“Maybe you’d like to elaborate on that.”
“You can’t go on pretending that you’re an investigator.”
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Did they leave your gun?”
“Yes.”
“You’re being set up.”
“Possibly.”
“You are so fucked. You have no authority and no protection, just enemies. What are you looking for? Blood on the sidewalk and a round of applause?”
Arkady didn’t know, although he thought a little clarity might do.
“The door is open,” Arkady heard, and ventured in.
Wrapped in a silk robe, Madame Isa Spiridona, choreographer of the Club Nijinsky, reclined on a chaise longue with one arm free to reach her opium and brandy. Her apartment overlooked the Moscow River but it could have overlooked the Seine, with excellent copies of French antiques in tulipwood veneer and velvet-covered chairs. A dash of silk flowers. Inscribed photos of Colette, Coco and Marlene on a table. Photos of a young Spiridona dancing with Rudy and Baryshnikov on a grand piano. Photos covering the walls as if she were a person with no faith in her memory.
“Please forgive me if I don’t rise. They say that dancers live a short time en pointe and a long time in pain. It was a brutal system, but it worked, didn’t it? We had beauty and dancers. I suppose that’s why you’re here. To ask about Vera?”
“Yes.”
“More questions about the Club Nijinsky.”
“One more.” He sat because one question always led to another. Stand and you’re halfway out the door. “Who runs the auditions for the Nijinsky dancers?”
“I do. I am the choreographer.”
“And there are many talented dancers who would like to be Nijinsky dancers?”
“Yes.”
“And want nothing more than to audition for you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why settle for a not very good dancer like Vera?”
“She had other qualities.”
“Such as?”
“She was a charming individual. It came through in her dancing. It’s something you can’t teach.”
“Do you mind if I turn up the lights?” He was at the switch before she could object, then returned and placed a snapshot before Spiridona.
“Do you remember Inna Ustinova? She was a yoga instructor. She wanted to be a Nijinsky dancer.”
“Of course I remember her. She was too old. She would hang around the club, looking for a shoulder to cry on.”
“Did she find any?”
“No. People here are professionals. I told her to go back to her yoga mats. I felt terrible when she was killed. Found by a dog. How horrible, how awful that must have been.”
Arkady wasn’t listening. What he had not noticed when the lights were low was a framed, dramatically dark poster of a young dancer with golden hair, the same boy that Arkady had seen drained of blood on a table in the morgue. On a salver was a stack of programs for different ballets.
She followed his eye. “My son, Roman.”
“He dances too?”
“He did until he injured himself. Last week Roman called to say that he and his friend Sergei were going on a trip. Yesterday, Sergei called to say that Roman had gone on alone.”
This was more than Arkady had bargained for. He had not come as a messenger to tell this woman that her son was dead. Dead and burned under another name, yet.
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. I try not to get in Roman’s way. He suffers from depression but the doctors say I should let him hit bottom. What does that mean, ‘hit bottom’?”
Roman Spiridon had certainly done that. Hit bottom and continued to the center of the earth. Not even as himself, but under another man’s name.
Arkady remembered Madame Borodina’s voice, as dry as kindling.
“Burn him.”
Although the church condemned cremation, the state provided the option. Rolled him into a furnace with flames hot enough to melt gold, pulverized his ashes and bones and delivered them in a screw-top canister to the hands of Borodina. Where to then? There was a choice of parks—Siloviki, Gorky or Ismailova—where ashes could be dumped. Or lobbed into a trash bin or poured like flour into the river.
“Sergei who?”
“Borodin.”
“Sergei Borodin called instead of your son? To reassure you, but not tell you where they were going?”
“Sergei said he had to come back to pick up his book.”
“What book would that be?”
“There on the desk. I’m waiting for him to pick it up.”
On a Louis XIV desk was a well-worn paperback entitled The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky, which sounded pretty innocent to Arkady. He flipped through the pages to see whether anything fell out.
“Do you mind if I borrow this?”
“Sergei is coming for it.”
“Then he can come to me.”
She didn’t have the willpower to refuse him. Her attention gravitated to the opium layout, a lacquered tray inlaid with silver dragons and mother-of-pearl. A resinous “pill” nested in the bowl of a slender ivory pipe.
“Sometimes God’s gifts were given to the wrong person.”
“If Borodin is such a great dancer, why is he swinging on a wire at the Club Nijinsky instead of dancing with the Bolshoi?”
Spiridona asked, “How do I put this? Dancing is an intimate affair. The women don’t like the way Sergei handled them.”
“Too soft? Too hard?”
“Like chickens in a butcher shop.”
23
Maya imagined herself on a golden escalator that reached up to the clouds. Her baby was just a few steps ahead. For some reason Maya could not close the distance or see what awaited them but she was sure it would be better than what they left behind.
“How old are you, my dear? In Pakistan, you would already be married and have a baby on your hip. Your breasts are full. That is exciting to a man, but leave the nursing and mess to someone else. No, let me undress you. It is my pleasure. I will fold everything neatly. My God, you are more beautiful every moment. Our mutual friend Yegor was not overstating the case. Do you like this place? It’s an office of another friend, very important man. Pakistani, but the sofa is very comfortable, don’t you think? Nice paintings if you could see them. Everything totally modern. Champagne on ice. Minibar. Would you like a drink? Up to you. Since it’s Sunday we have all night and the entire building. The shaved head is curiously erotic, as if you had revealed everything to me. As you can see, I cannot hide the fact that I am not in the best of shape. When I came here as a student thirty years ago, I was thin as a reed. This is what Russian cooking does. My wife, bless her, is a wretched cook. I call her my wife although we’re not really married. I don’t know what Russians have against spices. Also I don’t exercise nearly enough. A man my size should exercise. It’s incumbent on him or he’ll go to fat as I have. But I have to spend all day and night in the kiosk or my workers will rob me blind. Look at this. I haven’t been this hard in ten years. Do you mind being kissed? I’ll turn the lights down and you can pretend that you are having sex with the handsomest man in the world. If you touch me I’ll explode. Really, really. Oh no, oh no, oh no. See? That comes from being deprived. But I’ve more to spare. I will run to the men’s room and be immediately back. Give me one minute. It will be even better. Less urgent.”
He whistled “Whistle While You Work” while he padded down the hall in bare feet. Everyone in the city was whistling the same tune; it was in the air. In the men’s room he wiped himself, pinched the fat around his waist, shined a smile at the mirror to check his teeth. He didn’t mind the interruption. In fact, the longer the better. His penis hung loose but not defeated, he thought.
The office lights were still low when he returned and he moved cautiously between tables and chairs to preserve his shins and whispered her name, almost cooing. When the lights suddenly went up, he found himself in the
company of two men in coveralls, work boots and surgical gloves. Except for the gloves, the visitors looked like a pair of auto mechanics. A grocery bag stood on the coffee table and for a second he thought he might have strayed into the wrong office, but there was the comfortable sofa with the girl’s imprint still on it. His clothes lay on the desk by a scarf of Maya’s, but she was gone.
“Excuse me.”
“Don’t get dressed.”
“Sit down.”
The other man inserted a chair in back of Ali’s knees. It was sit or fall.
Ali remained calm. This was an extortion racket and these two were the heavies. They seemed cast from the same rough mold, the difference being a dent here or there. With their flat voices and deep-set eyes, they played their roles convincingly.
“You’ve caught me fair and square. There is no need for further dramatics. How much are you asking?”
One man showed Ali a poster with Maya’s face.
“Is this the girl?”
“Yes. See, whatever you want to know I will freely tell you.” Ali believed it was important to establish a positive atmosphere while not exhibiting too much curiosity. He had been robbed in the kiosk half a dozen times and he had learned that panic was everyone’s enemy. These two seemed professional, which was reassuring. Description-wise, both had nondescript hair, thin lips, no smile and the kind of beard that looked like a blue mask. Rather than ask them their names, he labeled the slightly larger man “Mr. Big” and the slightly thinner man “Mr. Little.”
So it was Mr. Little who asked, “Where is she?”
“I have no idea. Does it matter? She’s done her bit.”
Mr. Big picked up the scarf and lifted it to his nose.
Ali nodded. “Yes, a delicious smell. She’s a little siren. She was here only a minute ago, but now she’s gone. That’s God’s truth.”
He expected them to ask where to. Instead, they poked around the office and checked out the contents of the minibar. Felt the warm sofa.
Ali said, “I expected to see her when I returned from the men’s, not you gentlemen.”
“How about the baby?” Mr. Little moved behind Ali.
Ali had to twist in his chair. “She never mentioned a baby.”
“How were her tits?”
“I observed that they were full like a nursing mother’s. But she never mentioned a baby.”
“Arms back.”
“I am feeling somewhat exposed. Do you mind if I get dressed first?”
“Not yet.”
“This is really not necessary.”
Ali allowed himself to be handcuffed around the back of the chair. He was still ready to deal.
“She was here a minute ago, but you have no idea where she’s headed?”
“With Yegor, obviously. May I get dressed now? This is no way to negotiate.”
“Who’s negotiating?”
The silence that followed was unnerving.
“This is not extortion?”
“Do we look like extortionists?”
No, Ali thought. He wished they did.
Mr. Big said, “If Yegor was out of the picture, where would she go?”
“I truly wish I could help you.” Ali was calm. He’d been beaten by Russians before and suffered broken ribs just for walking down the street. They would find out that he could take punishment.
“From the kiosk you see everything, don’t you?”
“No one can keep track of everything. People come and go all the time. It’s Three Stations.”
Mr. Little and Mr. Big communicated with a look that made Ali suck up his testicles.
“As I said before, I am not totally without funds. If you give me a figure to start with…” Ali’s voice died off as Mr. Little took a box of see-through food wrap from the shopping bag and pulled off the opening strip. He fed plastic wrap through a slot in the lid, which he tucked next to a strip of saw-toothed metal. Where was the food? Ali wondered.
“Have you been wrapped before?” Mr. Big asked.
“Wrapped?”
“I’ll take that as a no. It’s simple. I am going to ask you where to find this girl and her baby. If you give us no answer or a wrong answer, we will wrap your head.”
These were all scare tactics, Ali thought. Nobody did such things.
“We’ll demonstrate. Are you claustrophobic?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll see.”
It took two people, one to hold the first turn of food wrap and another to circle with the box and unreel more. The tape was clear plastic. Ali could see through it and witness the whole operation in the reflection of the office window. Air was totally cut off. He nodded to indicate he got the idea but they continued to wrap until he was covered from his neck to the top of his head.
“It’s important not to panic,” said Mr. Little. “The faster your heart rate the faster you use up oxygen.”
The wrap got tighter and molded itself to Ali’s face. He wanted to protest that this was more than a demonstration, but his mouth was wrapped and muffled. In the reflection of the window he wore a silver helmet and rocked from side to side.
“Ali, relax! You have five minutes to go.”
Five minutes? They misjudged! They must have thought they’d leave a little air! No, no, no, no! He rocked hard enough to lift himself and the chair clear of the floor. Banged his chin against his chest. Felt his lungs and chest begin to cave, a roar rise up in his ears and his vision go dark.
When Ali was conscious again, he was still handcuffed to the chair but the plastic wrap had been removed, rolled into a ball and tossed into a wastebasket.
“Disposable,” said Mr. Little.
Mr. Big asked, “Who needs the rack or the Spanish Inquisition when there’s a roll of food wrap in the kitchen?” It was a philosophical proposition, not a question.
“Would you like some vodka?” Mr. Little poured vodka into Ali as if he were filling a gas tank. Ali drank in gulps, eager to be stunned.
“Back to business,” said Mr. Little. “Where did the girl go?”
“Please, I have a family, small children and aged parents in Pakistan who have no other means of support.”
“You putrid shit. What were you doing with your little whore, writing letters home?”
“I was weak. I was tempted and fell.”
“Where would the girl go?”
“I swear I don’t know.”
“Last chance.”
“Please.”
Mr. Big ripped off a section of plastic wrap and at its touch to Ali’s cheek, he jumped, chair and all.
“Genius. Everybody calls him Genius but his real name is Zhenya. I don’t know his last name but he is often in the company of a prosecutor’s investigator, Renko.”
“Where?”
“The boy is always around Three Stations. You can’t miss him; he hustles chess in the waiting rooms. I’ll point him out to you. You don’t need to wrap me anymore.”
“Wrap you? Like what, a leftover piece of cheese? You must think we’re fucking barbarians.”
“No, not really but… I didn’t know what to think.”
Mr. Big slapped Ali on the back. “You should have seen your face. Come on. We’ll take you down in the service elevator.”
Ali laughed. He was unsteady after the handcuffs were removed and he dressed clumsily because of the vodka. And because when the elevator came he had to step over Yegor’s body. The screw-off pool-cue butt that had been Yegor’s scepter and cudgel was stuffed into his mouth. Ali couldn’t stop laughing.
24
“Why did you wait so long to call?” Arkady asked Zhenya.
“She didn’t want to involve the police.”
“Why not? Three days ago we could have turned the city inside out. Today? No one would lift a finger. Is she deaf?”
“No.” Although for all the attention Maya gave Arkady, she might have been. The windows of the car were fogged with condensation on which she drew a happy face.
The longer they waited for Victor, the more questions Arkady had for Zhenya.
Who was this girl?
How old was she?
Where was she from?
How could she lose a baby?
Did Zhenya ever actually see a baby?
Did anyone besides the girl ever see a baby?
Maya was mute. She hated Zhenya’s so-called friend, Arkady. Zhenya may have lied to her, but he was the only one who had the nerve to walk into a building in search of her and lead her down the stairs while the two men in the elevator were busy stuffing Yegor into a body bag. It took her a moment to realize that the investigator was asking her directly, “Did you recognize the yellow station wagon?”
“No.”
“From where?”
“I told you. Nowhere.”
“Did you recognize the two men?”
They were the men she called the Catchers.
“No.”
“They seemed to know you.” He passed back the poster of her that the two men had been circulating. She let her forehead rest on the coolness of the backseat window and answered in a dreamy tone that she had never seen them before.
“And the Pakistani?”
“No.”
“You never bought anything at his kiosk?”
“No.”
Zhenya said the last they saw of the kiosk clerk, he was being dumped in the Volvo and covered with a tarp.
“Did they see you?”
“On the street,” Zhenya said. ”That’s how I found her, by following their car.”
“Did they get a good look at you?”
“Yes.”
“What did they look like?”
“Average. Average everything.”
“Nothing else?”
The word Zhenya came up with was “Brothers.”
Victor climbed into the Lada and said the office site was microscopically clean.
“Anyway, who is going to report that a runaway like Yegor is missing, or give a damn about a Pakistani? Not to mention, the age of consent is still sixteen. Do you think men who have sex with children are going to report suspicious activity?”
Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel Page 15