Checkmate

32

They drove south for ten minutes before Fisher saw the first sign they were approaching Chernobyl itself. In the distance an obelisk rose from the marshlands. It was the plant’s smokestack, Elena explained. As they drew closer, Fisher could see the stack was painted in faded red and white horizontal bands. Beside it stood a crane that he guessed was being used for nearly constant rebuilding of the Sarcophagus, which had over the years begun to crack and crumble.

Twelve kilometers from the plant, Elena veered off the paved road and onto a gravel track that wound through a copse of stunted pine trees. After a few hundred yards, she turned into a driveway. She pulled to a stop before a ranch-style bungalow painted a washed-out yellow. Like the farmhouses Fisher had seen in the outlying villages, the bungalow was encased in a labyrinth of vines that snaked up the walls, along the eaves, and around the front porch’s post, like snakes frozen in mid-slither.

“PRIA’s headquarters is just inside the inner zone,” Elena said, getting out. “Moscow built it about a year after the disaster. Of course, we all spend as little time there as possible.”

“Who does this place belong to?”

“Me, now. Back then, a local party boss from Kiev. When the plant was first build, Moscow ordered bigwigs to take dachas here, to prove the reactor was safe. Officially, all the PRIA scientists are supposed to live in a block of renovated apartments south of Pripyat.”

“I saw them.” Fisher grabbed his rucksack from the backseat. “Not very cozy.”

“Yes, lovely, aren’t they? This place is better. The outside isn’t much, but the roof doesn’t leak and the insulation is good. Plus, it wasn’t in the plume.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The plume of radioactive dust. Most of it was blown west and then north, toward Belorus. We’re on the east side of the plant. Come on in.” She started walking. She realized Fisher wasn’t following, and turned back and smiled. “Relax. You see that?” She pointed to what looked like a weather vane jutting from the roof. “It’s a dosimeter; I check it twice a day. Trust me, this is one of the cleanest places in Chernobyl.”

“Guess it pays to be a biologist,” Fisher said, and started walking toward the porch.

“I’m very careful. I would like to have children some day.”

She directed Fisher to the spare bedroom, where he dropped his rucksack, and then he joined her in the kitchen. She was crouched before the open door of a woodstove, shoving sticks into a growing flame. She shut the door and stood up. “Sit. Tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

She got a loaf of black bread and a tin of blackberry jam from the cupboard and laid them on the table. She chose an apple from the windowsill, washed it, then sliced it into a bowl.

“The water comes from a new artesian well,” she said before he had a chance to ask. “I test that every day, too.”

Fisher said, “Sorry. This takes some getting used to.”

“Don’t apologize. I was the same way when I first came here. I didn’t want to touch anything. I even found myself holding my breath without realizing it. It’s a natural reaction.”

They ate breakfast and then Fisher helped her clean up. “I’ve got to go into work for a few hours,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m running an experiment on a three-headed cattail.”

Fisher squinted at her, wondering if she were pulling his leg.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Almost all the cattails around the reactor’s cooling pond are mutated. Believe me, those are some of the tamer changes we’ve seen. You should see some of the carp they pull out of the pond.” She sucked her lips and crossed her eyes. “Ugly, like that.”

Fisher laughed.

“I’ll be home around noon. On the way I’ve got to check on something in the village — a rumor I heard once. It might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me check first. Go to sleep. If anyone knocks, don’t answer.”

Fisher tried to sleep, but his body wouldn’t fully cooperate, so he dozed on and off for a few hours, then got up and wandered around the house. Elena had a good book collection she kept inside an old china cabinet in the living room. The titles ranged from Tolstoy and Balzac to Stephen Hawking and Danielle Steel. He also found a milk crate full of old records, mostly from the Big Band era. He put a Mancini tribute on the turntable and sat down with an English language version of War and Peace and read until Elena came home.

She was carrying a sack of groceries.

“Borshch?” Fisher asked.

“Of course. I promised you.”

After the groceries were put away, they sat down and shared a lunch of cold cuts, cheese, and wine. “So,” Fisher said, “this rumor?”

“Yes, I checked. I wasn’t sure I’d remembered it right, but the rumor is about four months ago a pair of soldiers went missing in the middle of the night. They were never found. Everyone, including the local commander, assumed they’d deserted. The were last seen heading toward the bunkers you were asking about. I’ve got the name of the man who saw them last: Alexi. He’s ninety-five years old, but still sharp. An old warhorse.”

“He’ll talk to us?”

Elena smiled. “Alexi loves to talk. He was a tank commander during the Great Patriotic War. He claims to have killed eighteen Panzers at Kursk before he got captured. He spent the rest of the war in a labor camp in Poland. We’ll go tonight, after borshch. I see you found my book collection.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Elena waved her hand. “No, no, I meant to show it to you. Here, I’ll clean up. You go back and read. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.”

“I thought War and Peace was required reading for all Russians.”

“Very funny. I’ve tried to read it four times. It bores me to tears. Besides, I’m Ukrainian.”