gennadyevich was everywhere all the time.

In December the gender studies center held its annual conference. Lyosha chaired the panel on queer identity. As he was exiting the room, he bumped into Yuri Gennadyevich.

"What do you have here?"

"Our annual conference."

Yuri Gennadyevich took a printed program. "Looks very interesting."

Two weeks later Lyosha realized that he was under surveillance. When he came home, there were always plainclothes men milling near the building entrance. As soon as he walked up, the intercom would ring, then the landline, then his cell. A man's voice would repeat the same phrase over and over:

"Your kind deserves to die."

Sometimes Lyosha was sure that the omnipresent "security adviser," the men at the door, and the calls were connected. Sometimes he thought he was paranoid. Whichever was the case, he could not survive intact much longer: if he did not get killed, he would go crazy.

"you are moving in with me," said Stas. He said it as if they had discussed it.

It was a good option for both of them. Stas had just ended a destructive relationship after four years, and nights alone in his apartment were unbearable. But Stas's apartment was in a secure building with a fence, cameras, and guards. Stas was a wealthy executive. He told Lyosha not to tell anyone where he was living, and he had his personal driver ferry Lyosha wherever he needed to go, which was just to work and then back to the apartment in the evening. Stas and Lyosha cooked for each other. Over dinner, night after night, they told each other everything. Stas talked out the details of his awful relationship. Lyosha obsessed about the university and his future. They cried like neither of them had cried before, two grown men terrified of their lives, their hearts breaking for each other. They had sex once or twice, but this clearly was not why they had each other, even though Lyosha's companionate relationship with Ilya had ended: Ilya knew when he was out of his depth, and he left as easily and kindly as he had come. After a couple of months, Lyosha realized that he had a family now, someone who made him feel safe.