Death Of A Russian Priest

SIXTEEN

“You have twenty minutes,” Sarah said. She was looking at the table, which was really the regular kitchen table and the metal folding table, covered with the white embossed linen cloth her mother had given her almost twenty years ago. With the help of Lydia Tkach, Sarah had set an appetizing table of zahkooskee, appetizers, including dishes of eggplant; caviar; blinis; cabbage mixed with onions, apples, and sugar; egg salad; and sprats. Four bottles of red wine and a bottle of cognac stood in the center of the table.

“It may be years before we eat this well again,” Sarah said.

“It looks very good,” said Rostnikov. He was still wearing his gray sweatsuit, and he held a large pipe wrench in his greasy hand.

Lydia, who was carrying out glasses and placing them next to each plate, made a disapproving sound. “Sasha may be late,” she said. “It is hard for him to walk.”

She looked accusingly at Rostnikov, who rubbed the back of his right hand against his already smudged nose. “It is also hard for him to see,” she added.

“I’ll go wash,” Rostnikov said.

“Did you fix the toilet?” asked Sarah.

“Ah,” said Rostnikov, looking at his wrench. “It was a challenge, an exercise in sympathetic imagination. Where was the first curve, the second? Where might the constriction be? I imagined myself as small as a mouse, crawling through this maze. Then it came to me. The problem was on the third floor, where the pipes come together and separate to serve the lower part of the building.”

“You fixed it,” said Sarah.

“I persuaded the Romanians to let me in,” he said with satisfaction.

“Toilets,” said Lydia. “He worries about toilets when people around him are being beaten to death.”

“Not toilets,” explained Rostnikov to Lydia’s back, unsure of whether she heard or was even trying to listen. “Plumbing. Plumbing is a hidden universe requiring concentration, expertise, ingenuity. The Chinese are magnificent plumbers. There is a great apartment building in Shanghai-”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” said Sarah. “They will be here soon.”

Rostnikov nodded. He imagined the grand design of arteries and veins within the walls of the apartment building in Shanghai, bringing in fresh water, taking away waste. The building was almost alive, a pulsing meditation in which he could lose himself.

The small shower stall in their bedroom was nearly perfect. Ideal circulation, even spray. The water was never really hot but it was often warm. He used his rough heavy-duty soap and sang a song in his head, a song from childhood whose words he could not remember, and when he emerged, he felt clean.

He dressed quickly and went back into the living room/kitchen. Iosef and a pretty young woman were talking to Mathilde Verson. Mathilde’s eyes wandered to Emil Karpo, who stood at the window looking down into the night.

Iosef was dressed in casual slacks and a heavy gray turtle-neck sweater. The pretty young woman had short dark hair and hardly any makeup. She wore a red long-sleeved wool sweater whose sleeves were pulled up to reveal bangly red bracelets. The young woman glanced at Rostnikov shyly, smiled, and touched Iosef s arm. Rostnikov’s son stopped his conversation and moved forward a step to introduce the girl. She could not have been more than twenty.

“Karen Vaino,” Iosef said.

Karen Vaino held out a pale hand to Rostnikov, who took it and found it surprisingly firm.

“Zdrahstvocytyee, how do you do?” said Rostnikov.

“Ochyeen’khahrhsho, very well,” she replied.

“Karen is an actress,” said Iosef. “My next play will be about women.”

“Women who work in shops and have little hope for a meaningful life,” Karen said.

“I can do it.” Iosef looked at the girl and smiled. “With Karen’s help.”

“I believe you will find a way to accomplish this creative challenge,” said Rostnikov with a smile. He looked at Mathilde, who was still watching Emil Karpo’s back.

Mathilde brushed hair from her face and looked at Rostnikov. He suggested to Karen and Iosef that they might help Sarah and Lydia.

“He is different,” said Mathilde quietly as Rostnikov approached her.

In the kitchen corner the others were talking, drinking, and laughing, even Lydia. Karpo’s back remained turned toward the room as he looked out of me window into the night.

“He is different,” Rostnikov agreed.

“He is losing his purpose,” she said.

“And searching for another, perhaps,” said the policeman.

“I almost wish there was no perestroika. Then the statues of Lenin would still be standing and the triumph of the revolution would still be plastered on the walls. Emil Karpo believed.”

She had raised her voice in frustration and Sarah looked in their direction. “I can see him as a monk,” Mathilde said with a wry laugh.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov quite seriously. “If there were such a thing as a secular monk. But there is not.”

“So?” asked Mathilde.

“So, he will work and seek,” said Rostnikov. “He will serve and, perhaps, service will become its own end.”

“Perhaps,” Mathilde said.

There was a knock at the door.

Sarah hurried over to open the door and let in the quite pregnant Maya, the battered Sasha, and a very tired-looking Pulcharia. The little girl held her father’s hand and blinked suspiciously at the crowd of adults.

“We are late,” said Maya. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Sarah, ushering them in. She motioned for Rostnikov to take their coats.

As Lydia hurried to help she looked up at her son’s eye and made a loud clucking sound to let Rostnikov know that this blight on her son’s beautiful face was his fault.

Rostnikov noted that Karpo, now standing alone across the room, had turned from the window and was impassively watching the round of greetings.

Since it was almost Pulcharia’s bedtime and her parents were certain that she would not sleep away from her own crib, the guests sat down to eat almost immediately. Everyone toasted Sasha frequently, and he responded with pained smiles.

Karpo stood at the window. He drank only a glass of water brought to him by Mathilde.

During the fourth round of drinks and toasts there was a knock. Rostnikov motioned for everyone to remain seated, but Iosef leaped to his feet and opened the door.

It was Anna Timofeyeva and Elena.

“We thought you couldn’t come,” said Sarah.

“A change of plans,” explained Anna.

Iosef took their coats and carried them into the bedroom.

Elena, her cheeks red and her hands still cold, was introduced to those she had not yet met: Lydia, Karen, Sarah, Maya, Pulcharia, and Iosef.

“This is the partner?” asked Lydia.

“Yes,” said Sasha, loud enough for his mother to hear.

“She is a child,” said Lydia.

“She is a very good policeman,” said Sasha.

“She had an excellent teacher,” said Rostnikov. He nodded at Anna Timofeyeva.

“She is too pretty,” said Lydia.

“She is quite pretty,” said Maya with a smile. “But it is more important that she is a good policeman.”

“Thank you,” said Elena.

“This looks like the end of a Chekhov second act,” said Iosef. “Now, all we need is a messenger with bad news so we can kill him between acts.”

“In Russia today,” said Karen, “it is the messengers with good news who are shot between the acts.”

The laughter was polite and glasses were held up for a toast.

Karen started off the obligatory round of glasnost jokes. Neither Anna Timofeyeva, who had given her life to the state, nor Karpo laughed, but neither did they show disapproval. Rostnikov watched, drank moderately, and in answer to a question from Lydia, said, “There will be no charges against the Arab girl. She is leaving tomorrow with her father for Syria.”

“Ah,” said Lydia knowingly. “A man dies, my son is almost killed, and Arab murderers go home on jet planes, probably Lufthansa. Where is justice?”

“But,” said Iosef, “you got the killer of the priest and the nun. Your colonel was on the news.” He looked at Karpo and his father and raised his glass in a toast. “And he did it for no reason,” Iosef continued, shaking his head. “I’ve seen men go mad like that in the army. Something inside of them bursts into violence, madness, or suicide.”

“Like in your play?” said Sarah.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“And now,” said Rostnikov, looking at Emil Karpo, “the world will never know why he killed.”

“He was the town’s party leader,” said Karen. “The party is dying. The church is coming back. He couldn’t tolerate it, just like they said on the news.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Rostnikov, rotating his leg just enough to forestall the pain.

“The priest was a saint,” said Lydia.

“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “A toast. To the thirtieth birthday of Sasha Tkach.”

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they all said. Sasha looked at Maya, who smiled at him and gently touched his swollen face.

And they all drank.

“To my babies,” said Sasha, touching his wife’s stomach.

“Zah vasheh’zdahrσv’yeh.”

And they drank again.

“To Lydia, who has helped when we needed her,” said Maya.

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

And once more they drank.

Pulcharia climbed down from her father’s lap and looked toward the window. Lydia held up her glass and said, “To Porfiry Rostnikov, who has the responsibility of safeguarding my only child.”

“Zah vasheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

They drank.

“To my wife,” Rostnikov said. “Who today got a job.”

“A job?” cried Iosef.

Sarah smiled and looked at her glass. “Nothing much, clerk at a music store on Kalinin near the metro,” she said.

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they shouted.

“To my son,” said Sarah, after they had drunk, “who is home safely from the army and has written a wonderful play.”

“Zah vahsheh‘zdahrov‘yeh.”

Iosef, rising with some difficulty, held up his glass and said, “To Elena Timofeyeva, a welcome addition to our group.”

Karen, a capable actress worthy of a major role in a play about women, smiled, held up her glass, and was the first to say to the embarrassed Elena, “Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

And as they were about to drink, Pulcharia let out a squeal, toddled across the room, and threw herself at Emil Karpo, who reached down to pick her up. Everyone stopped drinking and looked at the vampire and the small child. Pulcharia looked at Karpo’s drawn face, touched his cheek gently, and put her head against his shoulder.

“It’s getting late,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “I need my rest and we have two buses to take.”

The party broke up quickly then. Everyone asked for coats and Rostnikov motioned for Iosef to help him. Father and son went into the bedroom while the others continued to talk.

“Karen’s a very pretty girl,” said Rostnikov.

“Very pretty,” said Iosef.

“She is also talented,” said Rostnikov.

“Very talented,” Iosef said. “But you do not understand. The policewoman Elena-I think I love her.”

Rostnikov and his son, arms full of coats, paused near the door of the bedroom and looked at each other. “It’s possible,” said Rostnikov. “But you are just a bit drunk.”

“It is true,” said Iosef. “I am a bit drunk. But you shall see.”

They carried the coats back into the living room.

Anna and Elena left first, followed by Iosef and Karen, whose dancing brown eyes, knowing smile, and unsteady legs made it quite clear that she was drunk.

“I’ll take her,” said Lydia, reaching out to Karpo for the sleeping Pulcharia as Sasha and Maya moved to the door, supporting each other.

“I will carry her downstairs for you,” said Karpo. The child’s hair brushed his pallid cheek, and his face was more relaxed than Rostnikov had ever seen it. “Mathilde and I must also leave. “

Mathilde looked at Rostnikov and smiled.

“All right,” said Lydia. “But be careful.”

“I will be very careful,” said Karpo, following Lydia Tkach through the door.

“Thank you,” said Mathilde, taking Sarah’s hand.

“There will be other times,” said Sarah.

Rostnikov paused for a moment as Sarah closed the door. Then he moved to the table and began to clear away dirty dishes. “Enough left for two meals,” he said.

“Maybe three,” she said.

“I can clean up,” he said.

“I feel fine, Porfiry, Why don’t we do the dishes in the morning. We have both had too much to drink.”

It was only a little after midnight when they climbed into bed. It was slightly before one in the morning when Rostnikov heard the knock at the door.

Sarah was sound asleep, snoring gently. He got out of bed as quickly as his leg would permit, put on his ancient blue terry-cloth robe. As he was closing the bedroom door behind him, there was another knock.

This had happened to Rostnikov many times. A murder, a missing child, a terrorist threat. The uniformed driver would be apologetic, would tell what little he knew, and wait patiently while Rostnikov dressed. He unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of a uniformed driver, there were two men. One he did not recognize. The other was Klamkin the Frog, who held a very compact but quite effective 9mm Walther.

“I could shoot you now and walk away,” said Klamkin, pushing open the door.

“But you will not,” Porfiry Petrovich answered. “Or you would have done so immediately.”

The man behind Klamkin was large and young with short sandy hair. He wore a sneer that indicated he knew something you didn’t. In this case he apparently did.

Both visitors were wearing heavy coats but no hats. “We can do our business in the hall,” Rostnikov said as Klamkin motioned him into the room with the Walther.

“Your wife is sleeping,” said Klamkin. “We know. We will be very quiet and we won’t be long. She has been ill and we wouldn’t want her to have a relapse.”

Rostnikov moved slowly back into the room and the young man closed the door. Rostnikov knew that most people in situations like this tried to get as far from the weapon as they could, as if the bullet could not travel just as swiftly across a room. But Rostnikov wanted to be as close to Klamkin as possible, close enough so that if he decided to shoot, Rostnikov would have at least a chance at disarming him.

“We can come back and shoot you tomorrow or the next night or some morning when the sun is shining and the ruble is beginning to mean something again,” said Klamkin.

Rostnikov didn’t speak.

“The officer for whom I work wishes to make you an offer,” said Klamkin.

“I’m listening.”

The big man glanced around the room. He was, Rostnikov concluded, new at this kind of work.

“You will provide me with information about your own investigations and others in your department.”

“And why should I do this?” asked Rostnikov.

Klamkin did something to his face that made his large lips curl upward. “My superior thinks you might be afraid to die,” he said. “He feels you might be afraid we would hurt your wife or your son.”

“If my wife or son were harmed,” said Rostnikov, “I would kill you and Colonel Lunacharski.”

The big man laughed at the absurdity of the threat by the old cripple.

“The help we get now,” Klamkin said apologetically to Rostnikov. “We are losing people with training and replacing them with oafs like this who do not know what you could do to him if I allowed him to get too close to you.”

“The world is changing,” Rostnikov admitted.

“We are of the past, Porfiry Petrovich, you and I,” said Klamkin. “Please move back.”

Rostnikov moved back a step.

“I had not the slightest expectation that the threat would work,” said Klamkin. “But the reward may have a better chance. One year of helping us, and we will get you, your wife, and your son out of Russia-to Italy, America, France, wherever, with money. Conditions in Moscow will grow worse before they grow better. Your wife wants to go and she is still not completely recovered. Who knows how many months or years …”

“I’ll consider it,” said Rostnikov.

“None of your colleagues will be harmed,” Klamkin continued. “No criminals will go free. If you wish, your protégés will keep their positions when Colonel Lunacharski takes over. Even the Wolfhound will not suffer. He’ll simply be retired. Only you will know.”

“The price is too high,” said Rostnikov.

Klamkin shook his head and turned to the big man at his side. “Wait outside,” he ordered.

The big man did not respond immediately. Klamkin turned his large head toward the man without taking his eyes from Rostnikov and repeated, “Wait outside.”

This time the big man left. Klamkin closed the door behind him. “I’m supposed to shoot you if I think you will not accept the colonel’s offer,” said Klamkin. “We have a scapegoat, a man with a criminal record for breaking into homes. You just met him.”

Rostnikov nodded.

“Our department will track him down tomorrow and he will die in an effort to escape. We will be given full credit for the swift action in finding the murderer of a highly respected Moscow police officer.”

“You are not going to shoot.”

“I am not going to shoot you, Porfiry Petrovich, but neither am I putting my gun away. I’ll go back and tell the colonel that you are considering his offer, that you need time. Meanwhile, Porfiry Petrovich, either reconsider or protect yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.

“Just between us, Porfiry Petrovich,” whispered Klamkin, “I like you and I do not like Lunacharski, but …”

“Survival,” said Rostnikov.

“Survival,” agreed Klamkin. As he reached to open the door his Walther was still trained on Rostnikov.

When Klamkin was gone, Rostnikov locked the door. It wasn’t a bad door. He had reinforced it himself, but he knew that no door, not even one of steel, could withstand the technology that the KGB had developed.

In the morning he would decide what to do. The world had changed, but in many ways it had not changed at all. For the world to change truly, people had to change, and that was too much to expect.

When he climbed carefully back into bed, Sarah stirred and stopped snoring. “Were you talking to someone, Porfiry?” she asked sleepily.

“It was the television,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Sleep now,” she said, reaching out for him. “You need your sleep.”

He thought of Galina Panishkoya, seated on that stool, the barrel of a pistol pointed at the head of a frightened shopgirl. He thought about the woman’s grandchildren. “Sarah,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“There are two little girls who may need someplace to stay.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can take them in for a little while.”

“Maybe. We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she said.

He took Sarah gently in his arms as he had at some point each night for almost forty years. He lay on his back, and she rested her head on his right arm and curled up against him. She liked his warmth and purred gently. He liked the coolness of her feet and fingertips.

Then it came to him. Clear and complete. He remembered the apartment he had lived in when he was a child, remembered the sofa with the wooden legs and the spring that hit his back if he moved to the left, remembered the chairs, the windows, the table, the radio with the chip of plastic missing in the front near the dials, remembered even the pattern on the worn-out rug his grandfather had given them and his shoe box filled with lead soldiers. And he remembered quite vividly the faces of his father and mother.

He remembered, and a moment later Rostnikov was asleep.