The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “We can’t stop at museums,” Vasily said.

  “I say where we stop,” Peotor responded gently. Vasily grunted.

  “Who says where we stop, Boris? Tell my son,” Peotor said, pressing the issue.

  “You do,” Boris said, unwilling to be in the middle of a battle between father and son.

  “You do,” Vasily agreed with a sigh.

  Peotor reached past Boris’s face to slap his son playfully.

  “It is in Klin Pyotr Ilich composed Sleeping Beauty, the Fifth and Sixth symphonies, Hamlet, The Nutcracker. Of Klin, Tchaikovsky once wrote, ‘I can’t imagine myself anywhere else. I find no words to express how much I feel the charm of the Russian countryside, the Russian landscape, and this stillness that I need more man anything else.’”

  “Beautiful,” said Vasily sarcastically.

  Peotor chose to ignore his son and, to Boris’s relief, said, “Our country can have this tranquillity, this sense of history, identity restored. We can do this, Boris.”

  “We can,” Boris agreed. “Why are we going—?”

  “Patience,” said Peotor.

  “Shut up,” whispered Vasily.

  The woman driving the car giggled slightly.

  And then they had come to Klin. Well, not quite to Klin. Just beyond it, to the barn down a narrow wooded road. There was a clearing, and on the left a few stone remnants of what had once probably been a great house. On the right was the barn, which looked reasonably sturdy. Stone and wood, it stood silently as Peotor, Vasily, Boris, and the woman climbed out.

  “Here,” Vasily said, putting something in the right hand of Boris, who walked forward between the father and son, who both wore long coats, as did the woman. The woman walked slightly behind them. “Into your pocket,” Vasily whispered.

  Boris obeyed and walked with them to the barn door, which Peotor opened into near darkness.

  “Stop,” came a voice from somewhere deep inside the barn.

  The quartet stopped and Peotor spoke.

  Someone threw open a wooden window that clattered, shook, and let in a bit of twilight, not enough to see faces but enough for Boris to see figures, perhaps five of them.

  “You have it?” came the voice that had first spoken. It seemed to come from a large, outlined figure to the left.

  “In the trunk of the car,” said Peotor.

  “Let’s look,” said the voice.

  “Let us first see the weapons,” said Peotor.

  A muffled conversation went on in the darkness between the large figure and another, slighter figure.

  “Step forward, alone,” the large figure said.

  Peotor nodded and stepped forward. A flashlight came on and pointed to a table against the wall. Four large suitcases stood on the table. The suitcases were old, of different colors. The light caught metal in the suitcases as Peotor advanced and examined the contents.

  Boris tried to penetrate the darkness but could see nothing and only heard the pleased humming of Vasily. After a long minute and the sound of metal clanking and the tunnel of light from the flashlight bouncing from suitcase to suitcase, Peotor turned.

  “All right,” he said.

  Vasily’s humming got louder, and the Oriental woman stepped up next to Boris.

  “Good. Let’s see the money and get out of here,” said the large figure.

  “No money,” said Peotor. “Not that kind of money. We can’t afford it. We need it for living. A revolution is expensive, and we have too few friends. But we do have something of greater value for you.”

  “No money, no weapons,” the man in the dark said angrily.

  And then a flash and a boom, a cacophony that echoed through the barn, causing a sonic boom in Boris’s head, but that was only the beginning. At his side, Vasily lined his automatic weapon and began firing. People tried to scurry, but there was nowhere to go. A figure went for the open window and was torn by a fresh burst from Vasily. At Boris’s side, the Oriental woman prodded him. She had a handgun and was firing into a corner at something that may or may not have been human.

  “Shoot,” she said with a hiss. Boris pulled his hand from his pocket, and in it was a pistol he could barely see. Behind them the barn door opened. Boris turned. A woman, perhaps a boy, stood in outline like a perfect cutout. In the hand of the woman-boy was a shotgun. Without thought, Boris Trush fired at the figure and wet his pants at the same time. The figure fell as the noise of death and weapons throbbed through Boris’s head.

  And then all was silent.

  In the heartbeat of that instant of silence, Boris considered turning his gun on the Oriental girl, on Vasily, on Peotor, but before the instant had throbbed he knew he could not do it. He might kill one of them, but the others would turn him into one of the lifeless, bloody creatures that lay in the darkness around him.

  “Vasily?” Peotor’s voice called from the darkness.

  “Yes.”

  “Lia?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied.

  “Boris?”

  Boris could not speak. He looked down at the dead figure in the doorway.

  “Boris?” Peotor repeated impatiently.

  “Yes,” Boris answered.

  Someone moaned near the table. Another shot.

  “Good,” said Peotor. “Let’s do this.”

  Boris could see a bit better now with the door open, but he did not want to see. Peotor closed each of the suitcases and handed one to Vasily and the woman. He took one himself and held one out for Boris, who could not move.

  “Boris,” Peotor said firmly, and Boris shuffled forward, stepping over the large dead man near the table, taking the suitcase.

  And then they were back in the car. Vasily had taken the pistol back from Boris. The suitcases had been placed in the trunk.

  Boris needed a change of clothes, but it took him a moment to realize it. He was also afraid to say it, afraid Peotor would tell him to take the pants of one of the dead men.

  As they pulled away, Boris looked back at the doorway of the barn and told himself, It was a small man, not a boy, not a woman, a small man who would have killed me. A small man. But he was not sure.

  “Hurry. I’ve got to get back to the city tonight. Wait. There,” Peotor said as the woman hit the outer road. “Look. Against the sky. The old church. See it?”

  Boris turned his head in the direction Peotor was looking. Perhaps he saw something. Perhaps not. Two days earlier he had simply been a bus driver.

  TEN

  EMIL KARPO SAT ON the hard wooden chair in the darkened bedroom, considering what he would do if he resigned his position. He could think of nothing. He had spent his life till now serving the State. He existed to serve the State. He had no interests but the service of the State. His task was to locate those responsible for crimes and turn the criminals in for trial. Criminals were parasites draining the energy of communism. Emil Karpo was, at that moment, in need of a metaphor, but none came to mind. In fact, the “parasite” image was not his own but Karl Marx’s. Karpo did not imagine a crawling or flying or slithering creature attacking a determined and noble bear named Russia. Emil Karpo had no imagination. He considered this his principal strength.

  The person on the bed in front of Karpo stirred but did not awaken. Karpo watched unblinking, unmoving. Karpo had to be on a street corner more than two miles away in less than twenty minutes. If the figure in the bed did not awaken soon, Karpo would have to awaken him.

  Because he had no imagination or had used it so little, Emil Karpo could not put words to his present feelings, though he knew his dilemma. His responsibility was to catch Yuri Vostoyavek and the girl in the act of conspiring to kill Andrei Morchov or to stop them as they were about to perform the act. Never before had Karpo’s duty been so clear. Morchov was a key member of the Politburo.

  Karpo did not want to admit to himself that he had disliked Morchov. That was not relevant. Should not be. Karpo did not want to admit that he could see the anguish, desperation on th
e faces of the girl and Yuri Vostoyavek. But Karpo was not easy on himself. He acknowledged these realizations and considered them threats to his effectiveness.

  The penalty for conspiring to assassinate a member of the government was death.

  “Huh,” the figure in the bed grunted in the darkness, perhaps sensing another person in the room. He sat up, eyes blinking.

  “Mother? What are you … ?” and then Yuri Vostoyavek knew that the outlined, straight-backed figure in the chair next to his bed was not his mother. It didn’t even seem to be human.

  “Who are …” Yuri began and then whirled and reached for a weapon, any weapon. His hand closed on the metal alarm clock on the table next to his bed. He jumped out of bed naked and breathing heavily as Karpo rose and caught the descending hand holding the clock. Yuri tried to punch at the skeleton face before him with his free hand, but that, too, was stopped by Karpo.

  The boy did not scream. He was afraid. Karpo could feel that, had felt it many times before. Karpo could smell his fear, and the boy could smell a dry cleanliness on the night figure, a smell he immediately equated with death.

  “He found out. He sent you,” Yuri said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the one I saw this morning.”

  Karpo held the boy’s hands so that he could not move. Their bodies were together. When Yuri had awakened and leaped from the bed, Karpo saw that he had an erection. The erection was gone now, but the boy was not limp.

  “Then kill me,” he whispered and dropped the clock.

  The clock clattered to the floor, and a voice called from the next room. The voice of Elena Vostoyavek, Yuri’s mother.

  “Yuri, what … are you all right?”

  Yuri’s face was inches from Karpo, and his eyes were now sufficiently adjusted to the minimal light to see the unblinking, gaunt face before him.

  “I’m fine,” Yuri called. “I knocked over the clock.”

  “Yes,” his mother called and went back to sleep.

  “Then do it,” he whispered to Karpo. “Do it and be sure it looks like murder. I don’t want my mother and Jalna to think I was a coward.”

  “I’m not going to murder you,” Karpo said. “I’m going to warn you. One warning. What you plan to do is known. Stop and it is the end. Stop, Yuri Vostoyavek, or it will be your end and that of the girl. You understand?”

  Yuri looked at the emotionless face inches in front of him, tried to see the eyes in dark shadow, tried to understand what was happening and thought only that he had to get to the toilet, had to get there very quickly.

  “I understand,” Yuri said. Karpo let him free and stood back.

  “I was not here,” Karpo said, stepping back into the dark corner of the small room, where there was a door that led to the hallway in front of the apartment. Karpo did not think about the name of the girl that Yuri had uttered. He did not have to think. He knew from the file he had carefully studied that Morchov’s daughter was named Jalna. He knew that in the morning he would check to be sure that the girl who wanted Morchov dead was his own daughter. And he knew what he would find.

  “I was not here,” Karpo repeated softly.

  Yuri nodded, not knowing if the dark figure was still there when he did so, not hearing a sound. And then Yuri headed for the toilet.

  Emil Karpo was not late. It was eleven twenty-one when he arrived in front of the Tass building just off of Koltso Boulevard. Rostnikov was sitting on a bench reading a book by the light of a streetlamp. Sasha had not yet come. The hour was late, the area deserted but for a pair of late-night lovers who crossed the street, moving toward the Church of the Ascension to avoid the strange pair of men who seemed to be waiting for a bus long after the buses had stopped running for the night.

  Rostnikov put his book away, nodded at Karpo, and invited him to sit next to him on the bench. Karpo hesitated and then sat.

  “I have a car,” Rostnikov said. “Around the corner. It must be back before dawn. What do you have, Emil Karpo?”

  “What do I have? Nothing,” said Karpo.

  “You look like you have something, the memory of a nightmare or a bad conscience,” said Rostnikov, shifting his weight. “Would you rather not join us tonight?”

  “You believe you may need my assistance?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will join you. If you sense a restiveness in me, it is not about what we will do tonight.”

  “The Morchov business,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.

  Karpo said nothing.

  “Would you like me to take it over?”

  “It is my responsibility,” said Karpo firmly.

  “Your responsibility is to see that, if possible, no one gets hurt,” said Rostnikov. “The courts are crowded with cases. People sit in their homes, in cells waiting for a hearing on whether they stole a neighbor’s potato pie or failed to meet a quota in their small factory. Our duty is often done best if we bring a case to conclusion without the need of a court.”

  Somewhere behind them came the sound of footsteps. They were soft, faint, and almost certain to be unheard by anyone not listening for them, anyone but a policeman. Both Karpo and Rostnikov heard the steps coming in their direction.

  “A trial is the right of every citizen,” Karpo said with less man his usual full conviction on such issues.

  “It is a right that many citizens would gladly forgo if they could be given other options,” said Rostnikov.

  At this point Sasha came around the corner, breathing heavily.

  “I’m late,” he said.

  “It gave me an opportunity to discuss the philosophy of the legal system with Emil,” said Rostnikov, standing up.

  “I was trying to find a woman in the Arbat who may be a lead to the missing bus and … that can wait,” Sasha said. “I had to call Maya. I haven’t been home.”

  “You want to go home?” Rostnikov said, reaching down to massage his leg. “Emil and I can continue our discussion and handle the situation.”

  “You said you might need me,” said Sasha, brushing his hair back. He had not shaved since early this morning, and amber bristles on his cheeks caught the light from the streetlamp and, strangely, made him look even younger man usual.

  “We might,” Rostnikov said.

  “Then let’s go,” said Sasha.

  Moments later they were in the green four-door Moskvich Rostnikov had signed out from Petrovka. On his application for use, he had cited a stakeout to catch a factory thief. The garage clerk was not a dim fellow but he was not secure and would not question the authority of a superior unless the clerk was being watched. Zelach had driven Rostnikov and the car to the street just behind Tass and then had gone home on the Metro, as Rostnikov requested. Zelach had neither asked what was happening nor had appeared to have any curiosity about the matter.

  Karpo drove. They had turned the corner and were a block away from where the car had been parked when the dark Chaika, its headlights off, began to follow them.

  Boris Trush lay on his cot in the run-down farmhouse beyond nowhere and tried to rid his mind of the repeating refrain of the childhood song, but it would not go away. It was better than the vision of the boy he was sure he had killed in Klin, but it was terrible nonetheless.

  “In the field is standing a birch tree,” it repeated over and over and over again. He knew that Tchaikovsky had used the song in some symphony or other. Boris didn’t know or care much for music, but this he remembered.

  He should not be thinking of songs. Boris wanted to think about escaping, wanted to think about the murder he had committed. No, no, he did not want to think about that. And, besides, it wasn’t a murder. He didn’t want to be there, in that barn, in this house. He wanted to be home in his bed, wanted to check his trip ticket for the morning, wanted to get up and have a strong cup of coffee and put on his uniform and drive his bus. Boris wanted his routine. He cared nothing for freedom. He wanted the comfort of his routine, not this song of birch trees, not this box of madness.

&n
bsp; Beyond the wall and his song Boris could hear Vasily and the Oriental girl Lia grunting, rolling, laughing, bouncing. They murder and then they have sex. They have no routine, Boris thought. He hated them, envied them, wanted them to be quiet, wanted the song in his brain to cease so he could sleep. If the song would go away, if Vasily and the girl would stop their games, Boris could sleep and then he could awaken refreshed, ready to make a plan.

  “Not with that. I don’t like that,” the girl’s voice came faintly through the wall. She sounded playful, unafraid.

  “You’ll like it,” said Vasily. “Believe me.”

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  “I’m always sure,” said Vasily.

  Boris looked across the room into the darkness, where one of the young men in the group slept or pretended to sleep. He considered getting up, going to the window. He could not get through the door.

  Boris had not seen Peotor Kotsis since they returned from the horror at Klin. He had simply said that he would be gone for a while and disappeared. Boris wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse with Kotsis around. As insane as he seemed to be, Vasily was even more mad.

  Just before he turned off the lights, the young man watching Boris had moved his own bed to block the door, but there was a window. If he could only think. No, not the window. The wooden floor creaked with each step night or day, and the window had not been opened since they had arrived. Perhaps it couldn’t open? Even if it could, it would make noise. But … the girl beyond the wall laughed. She kills and laughs.

  Boris began to sit up. He was shaking, damp with sweat though the night was cool.

  “No,” came a voice through the darkness.

  “I need to—” Boris said.

  “No,” came the voice again.

  “But I can’t—” Boris said with a sigh.

  The young man guarding him didn’t even bother to answer. Boris lay back to the sound of passion beyond the wall and the birch tree song inside him.

  There were four dogs and two guards at the Lentaka Shoe Factory. The dogs roamed the inside of the factory throughout the night, during which they were given no food. In the morning, before the first workers arrived, the dogs were rounded up by the guards, fed, and taken away to a massive kennel to join hundreds of other animals from hundreds of factories, stores, warehouses, concert halls, and museums.