Field of Mars

by Stephen Miller

  ‘There was a guy that killed my wife,’ Teodor said quietly.

  ‘Your wi—’ Ryzhkov started but Schliff put his hand on his arm. ‘Keep going,’ he told the boy.

  ‘She went to this place and was with a grandfather, an old one like you said. She came back, they brought her back, she was sick when she came back, and then she died that night. She had something break up here from when he squeezed her.’

  ‘Can you tell us where she was that night, who sent for her?’ Ryzhkov asked quietly. The boy gave a tight smile, shook his head, then looked up at Schliff.

  ‘No, no. Fine, Teo. You can stop. We don’t want you to get in any trouble.’

  The boy looked back across to the door. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

  ‘Anything you can tell us, Teodor …’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Go and look in that cupboard.’ The boy pointed across to the end of the big garret room where cupboards and open shelving had been built-in to store bolts of fabric. ‘Not that one, the one over against the roof.’

  Ryzhkov opened the little cupboard. There was a box of wooden bobbins, some scraps of paper. Everything was covered in dust and mouse shit.

  ‘Reach back in the corner up at the top and there’s a nail that sticks out.’

  ‘All right.’ He felt back into the cupboard where the shelving joined the rafters.

  ‘If you pulled on that nail you might find something. It wouldn’t be my fault.’

  Ryzhkov tugged on the little nail and the board that formed the back wall of the cupboard teetered out and pivoted so that he could slide it away. Inside there was a tin box, about the size of a tea-box, and a black velvet handbag of high quality.

  ‘Just take the bag, leave the other, and put it back, eh?’ the boy said. Schliff had taken a few steps across the floor but the boy stopped him. ‘You stay and watch the door. Everything I’ve got is in there.’

  In the purse was a cheap gold-plated bracelet, a man’s tie clip with some sort of stone set in its centre, several postcards, a photograph of a woman in a rather ordinary dress, and a man’s empty leather wallet.

  ‘That’s all her things she left me.’

  ‘She had light fingers, your wife did?’ Schliff was smiling at the boy.

  ‘We were saving up to go away,’ the boy said flatly. Ryzhkov looked at him for a moment and then opened the wallet.

  Schliff took the bag, walked over and examined it under the light from the window. Looked at the portrait of the woman. ‘That her mother?’ he asked, but the boy didn’t say anything.

  Inside the wallet Ryzhkov saw a small pocket for business cards, a worn yellow slip that indicated a St Petersburg residency permit. It was one of the old permits, all the newer ones had photographs and were supposed to be stamped … a name written across the top line in steel-pointed cursive script: Lavrik, Oleg Karlovich. With an address on Liteiny Prospekt. Not big money, but enough, he thought.

  The boy was watching him. ‘Got what you want?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You can keep it. I only held on to it hoping that one day I might run into him, you know?’ The boy’s eyes were steady as a knife’s edge.

  ‘You might be able to get something for the bracelet.’ Schliff said, closing the catch on the bag.

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s something she found when she was little,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want a smoke?’ Schliff asked.

  ‘I’m not supposed to unless they offer,’ he said flatly. ‘She had a box, with some clothes. I gave those to some of the girls. Eva wanted the combs and her ribbons. There is a letter inside from her mother maybe, but I don’t know. It might be someone else’s mother.’

  Ryzhkov tucked the bag with its souvenirs back inside the rafters, fumbled in his pocket and came out with a ten-rouble note. A lot. ‘Here … this is something for your savings.’ He held the note out for the boy. Schliff reached out first and took it away, dug in his pocket and came up with a five and some coins. ‘Your boss, the old man will ask you if we paid, won’t he?’ Schliff said, looking at Ryzhkov.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll have to give him something. He’ll want to know everything. I don’t care about the money. If you can get him, that will be enough.’ Steady eyes looking at him.

  Ryzhkov nodded. ‘Take it anyway. If he gives you any trouble, get in touch with me through Inspector Schliff here, and I’ll protect you,’ Ryzhkov said. He took out his Okhrana disc and showed it to the boy. ‘Do you know what this means?’ he asked.

  The boy looked at the flat circle of metal, with its worn double-eagle and the engraved numerals, and then up to Ryzhkov.

  ‘It means you think you can protect me,’ he said.

  By midnight Ryzhkov was sitting in an izvolchik with the canopy raised so that he could watch the front of Baron Oleg Karlovich Lavrik’s city house. The files had not come over from the General Staff building, that would have to wait for morning, but he had looked up the address in the Petersburg directory, and verified that he still lived there.

  The Liteiny house was high and narrow. Probably six or seven bedrooms. No stables or courtyard. They must travel everywhere by hired carriage. No one had come or gone from the time he had arrived, just after six in the evening. Lights came on and went off. There was a tail of smoke from the chimneys. He moved around the building and watched from different angles, but no one raised the corner of a curtain. Lamps were on in the upper bedrooms until after ten and then one after the other were snapped off. Two people were living there, he thought. Two people in two different bedrooms; if there were servants they would have rooms at the back.

  He watched the darkened house for a half-hour more. The street was quiet. An ordinary Thursday evening with the air getting colder and colder. A little sheen of ice in the wet gutters. A crispness to the air. He decided there was no point in spending the night watching. He would turn up a photograph of Baron Lavrik, take it to Vera and her friend and if they could put Lavrik in the Iron Room, then he’d request a protocol to formally investigate the man, find his accomplice, and hopefully send them both to jail.

  He was suddenly tired. Tired, as if he had finished a great test or examination of some kind. His mind wandered, playing games. He would bring in Madame Hillé once he had the protocols. She’d give up Lavrik if it meant losing her residency permit and her yellow card or jail; he’d withhold her passport so she couldn’t run, get a case together that could go before a court. Maybe he could make things right, or at least a little better.

  It was cold now and he decided to go home. The air was thick with the moisture that had risen from the canals and the river.

  The weather was changing.

  There would be a chilly fog in the morning. A stinking yellow blanket that would greet Petersburg’s citizens when they woke; a poisonous veil that would hover over the pavements, making it impossible to read the street signs, and concealing everything from view.

  SIXTEEN

  Andrianov sat in the ornate foyer of Mendrochovich and Lubensky, one of the empire’s great financial houses; impressive offices, with splendid furnishings and arched windows above the Nevsky, spanning the front of the building and around the corner of the Fontanka embankment. It was a clear day and the sun burned through the windows, bringing out the smells of the woollen carpet, the wax on the furniture and walls, the rich leather of the furniture, the pungency of cigar smoke. Across the wide foyer were a handful of other men, heads together discussing their business, shuffling papers, waiting for appointments, some of them anonymous, some known to him by name. Clients who visited Mendrochovich and Lubensky were able to conduct business within a cocoon of complete discretion, indeed individuals, partnerships, companies or entire families could, if it was required, be identified only by secret number. Anonymity was guaranteed absolutely. Naturally there was the full panoply of investment services for ordinary clients, even simple banking accounts and safe boxes available within vaults on the top floor.

  ‘It’s such a pleasure to mee
t you Monsieur Andrianov, a man of your reputation. We’re most happy indeed, and I am certain that you will be satisfied with our services.’

  ‘My pleasure. You are Dr Rody?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I must say that you have been quite highly recommended by one of our most distinguished clients, Monsieur Brogdanovitch. Everything appears to be in order. Shall we remove to my office?’

  Andrianov followed the man down a hallway. There were frosted-glass windows to hide the business of each of the factors from his neighbour. Altogether he estimated that several dozen clerks, administrators and agents inhabited the offices. There were facilities for the transfer of monies, an international division, the ability to perform any transaction you could imagine. They settled for a moment in Rody’s office.

  ‘I understand you wished to set up an anonymous account, and we have put through all the necessary papers. You have only to sign these documents. They are matched with a number and then this number is kept in another location. It is for our records only; also, in case of death, we require the name of a representative who would contact us in accordance with your estate. May I suggest a family member or some other trusted representative, a lawyer perhaps? So, if you could give us that information, then seal the envelope, take your key, and I’ll return in a few moments, sir.’

  Andrianov nodded his assent, the man slipped out into the hallway and left him to review the papers. He filled in a pseudonym at the bottom of the pages, sealed the papers, and pocketed the key; he had no intention of ever actually using the account. He waited in the office for a few moments longer and then went to the door. Rody was hovering a few doors away, chatting with an associate. He straightened and came back to the little office, took the envelope.

  ‘Now, I understand you have been referred to Baron Lavrik, and that he is to be your representative at our house?’

  ‘Yes, he comes highly recommended, himself,’ Andrianov smiled.

  ‘An excellent choice, sir. A very distinguished man of wide experience. I will introduce you.’ They walked deeper into the building. There was a sort of inner foyer, with a large pyramidal skylight that allowed sufficient light for several palms to flourish in an ornate marble planter in the centre of the room. A series of offices ringed the space, all windowed in frosted glass. They crossed the thick carpet and Rody knocked on one door. ‘Baron?’

  ‘Come … yes?’

  ‘Our new client,’ Rody said, as he opened the door. Andrianov came in, smiling. The baron stood. He was somewhat older than his photographs, a man grown prosperous and of comfortable girth, deep into his sixties. A large beard that was carefully cultivated so that it gave him the appearance of a grandfatherly walrus. He wore a pince-nez that he tucked in his waistcoat pocket as he stood, simultaneously sweeping some papers into a folder, sealing it, extending his hand.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Rody said, as he closed the door behind him. Andrianov took a seat in yet another of the plush leather armchairs. Lavrik offered him a cigar, but Andrianov declined. For a moment the two men sat there smiling at each other.

  ‘Well, sir. As I am sure Dr Rody has advised you, we offer a full range of financial services here, investment advice, brokerage, international transfers and legal services throughout Europe. We also have relationships with sister houses, particularly in Paris, but also in Britain and lately in the United States …’

  Andrianov waved him off, still smiling. ‘No, it’s not about anything like that. My business affairs are quite in order, thank you.’

  ‘Ahh … Well, then, sir … how may I be of service?’ Lavrik sat back in his seat, crossed his hands across his belly, preparing to dispense as much financial advice as was required. Still the smile.

  ‘I have come here to help you,’ Andrianov said, in somewhat quieter tones. Lavrik’s brow furrowed. ‘Indeed, I have been sent here by Heron.’

  Lavrik’s mouth opened, the eyebrows shot up. Andrianov raised a finger to warn him into silence.

  ‘I should tell you that I am simply a messenger, sir. I know nothing of your confidential business, I am a courier with only a single piece of information.’ And he smiled again at the old man.

  ‘From … a Heron … you say?’ Lavrik muttered, trying to assemble his features in an expression of innocent confusion.

  Andrianov smiled. ‘I’m sorry, sir. This is no ruse. I am to give you the message, nothing more. What you make of it, what action you decide upon is your own business.’

  Lavrik looked at him for a long moment, his frown growing. ‘Please, help me, sir. Have we met?’

  ‘If we have sir, I suggest it is to our mutual advantage to forget all about it.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Fine. Fine then.’ The old man was waiting, trembling. The colour had drained from his cheeks. He looked nearer to death than ever. ‘He told me there was … an investigation, but I thought all that had been taken care of.’ His hands were wiping the surface of his desk, as if trying to divine the future hidden deep within the grain of the walnut.

  ‘Honestly sir, I could not say.’

  Lavrik nodded, sighed. His eyes were filling up, he fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners.

  ‘The message is this,’ Andrianov said. ‘On Sunday next you are to be prepared for a carriage to arrive at your residence, this to occur at nine o’clock sharp in the evening. You will be taken the Niva Club where you have a reservation for dinner. At some point in the meal you will be asked to join a Mr Petrov from Odessa. There is no such person, it is simply a coded phrase. If you do not hear those exact words, you are to refuse, finish your meal and return home. But when you do hear the invitation, you are to go with whoever gives it to you—’

  ‘Mr Petrov? Odessa?’ Lavrik repeated.

  ‘From the Niva you will be led through the kitchens to a second carriage and from there to a boat which is waiting to take you first to Finland, and from there to Berlin. Accommodations are already arranged for you in Berlin. Where you go from there is entirely your business.’

  Now Lavrik’s mouth had fallen open, ‘Is that it? I’m to simply … leave?’

  Andrianov smiled most sympathetically. ‘As I said sir, I am merely the bearer of the message, but apparently there is some imminent danger. Mortal danger? Legal danger? Really, excellency, I know nothing of these affairs. I am in no position to say.’ He shrugged. ‘If I may suggest, it might be best if tomorrow morning you have your man telephone that you have suddenly been taken ill and use the intervening days to put your affairs in order, draft whatever documents you require in order to access your holdings while you are abroad. I’m certain that here your firm can perform all the necessary—’

  ‘I’m to leave?’ Lavrik said again, helplessly.

  ‘That is the message from Heron, sir.’ Andrianov stood up, preparing to exit.

  ‘Just a moment.’ Lavrik’s voice had risen in panic. ‘Please … my daughter. She has to go with me, she can’t be alone. We have to go together. Can you ask … Heron if we can go together?’ The old man had come around the desk now, his fingers had reached out to pluck at Andrianov’s sleeve. Desperate.

  Andrianov smiled, grasped the man by the shoulders to steady him. ‘I’m sure that would be acceptable, excellency.’ And then leaning closer to the old man, so his words were only a whisper, something like a brotherly intimacy, shared between comrades at war, a parting prayer for encouragement, ‘Remember, Baron. We are brothers of the Sacred Guard. We always take care of our own.’

  As he left through the foyer he saw Rody again. He bowed to Andrianov, smiled. ‘I trust everything has been concluded to your satisfaction, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Andrianov said, taking the man’s hand in a hearty handshake. ‘I could not have put it better myself.’

  SEVENTEEN

  … given us a supreme truth of vision that rubs our nose in the verities of this modern age!

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Dmitri, showing off the newspaper. Izov was so impressed he snipped it out and put
it up on the door as if it were an ikon. That was the kind of thing they were saying about ‘Khulchaev’s Theatre’. It didn’t matter that it was only in the pages of the Gazette.

  Scandalously appropriate … more shocking than a tour of the lowest depths of our city, this insane pastiche mirrors exactly the nausea of modern life … Engulfed by flowered dancers made-up to resemble aborigines from some distant planet, hypnotically abused, the audience discovers the bliss that can only come through a protracted flagellation …

  And there was more, much more in this vein. From the pages of Russian Standard, usually a respected paper:

  Not pleasant, but necessary …

  Unaccountably, Vera thought, Dmitri Khulchaev’s shows had become wildly popular. People with real money were starting to show up; he’d bought himself an entire new wardrobe. He walked around in a red waistcoat and the tightest trousers she’d ever seen on a man who wasn’t a hussar or a ballet dancer. Now that he was successful and starting to take credit for everything that was done at the Komet, all he really wanted was for people to owe him, to be in awe of his genius.

  Their newest show was entitled Long Nightmare. The Komet girls rehearsed their steps, a slow processional in waltz time—the devil’s dance—that wandered among the tables. For the performances Kushner, their designer said they would be painted up as skeletons.

  She thought the music was good but Nightmare was proving to be a supremely pessimistic event since Bulgaria had recently gone down to defeat in her idiotic war against Greece, Serbia, and finally Rumania. Thousands of young men, not to mention innocent women and children, had been dying like flies even as the idea for the play had been hatched and the girls assigned their steps—chests out and arms held just so, one-two-three, one-two-three.

  Misha Kushner, a wild man who worked through the night, stopping only to sleep with Larissa who was mad for him, Jew or not. Unshaven, unwashed, she didn’t care. He was her little dose of reality, Vera supposed.

  She’d tried to warn Larissa about Kushner, that he was crazy, that he was dangerous, but the girl was blind, a fool for her new lover. What made it worse was that he was the very worst kind of Bolshevik, authentically sprung from the land, raised in a seamy ghetto somewhere in the Ukraine. Overeducated and burning with his commitment to art and truth. Fine, fine, but where was the future in that, even if he was right? Being right didn’t have anything to do with it; St Petersburg was built on the corpses of thousands of people who had been right.