The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey left Gerasimov waiting at the bulletin board outside and walked into the church on Basmanny. Masha had told him this temple was new. But as far as Andrey could tell, there was no difference. It had the same golden onion dome, the same bell tower, the same whitewashed walls.

But he only made it two steps onto church grounds before his way was blocked by a bearded man in a dull-gray suit and a shirt out of Russian folklore. The man asked him, in a formal but perfectly courteous voice, who he was. Understandable, thought Andrey. Compared to the Old Believers, after all, he probably looked suspicious, clean shaven and strange. Andrey showed him his badge, and the bearded man, nodding curtly, suggested they go have a chat next door.

Andrey was surprised to learn that there was an Old Believer-style café right there next to the church, and he looked around curiously when they got inside. The decor included brick walls, simple tables with dark-wooden benches, and an icon of the Virgin Mary on the wall.

The bearded man closed and locked the door, then sat down across from his uninvited guest at a corner table.

“I am Yakov.”

Yakov’s eyes looked like nails pounded deep under his bony brow. “Ovechkin is not at the church right now. But I am in charge of the café and the souvenir stand. Perhaps I might be of assistance?”

Andrey glanced again around the dim room, which smelled maybe just a little like incense. He had been hungry all morning, and couldn’t help asking his host, “What kind of food do you serve here?”

Yakov smiled behind his beard and apologized that the café was closed for the beginning of the week and there was nothing he could offer. But other days, people could eat here for a reasonable price, and find food that didn’t violate any religious strictures. No meat or dairy during Lent, of course, but the rest of the year they served traditional food. Meat pies, cabbage soup, lapshennik…

Andrey nodded, and although he had never heard of lapshennik, he felt even hungrier than before.

“Let me tell you what I came for,” he said, afraid his stomach might growl. Yakov tilted his head to one side, ready to listen. “We have a particular suspect we’re working on. We think he might be connected to the Old Believers.”

Yakov winced. “You believe your suspect is a member of our community? Could I ask on what basis you ground this belief?”

“No.” The refusal sounded harsh, but Andrey didn’t want to get into the whole Jerusalem mess. “We’re thinking a middle-aged man, physically strong, well educated. A doctor, teacher, soldier, or”—Andrey smiled wryly—“a police officer. Most likely drives a dark-blue automobile. I’d appreciate it if you could let me know if any of your parishioners meet that description. Especially ones with a tendency for fanaticism.”

Yakov sighed and frowned. “You have come here because you are under the impression that Old Believers are religious fanatics. Is that so?”

Andrey didn’t answer.

Yakov held the awkward silence, drumming his neatly clipped fingernails against the dark-wooden tabletop.

“You know,” he began, “in the nineteen seventies, Soviet geologists stumbled upon a plot of potatoes growing deep in the taiga. The Old Believers who cultivated that field had lived there for fifty years completely cut off from the rest of the secular world. They missed everything about this modern world, but they never felt as if they were missing a thing. For me, being in the family—and that is what we call ourselves, a family—is akin to that plot of potatoes. A glimmer of civilization in the dark wild, where the dangerous beasts go creeping. If this suspect of yours has committed a terrible sin…” He stopped and peered at Andrey with his small, sharp eyes. “That means he has not come to terms with the beast. He is reacting against it. That beast, that human beast, frightens him. We have been taught to be frightened. Do you understand? All around us the world has been changing, ever since 1666, that diabolical year of our schism with the tyrants and religious innovators. All of these present-day reality shows of yours, these vulgar faces, the naked bodies splashed sinfully across millions of screens in every home, are no more dangerous to us than the medieval, tsarist, or Communist commissars with their heretical new ideas. Our community has seen this all before. They burned our homes down around us, but we never responded in kind, you see. All we have done is held to our own.”

“So you don’t ever get new converts?” Andrey asked skeptically.

“Some do search us out,” Yakov admitted. “But they are people looking for their roots. As much as Russia has suffered, as much as people’s souls have been made to twist and turn in the wind, our minds sent spinning in different directions, turning now to communism, now to the blossoming of capitalism…” Yakov shook his head sadly. “Yet still, there are young people who wish to retreat into the depths of tradition. There is nobody deeper in tradition than the Old Believers. You know yourself that the Russian people are beset with rot. Everything here is as rotten as the rod they use to beat us. Just think! In all of history, only once have the Russian people said no to the state, no to the tyrants. Our people kept hold of their dignity through all the persecution, the executions, the torture. We have survived for four centuries now. And look what sort of blindness the Lord has sent down to curse us! Ours is a history full of hardship and miraculous courage, but nobody sees anything other than religious obsession!”

Yakov thumped the table with his fist, then suddenly calmed down again and stroked his beard. “Go with God, and do not look for your fanatic among the Old Believers. None of us have picked up the sword, not for a long time. We ensconce ourselves in our cells or we leave this life. That is our way.”

“So nobody is crusading for purity? You never get anyone who wants to, you know, clean up this rotten country?” Andrey pressed.

“You, young man,” Yakov told him quietly, “have forgotten the meaning of the word dignity. But I do not blame you. Forgetfulness has become a national trait.” He turned to face the icon on the wall.

Andrey stood up and said good-bye to his bearded informant. Yakov hadn’t convinced him of anything, and obviously, if Andrey wanted some insight into the church, he’d have to find a different source. He stopped outside for a cigarette. The night before last, sitting on that windowsill in the warm circle of his arm, Masha had told him that these schismatics did not smoke, didn’t even drink coffee or tea, much less anything alcoholic. She knew that thanks to Kenty, who had imprinted her since childhood with his tales of the Old Believers. “They used to keep a full bottle of vodka at home,” Masha had relayed. “Just to show that the man of the house didn’t drink.”

That would have been a good choice in Andrey’s own home growing up, he thought. Maybe his father would have lasted a little longer. There were other families that could have benefited, too. The pale little faces of Petya and Kolya flashed before his eyes.

Suddenly his cigarette tasted bitter. He tossed it into a trash can nearby.