by William Ryan
Korolev looked across at Mushkin and realized that the Chekist’s expression wasn’t that dissimilar from the one on the faces of the peasants they’d just passed – a man who’d reached his limit and gone past it. The soldiers in that bar had said that in some places that winter the peasants had organized themselves and taken reprisals against Party officials – even ambushed detachments of Militia and the Red Army – and that the NKVD’s retaliation had been savage. Each rebellion had been crushed, no matter how small, and each act of resistance, real or imagined, met with brutal retribution. Mushkin must have been up to his neck in all of that, Korolev thought to himself. He noticed the way the major kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of them as they drove through the battered villages. Was it Korolev’s imagination or was the major trying to avoid looking out at the signs of the struggle that had taken place here?
‘You said this agricultural college was secure – does it need to be?’ Korolev found himself saying, and regretted it almost immediately. Mushkin glanced at him before turning his eyes back to the road ahead.
‘The struggle against wreckers and counter-revolutionaries is not yet over in these parts, Korolev.’
They passed through another village, not dissimilar to the others – thin, hungry faces and rotting empty houses, the wooden walls grey with age and the damp thatch sagging. The usual signs of Soviet Power were here too – the kolkhoz office, a small Militia post, a collective store. These buildings at least looked as though they were being maintained.
But Mushkin looked neither left nor right, driving through the village as though it didn’t exist until, on reaching a large concrete block which announced the Odessa Regional Agricultural College in foot-high letters, he turned off the main road onto a gravel drive. The drive continued into woodland, the first Korolev had seen since he’d landed, and after a minute or so it reached the remains of a small church, burnt out long before.
‘The family that owned the estate were buried here,’ Mushkin said, stopping the car and indicating a small graveyard that had suffered as much as the church. ‘When the Revolution arrived the peasants dug up their graves and scattered their bones over the steppe. Then they burnt the church down with the priest inside it.’
Korolev kept his face expressionless – he’d heard of worse things happening during the Civil War, and seen things as bad. But he was surprised by the priest. In fact he’d risk a fair amount of money that it wasn’t the villagers who’d burnt their priest alive. Korolev glanced at Mushkin and something in his expression, the way he looked at the church, made him wonder if Mushkin himself hadn’t had something to do with the atrocity. After a few moments of contemplation, Mushkin put the car back into gear and they drove for another hundred metres or so to where the woods opened up and a series of newly built concrete buildings appeared – dormitories, what looked like a gymnasium, classrooms, lecture halls and several large barns. Finally the drive led to a large house built from ochre-coloured stone, three storeys high and standing in the middle of winter-stripped gardens.
It wasn’t a palace as such, but a substantial residence all the same. It didn’t look Russian, with its small turrets at each corner and its arched windows, more like a building from North Africa. To the left of the house stood what must have been the stable block, the courtyard of which contained a number of trailers, a bus and a truck, as well as an odd assortment of equipment, some of which was covered with tarpaulins bearing the stencilled logo ‘Ukrainfilm’.
Mushkin stopped the car in front of the ornate entrance to the house. ‘The local Militia will be arriving soon,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘You’re not here in an official capacity, but as Babel’s friend. We’ll be asking your opinion, seeing as you’re here – by complete coincidence.’
‘So I was informed.’
‘I’m informing you again,’ Mushkin said as he pulled himself out of the car. He glanced round at Korolev once, then walked towards the stable yard, his hands deep in his pockets.
Korolev stayed where he was for a moment, looking around him. Apart from Mushkin’s departing figure there was no one to be seen. Perhaps Korolev was a little tired, and Mushkin’s story about the family graves and the burning priest too fresh in his mind, but he had a sudden image of the porch’s black-and-white tiled floor slicked with blood. For a moment the image was so vivid that he couldn’t breathe.
Shocked, Korolev sat there, not sure what else to do but open up the packet of cigarettes he had in his pocket, extract one with some difficulty, his fingers rattling a nervous tattoo on the cardboard box, and put it in his mouth. He lit it, wondering if he was cracking up, and feeling so worn that he almost didn’t care. Tiredness was all this was, he reassured himself for the second time in twenty-four hours – the previous day’s arrest, the Chekist knocking on the door, the Lubianka waiting room, the plane journey, Mushkin. Things like that took it out of a man. He sighed and coughed as he inhaled, savouring the spread of nicotine through his body.
When the bang on the driver’s door came, the surprise lifted Korolev out of his seat so high his head touched the roof.
‘What the hell?’ he shouted, adrenalin shuddering though his body like electricity and his hand instinctively going for his shoulder holster.
‘Sorry, Comrade.’ The smiling face of a small blond boy with a red Pioneer’s scarf round his neck was looking in at him through the window, nose flat against the glass. And the strangest thing was that he was the spitting image of Korolev’s son Yuri, so much so that Korolev wondered whether he were having another hallucination until he saw the small differences, the slightly darker blue of the eyes, the perfect teeth where Yuri’s were a little crooked. But the likeness was uncanny and it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, and the question came out a little more gruffly than he’d intended.
‘Pavel.’
‘And do you usually go around scaring the living daylights out of honest citizens, Pavel? And you a Pioneer as well.’ Which, again, wasn’t how he’d intended to speak to the boy and when the boy’s smile was replaced with a grave expression he felt a parent’s guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Comrade,’ the boy began, but Korolev shook his head.
‘Don’t be, Pavel. It’s me should be apologizing – you caught me by surprise, that’s all. Off with you now – we’ll meet again, I’m sure, and start from the beginning again.’
The boy’s smile reappeared and he saluted before disappearing round the corner at a gallop. Korolev hauled himself out of the car, suddenly determined to deal with this affair quickly so he could take what was left of the two weeks to go and see the real Yuri in Zagorsk. He could be there in two days with a bit of luck and Rodinov’s help with the journey. Yes, that’s what he’d do, he thought to himself, and prayed the girl had indeed killed herself.
He walked into the domed porch, glancing up for a moment at the curved sky-blue roof on which silver stars twinkled, then tried the front doors, which were locked. No one answered when he pulled at a metal chain that rang a distant bell, and there was no one to be seen in the entrance hall when he looked through one of the small windows.
A cobbled path circled the house and Korolev followed it, listening for any sign of human activity and hearing none, only the sound of the wind pushing its way through the garden’s trees, and on the opposite side of the building he found a long balustraded terrace that overlooked a frozen lake, ice embracing the withered reeds around its shore. The house was even more impressive from this angle and in front of the terrace there was a large fountain, ice cascading from the mouths of cherubs into a deep, shell-shaped basin, a good twenty feet in diameter. Korolev imagined the Orlovs eating on the terrace in the heat of an August evening, perhaps under an awning, dressed in their summer whites, the windows of the conservatory that ran the length of the house open to let in the slight summer breeze, the fountain’s water tinkling beneath them, unaware that their days were numbered
He coughed and they looked up, coming to a halt, Mushkin’s eyes cold, while the woman seemed to study him as if he were a potential problem that needed brisk and efficient resolution. He raised his hand in greeting.
‘This is Korolev, Mother.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘If you want the film people, they’re off somewhere. Ask Andreychuk – he’ll be inside. Good morning to you, Comrade Korolev.’
She made to move on, but stopped as Korolev opened his mouth to speak.
‘Well?’ she asked, allowing her stern voice to become a little gentler, making Korolev feel as though he were a child. ‘What is it?’
‘The house seems to be locked, Comrade.’
‘Locked?’ she repeated. ‘I see.’
She pointed her walking stick up at a glass-paned door that offered access to the conservatory.
‘That door will be open, or the one at the other end – and Andreychuk is in there somewhere, I assure you. He’ll know where they are.’
‘Thank you, Comrade.’
She gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement and proceeded on her way, Mushkin falling into step beside her. Korolev looked after them for a moment, confused. Mushkin’s mother? Was that why the major was convalescing here? She certainly behaved as if she belonged here.
He turned back to the house and climbed the chipped steps to the terrace, crossing to the conservatory and knocking on the door Mushkin’s mother had indicated, but there was no answer. He looked around him, wondering whether the elderly woman had been mistaken, at the same time thinking the silence was strange. He found himself whistling under his breath, just to keep himself company. Almost reluctantly, he turned the handle and it opened.
The conservatory was a high room, dominated by two elderly vines that looked as if they’d seen better days. He stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. For some reason he felt as though he was trespassing, as though the family who’d once lived here might emerge at any moment and discover him tiptoeing through their home.
He paused for a moment, to reassure himself that this was nonsense, that he was here on official business, and, anyway, he was looking for Babel and everything was fine. But still it was undeniable that there was an atmosphere to the place – the girl had died here, of course, perhaps that was the reason for his uneasiness.
He walked through an open door, passing into a large dining room with a ceiling made entirely of glass through which the natural evening light illuminated the room. At any other time he would have paused to examine the roof more closely because it was extraordinary, but at the far end an old man with a bushy white beard stood, head bowed, in front of one of the four large cast-iron candelabras that protruded from the walls and which must have been installed to illuminate the room before the days of electricity. At the sound of Korolev’s step the old man turned, and Korolev was surprised to see that the milky blue eyes beneath his thick white brows were wet with tears.
‘Are you all right, Comrade?’ he asked, walking towards him.
‘I’m fine,’ the man said, turning away to compose himself.
Which was a lie if Korolev had ever heard one. But it wasn’t his business to pry – not yet at least.
‘Is this where she died?’ he asked, surprised to hear his own voice.
‘Yes,’ the old man said, having turned back towards him. ‘The Lord help me, I was the one who found her.’
Korolev nodded his sympathy, surprised that the old man spoke the Lord’s name so freely. ‘Comrade Andreychuk, is it? The caretaker?’
‘That’s me. Efim Pavlovich Andreychuk. The unlucky Andreychuk. The poor soul who found the dead girl.’
‘My name is Korolev. Alexei Dmitrieyvich. I’m a friend of Babel, the writer. I was sorry to hear the news.’
‘The film people are out in the fields, if you’re looking for them. But they should be back soon.’ Andreychuk turned back towards the bracket. ‘She should have stayed in Moscow, you see. This place never brought her anything but sadness.’
‘What do you mean?’ Korolev asked, thinking the words curious. The girl hadn’t spent that long on the film – surely not long enough to pack in so much sadness. Andreychuk looked round at him as though he’d forgotten Korolev was there.
‘She’s dead, that’s what I mean,’ the caretaker said, frowning. ‘Nothing more than that.’
‘But you spoke as though she came from round here. I thought she came from Moscow.’
Andreychuk’s frown deepened, and his voice, when he spoke, was gruff. ‘She was from these parts a long time ago, or so she told me. She should have stayed in Moscow.’
Interesting that she’d been from the area – that information wasn’t in the file.
‘Was there something underneath?’ he asked, looking back at the wall bracket and wondering how she’d done it. ‘For her to stand on?’
Andreychuk glanced round at him, suspicious but also thinking.
‘A chair,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Someone must have moved it.’
Korolev looked at the wall fixture and tried to imagine the girl preparing the noose, tying the rope round one of the metal arms – they looked solid enough – and then kicking the chair away.
‘A hard way to go,’ he said, stating the obvious – a skill he’d learnt early in his career as a policeman. ‘There are easier ways to kill yourself.’
‘I don’t know why she did it. All I know is I wish I hadn’t been the one to find her. Excuse me, Comrade, I’ve work to attend to.’
The caretaker turned and walked out of the room and Korolev tried to imagine how it must have been for him when he found her – the weight of the corpse swinging, her feet inches from the ground. No wonder the poor fellow was a little taciturn.
He took a deep breath and opened his notebook and by holding his hand above his head estimated the height of the bracket, knowing, as he did, the distance from the ground of his up-stretched index finger. Seven foot two inches, give or take an inch or two. He’d measure it properly later on. He looked around – there was no shortage of chairs, but as to which of them had been underneath the dead girl, it was impossible to tell. He folded his notebook shut and turned to leave the room. If necessary he’d get a forensic team to have a look around, but it was a shame that there’d been no effort to preserve the scene. Perhaps Rodinov had thought it might be indiscreet to do so.
§
With nothing else to do, Korolev gave himself a tour of the house. At some stage much of the original furniture must have been replaced with more functional pieces, better suited to the house’s new role as an educational establishment for Soviet youth, but there was still plenty of the finest marble and gilding in evidence and the walls and ceilings still carried beautiful murals and frescoes.
Eventually Korolev found himself in the large entrance hall, the walls of which were hung with Ottoman weaponry, presumably from when this part of the world had been taken from the Turks. The front door was now mysteriously open and so he walked out through the splendid porch towards the stables, where the Ukrainfilm vehicles stood on the cobblestoned yard.
It had been one of the ironies of the tsarist times that the oppressing classes had looked after their horses better than they had their workers, but now the horses had been kicked out and the stables turned into classrooms. Light yellowed the panes of a window in the far corner of the three-sided yard and he walked towards it and opened the
corresponding door marked Production Office without knocking. A bank of three female typists paused, their hands held above the keys like pianists, while behind them a young man with close-cropped brown hair and a pleasant face looked up from whatever it was he was reading.
‘Excuse me, Comrades,’ Korolev said. ‘I’m looking for Isaac Emmanuilovich. You know, the writer? Babel?’
‘Babel,’ the young man said, rising from his desk. ‘Of course, but I’m afraid he’s out with the crew. They’ll be back soon though, the light’s gone now. Pyotr Mikhailovich Shymko,’ he said, advancing with his hand outstretched. ‘Production coordinator.’
‘Korolev, Alexei Dmitriyevich. I’m a friend of his.’
‘Welcome.’ Shymko looked at the girls as though considering whether to introduce them.
‘Larisa.’ He addressed a pretty blonde after a moment’s pause. ‘Would you take Comrade Korolev over to the house? Make him comfortable while he waits?’
Larisa frowned as she stood to her feet, but Korolev waved her down.
‘Please, Comrades, I can see you’re busy. What with the tragedy, you must have your hands full.’
‘The tragedy?’ Shymko echoed, and Korolev noticed that Larisa’s eyes had filled with tears.
‘The poor girl who killed herself.’
Larisa sobbed and ran from the room.
‘I apologize,’ Korolev said, surprised to discover an unlit cigarette had appeared in his mouth. One of these days he’d give up – aside from anything else he wouldn’t be able to afford it if he’d reached the stage where his hands were feeding the things into his mouth without conscious thought.
‘Excuse me,’ Shymko said as a telephone began to ring, but Korolev had spotted a black car approaching the house and, deciding it must be the Odessa contingent, made his own excuses and left. When the car stopped, however, it was Belakovsky who climbed out rather than Militiamen and his welcoming committee consisted only of a distraught typist.