Although he was well aware that people would not notice a uniformed man who minded his business, he did not want to be seen simply wandering the outlying stations. Someone, perhaps even a Metro police officer, might remember his odd behavior after the body was found.
Inside of Yevgeny Odom the animal pulled and demanded release. Yevgeny resisted, but the effort was greater than had ever been required before. Kola had desires, appetites that Yevgeny did not understand, but he knew they were part of him. He knew that Kola had to be cared for.
Yevgeny Odom closed his eyes, took a deep breath to soothe the animal, and opened his eyes again as the train slowed and stopped at the Profsoyusnaya Station. On the almost empty platform stood a figure in black, a gaunt, pale figure with unblinking eyes. The figure turned his eyes to the arriving train and looked directly at Yevgeny Odom. In that moment as the train stopped and the doors opened, it seemed to Yevgeny Odom that the ghost on the platform looked into him, saw the snarling animal within him, and understood. The creature on the platform had such an animal within him too. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing one’s own darkness.
Then the doors closed and the train pulled away slowly, smoothly building up speed. Yevgeny commanded his body and face to show nothing, his mind to feel nothing. Yet he had the feeling that someone else was looking at him.
Through the small window behind him, Yevgeny saw him, a jowly man in a cap. The man nodded dreamily as he looked across the rows of seats at Yevgeny Odom, who responded with a sincere grin.
The man in the cap did not grin back. He had been awakened from a dream of demons by the lurching of the train car leaving the station. He was going to Belyayevo, the end of the line, so he had no worries about falling asleep. But then his eyes had opened and he found himself looking at a devil dressed as a Metro trainman, a devil grinning at him ready to leap forward through the door and over the seats to rip out his eyes. The man sat upright, careful not to look at the devil again, and resolved not to fall back asleep. He adjusted his cap, checked his watch, and pulled a battered paperback novel from his pocket. He pretended to read for four stops and then, unable to help himself, he glanced up to find that the devil had turned his back.
Emil Karpo had spent the night riding the Metro, getting off at outlying stations, determining which ones were least used late at night. A Metro police officer, a woman named Katrina Vross, had been assigned to show him the stations, point out the likely areas of attack, tell him about security, the nature of crimes encountered, the recent history of bizarre underground behavior and outbreaks of madness.
Karpo had listened to her without response for over an hour and then indicated that he wished to proceed on his own. This was fine with Katrina Vross, a weary, short, baggy-eyed chain-smoker with the put-upon air of many Russian bureaucrats whose attitude suggested that any question you might ask was a major imposition on their time, a reflection of your own stupidity, and a confirmation that life was an endless series of debilitating repetitions.
Karpo had considered bringing Sasha Tkach on his rounds but there were many good reasons why this was a bad idea. One reason was that Tkach’s cold had gotten much worse and he needed rest and a quick and at least partial recovery to put Karpo’s plan into action. Another reason was that Tkach should not be seen with Karpo or any other members of the police. A third reason was that Sasha Tkach had no faith in Emil Karpo’s plan.
“Your evidence is weak,” Sasha had said as they drank tea at the kiosk near the small park across from Petrovka.
The tea had been Karpo’s idea and as soon as the morning rain had stopped, they had walked across Petrovka Street between the cars and headed toward the kiosk.
“It is not a matter of evidence. I have a conviction now that I understand something about 341’s processes,” Karpo had answered.
After he had sneezed and wiped his nose, Sasha had said, “Karpo, have you abandoned logic for mysticism? Even if you are right, even if he will strike next time or the time after that in the Metro, we can’t possibly have any idea of when it will be.”
Karpo looked down the street at the cars sloshing through the puddles of rainwater and shook his head.
“Intuition is a form of logical empathy, not mysticism,” he said.
“Karl Marx?” Tkach guessed.
“Pavlov.”
“And so”—Tkach sniffled with some disdain—“we are to haunt the tunnels and stations because you have a bond with 341. I would prefer some evidence. You are the one who always demands evidence.”
Karpo did not answer. Sasha shook his head and blew his nose.
The rain began again. Not hard but dank, cold, and oppressive from the gray sky. They took refuge under a broad tree, Sasha clutching his tea in two hands and looking quite miserable.
“Alternatives, as you well know, are being pursued. Park patrols with plainclothes officers are doubled. Sites of previous attacks are being patrolled by cars on their rounds.”
“And so,” said Tkach with some sarcasm, “you do not fully trust your intuition.”
“It would be a mistake to do so. Here.”
He handed Sasha Tkach a small amber bottle. Sasha took it.
“Paulinin said that you should take one every three hours with food,” said Karpo.
Tkach looked at the unmarked bottle.
“What is it? Where did he … ?”
“He got it from the pocket of a dead prostitute,” explained Karpo. “He analyzed it and found that it was English, a new antibiotic. It should help you.”
“Your concern for my health is touching,” said Tkach, pocketing the pills.
“I need you healthy and quickly,” answered Karpo. “The rain is stopping. We must get back.”
Sasha nodded and returned his plastic teacup to the kiosk manager, a short, fat man with an enormous nose.
And so Emil Karpo, after meeting with the deputy director of the Metro police and setting up a special-force low-profile patrol plan, had wandered the trains and stations listening to the subterranean rush of the cool air, watching faces, considering contingencies, and taking notes when he was alone.
It was on the platform of the Profsoyusnaya Station that he was observing an incoming train, scanning it to determine the number of passengers at this hour, when he saw the uniformed operator on the train.
The man wore a trainman’s cap that cast a shadow over his eyes, but Karpo knew the man was meeting his gaze. It was not unusual for people to stare at the vampire image of Emil Karpo if they felt it was safe to do so, as the girl Ginka in the owl makeup had done this morning. Occasionally, a person, usually a child, would look at him transfixed, wondering who this creature might be, their curiosity overcoming their fear.
But the man in the train, the man in the uniform, had looked at Karpo as if he recognized him, as if he had a question to ask, an important question. As the train had pulled away, his own reflection in the window was superimposed over that of the man within and Karpo had the fleeting impression that he was looking into himself at something he preferred not to see. Then the reflection, the man, and the train were gone.
Emil Karpo was not a man of great imagination. In fact, though he could see the occasional value of imagination in the methods of Porfiry Petrovich, his own strength had come through determination and a dogged loyalty to the law.
But Rostnikov was in Cuba. Mathilde, who had both imagination and a sense of humor he did not understand, was in Odessa. Paulinin had no interest in the living, and Tkach was too emotional and unfocused.
Karpo, therefore, was forced to rely on his own rudimentary imagination and was not sure whether his attempts were helpful or an impediment.
He stood on the platform, late-night commuters, Gypsy beggars, and occasional tourists giving him a great deal of room, as he tried to imagine the act of murder itself, tried to imagine himself in the park three days ago standing over the kneeling, perhaps pleading victim, Iliana Ivanova. He focused on a brick in the wall across the track
s, but the image that came was of Sasha Tkach’s daughter, Pulcharia.
Weeks ago, at a party for Tkach’s thirtieth birthday at Rostnikov’s apartment, Pulcharia Tkach had suddenly rushed across the room and leaped into Emil Karpo’s arms. Without thinking he had scooped her up and the child had nestled her head against his shoulder. He had smelled her hair, seen her pink bow mouth and the thin blue veins of her closed eyelids. And something had happened, a deeply buried feeling had pulsed, a feeling of an almost forgotten childhood, of a child he had not seen or thought about for more than two decades.
Now he stood, alone, on the platform of a Metro station trying in vain to remember a quote that would sustain him. Communism had been his only god and foundation for most of his life. A return to the company of mankind was an alien concept that he was reluctant to embrace, though the altered world offered him little choice. He could not cling to a system that had failed, yet he was reluctant to betray it. So, in an era when it was no longer profitable to be a Communist, he retained his membership.
He had seen the old Czarists and White Russians in the park, heard them talk furtively and futilely of the return of the Father. He had been moved by his conversation with an old nun before she was murdered, but the fire of religion did not burn hot enough within him to replace the solid, now toppled, figure of Lenin. One could not believe simply because one sought meaning in chaos.
Emotion was not a familiar companion. He had felt it more and more in the last year as the Union tottered and collapsed, and he was wary of these feelings. They seemed to accomplish so little and to promise only the anguish he witnessed in the faces of others. He had worked honestly and hard, had devoted himself to a lifetime of duty, party, and the law. The warmth of Mathilde and the trusting leap of Pulcharia gave him not hope but fear. Emil Karpo did not know what he would be if he ever set free the animal he had kept caged within him for more than thirty years.
Out of the dark tunnel another train approached. Emil Karpo had lost track of time. The air on the track and in the station was alive. He checked his watch. Four minutes. He had been told that it was four minutes between trains at this hour but he had to be sure, had to see it, hear it, confirm it, and record it in his notebook. Four minutes. That was the approximate time 341 would have in which to kill if he chose the platform of a Metro station.
When the train pulled in, Emil Karpo got on. He found a seat in front, looked through the window at the hole of darkness before him, and waited to plunge into it.
Then a quote did come to him, not from Lenin or Marx, but from Mao:
“Taught by mistakes and setbacks, we have become wiser and handle our affairs better. It is hard for any political party or person to avoid mistakes, but we should make as few as possible. Once a mistake is made, we should correct it, and the more quickly and thoroughly the better.”
ELEVEN
SASHA TKACH HAD A COLD. There was no denying it, no avoiding it, and no hiding it from Maya, who, Sasha was sure, was growing weary of his recurring bouts with viruses. He stood in the small cubbyhole that was the toilet and shower room of the apartment and looked at his face in the mirror. His nose was slightly red. His eyes looked moist. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cough. He was certain, however, that he had a cold.
The prospect for the rest of the evening and the next morning was bleak. Neither Maya, his mother, nor the baby had any symptoms, but Pulcharia had a slight fever. He was the carrier. And that meant that certain things were inevitable. First, he had passed his cold on to his daughter, and the two of them would pass it on to the rest of the family if they had not already done so. Second, he would have to accept and swallow at least two of the vile little balls of Chinese medicine that his mother kept in a jar in her drawer.
He would have liked a shower but the water was, as always, tepid. Since there was no heat in the apartment and the weather was cold, he was afraid of risking a chill in spite of his mother’s repeated assurances that one did not make a cold worse by being cold. On the contrary, keeping cold kept one’s temperature down.
Yes, no doubt. Sasha now had the first sign of chills. He checked his shaved face, looked at his reasonably clean teeth, put on his robe, brushed his unruly hair back, and stepped out to face Maya, who was waiting her turn for the washroom.
“Yah plokhah syeebyah choostvooyoo. I’m not feeling well,” he announced in the next room, the only other room in the apartment, he could hear his mother urging Pulcharia to eat something.
Maya, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in her purple Chinese robe, stood and moved toward him.
“You are warm,” she said, touching his face.
“Because I am ill,” he said. “I just—”
“Yah nye galohdnah. I’m not hungry,” came Pulcharia’s small voice from the next room.
“Shh,” Maya said, touching her husband’s lips with her finger and then speaking softly. “I am not going to make you take care of the baby. I’m not going to ask you to make love. I am not going to give you a reason to fight with me because you don’t feel well.”
He had to admit that he had armed himself with anger, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “I’m not looking for a fight. Why would I look for a fight? I’m just …”
Maya’s soft round face moved to his and kissed him softly.
“Thank you,” he said. “But now you are certain to catch my cold.”
“It was inevitable,” she said.
Maya leaned against him.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I have as many reasons to be as discontent as you and as many reasons to be in a good mood. We have too little money and no privacy and no likelihood that it will change. But we have the children, a place to live, and each other.”
“I must work tonight,” he said. “And maybe for many nights.”
Maya stepped back and looked at him, her cool palms against his cheeks.
“I doubt if you will be much use to anyone as you are.”
“And … ?”
“And nothing.” She moved past him to turn on the shower. “I have learned not to argue with you about such things. You will do them anyway.”
“The water is cold,” Sasha said.
“Invigorating,” she said.
Sasha smiled.
“It’s just potato soup,” Lydia’s voice crackled from the other room over the beat of the shower water. “It will make you well.”
Maya took off her robe, moved behind her husband, and put her arms around his waist.
“I just told you, I’m sick,” Sasha said, sniffling.
“Then there is no way to avoid it. It is better to get it quickly and get it over than try to hide from the inevitable.”
“Now you are a philosopher,” he said, putting his warm cheek against her cool one as she moved in front of him.
“I’ve always been a philosopher,” she said. “What I lack is recognition.”
“Perhaps I should pay closer attention.”
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it.”
“A little. I eat a little,” said Pulcharia from the next room.
Maya smiled, her face inches from Sasha’s nose.
“You know you are depriving me of my righteous self-pity and anger,” he said.
She nodded.
“I could sulk and be angry about that.”
“Not once you have recognized it,” she said.
“Philosophy and psychology,” he said with a sigh. Then he stepped back from her. “I think I am going to sneeze.”
And, indeed, he did sneeze, a serious, moist, loud sneeze that brought his mother running into the room, Ilya in her arms clinging to her neck.
“Sasha, you are ill,” she announced in the loud monotone that confirmed her growing deafness.
“I sneezed one time,” he said, holding up a finger for her to see. “One time. One sneeze. One—”
And he sneezed again.
Triumph an
d disapproval clouded Lydia Tkach’s face as she looked at her naked daughter-in-law.
“Here, take,” Lydia said, handing the baby to Maya.
Pulcharia came padding barefoot into the bedroom. She wore a small T-shirt that advertised a French movie called La Triste.
Lydia was scurrying toward the dresser in the corner.
“Shto, what?” asked Pulcharia.
“Your father is sick,” bellowed Lydia. “Sick like you. Probably gave it to you.”
Sasha looked at Maya, who stroked the confused baby and shrugged helplessly at her husband. Pulcharia began to cry.
“Found it, here,” said Lydia, stepping back from the open drawer and holding up the milky bottle. For all Sasha knew, the marble-sized gray-white pellets that rattled around in it contained powdered excrement of eel.
“I am not ill,” Sasha insisted as his mother advanced on him, opening the bottle and paying no attention to his protest.
Considering the fact that he would spend all of the next day and who knew how many days beyond wandering through crowded, drafty Metro stations in the hope of attracting a serial murderer, Sasha looked at his wife and baby and then at the face of his red-nosed daughter and had the sudden urge to laugh. It made no sense. Only moments before he had been filled with anger and self-pity, but now it all seemed so absurd.
“Here,” Lydia said. In her outstretched palm rested two round pellets.
Sasha took them and winked at Pulcharia. The little girl appeared amazed at the size of the objects in her father’s hand and at the fact that he was putting them in his mouth.
“Water,” Lydia said. “Wait.”
She ran toward the outer room as Pulcharia ran after her.
“Why am I going to laugh?” he asked Maya.
“Because you are a Russian,” she said.
“And why am I taking these things?” he said.
“Because you love your mother, who drives you mad,” she said, rocking the baby on her shoulder.
Lydia returned holding up the half-full glass of water. He put the pills in his mouth, washed them down without gagging, grimaced at the strange bitter aftertaste, and handed his mother the empty glass. Maya laughed and Lydia looked at her.
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