Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 29

Sasha led them on an excursion through the historic center. Talking nonstop, he told them how there was once a Tatar town here, Chingi-Tura, and how in the sixteenth century the great Ermak’s Cossacks fought Kuchum Khan and won three Siberian rivers for Russia—the Irtysh, Tobol, and Tura—and how in 1584 Ermak drowned in the Irtysh and in 1586 a valiant commander named Sukov founded Tyumen on the Tura River.

Michael couldn’t contain himself. He kept saying, “Boy, did we luck out with Sasha!”

And Lena couldn’t have agreed more. They really had lucked out with Sasha.

“You don’t happen to know where Malaya Proletarskaya Street is, do you?” Lena asked when he was taking them back to the hotel at seven thirty.

“It just so happens I do.” Sasha smiled. “Why?”

“I need to visit some people I know.”

“Good ones?”

“Marvelous ones. Very old and fine people.”

“Then you can call and let them meet you if they’re old and good. There are phones nearly everywhere in that part of town.”

“There weren’t in ’83.”

“Yes, that’s true. That means you haven’t seen your Tyumen friends since ’83?”

“Well, we did correspond for a while afterward.” Lena shrugged. “Listen, why are you so curious?”

“I’m curious by nature.” Sasha laughed. “Why don’t I take you to Malaya Proletarskaya? It’ll be faster than explaining how to get there.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but your family is probably at home waiting for you.”

“My family’s visiting my mother-in-law in Tobolsk right now,” Sasha said, looking at Lena through his glasses with his clear, honest brown eyes.

“Listen, are you near- or farsighted?” she asked quietly.

“One eye is -3 and the other is -2. Why?”

“Nothing. Usually glasses make eyes either bigger or small. But it looks like yours are plain glass. You might think you wore them for looks. All right, it’s late. I have to visit my friends on Malaya Proletarskaya today.”

“Let’s go. I’ll take you there and back.”

“Even back? And how much will that cost?”

“A cup of coffee.” He smiled broadly. “But if we’re being serious, why should I take anything more from you if your professor is already paying me a hundred dollars a day? I’m no bloodsucker.”

Lena saw Michael to his room. Sasha waited for her in the car. It took them twenty minutes to drive to Malaya Proletarskaya.

Number fifteen was the only one-story wooden house among the gray prefab tenements. A light burned cozily in the window. The gate was open. Lena walked onto the creaking porch. There was no bell. She knocked.

She heard quick shuffling, and the door opened wide. On the threshold stood a tall, lean old woman wearing a white cotton kerchief.

“Hello,” Lena said. “Tell me, please, do the Slepaks live here?”

“Yes.” The old woman nodded. “Come in.”

Lena was amazed. The old woman hadn’t asked who she was before she opened the door. She was letting a stranger into her house.

“Are you Raisa Danilovna?” Lena stepped hesitantly into the dark anteroom, where the floor was spread with clean cloths.

The house smelled of a freshly washed wooden floor, roasted potatoes, and medications.

“I’m her sister,” the old woman said. “Take off your boots. I just washed the floors. Go on inside. Raisa!” she called out. “There’s a young woman here for you.”

Lena unlaced her tall boots and, stepping cautiously over the damp cloths in just her thin stockings, she went through the half-open door into a small, perfectly furnished room hung with old photographs in carved frames. Between the two windows, an icon lamp glowed under the dark icon of Our Lady of Kazan. In the middle of the room, under a wide, orange-fringed shade was an empty round table covered with a snow-white embroidered tablecloth. Sitting at the table was an old woman in the same white kerchief and with the same sharp features as the woman who’d opened the door.

“Hello. Are you Raisa Danilovna?” Lena stopped, at a loss.

“I am.” The old woman nodded. “Why are you standing? Come in. Sit down.”

Lena sat at the table across from her hostess.

“My name is Lena Polyanskaya. I’m from Moscow,” she began, feeling the heavy gaze of the old woman’s faded blue eyes on her. “Thirteen years ago I sent you a magazine with a poem by your son Vasily. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do.” The old woman kept looking at her just as heavily and intently.

“And how is Vasily doing?” Lena asked, and she smiled.

Right now, more than anything, she wished she could get up and leave. She felt uneasy under the old woman’s heavy, penetrating gaze.

“Do you have business with him or are you simply curious?” A smirk flashed in her faded eyes.

“I… You see, I’m a journalist. I’m writing an article about what happened to the self-taught poets who were once published in our magazine.” Lena said the first thing that popped into her head.

“You’re saying Vasily’s a poet?” The old woman burst out in quiet, creaking laughter, but her eyes were still grave.

“Yes.” Lena nodded. “He wrote interesting poems.”

“Raisa!” a voice was heard from the next room. “Your potato’s getting cold.”

“Will you have supper with us?” her hostess asked.

“Thank you.”

Lena was dismayed. There’s no way she could say they were glad she’d come, but they were inviting her to supper. She’d spent time with so many people—hundreds of people of every kind. But never had she felt so awkward with anyone as with this old woman, who seemed to see through everything with her cold, faded blue eyes and knew Lena was lying about the article.

Lena heard shuffling, and the one who’d called herself her sister came in. Silently setting a large enamel bowl covered in a linen towel on the table, she went out and returned a minute later with plates and forks. She set the table silently. Besides the potatoes, there were pickles, bread, and sauerkraut.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Raisa Danilovna asked. “Don’t be afraid. Eat first, and then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Thank you.” Lena smiled and started mashing the steaming potato with her fork.

“Have a pickle, they’re homemade,” the sister’s voice chimed in.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Lena asked her.

“Zoya Danilovna,” she introduced herself and smiled.

It was a warm, lively smile. Lena felt a little more at ease. The pickles were delicious, and the sauerkraut with cranberries crunched delightfully between her teeth. A few minutes later, Lena felt totally comfortable, even cozy, although her hostess hadn’t taken her strange eyes off her.

Then they had tea with a little mint and lemon. Only after the second mug did Raisa Danilovna say, “You’re looking for the murderer. I knew someone would come sooner or later to look for the real murderer. Not the police, but someone like you. Only you have to know. There was one other person who tried to prove that my dear departed husband Nikita, God rest his soul”—the old woman turned to face the icon and crossed herself three times—“that my Nikita was innocent. Just one person, and they killed him. He was from Tobolsk himself, and he worked for the police. God rest his soul, too”—and she crossed herself three times again.

“First Lieutenant Zakharov,” Lena said quietly.

“Correct.” The old woman nodded. “Zakharov. There was a whole team working there, from Tobolsk, and Khanty, and here in Tyumen. Ten men in all. They arrested my Nikita trying to sell some jewelry near a shop. He’d found it in the pocket of his quilted vest. It wasn’t enough for a bottle, so he went to sell it. That was where they picked him up. That summer he’d found some work in Tobolsk, so he’d gone to stay with his brother-in-law there. The last murder was in Tobolsk.”

“In June of ’82?” Lena asked.

“Yes, in June, right before Whitsunday.”

“Tell me, Raisa Danilovna, besides the jewelry and the fact that your husband was in Tobolsk in June, what other evidence was there?”

“The blood matched.”

“The blood type?” Lena clarified. “Your husband’s blood type was the same as the murderer’s?”

“Yes. And also they found a sweater here behind the stove. Someone else’s sweater. It was light colored. There were blood spots on it that had been washed off but not completely. Their analysis showed it was the murdered girl’s blood. And there was a knife wrapped up in the sweater, a small one, with a plastic handle. They said it was the murder weapon.”

“Raisa Danilovna”—Lena felt a nasty chill in her stomach—“I realize many years have passed. But you wouldn’t happen to remember what the sweater looked like, would you?”

“Light-colored wool, but not bleached white. The usual kind of collar, with elastic. And a simple pattern, little diamonds, I think.”

“Knit by hand or machine?”

“By hand. The Khakaskas who come from Abakan used to sell sweaters like that at the market.”

“Had any strangers, people you didn’t know, been in your home before they arrested your husband?” Lena asked.

“A woman came and brought money. She said she was from the Committee of Soviet Women. She was delivering aid for prisoners’ mothers for the New Year. Fifty rubles. She gave me a receipt to sign.”

“You remember that precisely? It’s been so many years,” Lena said, surprised.

“That’s why I remembered, because there’d never been such a thing. I’d never heard a word about there being any committee like that. I asked my neighbor, Varvara Strogova. Her son Andrei was in prison then, too. But no one came to see her or gave her any money. I thought I was the only one to have such luck—in those days, fifty rubles was a lot. I went to church, too, and lit a candle for that committee and sent Vasily a New Year’s package with the money. And the woman was memorable, very scary looking.”

“What do you mean, scary looking? Ugly?”

“Ugly is too kind. I even thought how awful it would be for a woman to be born with a face like that. More freak than woman. But well educated and polite and very well dressed. And it was a proper receipt, with a seal.”

“Did you tell the investigator about her?”

“What do you think? In great detail! At the time they said, ‘Oh, you’re lying, Raisa Danilovna.’ ‘We feel sorry for you,’ they said. ‘Not only is your only son in prison, but now your husband is, too. But if you’re going to lie, you’ll go to prison yourself.’ No one believed me. One evening later, Zakharov came and started questioning me in detail about the woman. He wrote it all down. A week later he went home to Tobolsk only to get his throat slit there. That’s a mother’s true grief! He was a fine man.”

“Forgive me, Raisa Danilovna, but did your husband drink a lot? Was he enrolled at a rehab clinic for alcoholics and drug addicts?”

“Drug rehab and psych. All kinds. He won’t be remembered fondly for the way he drank. He could be brutal. And he was always hungover and angry.”

Lena’s head started spinning. She forgot about time. Only when Raisa Danilovna had told her everything she could did Lena glance at her watch. Ten forty-five! Sasha had probably gone. She was going to have to find her way back to the hotel herself.

“Since you’re here, please give me a hand,” Zoya Danilovna asked. “Raya’s legs are paralyzed, so I have to move Raya to her bed. Usually I do it myself, but since you’re here…”

“Yes, of course.” Lena stood up.

“Here, take her on the right, like this, under her knees. Raisa, put your arm around her neck. That’s the way. And mine with the other hand. All right, lift!”

Even together, moving someone whose legs are paralyzed from chair to bed is very hard.

“How do you manage alone?” Lena quietly asked as Zoya Danilovna saw her to the front door.

“I’m used to it.” The old woman shrugged. “Now it’s better. At least her arms are working.”

“Has this gone on long?”

“Eleven years. When she found out they’d executed… that Nikita was gone, she collapsed on the floor. And never got up again.”

“Tell me, Zoya Danilovna, how could she know why I’d come?”

“She tells everyone the same thing. Whoever comes—from social security, or the clinic, or the post office, or the savings bank—she focuses her little eyes on them and after a few words asks, ‘Are you looking for the real murderer?’ Some get scared off, especially the young girls. The doctor says she suffers from mania. And it turns out she was right. Are you truly looking for the murderer? Perhaps you’re from the police?”

“No.” Lena shook her head. “Not from the police. I really am a journalist.”

“Yes, I understand.” The old woman pursed her lips. “Don’t say if you don’t want. I won’t try to get it out of you.”

Lena had already laced up her boots and put on her jacket.

“Zoya Danilovna, where is Vasily?” she asked. “How is he doing?”

“Not too badly, I guess,” the woman began very quietly and brought her dry face closer to Lena. “He sends money regularly, good money. That’s what we live on. It’s enough for food and medicine. The last time he showed up was a couple of years ago. He was well dressed. He’d grown up and was as strong as an ox. You’d never recognize him! He didn’t tell us anything about himself. He spent the night and brought his mother a wheelchair, a collapsible one, so nice and light. He brought a fluffy shawl, too, and two warm dresses, and a coat for me—expensive, with a fur collar. It’s a pity to wear it, so it’s still hanging up. And he left a lot of money. If Vasya happens to turn up, should I tell him about you?”

“You can tell him”—Lena nodded—“but please, no one else.”

“Yes, that’s understandable.” The old woman pursed her dry lips significantly. “Raisa and I aren’t going to blab. Not that we have anyone to blab to. God willing, Vasya will come visit. I don’t have children of my own. He’s all Raya and I have. One son for two. Are your parents alive?”

“No.”

“An orphan then?”

“I have a husband and a two-year-old daughter.”

“Who did you leave your daughter with?”

“My neighbor.”

“You’re like a child yourself, so skinny, and such a slender little face. How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“You don’t say.” Zoya Danilovna shook her head. “I’d never have guessed. You look like a little girl. Isn’t it scary looking for a murderer?”

“It is.” Lena smiled. “Very scary. But if I don’t find him, it will be even scarier.”

Am I really looking for a murderer? Lena asked herself as she walked out the gate into the snow-covered yard. Yes, I am. And I’m scared.

There were no streetlamps on. The street was deserted. Lena looked around, hoping to see Sasha’s car. She didn’t even remember which direction to go. She was just about to return to the house and ask Zoya Danilovna the best way back to the city center, when she heard a light honk. Headlights flashed. Sasha was waiting for her, his Moskvich parked in a narrow alley between tenements. Lena rejoiced as if she were seeing a member of her family.

“She went to see Slepak’s mother.”

“Who?”

“Vasily Slepak’s mother. She spent three hours there.”

“And then?”

“Then I took her to the hotel.”

“What did you talk about on the way?”

“She asked me whether I happened to know where the psychiatric clinic for the Malaya Proletarskaya district was. I promised to drop her off there first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Did you ask why?”

“Of course! She had an explanation for everything. She said she’d recently translated an article about serial killers by an American psychologist for her magazine. She’d taken a tremendous interest in the subject. She wanted to write something herself. And here in Tyumen Province, she said, in the early eighties, there was a serial killer who targeted young girls. So she wants to go to the clinic to do some additional background research and collect local color for her article.”

“You’ve given me quite a surprise. Quite. What about tails?”

“Don’t think so. But that’s all ahead of us. It’s going to get dangerous for her if she keeps this up. Curious people aren’t very popular here.”

“What do you think about it?”

“It’s too soon to think anything. You should look through everything there is, not just on Slepak but on his father, too, through your own channels. And I’ll work mine. Just in case.”

“The older Slepak was that maniac they used to call Stealth Nikita. He was executed eleven years ago.”

“That’s quite a memory you have!”

“I’m not complaining. But I’ll stop by the archives. Just in case. Is that all you have for now?”

“I think so.”

“Think or know?”

“You see, Slepak’s mother had a heart attack eleven years ago. Her legs are paralyzed and her mind’s not all there. There’s another old woman there, with her, her sister. But you can’t squeeze a word out of her. They say the old woman’s not in her right mind. So, here’s what I’m wondering: what was your Polyanskaya discussing for three hours with two crazy old ladies? How did she even find the address? She’s an interesting woman.”

“Yes, more interesting than I’d expected.”

“Maybe I should tell her who I am?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she tells you.”

“What now?”

“Keep driving. Don’t take your eyes off her.”

“So should I tell her or not?”

“Let’s see how things fall out. If necessary, you can say hi for me. Until then, watch her closely, and report to me daily.”

Major Ievlev hung up and stared at his office wall. This was a turn of events he’d never expected! The night before Polyanskaya’s flight out, he’d contacted the Federal Security’s Tyumen office and asked them to keep an eye on her and the American, just in case. He was a cautious and conscientious person and couldn’t have it on his conscience if suddenly, contrary to expectations, something happened to the Interior Ministry colonel’s wife.

Lena Polyanskaya had turned out to be anything but frivolous. This wasn’t just about love and jealousy. It was all much more serious. Judging from what his Tyumen tail had reported, Polyanskaya had decided to open her own private investigation. Which could be tangentially connected to Volkov and Gradskaya. Perhaps love and jealousy were just a cover. He wondered which of the three was the lead player. Gradskaya, Volkov, or Polyanskaya? Or were they playing this game—whatever it was—as equals?

Ievlev knew that Veniamin Volkov was born and raised in Tobolsk. His wife, Regina Gradskaya, was born there as well. He also knew that in June 1982, Polyanskaya and her friend Olga Sinitsyna and her brother Mitya, the same one who recently hanged himself, had been there, too. Polyanskaya had told him about Sinitsyn. She’d gently pushed her own theory of why someone had planted a bomb in her stroller, but at the time he’d thought it was ridiculous, that she was making things up, connecting disparate events that didn’t have the least relation to each other.

She kept hinting, and he kept not taking the bait. Probably no one else had, either. So she’d taken matters into her own hands.

I have to go there, Ievlev reflected. I have to look at the older Slepak’s file.

He decided to fly to Tyumen the next evening.