“There is a story,” said Rostnikov, “that Field Marshal Mikhail Kutuzov before the Battle of 1812 called in his artillery officer and asked for a report on positions of Napoleon’s army. The officer made his report and was ready to leave when Kutuzov asked him once more to give his report on French positions. The officer, in some confusion, gave his report again and turned to leave. Once more Kutuzov asked for the report. Once more the officer reported and this time, before he turned, he asked the Field Marshal why he had wanted the same report three times. Kutuzov replied that in the third telling the officer, in an attempt to vary his presentation, had added information which he had not given before, information which he had not thought important. Kutuzov told the officer that the added information about movement on the left flank in the cavalry cover would significantly alter his plans for counterattack.”
“I’ve never heard that story,” said Krasnikov.
“Maybe it isn’t true,” said Rostnikov.
“Maybe you made it up,” said the general.
“Perhaps if I repeat it you will find some detail that will confirm your suspicion,” said Rostnikov.
“Very clever, Inspector,” Krasnikov said with a smile. “But remember the real Kutuzov was responsible for abandoning Moscow.”
“… and thereby saving the Russian army,” added Rostnikov.
“You know military history,” said Krasnikov.
“I know Tolstoy,” responded Rostnikov.
Sokolov sighed deeply, clearly impatient.
“I think I like you, Inspector,” said Krasnikov, putting both booted feet on the hard wood floor with a clap. “Or, at least, I may have some respect for you, which is even more important.”
“What did you tell Commissar Rutkin?” Sokolov said.
Krasnikov fixed Sokolov with what was probably his most withering military look, then he turned to Rostnikov, whose eyes and hands went up to indicate that he knew the question at that juncture of the conversation had been out of order but, perhaps, it might not be a bad idea for the general to answer it. At least that was what Krasnikov got from the look.
“Commissar Rutkin questioned me about the death of the Samsonov child,” said Krasnikov, a touch of emotion suddenly coming into his voice. “He seemed to think that the child had been murdered.”
“And?” Rostnikov prompted when the general stopped.
“The child fell from the rock by the river,” he said. “She should not have been playing at the rock. She simply fell. Her father could not accept this fact, could not accept the responsibility and so he began to scream murder and Rutkin came running up here to hold his hand and humor him. Everyone is so concerned about the feelings of a dissident. Everyone is so afraid that he will take his accusations to the West.”
“And,” Sokolov interrupted, much to Rostnikov’s annoyance which he did his best not to show, “you are confident that the child did not meet with foul play?”
“Foul play?” said Krasnikov, not trying to hide his annoyance. “Why would anyone want to kill the child? She was a quiet, gentle little thing. She couldn’t even go out most days because of the cold and wind. She had no one to play with, no other children.”
“And so you spent time with her?” Rostnikov asked, opening his coat a bit more.
“A bit,” he admitted. “She was a smart child. Mostly she spent time with the priest Galich.”
“And you got along well with her parents?” Rostnikov continued.
“He’s a fool,” Krasnikov said, striding across the room past Sokolov to his desk where he picked up an iron paperweight.
“And the mother, Ludmilla?”
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov who had turned awkwardly in his chair to face the general.
“She is no fool,” Krasnikov said, shifting the paperweight from one hand to the other.
“She is quite beautiful too,” Rostnikov observed.
Sokolov shifted in his chair and cleared his throat to indicate his irritation with these diversions from the issue.
“I’ve seen more beautiful women. I’ve not always been here,” Krasnikov said, looking around the room and then over his shoulder out the window. “I’ve seen the women of Rome, Budapest, even Paris.”
“Do you have some idea of why anyone might want to kill Commissar Rutkin?” asked Rostnikov.
“To rid the world of one more fool?” Krasnikov answered with his own question.
“Comrade General,” Sokolov said with intensity. “This is a serious investigation of the death of a high-ranking Party member.”
“High-ranking?” countered Krasnikov with yet another question.
“A Party member,” Sokolov amended. “Do you have anything to tell us about his murder?”
Krasnikov smiled and, ignoring Sokolov, threw the piece of iron in his hand to Rostnikov who caught it and felt its cool power.
“Meteorite,” the general said. “Dimitri Galich finds them all over the area. You might ask him for one as a souvenir.”
Rostnikov rose and threw the piece of iron back to the general who caught it without removing his eyes from Rostnikov’s face.
“We will talk again,” said Rostnikov, buttoning his coat and heading toward the door. Behind him he could hear Sokolov getting up quickly.
“I have a few more questions, Comrade Inspector,” Sokolov said.
“By all means,” said Rostnikov pausing at the door to look back at the other two men. “I am going to go back to my room and then to Dimitri Galich’s again.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Sokolov.
“He has some weights. I plan to use them. You may join me if you wish.”
“All right then. I’ll meet you at the house in which we are staying,” said Sokolov.
Rostnikov agreed and moved to the door. “Don’t forget to ask for a meteorite,” said the general.
“I won’t,” said Rostnikov who opened the door and stepped into the skin-freezing morning.
EIGHT
A DEDUSHKA, A GRANDFATHER WITH a massive, old-fashioned white mustache, held his bundled-up grandchild by the hand and ordered an ice cream. Sasha, who was now growing accustomed to using the ice cream scoop, served them while Boris Manizer watched his new assistant critically. The child, no more than two, was wearing a snowsuit that made him or her look like a cosmonaut.
The grandfather paid and held out the ice cream for the child to lick. The child was wrapped too tightly to bend his arms.
“He likes it,” said the grandfather revealing an almost toothless mouth.
“Good,” said Boris pulling Sasha back behind the stand where two waiting customers, probably foreigners, stepped up to be served.
“Do you see them?” Sasha said looking around the shopping center.
“No,” whispered Boris. “I just wanted to remind you to scoop like this. Like this. You leave a little hollow space in the ball. You use a little less ice cream. By the end of the day, you save gallons. You understand?”
“Yes,” Sasha whispered back. “You cheat the people.”
Boris stepped back and put his right hand to his heart.
“Cheat? Me? The people? Never,” he said. “I keep innocent children from eating too much ice cream and getting terrible cramps. Children will do that. I have children. They do that. I’m doing them a service.”
“You are a hero of the Revolution,” Sasha said.
“Can we get ice cream?” a fat woman demanded. Next to her was an almost identical fat woman. They were either mother and daughter or sisters.
“See,” whispered Boris. “You think they need a fat scoop of ice cream? No. They’re never going to look like French women but we can help them a little.”
“I recant,” said Tkach looking down at Boris. “You are a saint, not a hero of the Revolution.”
For the next few hours the two men worked in relative silence. Boris said no more about how to scoop. He served and watched the crowd for the possible return of the two criminals, an event that Tkach
was certain would not take place.
“An ice cream, please,” came the woman’s voice above the noise of the afternoon crowd when Tkach was turned away. Before he could respond to Maya’s voice, Boris was serving her.
Behind Boris’s back, Sasha turned and showed his white uniform to his wife and to Pulcharia who looked blankly at her father from the carrying sling on her mother’s back. Maya, wearing her insulated blue coat, smiled, almost laughed at her husband who shrugged as Boris reached down to gather a hollow scoop. Sasha moved forward, put his hand on Boris’s shoulder and shook his head ‘no’ when the little man turned to him.
“I’ll take this customer,” Sasha said.
Boris considered reminding Tkach who was in charge of this ice cream stand but he stopped himself, remembering that this smiling youth was a policeman. It was difficult to remember that he was a policeman. He looked like … like a kid standing there with that smile, serving the pretty dark woman with the baby on her back. The woman smiled at this Sasha almost brazenly. The world, Boris thought, was falling into chaos. Muggers, thieves, young women with babies who throw themselves at young ice cream sellers. No young woman had ever thrown herself at Boris Manizer.
The young woman licked the ice cream and looking back held it over her shoulder for the baby to lick. The child, wearing a wool hat that revealed only its round face, leaned over to put its mouth on the ice cream and then, having tasted it, lean forward to plunge its whole face in the cold, sweet delicacy. The pretty young woman and Sasha shared a laugh. The child looked happy. Boris tried not to but he too smiled.
The woman said something to Sasha. Boris couldn’t hear it over the noise of the crowd and the music that was now being piped throughout the pavilion. It sounded like something English or American. Boris didn’t like it.
The pretty woman with the baby took another lick of the ice cream, smiled at Tkach and moved into the crowd.
“Very nice,” Boris said looking at the woman and child.
“Very nice,” Tkach agreed, adjusting his white cap.
A group of customers surged to the stand and began to order at the same time.
“Get in a line,” Boris called over the noise and the music.
Tkach continued to watch his wife who looked back at him, waved and reached back to raise Pulcharia’s arm in a wave. Tkach raised a hand and Boris, who watched him from the corner of his eye, shook his head but kept working.
When the surge had cleared, Boris, who was lower than almost everyone in the pavilion, looked up to where the woman with the baby might have been. She was there, with her baby, deep in the crowd near a shop where little rockets and space trinkets and toys were sold. She was there, her eyes wide, talking to two young men, one of whom had red hair.
“There,” said Boris. “There they are. The two you are looking for.”
“Where?” asked Tkach, scanning the crowd.
“There, by the Cosmonaut Shop,” cried Boris jumping up and pointing. “With the woman who was just here, the woman with the baby.”
Tkach ripped the cap from his head sending his straight hair down over his forehead. He looked suddenly frantic.
“Where? I can’t see them.”
Boris pointed and, through the crowd, Tkach saw them, saw the two young men, his wife and child cornered between them, pressing her backward toward an alcove, talking to her. Then he lost them in the crowd. Tkach leaped up on the ice cream stand for a better view, and spotted the redhead. Passing visitors paused to look up at the mad young man atop the ice cream stand and the little man in white who was shouting at him to come down.
Tkach caught a glimpse of his wife’s frightened face looking in his direction. Tkach leaped down into the crowd as the redhead turned to see what Maya was looking at. Tkach had no way of knowing if the young man had seen him leap. Pushing his way through the crowd, Tkach tore off his white jacket and flung it back in the general direction of the ice cream stand. My fault, he thought, told himself, perhaps even said softly aloud as he pushed his way past people, glared madly at a burly man who grabbed his arm to slow him down, and moved quickly without running toward the Cosmonaut Shop.
Maya and the baby were out of sight now, pushed back into the alcove next to the shop. The dark-haired youth wasn’t in sight, must be in the alcove with them. The redhead blocked the alcove entrance with his body and looked back to see if anyone was watching. Tkach slowed down, looked to his right at a woman walking near him, forced himself to smile and nodded.
He wanted to run, to scream, but they might hurt Maya and the baby, might even grab them as hostages. It was maddening. Why had he told her to come there? And how could these two have the nerve to come back?
The redhead backed into the alcove, arms out at his side. Tkach had made his way to the right of the alcove. He now walked along toward it, looking over his shoulder at the shop window. His heart was pounding. He could feel it, take his pulse by it as he forced himself to move slowly, slowly, and then he was alongside the space between the shops, the alcove where the redhead was stepping into the shadows.
Tkach paused, smiled and asked, “The oobo’rnaya, is it in here?” he asked.
“No,” said the redhead, who wore a punkish haircut with his head shaved on the sides. He had some kind of accent that made it difficult to understand him. “Get away. We’re working here.”
Pulcharia was weeping. Sasha could hear her in the darkness, over the noise.
“I’m sorry,” Tkach said, forcing his most winning smile, “but I’ve got to get in here.”
Before the redhead could respond. Tkach stepped into the alcove, leaned forward and threw his right hand out sharply, his knuckles connecting with the young man’s stomach. The redhead grunted, staggered back in surprise and fell to his knees leaving just enough space for Tkach to get past him. Sasha could see outlines of people further in the darkness and, as he moved past the redhead who called out the name Ben and reached out to stop him, Tkach rammed his left knee between the groping hands and felt it connect with the redhead’s face.
The dark-haired youth, whose name was Ben, called back something in a foreign language and Tkach lunged forward. Now he could see Maya and the baby, fear on his wife’s face, the dark-haired youth pulling her hair back, forcing her down to the ground. Pulcharia was crying out of control.
The dark-haired youth named Ben turned and saw that it was not his friend coming toward him, but a slender young man. Ben was stocky, physically confident. He showed no fear, only disdain for the smaller, delicate man hurrying toward him. His friend was probably behind this fool, ready to take him. But that did not happen and Ben had to let go of the woman’s hair and turn to face the advancing idiot.
Ben could see beyond the advancing man now, could see his red-haired partner on his knees holding his face, could see the people passing by the mouth of the alcove looking in but not pausing, not wanting to get involved, could now see the furious face of the young man coming toward him. It took less than a few seconds and, had he not been holding the pretty woman by the hair with one hand and touching her with the other he would have had his knife out. He was just reaching in his pocket for it, sure he had time to get it out, when the slender man threw himself forward with an anguished scream and fell on Ben who tumbled backward in the narrow space, landed on his back, striking his head on the concrete. He punched at the man’s side and ribs, punched hard, punches that should have sent the man tumbling off of him in agony, but the man was possessed, insane. The man ignored the punches, screamed and began to punch at Ben’s face.
Ben told him to stop, said that he had enough, said that he gave up, but the man continued to beat him. Ben felt his nose break, heard the young woman behind him shouting for the man to stop.
You tell him, lady, Ben thought. This lunatic is going to kill me. And that was his final thought before he passed out.
Rostnikov was sitting on the chair in his room. He had pulled the chair to the window and was looking out at the square, loo
king, more specifically, at the window of the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity.
The day had been busy. He had gone back to Galich’s house and had been readily admitted and allowed to lift weights in the small room off to the side. Galich gave Rostnikov permission to alter the weights on the bars and then excused himself and returned to the large room where Rostnikov had talked to him early that morning. Galich had, he said, a small, ancient vase that required his attention.
Rostnikov was impressed and pleased by the weights. He worked for nearly forty minutes, humming occasionally, concentrating on the weights, trying to think of nothing but the resisting iron. There had been one interruption: Famfanoff who, red-faced and obviously having had a drink or two, came puffing into the small room, his uniform coming loose in spite of a clear attempt to pull himself together.
Famfanoff apologized for not being up early, offered his services again, asked for an assignment, a task.
When Rostnikov had completed the curls he was doing, he put the weight down, took a deep breath and gave the policeman an assignment, a confidential assignment which Famfanoff gratefully accepted with the promise that he would tell no one. Hope of a transfer was evident in Famfanoff s open red face. He left looking like a man with a secret.
When Rostnikov had finished his lifting, he dried himself with the towel he had brought and sat waiting to cool down before moving quietly to the main room where, at the rear, Dimitri Galich sat at his large, crowded table.
“Finished?” Galich asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Come back tomorrow if you like,” said Galich looking up at Rostnikov from the unimposing vase in his hands.
“I will. Could I, perhaps, invite you to join me for dinner tonight?” asked Rostnikov.
“You needn’t repay me,” Galich said.
“I’d feel better,” said Rostnikov. “And we can talk about things other than murder. History, perhaps, Moscow or lifting.”
“Not much to say about lifting,” said Galich, “and much to say about history. I lift, read, walk, talk to convince myself that I am not as obsessed a creature as I know myself to be. I sometimes fear that I’ll become one of those madmen who spend all their time examining some small part of the universe and block out all the rest. It turns into a kind of meditation. You know what I mean?”
A Cold Red Sunrise Page 11