A Fine Red Rain

CHAPTER THREE

Rostnikov knocked at one of the glass doors of the New Circus and shaded his eyes to peer into the lobby. Nothing seemed to stir. He knocked again and saw some movement. Behind him thunder cracked, but it was the thunder of a departing storm heading north. What had Duznetzov said before he leaped from the Gogol statue? Something about a man who saw thunder? A face appeared on the other side of the window, the face of an old man with sunken gray cheeks and steely gray hair that wouldn't stay in place. He wore a shiny old blue suit that looked at least two sizes too large.

"Zakri' ta, closed," the old man shouted. Then he pointed a bony finger to the right. "Kah' si, ticket office."

Rostnikov pulled out his identification card and placed it against the glass. The old man fished out a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, donned them, and opened his mouth to read the card. Enlightenment came suddenly, and the man pushed open the door.

"But the police have already been here," the old man said, stepping back to let Rostnikov enter.

"We are here again," Rostnikov said, looking around the lobby.

"I see. I see," said the old man, folding his hands and looking around for help that didn't come. "I see."

"Good," said Rostnikov.

"You've come about the accident, about Pesknoko. Tragic. Tragic. Tragic."

"And Duznetzov. You know about the death this morning of Valerian Duznetzov?"

"Comrade Valerian," sighed the old man. "Coincidence. Yes. Coincidence. Coincidence. Amazing. Two in the same act in one day. It never happened before. Patnietsko says bad luck comes in threes. I would not like to be Katya. No. I wouldn't want to be Katya."

"Katya?"

"Katya," said the old man with irritation. "You know. Katya."

"Katya?"

"Rashkovskaya."

"The last…"

"… member of the Pesknoko act. Yes."

With this the old man shook his head, looked down, and appeared to be lost in his thoughts.

"When I was a boy," the old man said, still looking down, "my father was an assistant to Lunacharsky. He, my father, called him Anatoly Vasilyvich. That's how close they were. They started the postrevolutionary circus together. I met Gorky. Stanislavsky used to pat me on the head. Right like this. On the head."

With this, the old man reached down and patted the imaginary head of an imaginary boy. Rostnikov imagined his son, Josef, and interrupted. "I'd like to see this Katya Rashkovskaya. Where could I find her? And the circus director?"

"The director?" the old man asked, stepping back. "No. No. No. The director is away, setting up a tour. Been gone for… I don't know. Weeks. Perhaps the assistant?"

"An assistant will be fine, Comrade," said Rostnikov, wanting to find someplace to sit. "And Katya?"

"Rashkovskaya, yes. I'll see what I can find. If you'll…"

"I'll go into the arena," Rostnikov said, walking to one of the entrance doors.

The old man mumbled something behind him, but Rostnikov kept walking. As he opened the door he heard the old man's footsteps echo away behind him. It was not quite dark inside the arena though the lights were down except in the ring in the center. There was, as in all Russian circuses, only one ring so that all attention could be focused on an individual performance or spectacle.

Two men in the ring were trying to get a pig to do something with a barrel. Rostnikov watched silently for a few moments and then turned and started to walk up a stairway toward the first of two promenade walkways that circled the arena.

Behind him, their voices pleading, demanding, the two men urged the squealing pig to greater effort. It was difficult to pull his reluctant leg up the stairs, but Rostnikov went higher, searching for something. He remembered the lights above the arena, the reflecting lights that resembled a rippling circus tent. He remembered the four huge, evenly spaced screens circling the arena above the wood-paneled walls. He remembered the complex rigging, with clinking metal catching the lights high above like stars. And then, among the 3,400 seats, he found the two he was looking for, the two seats in which he and Josef had sat one night more than a dozen years before.

Rostnikov sat in the seat he thought had been his and looked down at the two men and the pig, who seemed to be getting closer to whatever it was they were trying to do. Rostnikov watched in the semidarkness as one of the two men reached up to grasp a metal bar, suspended from the darkness of the ceiling, and bent backward. Then, suddenly, miraculously, the man kicked his feet upward, where they remained, perpendicular to the ground, defying gravity. The first man placed the pig on the contorted man's outstretched legs, and the pig himself rose on two legs, balanced on the contorted man. Meanwhile, the standing man cooed soothingly to the pig. It was an odd but fascinating sight.

"When we see the back of an individual contorted in fear and bent in humiliation, we cannot but look around and doubt our very existence, fearing lest we lose ourselves. But on seeing a fearless acrobat in bright costume, we forget ourselves, feeling that we have somehow risen above ourselves and reached the level of universal strength. Then we can breathe easier."

Without turning to the deep male voice behind him, Rostnikov said, "Karl Marx."

"Yes, Karl Marx," said the voice. "You are a good Soviet citizen, Comrade."

"I like the circus," Rostnikov answered, still fascinated by the men and the pig.

"That is the Brothers Heuber and their pig, Chuska," aid the deep voice. "They are paying homage to the great political satirists Vladimir and Anatoly Durov and their pig. Chuska. Pigs are the smartest of all animals. Not dogs, not horses, not bears, not cats. Pigs."

"Monkeys?" asked Rostnikov without taking his eyes from the act below him.

"Monkeys, perhaps," said the man, moving to sit beside Rostnikov, "but only because they share with us the opposable thumb. You've worked in a circus? No, I'd know you. But you have the arms of a lifter or catcher."

"I lift weights," said Rostnikov as the act in the ring came to a sudden end. The man who had placed the pig on the other's feet grabbed the animal and tucked it under his arm. The perpendicular man eased himself down and the two men strode away talking, arguing, as Rostnikov turned to face the man at his side.

"I am Mazaraki, Dimitri Mazaraki, announcer and assistant to the head of the New Moscow Circus. I used to be a trick lifter. I still do the act occasionally, but my back is not so certain as it was. Now I cannot hold up twelve young women on a platform all representing a year in a new agricultural plan, all dressed as different grains. No, now I can only do five-year plans."

Rostnikov took the man's hand. It was, like the man himself, strong, firm. Mazaraki was wearing a perfectly pressed light gray suit with a one-color black tie. Standing, he would be half a head taller than Rostnikov. He was about Rostnikov's weight and about ten years younger, perhaps forty. He had a billowing black mustache and dark wavy hair with a white streak on the left temple. Most impressive were his bearing, his straight back, his muscles straining against his suit.

Rostnikov wondered if Mazaraki's white streak looked like the white streak of Cotton Hawes in the 87th Precinct novels. For a moment he couldn't quite remember on which side Hawes's white streak was, only that it had been caused by a knife.

"… as it usually is," Mazaraki said.

"I'm sorry," said Rostnikov. "I was thinking."

"I said," Mazaraki said with a weary grin, "the circus is not as busy today as it usually is. The accident. Yaro said you were here about the accident?"

"It may not have been an accident," said Rostnikov, watching Mazaraki's face.

Mazaraki smiled as if he were being told a joke. Then he realized it was no joke.

"Not an…"

"Perhaps," Rostnikov said with a shrug. "Who knows? First one partner leaps from a statue and at the same time another accidentally dies in a fall. It could be a coincidence."

"The officer who came earlier…" Mazaraki began.

"… did not know of Duznetzov and his flight from Gogol's head," finished the inspector. "I haven't been to the circus for a dozen years."

Mazaraki was probably confused, which was fine with Rostnikov.

"The safety net did not hold, is that correct?" asked Rostnikov, looking down at where the net would be during a performance.

"That's right," said Mazaraki, adjusting his lapels, which needed no adjustment. "We have the best support crew in the world, the best, but Oleg may have tried to adjust the net himself. Maybe…"

"Maybe," agreed Rostnikov with a sigh, standing up. "I should like to talk to the surviving partner, Katya Rashkovskaya."

"She's not here," said Mazaraki. "We sent her home. This was difficult for all of us, but for her it isit is devastating."

"Yes," agreed Rostnikov, resisting the urge to massage his leg for the trip back down the stairs he should not have climbed. "Duznetzov drank?"

"Yes," said Mazaraki, standing. He was even taller than Rostnikov had guessed, not quite a giant, but a man to be looked at twice on the street. "Valerian Duznetzov was fond of vodka."

"Did he say strange things when he was drunk?" asked Rostnikov, starting down the stairs. A new act had begun to take over the ring for rehearsal; a wire was being strung about a dozen feet from the ground. The four gray-uniformed attendants moved quickly, quietly, efficiently, while a man and woman in zippered sweat suits waited patiently for them to finish.

"We all say strange things when we are drunk. It is the nature of being drunk. Would you like to stay and watch for a while, Inspector…"

"Rostnikov. No, I would like to be given the address of Katya Rashkovskaya."

"You say Valerian said strange things before hehe jumped from the statue. What strange things?"

"He said he could fly and he could teach me to fly to other countries if I had the money. And he seemed to be afraid of a man who saw thunder."

"That makes no sense," said Mazaraki.

Rostnikov shrugged and continued down the steps.

"Does a pig balanced on the feet of an acrobat make sense?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes," Mazaraki said, laughing, as he followed behind him. "It all makes sense. The pig is a figure of the farm economy, delicately balanced to serve the needs of the peo pie by the skill of the Soviet farmer, who can juggle, balance, perform near-miracles of skill. It also demonstrates the level of specialized skill Soviet society can nurture, admire, and protect."

"It is fascinating," said Rostnikov, coming to the arena exit door. "But it makes little sense."

He turned to face the larger man, who worried his mustache with his fingers and cautiously examined this rather strange policeman. Then the bigger man grinned and shook his head as he whispered, "Perhaps you are right, but it would be just as well to protect illusions. The illusions of adults are as important as the illusions of children. I trust that this conversation is between us alone."

"Your trust is safe," said Rostnikov, turning for a glance at the young woman who was climbing up to the wire. She began to bounce gingerly, her breasts rippling under the sweat suit.

"It can't hurt for you to watch for a minute or two," said Mazaraki.

"Well," said Rostnikov, "perhaps for a minute or two."

The two men turned and watched the act from the darkness of the entranceway, and Rostnikov thought that it would not hurt to see Katya Rashkovskaya a little later, to eat a little later, to get home a little later tonight, to talk to Sarah about Josef's posting to Afghanistan a little later tonight. His eyes moved to the young woman, who balanced, turned to the voice of the man who stood below her, and Rostnikov felt for an instant as if the woman were moving in slow motion.

Precisely at noon, according to the clock on his desk, Emil Karpo placed the pen he was writing with in line with the two other identical pens on his desk and got up from his chair. He walked to the small sink in the comer of the room, filled his teakettle with water, prepared his cup, and started the hot plate, on which he placed the kettle. He took a neatly wrapped half-loaf of grainy dark bread from the cabinet under the table on which the hot plate stood, tore off a large piece of the bread, placed it on the plate that held the waiting teacup, and stood facing the wall over his bed. He began the exercises he had been taught to strengthen his left hand, began counting as he opened, closed, twisted, tensed, relaxed. He finished the last exercise within three seconds of the water's boiling.

Karpo removed the teakettle using his right hand, prepared his tea, and sat at the small table near the window to eat. He considered raising the window shade but decided against it, against the distraction that daylight might cause. He ate slowly, chewing fully, drinking in small sips, not allowing himself to think, concentrating on the patterns of grain in the bread, the particles of tea in the dark bottom of his cup. Emil Karpo never ate at the same table at which he worked and he never thought about his work when he ate. It wasn't because he-enjoyed eating. Emil Karpo neither enjoyed nor disliked it. He knew his body; his sense of taste responded to ice cream, a fact that caused him to avoid eating ice cream as an act of discipline. No, he ate away from his desk because he believed his mind needed cleansing, respite.

Following the meal, Karpo cleaned his cup and plate hi the sink, set them out to dry, and then stepped behind his desk chair, on which he placed his palms, and closed his eyes. Images came. He thrust them aside, ordered them to go without words, and they went. Words came. He banished them as well. When they were gone, he banished thinking about them and for what seemed but an instant Karpo heard only the possibility of a hum and saw only the faint hint of roundness. When he opened his eyes, he saw by the clock that he had been meditating for almost an hour.

Karpo sat at his desk and reviewed what he had. The eight cases appeared to have their means of death in common: multiple stabbing, lower abdomen, pelvic area. The number of penetrations varied from seven to sixteen. The depth of the plunges was similar. The blade, according to the report by the medical laboratory technician Paulinin, was the same one in all cases. Paulinin had concluded that the killer was a man, probably reasonably large and strong.

Beyond this, little was evident. The murders were generally in places where prostitutes could be founda few bars on Gorky Street, near the railway stationsbut there seemed to be no pattern. Two in a row were in the Riga Station area. Three were within two blocks of the Yaroslavl Station, but they weren't consecutive. There were no murders near any of the other seven railway stations. And there was no pattern to the specific sites. Twice the killer struck in doorways. Once in a women's public toilet. The deliveryway to the Marx and Engels Museum another time. The period between murders formed no pattern. It varied from months to days. Even the time of day established little other than that the murderer probably had a job with normal day hours, since all of the murders took place in the late eveningwith one exception. The second prostitute, Hild Grachovnaya, had been murdered on a Tuesday afternoon, which might or might not have meant that Tuesday was the killer's day off. The women had nothing in common other than that they were prostitutes. Some were young. Some not so young. One was a Ukrainian. Another was a Mongol.

The charts in front of him looked random, and Karpo knew that a further complication might be that there were other victims about which he knew nothing. There were a few missing prostitutes. But that meant little. They might even be dead, but it didn't prove that this serial killer had murdered them. It might also be that he didn't kill only prostitutes, that he killed other women, men, boys, children, in a different manner, that the victims dictated the way they would be killed. That might account for the mis-filed report. It had been in the file along with the others. Karpo had carefully copied every word. He had his copy before him, but it made little sense. It was in the file for this killer, but it had the wrong file number, at least it had originally had the wrong file number. Someone had carefully crossed out the old number and typed in the number of this case.

There had been a number of people investigating the murders; each one was listed on the enclosed reports, along with Anatoly Vidbraki, who had been assigned the entire series a year ago, just before he dropped dead of a heart attack. There had been a murder since thentwo, if one counted the killing recounted in the renumbered report. Karpo reread his copy of the report on the murder of Sonia Melyodska. It had been a stabbing but with a different knife from all the others. The murderer had stabbed only twice and much deeper than in the other killings. The killing had been in the daytime, which was not necessarily out of the pattern, but the victim had definitely not been a prostitute. She had been a soldier in uniform on leave, and she was killed on the stairway in the Vdnkh Metro Station. The killing was even witnessed by an old woman who saw only that the killer was a heavy man who fled up the stairs.

Normally, Emil Karpo would have simply examined the report and determined that the investigating officer had made a mistake, in this case a very big mistake. That was not uncommon. Though it displeased him, Karpo had long since learned to accept incompetence and lack of dedication among the police, as he had learned to accept it among shop clerks, street cleaners, office workers, everyone. There was nothing wrong with the various economic and revolutionary plans that had been put forth to move the Soviet Union forward. The problem lay in the lack of discipline of the people, not all the people, but too many people: the very old, who were corrupted by memories of life before the revolution, and the young, who were corrupted with visions of tempting sloth in France and the United States.

The weakness of the people, the corruption of the system, were not peculiar to the Russians. Karpo was sure of that. Triumph, vindication, for communism would not ultimately begin with the masses. It never had. It would begin with the few who were dedicated, were willing to sacrifice, to take on the burden and serve as silent examples. Lenin had done this.

But this apparently misfiled report was not a sign of weakness and mistake. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had written this report, had conducted the investigation of the murder of Corporal Sonia Melyodska in the Vdnkh Metro Station. In many ways Rostnikov was a puzzle to Emil Karpo. In many ways Rostnikov, with his unstated criticism of the state, was a challenge to Emil Karpo. But Rostnikov did not make big mistakes like this. In investigations, Rostnikov seldom made any mistakes at all. He moved carefully, slowly, sometimes too slowly, but he did not make mistakes.

The solution was simple. Karpo turned off his desk lamp, stood up, and went to look for Rostnikov.

At the moment Emil Karpo left his small room and carefully set on the door the tiny hair that would betray an intruder, Sasha Tkach was sitting in the office of the assistant procurator for the Moscow district. Procurator Khabolov's hound dog face was sniffing the report Sasha had written on the Gorgasali brothers, Felix and Osip, the black market dealers in videotapes and records. It didn't seem important enough to Sasha for him to be called right to the assistant procurator's office. It was a large, bare office with a desk in the middle of the wooden floor, a pair of large windows behind the desk, and a photograph of Lenin between the windows. Sasha Tkach had been in this office very few times. He did not enjoy his visits. He would have felt more comfortable clutching the briefcase on his lap, but he kept his hands resting gently on it as he watched Khabolov's face.

Assistant Procurator Khabolov, on the other hand, greatly enjoyed the visits of junior investigators. Khabolov had been in his current position for less than a year, having replaced Anna Timofeyeva, who had put in ten years without a vacation and had worked eighteen-hour days and six-and-a-half-day weeks during that decade until the moment of her first heart attack. Khabolov was determined that he would meet no such fate. As dedicated as Anna Timofeyeva had been to her job, Khabolov was dedicated to Khabolov.

He pretended to read the report one more time, slowly, watching Tkach out of the corner of his eyes. Some of the older, more experienced inspectors were less impressed by Khabolov's act. Their visits were not visits he enjoyed. Little was known about Khabolov among the staff of the Procurator's Office, but he was not viewed as a man of mystery. Most knew enough and guessed the rest after spending ten minutes with him.

Khabolov had no training in law. He had come to his first term as a deputy procurator after having distinguished himself as a ferret who sniffed out shirkers among factory workers. His moment of glory had come when he discovered the tunnel in an Odessa piston factory through which workers were smuggling vodka, which they consumed in great quantities, leading to a slowing down of production and a failure to meet quotas. Khabolov had later, through the payment of strategic bribes, discovered how a trio of dock workers had funneled Czech toothpaste into the black market. He had been rewarded for his many revelations with the job he now held.

"Mmm," Khabolov hummed, eyes still fixed on the report. His hand went up to the top button of his brown uniform. He unbuttoned the button and sat back, reaching for the now-tepid cup of tea in front of him.

Sasha Tkach knew enough to show nothing.

Khabolov finished his tea, put down the cup, looked at the report, placed it on the empty desk, and patted it with his hand. Only then did he look at Tkach.

"Fartsoushchiki," he said with contempt. "Black marketers. You can smell them."

The deputy procurator's nostrils curled as if he were smelling one of the Gorgasali brothers.

"You've done well. This is a good report. You've returned the twenty rubles you did not spend?"

"Yes, Comrade," Tkach said quickly.

"And the record album?"

"Here, in my briefcase," Tkach said, snapping open the case and reaching in. His hands found the wrapped copy of the children's book he had bought for Pulcharia, moved under it, and came out with A Hard Day's Night. Khabolov didn't move.

"I can…" Tkach began.

"Leave it right here," Khabolov said, his hands folded on the desk, his eyes on Tkach.

Tkach put the album on the edge of the desk. Khabolov ignored it.

"This is an important black market operation, Comrade Tkach," the deputy said, leaning forward, his voice dropping. "Perhaps not as important as the automobile thieves you were instrumental in catching, but quite important."

Since Khabolov seemed to be waiting for a response, Tkach said, "Yes, Comrade."

"Quite important," Khabolov repeated, as if something were now understood between them. "They have other connections, these brothers of yours. That is certain. We can bring them in now or we can take this investigation to the next step, to find out who supplies these brothers, these traitors to the five-year plan."

Again Khabolov waited.

"What is the next step, Comrade?" Tkach asked.

"I will personally visit these two thieves who deserve to be prosecuted, deserve to be shot," Khabolov said, his hand reaching out to touch the Beatles album on the comer of the desk. "I have experience in situations like this, black market rings like this. I have worked closely with the KGB, very closely. This can serve as an important learning experience for you."

"Thank you, Comrade Procurator," Tkach said.

"For the time being," Khabolov went on, opening his desk drawer and sliding both Sasha's report and the album into it, "we will keep this investigation quiet. When we have the entire ring, you will be given full credit."

"Thank you, Comrade," said Tkach.

"Good, good. That will be all for now," said Khabolov, retrieving a file from another drawer. "You have other cases. Get back to them and I'll let you know when this one needs your attention."

With mis Khabolov's wet eyes turned to the new report, and Sasha strode to the door and out into the hall.

Tkach checked the lock on his briefcase, took in a deep breath, and hurried to the Petrovka elevator. He wasn't sure if Deputy Khabolov took him for a fool or for a young man wise enough to play the fool. He wasn't at all sure how clever Deputy Procurator Khabolov was. He might be playing a role, setting Tkach up.

The elevator door opened and Tkach entered. Two women in the rear were talking to a man Tkach recognized from the criminal records room in the basement. Tkach nodded at Pon, and Pon adjusted his glasses and nodded back as the elevator doors closed.

Tkach was quite sure what he was going to do. He was going to forget the video pirates and get back to his other cases. He was going to forget the video pirates and let the deputy procurator do whatever he planned to do. All he wanted to do now was finish out the day and get home to his wife and daughter with his gift.

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor and Tkach got out.

"It's been a hard day's night," he said to himself and smiled, but it wasn't a smile of mirth.

"What are you smiling about, you soggy bear?" Nikolai asked as Yuri entered the apartment on Galushkina Street.

Yuri had not been aware that he was smiling. He had nothing particularly to smile about, less now that he could see that Nikolai was drunk again. Nikolai was a near-dwarf of a man who.always needed a shave and was forever brushing back his hair, which, when he was drunk, was somehow always wet. Also, when he was drunk, Nikolai's cheeks puffed out as if he had just returned from having his wisdom teeth removed. Nikolai looked like a chipmunk with bad teeth.

"I'm not smiling," Yuri said, putting down the briefcase he always carriednot because he needed it for work, but because it was a sign that he worked in an office, that he was someone important enough to have written work to bring home. It was also very handy for carrying the knife.

"He's not smiling," Nikolai said to the ceiling. "I can't tell when a man is smiling. I'm losing my eyesight."

Yuri moved to the tiny refrigerator in the corner, and Nikolai had to turn in his chair to watch his roommate remove a bottle of watered fruit juice.

"You're supposed to mix that with something," Nikolai said. "You drink that stuff without alcohol and it can give you an ulcer. My"

"Why are you home?" Yuri asked, adjusting his glasses and pouring himself a glass of fruit drink.

"Why? Listen to him. I live here. I sleep on that bed under the sink in which I wash and shave and from which I drink. That sink. Why am I? What kind of question?"

"You don't get off work for two hours," Yuri said, still standing, as he sipped the drink and let himself look around the filthy room. When Nikolai passed out, which might be in hours or minutes, Yuri would clean it up. Yuri didn't like things messy, out of place. Sanity dictated that Yuri should not like Nikolai, but like him he did, or, perhaps, need him was a better way to put it. They were used to each other. They were a wall against loneliness.

Nikolai talked of women, said obscene things, even suggested that he went to prostitutes, but Yuri doubted it. Nikolai was as doomed to be what he was as Yuri Pon was resolved to be what he had become. What it was that Yuri had become was not easy to define. Yuri walked to the window with his drink and looked down at the street below as Nikolai explained.

"I became ill at the factory. My vision clouded. My eyes began to water. My ears began to ring. The voices of dead socialist poets began to call my name. A terrible fever came over me."

"And now?" Yuri asked after finishing his drink.

"I'm fine!" shouted Nikolai, gulping down the last of the clear liquid in his glass. "It's a miracle. If there were a God, this would prove his existence. We should celebrate my miraculous recovery."

Nikolai stood, swayed, and made for the bottle on the table.

"A few more illnesses at the factory and you'll lose your job," said Yuri, moving to the sink to wash his glass. "Article Sixty of the Constitution of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics states that it is the duty of, and a matter of honor for, every able-bodied citizen of the USSR to work conscientiously in his chosen, socially useful, occupation, and to strictly observe labor discipline. Evasion of socially useful work is incompatible with the principles of socialist society."

"If I lose this job I'll find another," said Nikolai, grinning and walking toward his roommate with a fresh drink in hand.

"You're drunk." Yuri sighed, shaking his hands to dry them.

"Yes, but it used to be more fun to be drunk," said Nikolai. "Now it's a crime to be drunk. Gorbachev tells us that drunkenness is an affront to the state, an unwillingness to face the harshness of reality, to cope with our problems. He is a wise man."

"A wise man," agreed Yuri, humoring Nikolai, who drank deeply without taking his eyes from the taller man.

"But a cruel one, soggy bear," said Nikolai. "It is cruel to force us to remain sober. What have we to turn to for our imaginations, to release our inhabitants"

"Inhibitions," Yuri corrected, moving to the table.

"Inhibitions," agreed Nikolai.

The two men sat facing each other silently across the table as if something profound had just been said.

"You don't drink," Nikolai suddenly accused. "You don't go to movies. You don't go to museums. You don't watch television. We don't have a television. We can't afford a television. And the news, the news is, is…"

"Zakusla," Yuri supplied.

"Zakuski, yes. Hors d'oeuvres. You don't even talk about women. I'll tell you," and with this he pointed a finger in Yuri's face, "you've never even been with a woman."

This time Yuri Pon did smile.

"What? Why are you smiling? I said something funny?" Nikolai asked in mock confusion. "The bear has a harem somewhere? Another luxury apartment, perhaps a little wooden izbas in the country where you bring women and have wild orgies? If I thought that were true and you didn't invite me, it could well be the end of our… You sure you don't want to join me?" With this, Nikolai held up his sloshing glass as an offering. "It is not as much fun to drink alone, you know. It's fun, but not as much."

"I can't drink tonight," Yuri said. "I've got to go out shopping."

Nikolai slouched back and laughed like a horse.

"Going to look for a woman, eh, Yuri?"

"Perhaps, yes."

"And what are you going to do with her, Yuri? You want to bring her back here?"

"No," said Pon. "No."

"You should be a comedian," said Nikolai, laughing. "A funny comedian. I don't think," he chuckled, leaning forward and whispering, "that you would know what to do with a woman."

"I know what to do with a woman," Pon said.

"You want me to come with you and help?" Nikolai said, unable to control his mirth.

"No," said Pon softly. "I won't need any help."