Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 19

It took Liza a long time to fall asleep. She kept sobbing and hugging her toy monkey. The major waited patiently in the kitchen, smoking, thoughtfully blowing the smoke out a partially opened window. At last, Lena quietly shut the door to the nursery and went into the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

“I won’t say no.”

She switched on the electric kettle, sat down on the kitchen sofa, and lit a cigarette.

“How’s your little girl doing?” the major inquired sympathetically.

“She doesn’t understand any of it, but of course she’s still scared out of her wits.”

“Elena Nikolaevna, are you comfortable answering my questions now? After all, today had to be quite a shock for you.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Ask away.” Lena smiled weakly.

She answered all his questions calmly and precisely. In going through her memories of the day, she even recalled that twice on their way to the store, she’d noticed the dirty green Moskvich. She hadn’t attached any importance to it at the time.

The major wrote down her statement and suggested that what happened might be connected with her husband’s job at the Interior Ministry.

“Will you be calling your husband in London to tell him what happened?” the major asked.

“No,” Lena replied firmly. “I’m going to call him, of course. But I won’t tell him what happened until I see him.”

“Why?”

“You can’t talk about things like this over the phone. Why scare him and pull him away from his work? What’s going to change if he cuts his trip short and flies home? It will just make him nervous. Everything is okay, after all. We’re alive, thank God. You think this was connected with his work?”

The major smiled. “That’s what immediately comes to mind.”

“I can see that,” Lena said thoughtfully, and she stood up to pour the tea. “How do you like your tea? Strong?”

“Yes, please.”

“As I said, that makes a lot of sense. It may well be that someone really did try to get their revenge on my husband through me and Liza. But, two other people I know died before this happened. People who are not connected at all with my husband. I knew them, though, even if we weren’t all that close.”

Lena told the major about the Sinitsyns, Mitya and Katya. She laid out only what she knew for sure, leaving aside her own hypotheses and conjectures.

The major listened silently and tensely. A few times he wrote something in his notebook, but he didn’t take detailed notes. He didn’t start really writing until Lena told him the story about the strange fake doctor. At that point he started putting everything down, word by word.

“Was it only the doctor you found interesting in this whole story?” Lena asked when she’d finished her story. “I knew it.”

“Elena Nikolaevna.” The major sighed. “To be perfectly honest with you, I just don’t see the connection between what happened to you today and the death of the Sinitsyn couple. It seems like quite a stretch to me.”

“If you would just check it out for me. You do have that ability, after all.”

“I don’t know.”

The major lit another cigarette, and Lena took another cigarette out of her own pack.

“I have one request to make of you,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow morning I’m sending my daughter away with my neighbor, her nanny, to a holiday house on the Istra Reservoir. Could you get in touch with them, with the security there, so that they—”

“Yes, I understand,” the major interrupted. “I’ll do everything in my power. And what are your plans?”

“I’m supposed to go to Siberia to serve as a consultant and an interpreter for an American professor.” She smiled.

“Will you be gone for long?”

“Ten days. The American’s arriving late tonight. And in a day or so we’re flying to Tyumen.”

“I’ll give you my number,” the major said. “Be sure to check in occasionally from Siberia. We may have questions for you. Okay?”

“Yes, of course. Only you mustn’t pull my husband back from London ahead of schedule. This is his first time abroad. If you need to speak to anyone from his department, you should be in touch with Mikhail Sichkin. Just please don’t bother Seryozha. There’s no need to alarm him, he’s only got a week left.”

“All right, Elena Nikolaevna.” The major smiled. “I promise we won’t bother your husband while he’s away. You’re right to be sending the child to the holiday house and leaving Moscow yourself.”

When the major left, Lena called Misha Sichkin at work.

“He’s not here,” they told her. “Who’s asking?”

“This is Polyanskaya.”

“Hello, Elena Nikolaevna. Sichkin’s been out sick with the flu for two days.”

Lena immediately called Misha at home. He was completely hoarse.

“How are you feeling?” Lena asked.

“Horrible. I’m taking all kinds of aspirins to bring down my temperature.”

“Watch out, you’ll ruin your stomach. Tell Ksenya to rub you down with vodka.”

“I prefer my vodka internally,” Misha muttered.

“Sure. It works great with aspirin.”

“All right, Madam Doctor, we’ll talk about the flu and vodka later. What’s happened? Spill.”

“Our stroller got blown up today. Someone put a bomb, fifty grams of TNT, into the bag with Liza’s new shoes. Some Security Service guys are going to come see you. They think it’s connected to Seryozha’s work.”

“Are you serious?” Misha’s voice started to give out, he was so disturbed. “Someone put a bomb in Liza’s stroller? Where were you?”

“Fifteen meters away. We hadn’t quite got to it when it blew up. We were just thrown to the ground. But Misha, don’t be worried. We’re totally fine. We’re just a little shaken, that’s all.”

“You have to call Seryozha.”

“Not on your life! Don’t even dream of telling him before he gets back. You know him. He’ll go crazy. You’re going to have to deal with these Security Service guys yourself. And I wanted to tell you, the guitarist’s wife, she’s dead.”

“What? When?”

“The night before last. At about two thirty. She injected herself with a fatal dose of morphine. Then she dropped a burning cigarette on her blanket, and her whole apartment went up in flames. But half an hour before that I was talking to her on the phone. We didn’t get to finish our conversation. Some woman came to see her and interrupted us. But Katya managed to tell me quite a few interesting things before she died. For instance, she told me about a doctor who was treating her, a doctor so brilliant and famous and popular she wouldn’t even tell me her name. It’s entirely possible that it was that doctor who visited Katya that night, Misha. The receiver was lying next to the phone when Katya went to open the door. I heard Katya say a woman’s name, but it was far away. Inna, or maybe Galina.”

“Regina?” Sichkin asked, surprising himself.

“Possibly Regina,” Lena agreed. “It was hard to hear. Did that name just come to you? Or do you have something specific in mind?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. I need to get well fast and go back to work.”

“Misha, what’s going on? Please tell me I’m imagining things. Tell me that Katya was a drug addict and her death was accidental. Tell me it was just some young thugs that put that bomb in the stroller for a laugh.”

“When do you leave for Siberia, Lena?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“It’s good that you and Liza will be out of Moscow for a while.”

“Major Ievlev of the Security Services thinks the same.”

The guard barely recognized Regina Valentinovna. “Gena,” she said as she got out of the green Opel, “pay this man his fare.”

“In dollars?” Gena whispered.

“Give him whatever you have.” She darted through the office gates.

In the front hall, the maid flew at Regina.

“Hey! Where are you going? How did you get in here?” The maid barred her way.

“Excellent work, Galya.” Regina patted her on the cheek. “Keep it up. Only, please never address anyone with ‘hey.’ It’s impolite.”

Pulling off the black knit cap, Regina shook out her sleek hair the color of ripe wheat and proceeded calmly to her office.

“Regina Valentinovna, forgive me. I didn’t recognize you.” The maid’s lips quivered.

Locking herself in her office, Regina stripped off her ‘everywoman’ outfit, under which she wore delicate French lingerie, which she took off in the shower stall with great care. Standing under the hot shower, she washed off all the smells and sounds of the dirty, boorish city.

Regina turned off the water, pulled off her shower cap, and wrapped herself in a fluffy terry-cloth bath sheet. What now? she thought. Poison? But that’s doubly dangerous now. Wait it out? Maybe it’s better not to do anything at all for now.

Right then she heard a cautious knock at the door.

“What’s the matter?’” she asked angrily.

“Regina Valentinovna.” The frightened voice of her secretary Inna came through the door. “Veniamin Borisovich isn’t feeling well. Some journalist came to see him. He asked that you stop in at the audition room to see him.”

“I’m on my way!” Regina put a plaid kilt and thick white hand-knit sweater over her naked body. Slipping her bare feet into soft suede flat slippers, she glanced in the mirror, ran a brush through her hair, and left her office.

Venya was pale as death. His hands were shaking. He stood in the narrow aisle between the chairs, his mouth open but unable to utter a word.

Sitting right there, by the stage, was a dark-haired fellow of about twenty-five with a pleasant, intelligent face. Regina noted quickly that he looked nothing like a music journalist. He was wearing expensive jeans, a neat, dark blue sweater, and clean, high-quality shoes.

“Hello.” He rose to meet Regina and held out his hand. “Georgy Galitsyn of Smart magazine.”

Regina shook his hand. And immediately saw the small voice recorder he was holding in his left hand.

“Venya, what’s wrong?’” She walked right up to her husband.

“I… I’m not feeling well,” he managed to get out, looking into Regina’s eyes with horror.

“We were just talking,” Galitsyn began explaining in a gentle, apologetic voice. “Veniamin Borisovich was the one who made the appointment. Maybe we should call a doctor?”

“How many cassettes have you recorded?” Regina asked quickly.

“One.”

“Give it to me, please.”

“Excuse me?” The journalist was surprised. “It’s an ordinary conversation. We were talking about Tobolsk. I can let you listen to it.”

“You’ll give me the cassette and leave immediately,” Regina said with a polite smile.

“Fine!” Galitsyn shrugged. “If you think your husband might have said something he shouldn’t have, take it.” He pulled the microcassette out of the recorder and held it out to Regina.

“Don’t be offended, young man.” Her voice softened after she took the cassette from him and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “Veniamin Borisovich is in no condition to give an interview today. I know your magazine. It would be better if you came another time. Veniamin Borisovich will be happy to answer your questions. But not today. Please excuse us.”

Galitsyn quickly left the room.

The cassette he’d given Regina was blank.

“Child, you mustn’t. Throwing out a perfectly good stroller just because its wheels came off is wasteful.” Vera Fyodorovna sat sedately on the kitchen sofa and shrugged.

“Vera Fyodorovna, would you like some groats and mushrooms?” Lena asked.

“Yes, please. But don’t you try to sweet-talk me. Liza, what were you looking at?”

“The stroller’s all broken.” Liza sighed and sent a spoonful of groats and mushrooms into her mouth. “I’m a big girl now. I can walk myself. Do you want to see my monkey?”

Liza climbed down from her chair and ran to her room.

“You could have it repaired. Why are you giving me so much? I don’t like to go to bed full.”

“Vera Fyodorovna, Liza really can walk herself now. It will be dry before long. Sooner or later we’d have to get rid of the stroller,” Lena said, setting a plate in front of Vera Fyodorovna.

“You want to throw everything out? What if you and Seryozha decide to have another child? You mean you’d buy a new one? It was such an excellent stroller.”

“Nanny Vera, look at my monkey!” Liza exclaimed as she ran into the kitchen. “We’re taking him with us to the holidouse. He’ll sleep and eat with me there.”

“Have you decided on a name for him?” Vera Fyodorovna asked as she examined the toy animal.

The doorbell rang. Lena looked through the peephole and saw Gosha Galitsyn.

Liza ran into the front hall as he was taking off his boots.

“Hello!” she said very seriously.

“Hello, little girl. How are you?”

“Good. Our stroller broke today.” Liza ran back to the kitchen shouting, “Nanny Vera! I’ll name the monkey Gosha!”

“Who is it you’re naming in my honor? Show me.” Gosha walked into the kitchen, greeted Vera Fyodorovna, and sat down beside her on the sofa. “I have nothing against it at all,” he said after looking at the monkey. “A very attractive namesake.”

“Gosha, this isn’t a snake, it’s a monkey,” Liza objected seriously. “Gosha the monkey had a little stool and a little bed and little dishes, too. Mama and I bought them, but the stroller broke a lot.”

“How’s that?” Vera Fyodorovna didn’t understand.

“The stroller went like this.” Liza took a deep breath and shouted at the top of her lungs: “Ka-boom! Mama and I fell down, and then a fat man wanted to pick me up. But I cried.”

“Oh, Liza! I totally forgot!” Gosha went out to the front hall and came back a minute later, carrying a small set of toy dishes in a plastic wrapper. “Look. Just for your monkey.”

“Thank you! It’s got little spoons and little cups! Open it!”

“Lena, I don’t understand,” Vera Fyodorovna asked sternly. “What happened to you today?”

“Nothing, Vera Fyodorovna.” Lena put a plate of groats in front of Gosha. “I told you. The stroller broke as we were walking. I slipped and fell, and Liza fell with me. It’s very slippery right now.”

“And what happened to the toys? You did go to the store this morning, didn’t you?”

“Everything fell out and drowned in the slush.”

“And who was this ‘fat man’?”

“A passerby helped us up.”

“Oh, you’re hiding something, girl.” Vera Fyodorovna shook her head. “Fine. Liza and I are going to bed. You have to go meet your American.”

“I was at Volkov’s today,” Gosha said when they got in the car. “You know, it was all very strange. He made an appointment to meet me in his office. He’s got a gorgeous place. You can imagine. A fancy office. Maids, guards, and an audition room that was oddly shabby, like some Soviet-era House of Pioneers. I started asking him questions about his childhood and his parents. Then about his youth. Very basic stuff. He was so languid, I decided to change things up and asked whether he remembered steaming in an official bathhouse with a group of journalists from Moscow during his Young Communist days. And if he remembered drinking vodka with them and roasting shish kebabs one night on the banks of the Tobol. And at that moment something happened to him. He turned white, sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hands started shaking. He looked at me with bugged-out eyes and asked, ‘Who told you that?’

“I said, ‘Elena Polyanskaya, my boss and friend. You must remember her.’ And at that he shouted so the whole office could hear: ‘No!’ His secretary flew in, and then his wife came running and demanded I give back the cassette. I’d just put in a new blank one. That’s what I gave her. Do you want to listen to the interview?”

“Yes.” Lena nodded.

“Take my bag out of the back seat. The Volkov cassette is in the pocket.”

Lena put on the headset and turned on the recorder. “I had a very strict mother. She was the secretary of the bread factory’s Party organization. She was very demanding, but she taught me to be strong.”

“Is that why you became a Young Communist?” Gosha’s mocking voice asked.

“Yes. I had specific ideals. Unlike lots of people, I truly believed in the victory of Communism.”

Lord, what rot! Lena thought. Venya Volkov, the Young Communist who took us to the Party bathhouse, fed us shish kebab and cured sausage. Venya Volkov, who burned with an unearthly love for me. That Venya Volkov believed in the victory of Communism? Why is he making himself out to be an idiot? There was something sensitive and abnormal about him.

Right then, Gosha asked about the bathhouse and the shish kebab. Volkov’s “No!” hit her headset so loudly that Lena shuddered. That cry rang out immediately after Gosha said her name.

“Tell me about Volkov,” Lena asked, turning off the recorder and putting it back in Gosha’s bag. “How did he become a millionaire?”

“From ’85 to ’87 he had a chain of nightclubs and sound studios in Tyumen, Tobolsk, and Khanty-Mansiysk. But by that time he had already moved to Moscow and was working for the Young Communist Central Committee. In what capacity, I don’t know.”

“Hang on, Gosha. In ’85 we didn’t have private property. How could he own nightclubs and studios?”

“Well, formally the music business was communal, owned by the Young Communists. But in reality, at least in Western Siberia, it was completely controlled by Volkov. Simultaneously, he ran the so-called Central Committee propaganda train. You must have heard of it.”

“I even rode it once.” Lena smiled. “It was a nightmare. There was a children’s chorus from Lipetsk going to New Urengoi. I remember the chorus’s conductor warming water in the boiler and washing the children’s heads and her own over the only sink. They were afraid of lice. I’ll never forget it. Fine, go on about Volkov.”

“In ’88 he started making stars. First he took a children’s dance ensemble from the Tobolsk Pioneer Palace around the country. The kids would tap-dance and dance to rock and roll. He’d squeeze those dancers dry and made crazy money off them—for those days.

“Later he had a serious clash with the ensemble’s director, Tatyana Kostylyova. In an interview I read, she had some unflattering things to say about Volkov. She said he was profiting off the children, treating them as slaves, forcing them to work for twelve hours a day, dragging them all over the country. They couldn’t even go to school.

“It was a major scandal. Then the parents of one of the boys in the ensemble sued Kostylyova, accusing her of indecent assault against minors. Everyone knew she hadn’t done anything improper with any of the boys. But the newspapers had a field day.”

“Was there ever a trial?”

“No, it never went to trial. It took quite a toll on her nerves and her family, though. They ended up moving to Canada.”

“What happened to the children’s ensemble?”

“It fell apart. But Volkov pulled an incredible coup. In ’89 the Nightingales group appeared on the music scene. You must remember them, four boys, all eighteen, singing love songs. They had some producer named Granayan, an Armenian millionaire. He made loads of money off those boys and slept with each of them. The group was a sensation. Sold-out halls, girls pissing their pants in ecstasy at their concerts.

“And then something strange happened. Granayan was suddenly hospitalized with a serious case of pneumonia. Tests showed he had AIDS. At the time, hardly anyone knew what that was.

“The boys in the Nightingales panicked. It turned out that two of the four were infected. You know how it all ended? Volkov took the healthy ones under his wing and found replacements for the two sick ones. He created a new group, Bicycle. He didn’t even have to promote them. They were even more popular and their shows were sold-out everywhere.

“Then one journalist tracked down a male prostitute, an Algerian studying at Lumumba U. in Moscow. He admitted he’d been paid to entice and infect ‘a certain rich Armenian’ with AIDS. He didn’t know who’d paid him, but it was a lot of money. All he said was that all his dealings had been with a woman who only spoke French with him.

“Soon after that, the prostitute vanished, no one knew where. And the journalist got a bullet in his skull as he was walking his dog one night.”

“What happened to the Armenian and the two infected boys?” Lena asked quietly.

“The Armenian died shortly thereafter, in the hospital, but those two—I don’t know.”

“Do you think this was Volkov’s doing?” Lena asked.

“Who else’s could it be? Look at his career. Whenever anyone got in his way, there was an accident and that ‘someone’ was eliminated one way or another. Granayan was just one of those people who got in his way. Then there was Olya Ivushkina. Maybe you remember her? She was huge in the early ’90s.”

“I did hear something. What, AIDS again?”

“No. The Olya Ivushkina story is much simpler and cruder. Volkov found her in a discotheque. He literally picked her out of the crowd. You know her type: a real cutie-pie, a skinny redhead with freckles on her snub nose, round glasses, and her hair in braids. She sang songs about high school love. Volkov made her a name and fast. He shot a few videos and started making good money off of her. And then all of a sudden, at the height of her fame, she said she had no desire to sing anymore. She was in love with some shah from the Emirates and he’d forbidden her to appear onstage. She wanted to marry him and be a shah’s wife, so she had to put an end to her musical career.

“Tour dates had to be canceled. Volkov would have had to kiss his money good-bye, but then they found a dead prostitute in the shah’s deluxe suite at the Metropol Hotel. All the clues pointed to the Arab. No amount of money, no attempts at diplomatic intervention could help him. The shah ended up in a special prison for foreigners.

“And Olya Ivushkina is singing to this day. Only she completely changed her image. Now she’s a blonde femme fatale with silicone breasts.”

Gosha’s white Volga drove onto the curving ramp in front of the terminal at Sheremetyevo 2.

“Lena, what really happened with the stroller?” Gosha suddenly asked.

“I’ll tell you later. Look, there’s a space. Park there.”