Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 16

Tyumen and Tobolsk, June 1982

The train slowly crossed the taiga. It was a bright night, almost white. No one felt like sleeping. The four were drinking tea in their compartment to the soothing knocking of the wheels.

“The more northerly we get, the brighter the nights. In Khanty, they’re completely white.” Venya Volkov was cutting a stick of dry-cured sausage into thin, perfectly even slices with a razor-sharp tourist knife.

“This sausage,” Olga said dreamily. “The last time I ate sausage like this was during the 1980 Summer Olympics.”

“Don’t play poverty, sister dear.” Mitya sent two thin sausage circles into his mouth. “Just two weeks ago at the Russia Cinema, you bought eight sandwiches at sixty kopeks apiece. You threw out the bread and ate the sausage. And washed it down with a milkshake.” One more slice disappeared into Mitya’s mouth.

“Yes, that’s true. Only that sausage wasn’t nearly as good. And the film afterward was so lousy, all my sausage impressions evaporated while I was watching it.”

“Sausage impressions always evaporate quickly.” Venya smiled. “Leaving only heartburn. I wonder why, as soon as people get on a train, they immediately start eating and talking about food?”

“Out of boredom.” Mitya shrugged.

“Right, I can see how bored you are,” Olga commented. “That’s the tenth piece you’ve scarfed down.”

“Venya, what’s that hut we just passed?” Lena asked, looking out the window at the endless, silent taiga. “Does someone really live there?”

“Not now,” Volkov replied. “In the old days, Old Believers, schismatics, lived here. They hid from the Soviet government until 1932.”

“What happened in 1932?”

“They burned themselves alive. Nine adults and three children. An NKVD detachment had come for them. But someone managed to warn them. So they locked themselves up in one of the hermitages and set fire to it. The detachment stood there, watching them burn.”

“Wasn’t there anything they could do?”

“No. And why should they? Who would risk his life for their sake? They’d been sent to arrest them anyway. All right, let’s have a drink.” He took a bottle of five-star Armenian brandy out of his bag.

“Tobolsk Young Communists live well,” Mitya remarked.

“We’re not complaining.” Volkov pulled out the cork and poured brandy into the empty tea glasses.

The brandy made them sleepy. They had five hours to go until Tobolsk. There weren’t any sheets on this train. Everyone lay down to sleep fully dressed.

When Volkov climbed onto his upper berth, a small object fell out of his pocket. Lena picked up the cheap enameled pendant on the short, thick, plain metal chain. A white heart with a red rose in the middle.

“Venya, is this yours?” she asked, holding out the pendant. “Your chain broke.”

“Yes, it’s mine. Thanks.”

Sleepy Mitya raised his head on his upper berth, glanced at the cheap decoration, which immediately disappeared into Volkov’s jeans pocket, and murmured, “So that’s what Young Communists wear instead of crosses!”

Lena just couldn’t get to sleep. She was cold and uncomfortable lying there in her jeans and flannel shirt on the bare mattress, under a damp flannelette blanket, which smelled of chlorine. A distinct, awful picture rose up before her eyes of a burning hut in the taiga near the railroad. There were soldiers around it, their rifles tilted forward.

Why do you keep getting bogged down in these horrors? she argued with herself. Now you’re going to imagine the three children dying in the fire.

Quietly, she got up, put on her sneakers, pulled her warm sweater out of her bag, grabbed her cigarettes and matches, and slipped out of the sleeping compartment.

The platform at the end of the car was stuffy and stank of cigarettes. The mysterious white light came through the filthy, smoky windows of the train car doors.

Lena carefully pulled on the handle. The door yielded with a creak. She smelled fog and fresh pine needles. A cool evening wind struck her in the face and ruffled her hair. The taiga sailed by very close. Lena sat on the step in the door well, the rails directly beneath her feet.

All of a sudden she felt alone in the vast, limitless taiga, which swayed around her like the ocean, living its own complicated and mysterious life. Tree trunks were creaking, nuts were ripening in cedar cones, sleepless wolves and bears were roving, and swamp bubbles were bursting with a heavy screech.

Some solitary person in the taiga I am, she thought. I can go back to my compartment at any time. For me, this solitude is just a game. If you do end up there, among the thick, creaking trunks, you must feel terribly lonely and defenseless.

She lit a cigarette.

“Lena, aren’t you afraid of falling?” She heard a quiet voice very close behind her.

Lena startled and nearly did fall. Volkov held out his hand, pulled her up, and immediately closed the outside door.

“You shouldn’t sit like that,” he said, lighting up. “It’s dangerous.”

“Venya, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come up.”

“I’m sorry. I was frightened for you. Your husband probably didn’t want to let you go on this trip.”

“I’m not married.”

“I’m glad.” He smiled gently. “You and I barely know each other, but the thought of you is keeping me awake. I’m not married, either. It’s hard for me to interact with women. I feel like an idiot.”

“I’d never say that, looking at you.”

“You mean, I look complex free?”

“I don’t know. Everyone has complexes.”

“What about you?”

“Me, too, probably.”

“I think you have the same thing I do, a loneliness complex. You tire quickly of people and of socializing, especially when there’s no point. You’d rather go off on your own. But you’re afraid to offend anyone and that bothers you. Even now, you’d like to go. This stranger is pestering you with his confessions. You’re afraid of offending me, but you don’t like the conversation, either. You want to be alone so badly, and now here I am pestering you with my chatter. Am I right?”

“Why? Strangers often share confessions on the train. It’s nice to bare your soul to some random person you’ll never see again. It doesn’t obligate anyone to anything. And everyone likes talking about himself.”

“Does it ever turn into more?” Venya asked quietly.

“Meaning what?”

“Well, could random people become close as a result of a railroad confession?”

“Life is full of surprises.”

“But could you?”

His face was very close. Suddenly she noticed a heavy, ferocious longing in his handsome blue eyes and she felt uneasy. He was looking at her as if something vitally important hinged on her answer. No one had ever looked at her that way before.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, trying to avoid his strange, imploring look.

He moved even closer.

“Lena, forgive me,” he whispered quickly and hotly. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t know how to make a woman like me. It’s all so simple for other people. But not for me. I am so scared of frightening you off. Help me.”

Lena felt his hot fingers grab her hand.

“Venya, have you ever gone into the taiga alone?” she asked, gently freeing her hand.

“Yes, for bear,” he replied after a brief pause.

Whatever had flamed up in his eyes was immediately extinguished. They became totally pale and dull.

“And did you kill one?”

“Of course. I’ve got the skin on my floor at home. When we get to Tobolsk, I’ll invite you over and show you the bearskin.”

“It’s hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“You don’t look like someone who could kill a bear alone.”

“Lena, how do you know what a man capable of killing looks like?” he asked quietly.

“Killing a bear?”

“Killing at all. Taking the life of a living being.”

“No, those are completely different things. To be honest, I don’t quite understand you, Venya.”

“You know, the Khanty believe that the bear is man’s equal. They don’t hunt them with rifles, just with bear spears, to keep the playing field even. Shooting a bear is considered murder.”

“There’s probably a certain logic to that.”

“Forget the bear for a moment. What do you think? Is there a difference between a murderer and an ordinary person? I mean outwardly. Could you pick out a murderer in a crowd of ordinary people?”

“I don’t think so. Just yesterday we were performing at the prison, in front of criminals. Some of them were probably killers. I couldn’t tell from looking at their faces. Though some people think you can. You’ve probably heard of the Italian psychiatrist Cesare Lombroso. He said that killers have a different skull structure, a low forehead, a flattened nose, and an unusual ear shape.”

“Interesting. And do people take his theory seriously? Can a low forehead and the shape of a man’s ears be entered as evidence in court?”

“I don’t know about court, but in journalism and literature, including Russian, there have been serious debates about it. The theory gave Dostoyevsky no rest. And Bunin has a story, Loopy Ears. Then there was some other theory about handwriting and the shape of a person’s hands. You know, man is always drawn to certainty. He wants to know everything in advance, to have it all sorted. It would be convenient for a criminal to be different from a normal, law-abiding citizen in some specific, outward way, for him to have a special sinister nose or something. There’s a good reason they used to brand convicts.”

“There, you see? You’re contradicting yourself.” Volkov smiled sadly. “You were so sure when you said I don’t look like someone who could kill. And now you’re saying you can’t judge by appearances.”

“You can’t. But I’m not judging, either. I’m just saying I don’t think—”

“Could you kill a bear?” he asked.

“No.”

“What if it attacked you?”

“I don’t know.” Lena shook her head. “I don’t know—and I don’t want to know.”

“Why so categorical?”

“I have no desire whatsoever to try to imagine what would happen if a bear attacked me. I very much hope nothing of the kind ever happens.”

“And a man?” Venya asked very quietly. “What if a man attacked you? Could you kill him? That’s more realistic than a bear, after all. Imagine this. You’re attacked by a robber, or a rapist, or a maniac. You’re terrified. He’s going to kill you. Unless you kill him first. You save your own life, but you become a murderer. You aren’t imprisoned, of course. After all, he attacked you. But, still, deep down, you’ve crossed the line that separates a killer from an ordinary person. What I mean is, you never know. Life holds all kinds of surprises. Anyone can be a murderer.”

Volkov’s face was very close. He leaned his palms on the wall, and Lena’s head ended up between his arms. He stared anxiously into her eyes.

“Venya, you aren’t planning to attack me, are you?” Lena smiled, dove under his arm, and opened the door to the corridor. “I need some sleep. I’m tired.”

She walked quickly to her compartment without a backward glance. The train jerked hard, and Lena was swaying as she walked, and right then Volkov took a firm grip of her elbow.

“Forgive me, Lena,” he breathed into her ear. “That was an idiotic thing to say.”

“Venya,” she said, freeing her elbow. “I don’t like people breathing in my ear.”

In Tobolsk, Volkov didn’t leave their sides for a minute. He went to all their performances, took them around town, and arranged a visit to the famed wooden citadel.

The days were so full that by evening, all three were dead on their feet and just crawled to their beds and crashed.

Volkov had arranged the best rooms for them in an old-fashioned commercial hotel. This time Mitya had his own room. Lena and Olga had a two-room suite with a refrigerator, a television, and a huge bathroom. Not that there was any hot water. But Volkov took them to a real Russian bathhouse.

“It’s a kind of elite club for the Party and Young Communists,” he explained. “Your bosses in Moscow go to saunas, but here in Siberia, we prefer a good Russian steam.”

“I’ve never seen a naked Party elite,” Olga snickered. “In Moscow or Siberia.”

“I don’t think you’ve missed much, Sis.” Mitya shrugged.

“I have to warn you that there’s just one steam room there, for men and women. One dressing room, too,” Volkov told them. “But don’t worry. You can take turns going in.”

“We aren’t worrying.” Olga shrugged. “We have no doubt you won’t take us anywhere improper, Veniamin. We trust you entirely. Right, Lena? We trust him?”

“Naturally.” Lena smiled weakly.

“Do your elite Party women and men take turns going into the steam room, or do they go together?” Mitya wondered.

“They take turns, of course.” Volkov laughed.

In a quiet, secluded spot on the bank of the Yenisei, there was a large, five-walled structure. Steam poured out of the chimney. The door was opened by a plump woman wearing a white robe.

“Good afternoon, Veniamin Borisovich. Welcome. Everything’s ready.”

The inside walls were timbered. In the middle, there was a low oaken table surrounded by big, deep armchairs. The broad benches along the walls were covered with starched sheets.

“Veniamin Borisovich, let me know when to bring the samovar. Girls,” the bathhouse attendant said to Olga and Lena, “you can change in my room. The men can do it here.”

She led them into a cozy little room where a radio was playing softly and a large electric samovar was boiling on a stool.

“Tell me, Zina. Why can’t they build separate bathhouses for men and women?” Lena wondered.

“This is a Party bathhouse, not a public one,” Zina explained authoritatively. “It’s the bosses here, not the ordinary people.”

“You mean your bosses are sexless?” Olga giggled.

“Usually, it’s only men who come here.” The baffled attendant shrugged her pudgy shoulders. “If they bring girls, they’re the kind who don’t get embarrassed.”

Olga whistled. “You mean they have orgies here or something?”

“Why orgies? Respectable people come here. Party people. Municipal leaders. And provincial ones, if they’re here on an inspection or some kind of commission, they always visit. How can a Russian get along without a bathhouse?”

Wrapped in sheets, Olga and Lena slipped through the dressing room and into the steam room.

“Don’t be too long!” Mitya shouted after them.

“What an odd man that Volkov is,” Lena said as she lashed Olga with the fragrant birch broom. “He’s treating us like we’re Party bigwigs and doesn’t leave our side even for a minute, like he’s our babysitter or something.”

“What’s so bad about that? We should thank him. Would we be steaming in a bathhouse like this at home?”

“I’m grateful to him, of course, but he’s still odd. You know, that night on the train when I went out to the platform to smoke, he came on to me.”

“He likes you. He’s positively drooling over you. All these provincial Young Communists are suckers for Moscow girls.”

“He’ll get over it.” Lena grinned.

Olga got up from the bench and stretched sweetly so that her spine cracked. “Now let me lash you properly with the broom. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

When all four of them were sitting in the dressing room, steamed and wrapped in sheets, drinking strong tea infused with herbs, Mitya suddenly asked, “Lena, do you remember when we were on the train and Veniamin dropped that locket with the rose?”

“Yes.” Lena nodded in surprise.

“There!” Mitya rejoiced. “You were wearing it around your neck. I didn’t imagine it!”

“Mitya, leave Venya alone!” Olga said. “Why do you keep going on about that locket? Maybe it’s a present from a girl he likes.”

“I don’t care who wears what around his neck, I just want Lena to confirm that I didn’t imagine it, that I’m not crazy, that my brain’s not malfunctioning yet. Veniamin says I just thought I saw it.”

“Mitya, stop!” Olga said sternly, and looking at Volkov’s pale, petrified face, she added, “Forgive him, Venya. He’s a dreadful pest.”

After the bathhouse, on the way to the hotel, Volkov invited them over to his place.

“You and Mitya should go,” Lena whispered into Olga’s ear. “I don’t feel up to it.”

“Are you crazy? You’re the reason he’s inviting us!” Olga answered in a loud whisper.

“Where did you get that idea?”

Volkov was walking behind them, but closer than they thought.

“Lena, Olga’s right. I want to show you the skin of the bear I killed. Otherwise you’ll think I’m all talk.”

They looked back over their shoulders. He looked at them with a guilty smile.

“Young Communist, did you really shoot a bear yourself?” Mitya asked.

“Yes.” Volkov nodded.

Venya lived alone in a two-room apartment. The five-story building for the Young Communist and Party elite was newly built. The apartment smelled of paint and wallpaper paste. There was almost no furniture, just a large desk and a few chairs. Books were stacked in the corners of the main room. In the other room there was just a low, wide couch neatly made up with a checked blanket and an antique wardrobe. On the floor in front of the couch lay the thick, rough skin of a brown bear.

“Wow!” Olga shook her head. “Venya, doesn’t it scare you? It’s like the bear is looking at you and saying, ‘Why did you kill me, Young Communist?’”

“To be honest, sometimes I do get a little uneasy.” And again that lost, guilty smile.

“Venya! I’ll be your friend!” Mitya’s shout came from the next room. “You have nearly the entire Poet’s Library series!” He walked in holding two dark blue volumes. “Will you let me borrow it until we leave? Just the Mandelstam and Akhmatova? I’ll answer with my head.”

“Sorry. I can’t. I don’t even take these books out of the building, and I don’t lend them to anyone. You can read them here. You can come again. You can stay here if you like, but I won’t let you take them with you.”

“I get it.” Mitya sighed. “I wouldn’t, either.”

“I don’t have a big dining table yet,” Venya told them. “We won’t all fit in the kitchen. I suggest two options. I can spread a tablecloth on the desk or we can sit on the floor, on the bearskin.”

“You’re the host. You know best.” Lena shrugged.

“On the bearskin! Of course!” Olga declared.

“I have vodka and champagne,” he told them.

Everyone except Lena chose vodka. Volkov went to the kitchen. Mitya and Olga rummaged through his bibliographic treasures. Lena had the same titles at home—the Poet’s Library, Bulgakov, Platonov—and lots more besides. She went into the front hall, which had the only mirror in the whole apartment, and started combing her hair, which was damp from the bathhouse.

All of a sudden Volkov’s reflection appeared next to hers in the mirror. He approached her from behind, came very close, and nuzzled his face in her damp hair. She shuddered and pushed him away, but he squeezed her shoulders and she felt his hot, firm lips on her neck.

“Venya, something’s burning in the kitchen,” she said quietly, trying to slip out of his grip.

But he turned her toward him abruptly and started greedily kissing her face, eyes, and lips.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he whispered, as if delirious. “Don’t be afraid. I love you. I won’t hurt you. I’d rather die than hurt you. No one in the world loves me. Stay with me. Save me.”

Lena already understood that this odd young man burned with a passion for her. She admitted to herself he didn’t repulse her. She found him attractive and even interesting in a certain way. There was a deep peculiarity, a terrible but exciting mystery about him.

I’m free. I don’t have anyone. I’m only twenty-one. Nothing need come of it. Lots of people have these kinds of flings when they’re traveling. He’s handsome, smart, charming, and utterly alone. Why not?

“I love you. Save me.”

He smelled of good tobacco and expensive cologne. He held her even harder against his body, his lips sank into her mouth, and his hot hand slipped under her sweater.

Oh my God! I’m making out with him! I’m making out with a boy I barely know! Olga and Mitya are going to see and I’ll be so embarrassed.

“Lena, dearest Lena. Be mine, all mine,” he whispered, pulling his lips away for a second.

“Venya, where are you?” They could hear Olga’s voice from the kitchen. “The bread we were toasting in the skillet burned.”

Lena pushed him away abruptly. They were standing in a corner by the front door. Olga hadn’t noticed them when she’d run to the kitchen. There was a bad smell of burning coming from the kitchen. Pieces of charred bread smoked in the skillet.

All evening, Volkov couldn’t take his light, transparent eyes off of Lena. They drank vodka and champagne, spread the tablecloth on the floor, and quickly set down plates of cured salmon, sturgeon, Hungarian sausage, and Finnish cheese.

No, she thought. These intense passions aren’t my thing. I don’t need adventures. What good are they? It’s bizarre and embarrassing to make out with a stranger you feel nothing more for than sympathy. I didn’t give him any reason to act that way. This is a passion beyond me. He’s charming, complicated, and lonely. Why did he keep saying, “Save me!” and with that melodramatic crack? There must be a lot of women happy to save a complicated and lonely man like him. But it’s too much for me.

When they were getting ready to go, Volkov squeezed her fingers and said quietly, “Lena, can I talk to you for a minute?”

She was grateful that at least he hadn’t said anything about what happened between them in front of Olga and Mitya.

Pushing her back, into the bedroom, and shutting the door with his foot, he again sank his lips into hers. Lena immediately pushed away.

“Venya, listen to me.”

“You want me. I know it. I can tell. Stay here. Please. I beg you. You don’t understand how serious this is for me.”

“I can’t.” Lena shook her head.

“Why? Because of them?” He nodded toward the door, where Olga and Mitya were waiting.

“No. Because of me. I’m not capable of these fiery emotions.”

“You’ll like it with me. I love you so much. You must feel the same. I’ve never known anything like this.”

“Venya, couldn’t you just have made this all up? There are so many other pretty women in the world.”

“No!” He exhaled quickly, put his arms around her again, and held her tightly. “No. There is no one but you. Do you understand how badly I need you? Do you understand that I’ll die without you?”

“You’re scaring me, Venya.” She broke away again and opened the door.

Olga and Mitya weren’t in the front hall. And, right then, she really was scared.

“Olga!” she shouted. “Mitya! Where are you?”

“There. You see? They understood. They left,” Volkov said, grabbing her by the shoulders again.

“No, we didn’t leave,” Olga’s cheerful voice came from the other side of the door. “We just went out on the stairs and the door closed behind us. But we can go. We’ll find our way back to the hotel. Okay, Lena? We’ll do whatever you say.”

“Wait a minute,” Lena said, trying to open the lock. “I’m coming with you.”

“I’ll see you to the hotel.” Volkov helped her with the lock.

“I understand,” he said softly while they were walking through the nighttime streets to the hotel. “I’m doing something wrong. I want everything at once. I’m terrified you’ll leave, and I’ll never see you again.”

“Venya, I’m no fan of flings. Let’s keep things friendly, neutral. It’ll be easier that way.”

“Lena, this is no fling,” he said calmly. “You can’t imagine how serious this is for me.”

“But a serious relationship should start differently. Not so fast, not so pressured.”

“How then? How should it start? Tell me how I should act so you won’t be afraid of me and push me away.”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I may have done something wrong, too. We’re here. Good night.”

The next evening, someone knocked cautiously at the door of the hotel room where Olga and Lena were staying.

“Come in. It’s open!” Olga shouted.

Standing in the door was a short, stocky man of about thirty.

“Hello. Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said in embarrassment, not coming into the room. “I just found out that a group has come from my favorite magazine in Moscow. I wanted to ask you… Oh, forgive me, I didn’t introduce myself. Police First Lieutenant Zakharov.”

“Hello. Come in. Don’t be shy.” Lena smiled.

He took a hesitant step into the room and closed the door behind him.

“The thing is, I write stories.”

“Oh, Lord,” Olga sighed under her breath.

“I sent them to your office and to Youth,” Zakharov continued quietly. “They told me my work was raw and needed serious editing. And I didn’t understand what ‘raw’ meant.”

“‘Raw’ means badly written,” Olga explained.

“Could you just read one of my stories?” he asked, looking at the floor. “This is very important to me. I know lots of manuscripts come to your office and you don’t even read them. You just fill out form rejection letters. I’d like to talk with a real person.”

“We’re pretty tight on time. We’re leaving for Khanty-Mansiysk tomorrow evening,” Olga said.

“It’s a very short story. It won’t take up much of your time.”

“Okay.” Lena nodded. “Let’s have your story. Stop by tomorrow morning at nine-ish. I’ll read it.”

“What are you doing?” Olga jumped on her when the door shut behind the first lieutenant. “You do know that no good deed goes unpunished. Just look!” She opened the file Zakharov had left and started reading loudly:

Olga shut the file.

“No need to go on. It’s all pretty clear. Tomorrow you’re going to have to give this shy police officer a long and tedious explanation of why ‘sticky leaves’ and ‘beaming eyes’ are awful literary clichés. He won’t understand, and he’ll be hurt.”

“Fine, quit muttering.” Lena lay down on the bed with the manuscript.

The story was called “Monster.” On twelve typewritten pages, he described in gnarly detail how a rosy young woman with beaming eyes was discovered in the city park, murdered and raped, and how the daring detective quickly found the perpetrator, a vagabond drunk who had no choice but to confess his evil deed.

Veniamin was supposed to stop by for them at two in the morning. He’d invited them for a farewell nighttime picnic with shish kebab on the banks of the Tobol.

It was all Mitya’s idea. He loved the idea of greeting the dawn in the taiga on the banks of a Siberian river.

“Well, are you done? Get up, it’s ten to two.” Olga pulled on her jeans, combed her luxurious fair hair in front of the mirror, and yawned sweetly. “I won’t last till dawn. I won’t even last for the shish kebab. I’m sleepy.”

“Well, you can blame your little brother. He’s the one who dreamed all this up.” Lena set aside the manuscript and put on her sneakers and her warm sweater. “The mosquitoes are going to eat us alive.”

“This isn’t my little brother,” Olga objected. “This was Veniamin’s idea. Mitya just mentioned it, and your Young Communist ran with it.”

“Olga, why is he ‘mine’?”

“Because all these entertainments—the bathhouse, the excursions, the constant attention—are exclusively for your benefit.”

“Olga, that’s enough. I’m sick of it.” Lena frowned.

“Volkov is crazy about you. Big time. Anyway, he’s a handsome guy, with shoulders as broad as an ox! And he’s going to go far. From the Municipal Committee to the Provincial Committee and all the way to Moscow. Do you know what kind of pull these Young Communist boys have? Don’t miss your chance, Lena.”

Olga laughed merrily but immediately fell silent. Volkov was standing in the doorway.

The mosquitoes bit them mercilessly, despite the smoke from the birch cankers Volkov had shaved and tossed on the fire. The night was very bright. Olga dozed on soft pine branches, rousing every so often to slap at the persistent mosquitoes. Mitya plucked lazily on the guitar, and Lena smoked, gazing at the smoldering fire.

The shish kebab was all eaten and the vodka all drunk. A huge, whitish sun rose over the tops of the trees. After a sleepless night, everyone was a little subdued.

“Listen, I want to go back to the hotel,” Olga said, raising up on one elbow.

“Just a second.” Lena nodded. “Veniamin’s coming and then we’ll pack up.”

“Where’d he go?” Olga wondered. “He was just here.”

“He’s been wandering around for forty minutes or so,” Mitya said, stopping his strumming and glancing at his watch. “He probably went somewhere to relieve his longing. He’s miserable because Lena won’t give him the time of day.”

“Mitya, quit your clowning.” Lena frowned.

“Poor Yorick always told the truth.” Mitya sighed.

“For which he was beaten without mercy,” Olga added.

“Listen, why are you always after me about Veniamin?” Lena tossed her butt into the smoldering fire. “Whether he likes me or not has nothing to do with me. Those are his problems.”

“You are a heartless woman.” Mitya sighed and rose lazily to his feet. “I’m going to look for our unlucky lover.”

“Just make sure you don’t get yourself lost,” Olga warned.

“I’ll call out and you call back.” Mitya started down the riverbank.

He ran into Volkov about fifteen minutes later.

The Young Communist was stumbling. There were dark spots on his light sweater. His wide eyes were looking straight at Mitya with a crazed, unseeing gaze. He was breathing noisily.

“Venya! What happened to you?” Mitya cried out, and only then did he realize that the spots on the sweater were blood.

A powerful shudder ran through Volkov, and his eyes filled with intelligence again. Mitya heard branches breaking behind him, and a minute later Olga and Lena were standing next to him.

“My God, Venya, you’re covered in blood! What happened? Are you all right?” Lena walked up to him and touched his shoulder.

“I had a nosebleed,” he rasped.

“You should lean your head back and put something cold on the bridge of your nose.” Lena took out a handkerchief from her jeans pocket. “Wait. I’ll be right back.”

“You stay with him.” Mitya took the handkerchief out of her hands. “I’ll go down to the river and get it wet. Olga, don’t just stand there. Help him sit down. He’s as pale as death.”

Olga turned away. Since she was a child, she hadn’t been able to stand the sight of blood. The sight of it made her sick to her stomach. Lena took Volkov’s wrist and felt his pulse.

“Your heart’s beating very hard, at least a hundred and twenty,” she said. “Do you have heart problems?”

His hot hand caught and squeezed Lena’s fingers hard. Lena gasped from the pain. Volkov’s breathing was hard and shallow.

“Venya, can you hear me?” Lena asked in fright.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I just shouldn’t drink.”

The first lieutenant didn’t come for his story. Olga and Lena slept until two in the afternoon, but after their sleepless night they felt wrecked anyway. They hadn’t gotten back to the hotel until eight in the morning and had slept like logs.

At two thirty, a sluggish, puffy Mitya made his way to their room.

“Where’s your literary police officer?” Olga remembered when they’d sat down for coffee. “We have to leave in two and a half hours. What are you going to do with his work of art?”

“Maybe he knocked while we were asleep and we didn’t hear him.”

“You can leave the story downstairs with the administrator. Write a little note. What was his story about?”

“A murder.”

“A detective story?”

“Not quite. More like a psychological thriller.”

“What are you talking about?” Mitya inquired listlessly.

“Oh, this graphomaniac brought us his story. And Lena, good soul that she is, agreed to read it and talk to him about it.”

“I see.” Mitya finished his coffee, poured water from the pitcher into a liter mug, and switched on the immersion heater. “I wonder what happened to Volkov last night?” he said thoughtfully, and he lit a cigarette.

“He probably just drank too much.” Olga shrugged. “He went to get some air and felt sick.”

“Where did the blood on his sweater come from?”

“He said he’d had a nosebleed,” Lena reminded them.

When you have a nosebleed, usually you have it on your face, near your nose, and around your mouth. But Volkov’s face was clean. All the blood was on his sweater, Mitya thought, but he didn’t say this out loud. Why should he? Olga would start teasing him, calling him Sherlock Holmes or worse. It wasn’t as though he was ever going to see Volkov again. He’d see them off to Khanty and they’d forget about the odd Young Communist as if he’d never existed.

“Maybe we should go to the police station?” Lena asked, lighting a cigarette. “That Zakharov said he was a police officer. It doesn’t feel right leaving the file with the administrator. They change so frequently. They could lose it.”

Right then there was a knock at the door.

“Second Lieutenant Nikonenko,” the young fellow in the police uniform introduced himself and saluted. “Comrade Zakharov left a file here with you and asked me to pick it up. Here’s his address.” He held out a piece of notebook paper folded in fourths. “He asked you to be sure to write to him.”

“But what happened? Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He got held up at the briefing and then went straight to look at the body,” the second lieutenant explained.

“He went where?” Mitya asked.

“To look at the body. There was a murder. On the edge of the park, by the Tobol. They found a young woman murdered. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” The second lieutenant saluted and left with the story file pressed under his arm.

“Hold on. Where exactly?” Mitya jumped up and ran into the hallway after him. “Lieutenant, hold on,” he shouted down the stairwell, leaning over the railing. “Where exactly did they find the young woman?”

Holding his cap, the police officer looked up. “I told you, on the edge of the park, by the Tobol.”

“How did she die?” Mitya asked, more softly now.

“A knife wound to the heart. That’s all I can tell you, young man. I’m in a hurry.” The second lieutenant’s boots clattered down the stairs.

As Mitya turned back toward the room, he saw coming toward him, in no particular hurry, a fresh, cheerful, and smiling Volkov.