This time he was sure he heard Lydia moving behind the bedroom door. Sasha finished pulling on his underwear and was yanking on his pants when his mother came through the door and said, “Why did you move the towels?”
Lydia thought she was whispering but, being more than a bit hard of hearing, the whisper was a hoarse shout that immediately awakened the baby. Pulcharia began to cry in fear and Maya reached for her worn robe.
“The towels,” Lydia repeated.
“In the lower drawer,” Maya said, throwing her hair back and wrapping the robe around her as she moved for the baby.
“In the lower drawer?” Lydia asked. “It’s harder to reach the lower drawer. What sense does it make to put towels in lower drawers?”
Sasha buttoned his shirt and moved to the closet for his blue tie.
“Something has to go in a lower drawer,” Maya said picking up and rocking the baby.
Lydia made a tsk-tsk sound that made it clear she found the answer insufficient. She returned to the bedroom leaving the door open behind her.
Sasha moved over to smile at his daughter. She saw his face and returned the smile.
“Don’t put the tie on,” Maya said. “You need a shave.”
“I shaved last night,” Sasha complained.
“Virility is making your hair grow faster,” she said with a smile, brushing the hair from her face.
“I’ll shave,” he said, pausing to kiss his daughter before moving to the sink in the kitchen corner. “An ice cream vendor should be immaculate.”
“A husband should be immaculate,” Maya said, picking up and cuddling the baby. “Sasha, we must get that apartment. We must.”
“Yes,” he agreed, reaching for his razor on the shelf above the sink.
In the small bathroom off the bedroom, Lydia hummed a completely unrecognizable song. Pulcharia looked as if she might cry again but Maya offered her a nipple which the baby took with glee.
In less than half an hour Sasha would be on his way to the Exhibition to sell ice cream and Lydia would be on her way to the Ministry of Information where she worked filing papers. Maya would be alone with the baby, her thoughts and the shopping before she could take the metro to the Economic Exhibition. It wouldn’t be a bad day.
“… and I’ve been vorking like uh dug,” Lydia sang-shouted the Beatle song in terrible English. Sasha and Maya looked at each other and laughed. The baby paused in her sucking, startled, and then continued drinking.
It wouldn’t be a bad day, Sasha thought. Not a bad day at all.
He turned out to be quite wrong.
“He’s coming. He’s coming,” Liana Mirasnikov shouted from the window of the People’s Hall.
“Coming here. The square one?” wailed Sergei wide-eyed from across the hall.
“No, the other one, the ghost,” she said without turning.
“Oh no. Worse and worse,” the old man groaned. “Is he wearing a hat?”
The old woman squinted through the curtains.
“No hat,” she announced. “He is mad.”
“We are undone,” he moaned.
He had prepared for this moment. He had gone through everything that they had accumulated over the years and decided whether they had a right to each piece. If they did not, he moved the piece—an old pair of candlesticks, a chair with a worn velvet covering, a movie projector that he had never tried to use—to the loft which could not be reached without a ladder. The loft already contained a collection of articles which Mirasnikov had kept just in case. These articles included paintings of Stalin and Khrushchev and even a small painting of someone Liana thought was Beria and Sergei was sure was Trotsky. The large painting of Lenin with the flag remained in place in the main hall as it had for almost fifty years. Lenin was always a good, conservative art investment.
Sergei took a last, quick look around the hall as the door opened and the pale man stepped in.
“Mirasnikov,” the man said in a deep voice. It was, the old man thought, like the voice of the devil calling for him, telling him it was his time and he should know it.
“I am Mirasnikov,” the old man admitted.
The ghostly man stepped forward and looked around. The big hall was clean and relatively empty except for the old oak table with three chairs behind it, the painting of Lenin, and a broom leaning against the wall. The folding chairs which had been pulled out for the rare meeting were usually stacked inside the large closet.
“I am Deputy Inspector Karpo,” the man’s voice echoed through the empty room. “I have a few questions to ask you concerning the death of Commissar Rutkin.”
“A good man,” said Mirasnikov quickly.
“I am not concerned with his virtues,” said Karpo. “Only with his actions and your knowledge of them.”
This man, who looked rather like a Tartar, had stopped in the middle of the hall and looked at Mirasnikov. And this man named Karpo did not blink, which caused Mirasnikov to blink uncontrollably for both of them.
“Of course,” said Mirasnikov. “Would you like to sit? Would you like some tea or maybe we even have coffee. Liana, do we have coffee for the inspector, anything for the inspector?”
“I don’t …” the old woman near the window stammered in confusion.
“I want no tea or coffee,” said Karpo. “Come.”
Mirasnikov followed the man to the table where Karpo moved around to sit in the chair in which, in the old days, the visiting procurator would sit. Mirasnikov took a chair as far from the man as he could get and Liana was forced to take the remaining chair nearest the inspector. She had seen him the night before when she served and cleaned up the dinner for the three visitors. She had avoided his eyes the night before but now she could not.
Had someone told Karpo he was frightening the couple, he would have been surprised and curious. He had no intention of frightening them. On the contrary, he wanted to put them at their ease, to get his answers as quickly and efficiently as possible and then to get back to his room to prepare his report for Rostnikov.
“Who murdered Commissar Rutkin?” Karpo asked when the old couple was seated.
It was the very question which Mirasnikov had most feared and for an instant he sat, mouth open and silent.
Karpo looked at the old man. It was a standard question. One to which he had expected no answer beyond conjecture which might feed into other conjecture. But the old man had reacted and Karpo considered a new line of questioning.
“You saw the murder of Commissar Rutkin,” Karpo said. It was not a question but a statement.
“Nyet. No,” said Mirasnikov shaking his head vehemently. “I saw nothing.”
“I do not believe you, Comrade,” Karpo said.
“He saw nothing,” the old woman chirped.
“You were with him on the morning of the murder?” asked Karpo, looking at the old woman next to him. She shrank back against the chair.
“No. I was still asleep,” she said.
“So you were not together,” said Karpo turning his eyes on the old man. “You were up early. You were in here preparing the hall for the hearing.”
“I … maybe,” Mirasnikov said with a shrug. “I was moving chairs, making noise. Then Doctor Samsonov knocked and I went to help him. The Commissar was dead. I had made tea for everyone. I can show you the tea pot.”
“What did you see?” asked Karpo.
The old man looked at his frightened wife before he answered.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
Karpo sat silently, white hands on the table. He was dressed, as always, entirely in black, which contrasted with his white face. Something creaked in a corner.
“What did you think of Commissar Rutkin?” Karpo asked breaking the silence.
“He was a Commissar,” Sergei answered, unaccustomed to anyone, even his wife, asking his opinion. Mirasnikov was unaware that he had any real opinions—was, in fact, convinced that opinions were very dangerous things to have.
“That is not an opinion,” said Karpo.<
br />
“It’s not?” Mirasnikov said looking at his wife for help, but she looked forward resolutely as if she were being pestered by a stranger she wished to ignore.
“Was he admired, respected?” asked Karpo. “Did people like or dislike him? Did they cooperate with Commissar Rutkin? Did you?”
“Cooperated,” Mirasnikov said eagerly. “Everyone cooperated.”
“But what did you, others, think of him?”
The old man was backed into a corner with no way out.
“I don’t know,” he said.
And then Karpo began his questioning in earnest.
Sokolov was slogging up the plowed path behind Rostnikov who realized that he could not avoid the man and so turned to wait for him. Sokolov was bundled in fur with only his eyes, nose and a bit of his mustache showing.
“You didn’t wake me,” he said through the scarf which muffled his voice.
“You didn’t answer my knock,” Rostnikov said with a shrug, which was true though Rostnikov was certain that his knock had not been loud enough to awaken a frightened bird. “I left a note.”
“I found it. Please knock harder next time,” Sokolov said through his scarf. “I don’t wish to miss anything.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rostnikov said, turning to walk further up the slope toward the next house. “Won’t you join me?”
Sokolov grunted and moved to Rostnikov’s side.
“Who have you spoken to? What have you done?” Sokolov said trying to hide his irritation. The problem was obvious. Sokolov had already failed to stay with the man he was assigned to watch. Sokolov could be in trouble.
“I’ve talked to a few people,” said Rostnikov moving toward the next wooden house up the slope. “The Samsonovs, Galich, the former priest.”
“What?” Sokolov asked, stopping.
Rostnikov stopped him. Sokolov’s talking was soaking his scarf.
“The Samsonovs, Galich,” Rostnikov repeated.
Sokolov’s eyes scanned Rostnikov’s face but whatever he was seeking wasn’t there.
“Your reports. I’d like to read your reports on these interviews,” Sokolov said, trying to hide his nervousness.
“No report,” said Rostnikov. “Just informal conversation at this point.”
“But you must write up each interview,” said Sokolov. “It’s procedure.”
“Interview, yes. Conversation, no,” said Rostnikov. “I will be happy to tell you what passed between us, Comrade. Believe me, you missed nothing which would inform you about investigative procedure. I’m about to talk to General Krasnikov. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, yes,” said Sokolov whose nose was quite red. “Let’s get out of this cold.”
Rostnikov nodded and stepped into the snow to knock at the door of the house they had moved to. It was a triplet of the previous two houses but, like those houses, it had a bit of its own personality, a personality Rostnikov guessed belonged not to the present inhabitant but to some past transient. Krasnikov’s house had narrow painted blue trim above the door and along the front of the house. No one answered the knock. The windows were shuttered and no light shone out.
Rostnikov removed the glove on his right hand and knocked again.
“Perhaps he’s still sleeping,” said Sokolov.
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov, knocking louder.
“Perhaps he is out,” Sokolov tried.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “No footprints in the snow. Look.”
“The back door,” said Sokolov irritably. “He could have gone out the back.”
“He is inside,” Rostnikov said, knocking again.
This time something stirred inside the house.
Rostnikov put the glove back on his frigid hand.
The sun had by now whispered to the sub-arctic sky giving the gray darkness a glow, a gentle glow. Rostnikov remembered the ghost of a winter morning when he was a child. He couldn’t quite place himself in that memory but it was strong and had something to do with an aunt who lived near Porfiry Petrovich and his parents in Moscow. It was a bittersweet memory of childhood he would have liked to grasp but the door opened and he lost it.
“What is it?” said the man who opened the door, looking at the two men on the step below him.
He was tall, erect and younger looking than Rostnikov had expected. His face was surprisingly unlined and youthful though his straight white hair betrayed him. Krasnikov was, Rostnikov knew, fifty-three years old, nearly his own age. The man wore a faded flannel shirt and jeans that looked American. The former general stood straight, head up, hands at his sides, ignoring the blast of frigid air that slapped his bare cheeks.
“I’m Inspector Rostnikov. This is Inspector Sokolov. I am investigating the death of Commissar Rutkin.”
“I’m not feeling well today,” Krasnikov said, looking like a healthy Olympic wrestler.
“We won’t be long,” Rostnikov said soberly stepping up on the wooden stoop.
Krasnikov who stood about four inches taller than Rostnikov blocked the entrance.
“I’d appreciate it if you would let us in,” Rostnikov said softly. “It is cold and it is important that we get on with our investigation. Others have cooperated fully.”
Krasnikov smiled but there was no amusement in the smile. He stood looking at the policeman, almost toe to toe continuing to block the way.
“I would appreciate your cooperation,” Rostnikov whispered so that Sokolov could not hear. “Sokolov is monitoring my investigation and it will look bad for me if you don’t cooperate.”
Krasnikov’s mirthless smile turned to a real one as Sokolov moved forward to try to hear.
“I’m a soldier,” Krasnikov whispered. “I know how to read a man’s eyes. You aren’t afraid of being monitored by this one.”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“Concerned,” he said.
“And if I refuse to let you in? I suppose you’d try to force your way,” said the General.
“I would do my best,” Rostnikov said softly.
“And I have a feeling it might be enough,” said Krasnikov. “I also know how to read a man’s body.”
“I think it best if you let us in,” said Sokolov menacingly.
Krasnikov glanced at Rostnikov to show his disdain for the threat and backed away to let the men in. Rostnikov waited for Sokolov to pass him with a satisfied look in his eyes. Rostnikov followed behind him and Krasnikov closed the door behind them.
It was probably no more than 40 degrees above zero in the room but it felt hot to Porfiry Petrovich, who found himself not in a large room as in the two similar houses but a much smaller room, roughly but comfortably furnished with unupholstered wooden furniture. A desk stood in front of the window and, Rostnikov could see, from the chair behind it Krasnikov could looked down at the town square. On the wall across the room a bear’s head was mounted. The bear’s mouth was open in an angry snarl showing sharp yellow-white teeth.
Rostnikov looked at the bear’s head and back at Krasnikov.
“You like Stalin?” Krasnikov nodding at the bear head. “I killed him last year. An old Evenk mounted the head in exchange for the meat and the hide.”
“You shot him?” Rostnikov asked opening his coat.
“No,” said Krasnikov his eyes widening. “I strangled him with my bare hands.”
“Impressive,” said Sokolov.
“Ridiculous,” answered Krasnikov. “Of course I shot the bastard. I was out for a hike. If I hadn’t had my rifle with me, he would have torn me to pieces. I filled him so full of holes I didn’t think there was enough left of the hide to make it worth having, but the Evenks can work miracles. They can’t fight but they can hunt. Sit, but don’t expect tea or little cakes.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov moving to a nearby chair. “I’ve had enough tea today.”
Sokolov, who had removed his coat, sat in an almost identical chair to the one Rostnikov had chosen. He inched the chair a little clos
er to Rostnikov who looked back over his shoulder out the window.
“Very nice view,” he said.
“There is no other view,” said Krasnikov moving to the only remaining chair, which was large enough for two people but which he managed to fill by putting one booted leg up on it. “In the back you can see trees. Out that way,” he said, pointing to a small window in the wooden wall, “you see the Samsonov house and snow. The other way, more trees and snow.”
“And so,” said Rostnikov, “you sit at the desk and watch.”
“I sit at the desk and work,” Krasnikov said with irritation. “I’m not a petty sneak or a gossip. You want a sneak, talk to the old man. You want gossip, see the priest.”
“Mirasnikov, the janitor?” asked Rostnikov. “He is a sneak?”
“Of course,” sighed Krasnikov.
“And, may I ask, what work do you do at the desk?” asked Rostnikov.
Krasnikov shrugged.
“Military articles,” he said. “Alternatives to great battles in Russian history, particularly the war against the Nazis. Strategy is, or was, my specialty.”
“I would very much like to see some of your writing if I may,” said Rostnikov.
“Perhaps you may,” said Krasnikov. “Now, if you have questions, ask them. I have work to do. A routine becomes very satisfying when one is deprived of an outlet for one’s skills, especially if one is accustomed to a disciplined military career.”
“We will do our best to vacate ourselves from your routine at the earliest possible moment, Comrade,” Sokolov said grimly.
“General,” Krasnikov said. “I have not been stripped of my title or dignity, only of my responsibility.”
“I stand corrected,” said Sokolov. “General.”
“Commissar Rutkin interviewed you on three occasions,” said Rostnikov.
“Two, three, four. I don’t remember,” said Kraskinov rubbing his hands together. The hands, Rostnikov could see, were rough, calloused.
“And what did you talk about?” Rostnikov asked.
“If you’ve read his reports, then you know,” said Krasnikov.
Since Rutkin’s reports had apparently been scattered to the winds when he died and were now buried in snow or lost in the woods or river, the opportunity to examine them had not been afforded to Rostnikov or anyone else. However, Rostnikov did not plan to share this information with the general.
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 10