Stalin's Ghost

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “Consider me a python.” Arkady slipped into bed.

  They ate in bed. Brown bread, mushrooms, pickles, sausage and vodka.

  Eva filled his glass. “Last night at the clinic, one of the other doctors, a woman, asked me, ‘Do you know the curse of Russian men? Vodka! Do you know the curse of Russian women? Russian men!’”

  “Cheers.”

  They touched glasses and downed the vodka in one go.

  “Perhaps I am your curse,” Eva said.

  “Probably.”

  “Zhenya and I complicate your life.”

  “I hope so. What kind of life do you think I had?”

  “No, you’re a saint. I don’t deny it.”

  Arkady sensed a slide in Eva’s mood and changed the subject. “Zhenya said, ‘He’s here.’ That’s all?”

  “He said it as he went out the door.”

  “He didn’t say where he’d been or where he was headed?”

  “No.”

  “He could have seen anyone. A famous chess player, his favorite soccer star. Maybe Stalin. Can we talk about us?” Eva leaned forward and laid her head on Arkady’s shoulder. “Arkasha, I can’t compete with a wife who died young and beautiful and totally normal. Who could compete with that?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “But you wish she were, is what I mean. You know, you never showed me a picture of Irina; I had to find one on my own. Irina was lovely. If you could, wouldn’t you want her back?”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  He set the tray aside and pulled her close. Her breasts were tender from making love but they stiffened again. Her mouth sought out his even though their lips were sore and slightly bruised. This time the rhythm was slow. With each stroke a soft expulsion of air escaped her lips, so much easier than words. They could go on forever, Arkady thought, as long as they never left the bed.

  But they were going someplace. The bed was a magical carpet that took an unfortunate plunge into an abyss when he said, “Don’t act as if this is about Irina. It’s a lie to pretend it’s just Irina. A highly skilled investigator notices such things as strange phone calls and mysterious absences.” Well, this is exciting, he thought. They had touched down in the abyss, where the air was thin and the heart bounced around the rib cage.

  “It’s not what you think,” Eva said.

  “I’m fascinated. What is it?”

  “It’s unfinished business.”

  “You can’t finish it?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I was in Chechnya Nikolai Isakov saved me.”

  “Tell me again why you were there. You’re not Chechen or in the Russian Army.”

  “Someone had to be there. Doctors had to be there. There were international medical organizations.”

  “But you were on your own.”

  “I don’t like organizations. Besides, on my trusty motorcycle I was a moving target.”

  “Were you trying to be killed?”

  “You forget that I’m a survivor. Besides, Nikolai let it be known that he would slit the throat of anyone who touched me.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  She watched him for a flinch. “And I expressed my gratitude in the traditional manner.”

  “Well earned, I’m sure. So Isakov is a hero in bed and out.”

  “Everyone had a scheme. Tank commanders sold fuel, quartermasters sold food, soldiers traded the ammunition for vodka and they went home in coffins stuffed with drugs. Nikolai was different.”

  “Then why are you wasting your time with me?”

  “I wanted to be with you.”

  “It’s getting a bit crowded, don’t you think? Two is company and all that. But I appreciate the farewell salute.” It was the meanest thing he could think of to say and he had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes sting.

  The phone rang again and a voice—not Zurin’s—said to the answering machine, “Eva, pick up, it’s Nikolai.”

  It was Arkady’s turn to burn.

  “Eva,” the man said, “can you talk? Did you tell him?”

  “Is it Isakov?” Arkady asked.

  “I have to take this,” Eva said.

  She wrapped a sheet around herself before picking up the phone. The cord only stretched so far and she turned away to whisper. Suddenly nakedness seemed ridiculous to Arkady and the scent of sex cloyed.

  What was the etiquette of cuckoldry? Should he leave them to their privacy, allow himself to be chased from his own bivouac? It wasn’t as if he and Eva were married. It was clear that she could still physically act as if they were lovers and, from time to time, banter cheerfully enough to raise his hopes, at least until tonight, but the performances took more effort all the time. It was rare that their work shifts coincided because she scheduled her hours more to avoid Arkady than to see him. Betrayal was exhausting, weighting every word with double meaning. Even when they made love he would spend the rest of the night examining everything Eva had said or done, watching her as if she were going to slip away and watching every word he said so as not to jar the mutually constructed house of cards. It had collapsed now, of course.

  The funny thing was that Arkady had brought them back together by bringing Eva to Moscow, strolling with her around Patriarch’s Pond on an autumn day and not understanding her shock when Isakov called her name.

  “Keep walking,” Eva had said.

  Arkady said, “If it’s a friend, I can wait.”

  “Not yet,” Eva whispered to the phone, while her eyes stayed on Arkady. “I will, I will, I promise…. I do, too,” she said and set the receiver down.

  Everything but a kiss, Arkady thought.

  It wasn’t by chance that Isakov called when Arkady was likely to be home. Isakov was rubbing his face in it.

  The phone rang again, jarring him. Arkady felt his breathing build. Eva backed away.

  “I know you’re there, Renko. Turn on your television. Congratulations, you’re on the news,” Zurin said and hung up.

  Arkady turned on the set. There were only six channels. The first showed the president laying a wreath, his eyes twisted one way, mouth another. Soccer. Patriotic films. Chechen atrocities. Finally, Prosecutor Leonid Zurin himself on a snowy street corner with a female reporter. Zurin’s white hair whipped back and forth and his cheeks were apple red. He smiled indulgently, a natural actor. After his desperate phone calls to Arkady, Zurin seemed to have regained himself.

  “…a long winter, and sometimes winter is like the doldrums of summer, when all sorts of strange stories seem to be news, only to be forgotten a week later.”

  “So the rumors of Moscow citizens encountering Stalin in the Metro are fabrications?”

  Zurin spent a moment in consideration. “I wouldn’t say ‘fabrications.’ There was a report of a disturbance at a station last night. I sent a senior investigator who was particularly familiar with Stalin issues to the scene and he determined, after interviewing all the so-called witnesses, that no such event had, in fact, taken place. What had happened, according to Investigator Renko, was that some of the older riders got off the train earlier than they had intended and, as a result, found themselves stranded with a blizzard above and no more trains below.”

  The reporter would not be shaken off.

  “Which Metro station?”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Are you investigating further, Prosecutor Zurin?”

  “Not to chase phantoms. Not while there are real criminals on the street.”

  “One last question, how did this rumor about Stalin get started? Do you or your investigator think it’s a hoax? A political statement?”

  Zurin composed himself. “We think no conclusions need be drawn. Stalin is a figure of undeniable historical significance, who continues to draw positive and negative reactions, but there is no reason to make him responsible for every mistake we make.”

  “Ev
en getting off the train at the wrong stop?”

  “Just so.”

  Arkady sat, stunned, dimly aware that the next news item was on the trial of a war veteran who had shot and killed a pizza deliveryman who resembled a Chechen. Other vets were lending moral support to their brother in arms.

  Eva turned off the set. “You are ‘familiar with Stalin’? What did Zurin mean by that?”

  “You’ve got me.”

  The phone rang and this time Arkady picked up.

  “Ah,” Zurin said. “No more games. Now you answer. Did you see the news? Wasn’t it interesting?”

  “There should have been no publicity.”

  “I agree with you but, apparently, someone spoke to the press. I had to deal with reporters because the investigator assigned to the case was incommunicado. Renko, the next time I call you, whether it’s your weekend or your deathbed, you will jump to the phone.”

  “‘Familiar with Stalin’?” Eva repeated. “Ask him what he means.”

  Zurin said, “Explain to your lady friend that she is in a vulnerable position. Today I decided to review her papers. Doctor Eva Kazka is a divorced Ukrainian national with a Moscow residency permit based on her employment at a city polyclinic. Previous employment, a medical clinic in the Chernobyl Zone of Exclusion. A negative word, even a phone call from my office, and she would lose her present employment and her permit and go back to playing doctor for two-headed babies in Ukraine. Do you understand? Just say yes.”

  “Completely.” Arkady watched Eva pull the sheet tight around herself.

  “And that’s why you will answer every time I call and why you will handle this investigation exactly as I say. Do you agree?”

  Eva said, “Whatever it is, say no.”

  Arkady said, “What investigation? You told the reporter there wouldn’t be one.”

  “What else could I say? That we were going to conduct a ghost hunt in the middle of Moscow? There will be an investigation but it will be confidential.”

  “Don’t you think people will wonder why I’m asking questions if I’m not on a case?”

  “You will have a case. You will investigate the claims of a citizen who says he has received threats against his life.”

  “Then he wants a bodyguard, not me.”

  Zurin said, “We don’t take it seriously. He’s reported death threats for twenty years. He’s paranoid. He also happens to be an expert on Stalin. You’ll be doing an investigation within an investigation. In fact, I’ve arranged it so you start tonight. The expert has agreed to meet you at the Park Kultury Metro and take the last train of the night for Chistye Prudy station. You will ride in the last car, since that seems to be where the sighting was.”

  “Who is this expert?” Arkady asked, but Zurin had hung up.

  “You weren’t going to do this,” Eva said.

  Arkady filled her glass and then his.

  “Well, you changed your mind and now I’ve changed my mind. Cheers.”

  Eva left her glass where it was. “I have to go to work. The last thing I need is to tend sick children with vodka on my breath. You are ‘familiar with Stalin issues’? What did Zurin mean by that?”

  “My father knew Stalin.”

  “They were friends?”

  “That’s hard to say. Stalin had most of his friends shot. Let me drive you to the clinic.”

  “No. I’ll walk. I can use the fresh air.” Eva was on a different tack. “Did Stalin ever visit this apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m standing where Stalin stood?” She looked down at her bare feet.

  “Not here in the bedroom, but in the rest of the apartment, I suppose so.”

  “Because I always like to absorb the atmosphere and now I feel that I have really come to Moscow.”

  “That’s the historian in you.”

  “It’s certainly not the romantic.”

  Ah, that was it, Arkady thought, Stalin was to blame.

  For the workers who burned with ambition, for soldiers slack-jawed from hash, for those too old and too poor to wave down a car, for revelers going home with a split lip and broken glass in their hair, for lovers who held hands even wearing gloves, and for the souls who had simply lost track of time, the illuminated red M of the Park Kultury Metro was a beacon in the night. They stumbled in like survivors, stamping off snow and loosening scarves while Arkady watched. Fifteen minutes to the last Red Line train and he had seen no one resembling a Stalin expert.

  Eva knew he had been less than forthcoming about part of his conversation with Zurin. Now they had both lied. What should he have said? If he had told her that the prosecutor was using her as leverage, she would have packed and been gone in a day. Even if she had promised not to, he would have come home to find the apartment empty.

  Something was moving along the banked snow of the sidewalk. It made progress and then stopped and rested against the bank. A faint snowfall sparkled. The approaching something developed an overcoat and the sort of tufted knit cap a Laplander might wear for herding reindeer, and closer, a prow of a nose, woolly brows, and blood-raddled eyes. Grandmaster Platonov.

  “Investigator Renko! Look at these fucking boots.” He pointed to the felt valenki he wore.

  “They’re on the wrong feet.”

  “I know they’re on the wrong feet. I’m not a cretin. There was no place to sit down and switch them.”

  “Are you my Stalin expert?”

  “Are you my protection?” Platonov’s glare folded into resignation. “I guess we’re both fucked.”

  5

  The Moscow Metro is the underground palace of the people.” Platonov limped, one boot on and one off, as he pointed at the walls. “Milk white limestone from the Crimea. Now that the riffraff is gone, you can see it properly.”

  With its arches and tunnels, the hall of the Park Kultury station looked more like a monastery than a palace. A cleaning woman shuffled on towels across a wet section of the floor at about the same speed Platonov was moving.

  Arkady asked, “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “To meeting a phony Stalin? This is an idiotic prank. Did you find Zhenya?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t, not until he’s ready.” Platonov stepped onto the down escalator, sat to finish switching boots, stood to put his cap in one pocket and, from another pocket pulled a white silk scarf he flung around his neck. Fumes of liberally applied cologne finished the effect of a bon vivant, a man about town.

  Ahead, a man with a violin case hurried down the steps. Behind, an old man in what had once been an elegant astrakhan cap gallantly carried a handbag for his wife while she pursed her lips and rouged her cheeks.

  “Nervous?” Arkady asked.

  “No,” Platonov said too quickly, and repeated, “no.” With his heroic beak, he could have been a Roman senator or King Lear cast out by ungrateful daughters so they could play chess. “Why should I be nervous? I take this subway line every day. It was dug by volunteers during the most difficult times of the thirties and the war. You can’t imagine it now, but we were idealists then. Everyone, male and female, the young cadre of the Party, vied to dig the Metro.”

  “Not to mention brigades of forced labor.”

  “Some convicts redeemed themselves through labor, that’s true.”

  “Which reminds me, has anybody notified the Communists that Stalin is back? I think the Pope would be informed if Saint Peter were seen in the streets of Rome.”

  “As a courtesy, Prosecutor Zurin, knowing the Party’s interest and concern, did inform us. I’ve been delegated to make a report.”

  “So, besides teaching and playing chess, you are also a Party bureaucrat?”

  “I told you at the chess club that I was well-connected.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Any sane man would have run from the assignment, Arkady thought. “And you chose me?”

  “I thought I detected a glimmer of intelligence.” Platonov sighed. “I may have been wron
g.”

  The train had collected the dregs of the evening: an inebriated officer of the Frontier Guard who leered at four prostitutes shivering in skimpy jackets and high-heeled boots. Arkady and Platonov took one end of the bench, the pensioners Antipenko and Mendeleyev took the other end. The violinist dropped into a corner seat, set his violin case across his knees, and opened a book. He had a round face and a wispy beard à la Che. Arkady didn’t expect many passengers in the last carriage; the Metro was famous for its safety, but the later the hour the more people gravitated toward the front of the train.

  As the doors closed, Zelensky, the filmmaker, rushed in and took a seat near the far end, where he emanated nervous energy in a spooky black leather coat that emphasized how thin he was. His frizzled hair looked especially electrified and iPod cords hung from his ears. As the train pulled out he pushed a duffel bag under the bench. If he noticed Arkady he didn’t show it.

  Park Kultury station fell behind; Kropotkin, Lenin Library, Okhotny Row, Lubyanka and Chistye Prudy stations lay ahead. Lightly loaded, the train flew through the tunnel with added whip. Windows turned to mirrors. A pale man with deep set eyes sat across from Arkady. No one should ever have to confront himself, he thought, not on the last train of the night.

  Platonov rambled on about the Metro’s glories, the white marble hauled from the Urals, black marble from Georgia, pink marble from Siberia. At Kropotkin station he pointed out the enormous chandeliers. The station was named for Prince Kropotkin, an anarchist, and Arkady suspected that the chandeliers would have made the prince’s hand itch for a grenade. Six elderly riders got on, including those two ancient riders from the night before, Antipenko and Mendeleyev. Arkady wondered what the odds were of three passengers riding the same carriage as the night before. Why not, if they had regular schedules?

  Zelensky listened to his music with his eyes closed, an occasional nod betraying the beat. Arkady had to give him credit; iPods were the most frequently stolen item on the Metro, but the filmmaker seemed blithely unconcerned. Mendeleyev and Antipenko snatched glances at Arkady, their eyes bitter and bright. Their youth had coincided with the peak of Soviet power and prestige. Little wonder they were wistful and furious at the downward course their lives had taken.