Eye of the Red Tsar

29

THE CONVENT WAS AN AUSTERE WHITE BUILDING AT THE TOP OF A steep hill on the outskirts of town. Lining the road, poplar trees rustled their leaves in a breeze he could not feel. As he climbed the hill, he shed his heavy black coat and carried it under his arm. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt. His heart thumped angrily against his ribs.

Tall black iron railings ringed the convent. In the courtyard, pale, sand-colored gravel simmered in the afternoon sun. Outside the front steps, a crew was loading crates into a truck.

The gates were open and Pekkala walked through, his feet crunching over the gravel. Climbing the convent steps, he had to stand aside as two men carried out a small piano.

More boxes filled the front hall.

It looked as if the entire building was being emptied.

Pekkala wondered if he had arrived too late. He paused, sweat cooling on his face.

“Have you come for the piano?” asked a woman’s voice.

Pekkala looked around. At first he could not see anyone.

The woman cleared her throat.

Pekkala glanced up. He saw a nun, wearing a blue and white habit, standing on the balcony which overlooked the hall. The nun’s face was picture-framed in the starched white cloth of her bonnet.

“You have arrived too late,” she told him. “The piano just left.” She spoke of it as if the piano had walked out on its own.

“No.” Pekkala shook his head. “I am not here for the piano.”

“Ah.” The nun made her way down the staircase. “Then what is it you’ve come to steal from us today?”

While Pekkala assured her that he had not come to rob the convent, the nun busied herself with inspecting the splintery crates, rapping on them with her knuckles as if to test the soundness of the wood. At first, he obtained nothing more than her name, Sister Ania; even this she seemed to grudge him. She picked up a checklist, stared at it, and put it down again. Then she wandered away, leaving Pekkala to follow her while he continued with his explanation.

“Pekkala,” repeated Sister Ania. “What kind of name is that?”

“I am from Finland, but I have been gone a long time.”

“I have never been to Finland, but that name sounds familiar to me.”

“There was another name by which I was a little better known.”

The nun, who had gone into a small sitting room and was in the process of shutting the door in Pekkala’s face, suddenly paused. “So you have changed your name. I hear it’s all the rage these days. Taking after Comrade Stalin, I see.”

“Or you, perhaps, Sister Ania.”

“And what is this other name of yours?” she asked.

Pekkala turned up his lapel. “The Emerald Eye,” he said.

Slowly, the door opened again. The harshness had vanished from her face. “Well,” she said, “it is a comfort to know that in this day and age, one’s prayers are sometimes answered after all.”