“Then we will simply forget my offer,” said Lunacharski.
“A very generous offer,” said the Wolfhound as the elderly waiter approached with two plates of food. “I know you are not hungry. Please forgive me, but I took the liberty of ordering the Strogonoff. It is my treat. I hope you will try it.”
“With pleasure,” said Lunacharski as the waiter placed the steaming plate before him.
“You said, Colonel, that you have information on two cases?”
“The other is a bit more delicate,” said Lunacharski, unsure of how to avoid eating any of the pungent creamed meat before him. “It involves the daughter of a Syrian diplomat.”
“The Durahaman girl.” On the horizon Snitkonoy just barely caught a glimpse of the sculpture of the Worker and Collective Farm Woman. In a moment he would be able to see the Space Obelisk that commemorates the progress of the Soviet people in mastering outer space.
“The case involves the murder of a Russian citizen by a known Russian criminal,” said Lunacharski. “However, the criminal was hired by the Syrian oil minister to murder his daughter’s Jewish lover. This information has also been passed on to the general.”
“The Syrian did not hire Leonid Dovnik to murder Grisha Zalinsky,” said the Wolfhound, abandoning his examination of the Moscow panorama and turning to his meal. “Dovnik was hired by the girl, Amira Durahaman. Strogonoff is a bit off I think, don’t you?”
Lunacharski looked down at his food, which he had not touched.
“No matter,” said the Wolfhound with a sigh. “It is edible. The girl, according to Dovnik, who is now in our custody, wanted to get away from her father and her boyfriend so she could run away with a married British businessman. The boyfriend threatened to tell her father, and the girl paid a woman named Tatyana to have Zalinsky killed. We have reason to believe that the Tatyana woman was murdered by the Syrian in an attempt to cover up his daughter’s crime.”
“Then we can use the information about the girl to get the father to—”
“I’m afraid not,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “The father has insisted that the girl be tried by a Russian court. He claims that Dovnik’s story is a lie. Since the woman Tatyana cannot be found to confirm the tale and Dovnik is a known criminal … Well. We have interviewed the girl at the Syrian embassy and she claims that she knows nothing about the murder. Lovely girl, I understand. Quite innocent looking. She suggests that Dovnik and the Tatyana woman did it all in the hope of extorting money from her father. The father claims he has a tape of a phone call made by this Tatyana, offering to find the daughter for a fee. We are now in the process of compiling a detailed account of her whereabouts while she was missing. She went from Zalinsky to Chesney and then moved in with a man named Arbanik who we suspect may be an Israeli agent. It seems the girl is attracted to the enemy, whether to provoke her father or … but who can say. Though our information is not complete, Interpol has sent us a preliminary report documenting that when she was fifteen years old a similar situation, including the accidental death of a young man, took place while she was with her father in Paris. Have you anything else that might be of service to us in our work?”
“And this, too, has been brought to the attention of—”
“Secretary Panyushkin, yes,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “A pity you had not come to me a bit sooner, so that your report, which seems to be somewhat in error, could be coordinated with our investigation. Do you have any other assistance you wish to give my department, Colonel?”
“Not at the moment,” said Lunacharski. He plunged his fork deeply into a square of cream-covered meat that looked absolutely repulsive to him, but he forced himself to raise it to his mouth.
“What do you think?” asked the Wolfhound.
“Most palatable,” said Lunacharski.
“You don’t find it a little tough? Just a bit too hard to swallow?”
“Not at all,” said Lunacharski. “It is delicious.”
Lunacharski had not simply underestimated this great maned peacock and his staff, he had underestimated him badly. Lunacharski’s impulse was to make an excuse, to claim another appointment, to run. He had errors to cover and reports to retrieve, if possible. But he would force himself to stay, to finish the food, even to have coffee with Colonel Snitkonoy.
Lunacharski was a man of patience. There would be changes in his staff and there would be another time, and at this other time Colonel Vladimir Lunacharski would be far better prepared.
At midnight, in the town of Arkush, in the church with four towers, Aleksandr Merhum helped the new priest put on his robes.
The ritual was familiar, for many times the boy had helped his grandfather perform the same ritual.
This priest was young and serious. He neither spoke nor sang under his breath. He neither noticed Aleksandr nor looked away from him, and this was fine with the boy.
When he was ready, the priest nodded to the boy and moved to the door beyond which the soft sound of singing could already be heard.
“You are the grandson of Father Merhum,” the priest said.
Aleksandr looked up at the man. His beard was long but showed no gray.
“Yes,” he said.
“You know the Gospels,” said the priest.
“Some, Father.”
“What comes at this moment to the mind of the grandson of Father Merhum?”
Without knowing why, Aleksandr Merhum thought of his father and mother, who were beyond the door waiting for the service to begin. Then he thought of the policeman with the sad eyes and the bad leg. Finally, he thought of Sister Nina and his grandfather, and the boy said, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him and without him was not anything made that was made.”
“Mir vsyem,” said the priest. “Peace be with you.”
“Spasi gospodi” answered the boy. “God save you.”
The priest opened the door, and the sound of voices came in. As he closed it behind him there was silence again. Alone, the boy continued the passage from Saint John which he had begun:
“In him was life and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”
Then the boy knelt, lifted the loose floorboard, and reached into the darkness. He pulled out the thick notebook he had seen his grandfather put there when the priest thought he was unobserved.
The boy carefully put the board back in place and moved to the table. Beyond the wall the voice of the new priest called out to the congregation.
Aleksandr Merhum opened the book and began to read.
HOLY FATHER, TO ACCEPT THE SINS YOU HAVE IN YOUR WISDOM IMPRESSED ON THIS WEAK VESSEL WHICH IS THE BODY OF VASILI MERHUM, I HEREBY COMMIT THIS CONFESSION IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1962:
In the Spring of the year 1938, in the village in which my father was priest, two weeks and ten days following my 15th birthday I entered for the first of many times the bed of Yelena Yozhgov, the mother of my best friend Oleg Yozhgov.
Since that time, I have committed many sins of the flesh and mind and sought in vain to control this test you have given me.
I will herein enscribe all of my transgressions in the hope that it will show me the path to righteousness.
In the sanctuary, the voice of the congregation swelled in song. Young Aleksandr Merhum continued to read. He understood little of what he read, but he knew that he had discovered a terrible and powerful secret. The policeman with the bad leg had known, but Aleksandr had not been weak. He had learned well from his grandfather, and the book would teach him more.
But it was well past the time he should have joined the congregation, so Aleksandr closed his grandfather’s book. He returned the book to the hiding place below the loose floorboard, straightened his cloak and walked to the side door that led to the narrow street. He would walk around and enter the front of the church.
SIXTEEN
&
nbsp; “YOU HAVE TWENTY MINUTES,” Sarah said. She was looking at the table, which was really the regular kitchen table and the metal folding table, covered with the white embossed linen cloth her mother had given her almost twenty years ago. With the help of Lydia Tkach, Sarah had set an appetizing table of zahkooskee, appetizers, including dishes of eggplant; caviar; blinis; cabbage mixed with onions, apples, and sugar; egg salad; and sprats. Four bottles of red wine and a bottle of cognac stood in the center of the table.
“It may be years before we eat this well again,” Sarah said.
“It looks very good,” said Rostnikov. He was still wearing his gray sweatsuit, and he held a large pipe wrench in his greasy hand.
Lydia, who was carrying out glasses and placing them next to each plate, made a disapproving sound. “Sasha may be late,” she said. “It is hard for him to walk.”
She looked accusingly at Rostnikov, who rubbed the back of his right hand against his already smudged nose. “It is also hard for him to see,” she added.
“I’ll go wash,” Rostnikov said.
“Did you fix the toilet?” asked Sarah.
“Ah,” said Rostnikov, looking at his wrench. “It was a challenge, an exercise in sympathetic imagination. Where was the first curve, the second? Where might the constriction be? I imagined myself as small as a mouse, crawling through this maze. Then it came to me. The problem was on the third floor, where the pipes come together and separate to serve the lower part of the building.”
“You fixed it,” said Sarah.
“I persuaded the Romanians to let me in,” he said with satisfaction.
“Toilets,” said Lydia. “He worries about toilets when people around him are being beaten to death.”
“Not toilets,” explained Rostnikov to Lydia’s back, unsure of whether she heard or was even trying to listen. “Plumbing. Plumbing is a hidden universe requiring concentration, expertise, ingenuity. The Chinese are magnificent plumbers. There is a great apartment building in Shanghai—”
“Porfiry Petrovich,” said Sarah. “They will be here soon.”
Rostnikov nodded. He imagined the grand design of arteries and veins within the walls of the apartment building in Shanghai, bringing in fresh water, taking away waste. The building was almost alive, a pulsing meditation in which he could lose himself.
The small shower stall in their bedroom was nearly perfect. Ideal circulation, even spray. The water was never really hot but it was often warm. He used his rough heavy-duty soap and sang a song in his head, a song from childhood whose words he could not remember, and when he emerged, he felt clean.
He dressed quickly and went back into the living room/kitchen. Iosef and a pretty young woman were talking to Mathilde Verson. Mathilde’s eyes wandered to Emil Karpo, who stood at the window looking down into the night.
Iosef was dressed in casual slacks and a heavy gray turtle-neck sweater. The pretty young woman had short dark hair and hardly any makeup. She wore a red long-sleeved wool sweater whose sleeves were pulled up to reveal bangly red bracelets. The young woman glanced at Rostnikov shyly, smiled, and touched Iosef s arm. Rostnikov’s son stopped his conversation and moved forward a step to introduce the girl. She could not have been more than twenty.
“Karen Vaino,” Iosef said.
Karen Vaino held out a pale hand to Rostnikov, who took it and found it surprisingly firm.
“Zdrahstvocytyee, how do you do?” said Rostnikov.
“Ochyeen’khahrhsho, very well,” she replied.
“Karen is an actress,” said Iosef. “My next play will be about women.”
“Women who work in shops and have little hope for a meaningful life,” Karen said.
“I can do it.” Iosef looked at the girl and smiled. “With Karen’s help.”
“I believe you will find a way to accomplish this creative challenge,” said Rostnikov with a smile. He looked at Mathilde, who was still watching Emil Karpo’s back.
Mathilde brushed hair from her face and looked at Rostnikov. He suggested to Karen and Iosef that they might help Sarah and Lydia.
“He is different,” said Mathilde quietly as Rostnikov approached her.
In the kitchen corner the others were talking, drinking, and laughing, even Lydia. Karpo’s back remained turned toward the room as he looked out of me window into the night.
“He is different,” Rostnikov agreed.
“He is losing his purpose,” she said.
“And searching for another, perhaps,” said the policeman.
“I almost wish there was no perestroika. Then the statues of Lenin would still be standing and the triumph of the revolution would still be plastered on the walls. Emil Karpo believed.”
She had raised her voice in frustration and Sarah looked in their direction. “I can see him as a monk,” Mathilde said with a wry laugh.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov quite seriously. “If there were such a thing as a secular monk. But there is not.”
“So?” asked Mathilde.
“So, he will work and seek,” said Rostnikov. “He will serve and, perhaps, service will become its own end.”
“Perhaps,” Mathilde said.
There was a knock at the door.
Sarah hurried over to open the door and let in the quite pregnant Maya, the battered Sasha, and a very tired-looking Pulcharia. The little girl held her father’s hand and blinked suspiciously at the crowd of adults.
“We are late,” said Maya. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Sarah, ushering them in. She motioned for Rostnikov to take their coats.
As Lydia hurried to help she looked up at her son’s eye and made a loud clucking sound to let Rostnikov know that this blight on her son’s beautiful face was his fault.
Rostnikov noted that Karpo, now standing alone across the room, had turned from the window and was impassively watching the round of greetings.
Since it was almost Pulcharia’s bedtime and her parents were certain that she would not sleep away from her own crib, the guests sat down to eat almost immediately. Everyone toasted Sasha frequently, and he responded with pained smiles.
Karpo stood at the window. He drank only a glass of water brought to him by Mathilde.
During the fourth round of drinks and toasts there was a knock. Rostnikov motioned for everyone to remain seated, but Iosef leaped to his feet and opened the door.
It was Anna Timofeyeva and Elena.
“We thought you couldn’t come,” said Sarah.
“A change of plans,” explained Anna.
Iosef took their coats and carried them into the bedroom.
Elena, her cheeks red and her hands still cold, was introduced to those she had not yet met: Lydia, Karen, Sarah, Maya, Pulcharia, and Iosef.
“This is the partner?” asked Lydia.
“Yes,” said Sasha, loud enough for his mother to hear.
“She is a child,” said Lydia.
“She is a very good policeman,” said Sasha.
“She had an excellent teacher,” said Rostnikov. He nodded at Anna Timofeyeva.
“She is too pretty,” said Lydia.
“She is quite pretty,” said Maya with a smile. “But it is more important that she is a good policeman.”
“Thank you,” said Elena.
“This looks like the end of a Chekhov second act,” said Iosef. “Now, all we need is a messenger with bad news so we can kill him between acts.”
“In Russia today,” said Karen, “it is the messengers with good news who are shot between the acts.”
The laughter was polite and glasses were held up for a toast.
Karen started off the obligatory round of glasnost jokes. Neither Anna Timofeyeva, who had given her life to the state, nor Karpo laughed, but neither did they show disapproval. Rostnikov watched, drank moderately, and in answer to a question from Lydia, said, “There will be no charges against the Arab girl. She is leaving tomorrow with her father for Syria.”
“Ah,” said Ly
dia knowingly. “A man dies, my son is almost killed, and Arab murderers go home on jet planes, probably Lufthansa. Where is justice?”
“But,” said Iosef, “you got the killer of the priest and the nun. Your colonel was on the news.” He looked at Karpo and his father and raised his glass in a toast. “And he did it for no reason,” Iosef continued, shaking his head. “I’ve seen men go mad like that in the army. Something inside of them bursts into violence, madness, or suicide.”
“Like in your play?” said Sarah.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“And now,” said Rostnikov, looking at Emil Karpo, “the world will never know why he killed.”
“He was the town’s party leader,” said Karen. “The party is dying. The church is coming back. He couldn’t tolerate it, just like they said on the news.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Rostnikov, rotating his leg just enough to forestall the pain.
“The priest was a saint,” said Lydia.
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “A toast. To the thirtieth birthday of Sasha Tkach.”
“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they all said. Sasha looked at Maya, who smiled at him and gently touched his swollen face.
And they all drank.
“To my babies,” said Sasha, touching his wife’s stomach.
“Zah vasheh’zdahrσv’yeh.”
And they drank again.
“To Lydia, who has helped when we needed her,” said Maya.
“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”
And once more they drank.
Pulcharia climbed down from her father’s lap and looked toward the window. Lydia held up her glass and said, “To Porfiry Rostnikov, who has the responsibility of safeguarding my only child.”
“Zah vasheh’zdahrov’yeh.”
They drank.
“To my wife,” Rostnikov said. “Who today got a job.”
“A job?” cried Iosef.
Sarah smiled and looked at her glass. “Nothing much, clerk at a music store on Kalinin near the metro,” she said.
“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they shouted.
“To my son,” said Sarah, after they had drunk, “who is home safely from the army and has written a wonderful play.”
Death Of A Russian Priest Page 20