'It came wrinkled.'
'Nevertheless, I got carried away.' Makhmud smoothed the jacket. He said, 'I'd like nothing more than to find Kim. Grapes?'
Beno handed back a wooden bowl overflowing with green grapes. By now, Arkady could see not so much a family resemblance among him, Ali and Makhmud as a likeness of species, like the bill of a hawk. Arkady took a handful. Makhmud opened a short knife with a hooked blade to slice off a bunch carefully. When he ate, he rolled down the window to spit the seeds on the ground.
'Diverticulitis. I'm not supposed to swallow them. It's a terrible thing to grow old.'
Chapter Six
* * *
Polina was dusting Rudy's bedroom for prints when Arkady arrived from the car market. He had never seen her out of her raincoat before. Because of the heat, she wore shorts, had knotted her shirt into a halter and tied her hair up in a kerchief, and with her rubber gloves and little camel's-hair brush she looked like a child playing house.
'We dusted before.' Arkady dropped his jacket on the bed. 'Aside from Rudy's prints, the technicians got nothing.'
'Then you have nothing to lose,' Polina said cheerfully. 'The human mole is in the garage tapping for trapdoors.'
Arkady opened the window over the courtyard and saw Minin in his hat and coat in the open door of the garage. 'You shouldn't call him that.'
'He hates you.'
'Why?'
Polina rolled her eyes, then climbed a chair to dust the mirror on the chest of drawers. 'Where's Jaak?'
'We've been promised another car. If he gets it, he'll go to the Lenin's Path Collective Farm.'
'Well, it's potato time. They can use Jaak.'
At a variety of odd locations – on hairbrush and headboard, inside the medicine-cabinet door and under the raised toilet lid – were the shadowy ovals of brushed prints. Others had already been lifted with tape and transferred to slides lying on the night table.
Arkady pulled on rubber gloves. 'This isn't your job,' he said.
'It isn't your job, either. Investigators are supposed to let detectives do the real work. I have the training for this and I'm better than the others, so why shouldn't I? Do you know why no one wants to deliver babies?'
'Why?' Immediately he was sorry he asked.
'Doctors don't want to deliver babies because they're afraid of AIDS, and because they don't trust Soviet rubber gloves. They wear three or four at a time. Imagine trying to deliver a baby wearing four pairs of gloves. They don't do abortions either, for the same reason. Soviet doctors would rather set women out about a hundred metres away and watch them explode. Of course, there wouldn't be so many babies if Soviet condoms didn't fit like rubber gloves.'
'True.' Arkady sat on the bed and looked around. Though he had followed Rudy for weeks, he still knew too little about the man.
'He didn't bring women here,' Polina said. 'There are no crackers, no wine, not even a condom. Women leave things – hairpins, make-up pads, face powder on a pillow. It's too neat.'
How long was she going to be up on the chair? Her legs were whiter and more muscular than he would have expected. Perhaps she had wanted to be a ballerina at one time. Black curls escaped from the discipline of her kerchief and coiled at the nape of her neck.
'You're working room by room?' Arkady asked.
'Yes.'
'Shouldn't you be out with your friends playing volleyball or something?'
'It's a little late for volleyball.'
'Did you lift prints from the videotapes?'
'Yes.' She bounced a glare off the mirror.
'I got you more morgue time,' Arkady said to mollify her. Isn't that the way to soothe a woman, he thought, by offering her more time in a morgue? 'Why do you want to go back inside Rudy?'
'There was too much blood. I did get laboratory results on the blood from the car. It was his type, at least.'
'Good.' If she was happy, he was happy. He turned on the television and VCR, inserted one of Rudy's tapes, pushed 'Play' and 'Fast Forward'. Accompanied by high-speed gibberish, images rushed across the screen: the golden city of Jerusalem, Wailing Wall, Mediterranean beach, synagogue, orange grove, high-rise hotels, casinos, El Al. He slowed the tape to catch the narration, which was more glottal than Russian.
'Do you speak Hebrew?' Arkady asked Polina.
'Why in the world would I speak Hebrew?'
The second tape showed in rapid succession the white city of Cairo, pyramids and camels, Mediterranean beach, sailing boats on the Nile, muezzin on a minaret, date grove, high-rise hotels, Egyptair.
'Arabic?' Arkady asked.
'No.'
The third travelogue opened in a beer garden and raced through etchings of medieval Munich, aerial views of rebuilt Munich, shoppers on the Marienplatz, beer cellar, polka bands in lederhosen, Olympic stadium, Oktoberfest, rococo theatre, gilded angel of peace, autobahn, another beer garden, nearby Alps, vapour trail of Lufthansa. He rewound to the Alps to listen to a narration that was both ponderous and exuberant.
'You speak German?' Polina asked. The dusted mirror was starting to look like a collection of moth wings, each one an oval of whorls.
'A little.' Arkady had spent his Army years in Berlin listening to Americans and had picked up some German in the truculent fashion that Russians approach the Language of Bismarck, Marx and Hitler. It wasn't only that Germans were a traditional foe; it was because the tsars for centuries had imported Germans as taskmasters, not to mention that the Nazis had regarded all Slavs as subhuman. There was a certain accretion of national ill will.
'Auf wiedersehen,' said the television.
'Auf wiedersehen.' Arkady turned the set off. 'Polina, auf wiedersehen. Go home, see your boyfriend, go to a film.'
'I'm almost done.'
So far, Polina seemed to have sensed more about the flat than Arkady had. He knew he was missing not so much clues as essence. Rudy's phobia about physical contact had created a flat that was solitary and sterile. No ashtrays, not even dog-ends. He craved a cigarette, but didn't dare upset the flat's hygienic balance.
Rudy's single weakness of the flesh appeared to be food. Arkady opened the refrigerator. Ham, fish and Dutch cheese were still cool, in place and overwhelming even to a man who had just eaten an appetizer of Makhmud's grapes. The food was probably from Stockmann's, the Helsinki department store that delivered complete smorgasbords, office furniture and Japanese cars for hard currency to Moscow's foreign community; God forbid they should have to live like Russians. In its rind of wax, the cheese shone like a mushroom cap.
Polina stepped into the bedroom doorway, one arm already thrust into her raincoat. 'Are you examining the evidence or consuming it?'
'Admiring it, actually. Here is cheese from cows who graze on grass that grows on dykes a thousand miles away, and it's not as rare as Russian cheese. Wax is a good medium of prints, isn't it?'
'Humidity is not the best atmosphere.'
'It's too humid for you?'
'I didn't say I couldn't do it, I just didn't want to get your hopes up.'
'Do I look like a man with high hopes?'
'I don't know; you're different today.' It was not characteristic of Polina to be uncertain about anything. 'You –'
Arkady put a finger to his lips. He heard a barely audible noise, like the fan of a refrigerator, except that he was standing by the refrigerator.
'A toilet,' Polina said. 'Someone's relieving themselves on the hour.'
Arkady went to the water closet and touched the pipes. Usually pipes banged and rang like chains. This sound was fainter, more mechanical than liquid, and inside Rosen's flat, not out. It stopped.
'On the hour?' Arkady asked.
'On the dot. I looked, but I didn't find anything.'
Arkady went into Rudy's office. The desk was undisturbed, phone and fax silent. He tapped the fax and a red 'alert' light blinked. Tapped harder and the button winked as regularly as a beacon. The volume had been turned all the way down. He pulled the
desk forward and found facsimile paper that had scrolled between the desk and the wall. 'First rule of investigation: pick things up,' he said.
'I hadn't dusted here yet.'
The paper was still warm. On top was the transmission date and time, one minute ago. The message, typed in Russian, read: 'Where is Red Square?'
Anyone with a map could answer that. He read the previous message. The transmission time on it was sixty-one minutes ago: 'Where is Red Square?'
You didn't need a map. Ask anyone in the world – up the Nile, in the Andes or even in GorkyPark.
There were five messages in all, each sent on the hour, with the same insistent demand: 'Where is Red Square?'
The first also said, 'If you know where Red Square is, I can offer contacts with international society for ten per cent finder's fee.'
A finder's fee for Red Square sounded like easy money. The machine had automatically printed a long transmitting phone number across the top. Arkady called the international operator, who identified the country code as Germany and the city as Munich. 'Do you have one of these?' he asked Polina.
'I know a boy who does.'
Close enough. Arkady wrote on Rudy's stationery, 'Need more information.' Polina inserted the page, picked up the receiver and dialled the number, which answered with a ping. A light flashed over a button that said 'Transmit' and when she pushed the button the paper started to roll.
Polina said, 'If they're trying to reach Rudy, they don't know he's dead.'
'That's the idea.'
'So you'll get pointless information or find yourself in an embarrassing social situation. I can't wait.'
• • •
They waited an hour without an answer. Finally Arkady went downstairs and visited the garage, where Minin was tapping the floor with the butt end of a shovel. The hanging light bulb had been replaced by one with greater wattage. Tyres had been moved to the side and stacked according to size, rubber belts and oil cans enumerated and tagged. Minin's only concession to the heat had been to remove his coat and jacket; his hat stayed on his head, casting an umbra across the middle of his face. The man in the moon, Arkady thought. When he saw his superior, Minin came to sullen attention.
Arkady thought the problem was that Minin was the classic dwarf child. Not that he was small, but Minin was the unloved creature, the sort who always felt despised. Arkady could have him removed from the team – an investigator didn't have to accept everyone assigned to him – but he didn't want to justify Minin's attitude. Also, he hated to see an ugly man pout.
'Investigator Renko, when Chechens are on the loose, I think I would be of better use on the street than in this garage.'
'We don't know if we're after Chechens, and I need a good man doing this. Some people would slip the tyres under their coat.'
Humour seemed to give Minin a wide berth. He said, 'Do you want me to go upstairs and watch Polina?'
'No.' Arkady tried human interest. 'There's something new about you, Minin. What is it?'
'I don't know.'
'That's it.' On Minin's sweat-darkened shirt was the enamel pin of a red flag. Arkady would never have noticed it if he hadn't taken off his jacket. 'A membership pin?'
'Of a patriotic organization,' Minin said.
'Very stylish.'
'We stand for the defence of Russia, for the repeal of so-called laws that steal the people's wealth and give it to a narrow group of vultures and money-changers, for a cleansing of society and an end to chaos and anarchy. You don't mind?' It was a challenge as much as a question.
'Oh, no. On you it looks right.'
Driving to Borya Gubenko's, it seemed to Arkady that the summer evening had fallen like a silence. Streets vacant, taxis camped outside hotels, refusing to carry anyone but tourists. One shop was besieged with shoppers, while those on either side were so empty they seemed deserted. Moscow looked like a cannibalized city, without food, petrol or basic goods. Arkady felt like a cannibalized man, as if he might be missing a rib, a lung, some part of his heart.
It was oddly reassuring that someone in Germany had asked a Soviet speculator about Red Square in English. It was confirmation that Red Square still existed.
Borya Gubenko picked a ball from a pail, set it on his tee, cautioned Arkady about the backswing, concentrated, drew the club back so that it seemed to encircle his body, uncoiled and lashed the ball on a line.
'Want to try it?' he asked
'No, thanks. I’ll just watch,' Arkady said.
A dozen Japanese teed up on squares of plastic grass, drew back their clubs and drove golf balls that sailed as diminishing white dots the interior length of the factory. The irregular pop of balls sounded like small-arms fire – appropriately since the factory used to turn out bullet casings. During the White Terror, Patriotic War and Warsaw Pact, workers had manufactured millions of brass and steel-core cartridges. To convert to a golf range, assembly lines had been scrapped and the floor painted a pastoral green. A couple of immovable metal presses were screened by cut-out trees, a touch appreciated by the Japanese, who wore golf caps even indoors. Besides Borya, the only Russian players Arkady could see were a mother and daughter in matching short skirts taking a lesson.
On the far wall, balls thudded against a green canvas marked in ascending distances: two hundred, two hundred and fifty, three hundred metres.
Borya said, 'I confess, I overestimated a little bit. A happy customer is the secret of business.' He posed for Arkady. 'What do you think?' The first Russian amateur champion?'
'At least.'
Borya's big frame was tamed by a plush pastel sweater, his unruly hair wetted into sleek golden wings around a watchful, angular face with eyes of crystal blue.
'Look at it this way.' Borya plucked another ball from the pail. 'I spent ten years playing football for Central Army. You know the life: terrific money, flat, car, as long as you can perform. You get injured, you start to slip and suddenly you're on the street. You go right from the top straight to the bottom. Everyone wants to buy you a beer, but that's it. That's the payoff for ten years and your busted knees. Old boxers, wrestlers, hockey players, same story. No wonder they go into the mafia. Or worse, start playing American-style football. Anyway, I was lucky.'
More than lucky. Borya seemed to have crystallized into a new, successful persona. In the New Moscow, no one was as transcendentally popular and prosperous as Borya Gubenko.
Behind the driving range, slot machines sang beside a bar decorated with Marlboro posters, Marlboro ashtrays and Marlboro lamps. Borya lined up his shot. If possible, he looked more robust than in his playing days. Also sleek, like a well-groomed lion. He swung and froze, studying a drive that faded at it rose.
'Tell me about this club,' Arkady said.
'It's hard-currency, members only. The more exclusive you make it, the more foreigners want in. I'll tell you the secret,' Borya said.
'Another secret?'
'Location. The Swedes have poured millions into an eighteen-hole resort outside town. It's going to have conference facilities, communications centre, super security so that businessmen and tourists can come without ever really staying in Moscow. But that sounds stupid to me. If I was going to invest money somewhere, I'd want to see what it's really like. Anyway, the Swedes are way out of town. In comparison, we're central, right on the river, practically across from the Kremlin. Look what it took – a little paint, Astroturf, clubs and balls. We're in guidebooks and foreign magazines. And all of it was Rudy's idea.' He looked Arkady up and down. 'What sport did you play?'
'Football in school.'
'Position?'
'Mainly goal.' Arkady wasn't going to claim any athletic distinction in Borya's company.
'Like me. The best position. You study, see the attack, learn anticipation. The game comes down to a couple of kicks. And when you commit, you commit, right? If you try to save yourself, that's how you get hurt. For me, of course, playing was a way to see the world. I didn't understand what food was un
til we went to Italy. I still referee some international games just to eat well.'
'To see the world' had to be a mild description of Borya's ambition, Arkady thought. Gubenko had grown up in the concrete 'Khrushchev Barracks' of Long Pond. In Russian, 'Khrushchev' rhymed with 'slum', giving bite to the title. Borya would have been raised on cabbage soup and cabbage hopes, and here he was talking about Italian restaurants.
Arkady asked, 'What do you think happened to Rudy?'
'I think that what happened to Rudy was a national disaster. He was the only real economist in the country.'
'Who killed him?'
Without hesitating, Borya said, 'Chechens. Makhmud is a bandit with no concept of Western style or business. The fact is he holds everyone else back. The more fear the better – never mind that it closes a market down. The more unsettled everyone else is, the stronger the Chechens become.'
On the tees a tier overhead, the Japanese hit a unified salvo, followed by excited shouts of 'Banzai!'
Borya smiled and pointed his club up. 'They fly from Tokyo to Hawaii for a weekend of golf. I have to throw them out at night.'
'If Chechens killed Rudy,' Arkady said, 'they had to get past Kim. For all his reputation – muscle man, martial arts – he doesn't seem to have been much protection. When your best friend Rudy was looking for a bodyguard, didn't he come to you for advice?'
'Rudy carried a lot of money and he was concerned about his safety.'
'And Kim?'
'The factories in Lyubertsy are closing down. The problem with interacting with the free market, Rudy always said, is that we manufacture shit. When I suggested Kim to Rudy, I thought I was doing them both a favour.'
'If you find Kim before we do, what will you do?'
Borya aimed the club at Arkady and dropped his voice. 'I'd call you. I would. Rudy was my best friend and I think Kim helped the Chechens, but do you think I'd endanger all this, everything I've achieved, to take some sort of primitive revenge? That's the old mentality. We have to catch up with the rest of the world or we're going to be left behind. We'll all be in empty buildings and starving to death. We have to change. Do you have a card?' he asked suddenly.
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