Stalin’s Ghost

18

Sofia Andreyeva said, “I don’t show nice apartments to just anyone. I always look at their shoes. If they don’t take care of their own shoes, how will they take care of an apartment?”

“Absolutely,” Arkady said, although he could take no credit for it; any son of an army general automatically kept his shoes polished.

She winked at Arkady as she drove and hummed to herself. Her car was the tidiest Lada that Arkady had ever been in. No cigarette wrappers, beer cans, wilted newspapers or rust in the floor. A bit like Sofia Andreyeva herself. What once was a distinguished nose had, with age, become a beak, but she had a fresh bloom of rouge on her cheeks and, wrapped in a black shawl, she looked cheerfully bereaved. She was a real estate agent, meaning she met each train as it arrived at Tver Station and studied the disembarking passengers before offering, “Apartments to let. Best choice guaranteed.” Other real estate agents wore sandwich boards, which she considered déclassé. She liked Arkady at first sight. Clean shaven, no apparent hangover even early in the day. And she was pleased that, although he had his own car, he had gone to the train station instead of some stuffy, overpriced office.

Sofia Andreyeva showed him a studio apartment with Danish details and wireless connection and took him to a spacious flat on Sovietskaya Street, the city’s central boulevard. For Arkady’s purposes neither would do. As they walked down Sovietskaya, Sofia Andreyeva surprised Arkady by casually, deliberately, spitting at a gate. Before he could ask why, she said, “There’s one more apartment, a dear friend’s. He is taking a leave of absence from the university. He phoned me yesterday to say that with the euro being what it is, he could use some extra income. Anyway, the apartment is not ready to be shown, and his personal effects are everywhere, but with new sheets you could move in today. Do you speak French?”

“No. Is that a requirement?”

“Not at all, not at all.” She sighed. “It’s just, well, a shame.”

The apartment was on the second story of a housing block that flew laundry on the balconies. The lobby was filthy and mailboxes were ripped open. The apartment, however, harbored a fantasy. Posters of Piaf and Alain Delon hung on the walls. Michelin guides filled the shelves. A pack of Gitanes lay on the desk, and the smell of forgotten cheese overpowered all. She had Arkady change into slippers at the front door.

“The carpets.”

“I understand.” It was hardly unusual to change footwear if slippers were provided.

“The professor’s pride and joy.” She pointed to the most threadbare carpet on the floor. “A minor carpet to be sure, but it was on a professor’s salary.” She sniffed. “Such ambience. Perhaps an open window would be a good idea.”

Arkady looked at a photo of a middle-aged man striking a pose with a beret squashed on his head and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

“Does he have a family?”

“The professor’s son is an anarchist. He travels the world protesting international conferences by setting cars on fire. Notice the television and videotape player. Two bedrooms, one bath. The carpets, of course. The shower and kitchen have been redone. Gas and electricity are connected. I’m sorry to say that the telephone has been turned off, but you no doubt have a cell phone. Everyone does.”

Moving into such a completely furnished apartment was like wearing someone else’s clothes, but on the plus side the building directly opposite was commercial, not the roost of curious babushkas. The ground floor offered two exits, a front door to the street and carport and a back door to a courtyard with a playground and bicycle stand. Across the courtyard was a row of small enterprises-an Internet café, a weight-lifting club and a beauty salon. A couple of men loitered in sweat suits outside the club’s back door. Sofia Andreyeva was willing to rent month to month at a fraction of what a hotel would cost.

Arkady said, “I like it. Is the son likely to pop in?”

“I doubt it. He’s in jail in Geneva. In case there is a problem…” She tore off a corner of the newspaper and wrote a phone number. “My business cards are still at the printer’s. Just call in the afternoons and ask for Doctor Andreyeva.”

“A medical doctor? Two occupations?”

“For the sake of eating.”

“I’ll see you if I catch a cold.”

“Let’s hope not, for your sake. Are you married?”

“No.”

“You may not know, but men from America, Australia, from all over the world come here to meet Russian brides. I don’t think we really need a written contract. Keys count more than paper. Will you be getting any mail here?”

“No, that will go to the office.”

“Much better.”

Sofia Andreyeva buttoned her coat, ready to fly.

Arkady said, “Before you go, I didn’t get the professor’s name.”

“Professor Golovanov. He likes to say that his liver is Russian and his stomach is French. I am, in a sense, midway between Russian and French myself.”

“Polish?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I saw something. A certain flair.”

“Yes, yes.” She was delighted but froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. A piece of paper slid under the door and the steps moved on. “What is it?”

“A flyer for a political rally.”

One side of the flyer promised music and clowns, while the other bore a photograph of Isakov in combat gear riding the fender of an armored personnel carrier.

“Politics.” Sofia Andreyeva treated the word like dirt. “Of course, we must register your new address with the militia. You being a prosecutor’s investigator, I’ll leave that to you.”

“Of course.”

Arkady understood perfectly. Sometimes it was better not to ask too many questions. Granted, there was a chance that a resuscitated Professor Golovanov might return from a holiday in the south of France, swilling wine and singing the Marseillaise. All the same, Arkady had rarely seen the law broken with such elan.

The day was comfortably crisp, more Easter weather than winter, the pastel walls of Lenin Square glowing in the sun. A balalaika ensemble entertained on a stage decorated with the white, blue and red of the Russian flag. Clowns swayed on stilts. Teenagers on in-line skates distributed “I am a Russian Patriot” T-shirts. Volunteers spun cotton candy, pink and blue. Technicians laid cable and every minute or so the sound system erupted with a shriek. A truck-mounted outdoor video screen rose on hydraulic lifts behind the stage while a camera crew worked on a platform facing the stage, Zelensky on the camera, Bora extending a microphone boom. Zelensky was as emaciated as ever. Bora appeared at the limit of his technical abilities. Arkady spotted Petya handling a mobile camera on the ground. Arkady took one of the Patriot shirts being handed out. The photo of Isakov printed on the back was similar to one on a T-shirt he had seen before, except that the hero carried a shovel instead of a rifle and the tiger’s head patch of OMON was replaced by the emblem of a red star, a rose and a third element Arkady could not identify.

More people than Arkady expected had come. Besides the usual steel-teeth pensioners, the rally had attracted coal miners and veterans of the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya. Miners and veterans were serious men. Some of the veterans were in wheelchairs, driving home the point that Isakov was one candidate who had not weaseled or bribed his way out of serving his country. Speeches had been scheduled to begin at one in the afternoon and last for an hour. At two, the minor candidates began even though the stage crew was still fighting feedback and the screen crew was still adjusting its angle. But a festive atmosphere prevailed. This was a taped event, not live. No one paid particular attention to the time except Arkady. He wanted to buy a car with Tver license plates before the day was out. A white Zhiguli with Moscow plates was too easy to track.

As the crowd grew, Arkady moved to the side so that he could see backstage as well. Two trailers, the kind afforded actors on a movie set, stood on either side of the video truck. One was for the lesser candidates; the Russian Patriots had a score of them to present to the public, decoys chosen to fill a slate. The party’s only genuine candidate was Isakov, who stood outside the opposite trailer with Urman and two figures that Arkady hadn’t seen since the Metropol Hotel, the American political wizards, Wiley and Pacheco. Isakov was entirely in black. Black was New Russia’s favorite color for German cars and Italian suits, but he also possessed the stillness of a movie actor resting with his entourage. Wiley’s fine comb-over lifted in the breeze.

Arkady wondered why the men were outside. Why didn’t they take advantage of the trailer?

He called Eva’s cell phone and watched the group.

At the first ring, Urman and Isakov looked at the trailer.

On the second they looked at each other.

“Hullo.”

“It’s me,” Arkady said.

“Are you in Moscow?” Eva asked. “Tell me that you are back in Moscow.”

“Not quite. Are you all right?” That seemed to Arkady a question apropos for a woman living with a murderer.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I just need time to sort this out.”

“You said we would talk.”

“After the election.”

At that moment the stage sound system emitted a squawk. Eva appeared at the trailer window. She had heard what he heard.

“You’re here?”

“This is better than the circus.”

“Go home. You’re safe if you go home.”

“Who told you that?”

As Isakov climbed in the trailer, Eva moved out of sight. Words were murmured. Arkady heard Isakov’s “please” and felt the surrender of the cell phone from Eva’s hand.

“Renko?”

“Yes.”

“Stay where you are,” Isakov said.

Arkady watched Isakov open the door to speak to Urman, who opened his cell phone and punched in a number. Arkady knew whose when Zelensky’s telephoto lens sorted through the crowd and locked on him like the scope of a rifle.

Arkady’s image leapt onto the video screen, only for a second because Isakov came onstage.

“You know me. I am Nikolai Sergeevich Isakov from Tver, and I stand for Russia.”

Fervent applause, as they used to say, Arkady thought.

Isakov described a nation under siege by religious fanatics and shadowy alliances. Out in the world were nuclear warheads, human bombs, and fair-weather friends. Closer to home was a circle of vampires that had stripped Russia of its treasure and, worse, subverted its values and traditions. It was an ordinary rant, but what did people actually take away from such an event? Arkady wondered. That Nikolai Isakov withstood magnification on a large screen. That he was handsome in a hard-used way. That he was accustomed to command. That he was one of their own, a son of Tver. That they had reached up and touched a hero.

Urman stood next to Arkady. “I think that bullet must have really addled your brain. You should be as far from here as you can get.”

“That occurred to me, but I wanted to hear Isakov in person.”

“So, what do you think?” Urman asked.

“He’s going from murder to politics. Is that a step up or down? What do the Americans think?”

“They’re happy. I told them you were harmless. Are you harmless?”

“As a babe.”

“Were you a babe at the Boatman last night? Are you fucking with me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare fuck with you. I don’t want to swallow my tongue.”

“Because I could take care of you now.”

“I doubt that. No, not at a rally days before the election. Wiley is an expert. He can explain to you the negative effect murder has on a rally. In fact, I think I have a little breathing room here.” Arkady had tuned out Isakov’s speech, but he contributed a polite clap. “What a perfect day for an event like this. You are a lucky man. But what exactly are you? In Chechnya you were second in command to Isakov. You’re partners with him in the detective squad. Now you’re his campaign manager? What’s next? Footstool? Bootlick?”

Urman half laughed, half sighed. “You’re trying to provoke me?”

“Well, Mongols do have a history of violence, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane and all.”

“You’ve gone mental.”

“Maybe. A funny thing about being shot in the head is-”

“You should be dead.”

“That’s it, I should be.”

“Did you get a glimpse of the other side? Did you see a tunnel and a light?”

“I saw a grave.”

“You know, that’s what I always figured.”

People swarmed by. Eighty-year-old farmers in forty-year-old suits were followed at a quick march by men and boys in military camos and by babushkas at full hobble. A teenage boy rushed by with his father and grandfather. They made a heartwarming picture, three generations in camos with identical shoulder patches of a red star, a helmet and a rose.

“An outdoor club?”

“Diggers.”

“Why are they called that?”

Urman shrugged. “They dig. They dig and they love Nikolai; they’re what Wiley calls Nikolai’s base. They need someone like him.”

“A serial killer?”

“That is an unsubstantiated accusation by a brain-damaged man. Prosecutor Zurin will say so, Prosecutor Sarkisian will say so and so will we.”

On stage Isakov built to a climax. “Russia’s blood sacrifice of twenty million lives stemmed the Fascist invaders. Reminders of that struggle can be found around Tver even today.”

Overwhelming applause.

“Why are the Americans here?” Arkady asked.

“Nikolai has momentum. The Americans say momentum is very important in politics. They thought they were setting up a paper candidate to fuck up the opposition. They’re taking a second look at Nikolai now.”

The real and the projected Isakovs said together, “It is our moral duty to protect Russia’s security, rationalize her economic gains, uproot corruption, identify the thieves and connivers who stole the assets of the people, ruthlessly stamp out terrorism, rebuild her defenses with apologies to no one, reject the meddling by foreign hypocrites in our internal affairs, promote traditional Russian customs and values, protect our environment and leave a better world for our children. And I will always remember that I am one of you.” He wasn’t done. A girl came out on stage bearing the obligatory bouquet and something that Isakov pinned to his jacket lapel. On the video screen the camera closed in on an emblem of the star, helmet and rose. Isakov was a Digger too.

Rapturous, passionate applause. A standing ovation. Shouts of “Isakov! Isakov!”

“What the devil was that about?” Arkady asked.

“It’s a good windup to the campaign,” Urman said. “It’s got everything.”

“Like a fruit salad. You really think Isakov has a chance?”

“He’s been a winner ever since I’ve known him. Since we joined the Black Berets. There are twelve candidates. He only needs a plurality.”

Isakov had not left the stage. He carried the girl from one side to the other while roses landed at his feet. Urman joined in the rhythmic applause.

“Why did he drop out?” Arkady asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you and Isakov met in OMON, he had just left the university.”

“He was bored. He was sick of books. They taught us something useful in OMON. Hit first, keep hitting.”

“Good advice. But he was a five-point student, at the top of his class, and in his last week, he threw away all that hard work. That doesn’t strike me as boredom. Something happened.”

“You never let up,” Urman said.

“It’s an innocent question. Anyway, you’re going to kill me as soon as you get the nod.”

Urman leaned close to speak confidentially. “Do you know how I kill an enemy? First I cut off his testicles-”

“You fry them and eat them and on and on. I heard all about it. But at the Sunzha Bridge, you simply shot people in the back.”

“I was in a hurry. With you I’ll take my time.” Urman reassured Arkady with a pat on the back and slipped away.

The crowd wasn’t leaving. A rhythmic clap continued and so many boys rode their fathers’ shoulders they were a second tier of enthusiasm. The sound system poured out the Soviet national anthem, the wartime version that included, “Stalin has raised us with faith in the people, inspiring them to labor and glorious deeds!” The applause doubled when Isakov returned to the stage to say informally, like a personal reminder, “The dig will tell the tale!”

Maybe, Arkady thought. Maybe Urman could make him beg for mercy, although Arkady had trained with a master.

“Skin is sensitive.”

Arkady was twelve years old. In Afghanistan. He had returned to camp covered with ant bites, each bite hot and throbbing and his face swollen.

His father sat on the cot and continued. “There have been experiments. Subjects have been hypnotized and told they were burned and blisters appeared on their skin. Other patients who were in pain were hypnotized and their pain went away. Not far away, perhaps, but enough.”

The General loosened his necktie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Took a sharp breath through his nose and sipped his scotch.

“The skin blushes with embarrassment, goes pale with fear, shivers in the cold. The question is, why were you riding around on a motorcycle outside the base? Outside the base is dangerous and off-limits, you know that.”

“I didn’t see any signs.”

“There have to be signs posted for you? What were you doing on the bike when you fell?”

“Just riding.”

“A little too fast, maybe? Doing some stunts?”

“Maybe.”

The General finished the glass and poured another. He lit a cigarette. Bulgarian tobacco. For Arkady, the match flame focused the pain of the bites.

“So far as the natives are concerned we are guest engineers building an airstrip under a treaty of friendship and cooperation. That’s why we’re in civilian clothes. That’s why we buy their pomegranates and grapes, because we want to cement our friendship and be even more welcome. But this is still a Soviet military base and I am still its commander. Understood?

“Yes.”

The cigarette smoke was aromatic and blue as a thunderhead.

“Were there any natives there? Did any of them see the accident?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Two men. I was lucky they were there.”

“I’m sure.” His father blew the flame out as it reached his fingertips. “It must hurt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re thirteen years old?”

“Twelve.”

“Twenty bites is a lot at any age. Did you cry?”

“Yes, sir.”

The General picked a flake of tobacco from his lip. “The people who live here and surround this base are tough. These people fought Alexander the Great. They’re warriors and their children are trained to be warriors and, no matter what, not to cry. Understand? Not to cry.” His father’s face turned red. Arkady didn’t think it was from embarrassment. Veins spread on the General’s forehead and neck. “I am the commander of this base. The son of the commander does not fall off his bike in front of the natives and if he does fall off and is bitten by a hundred ants he does not cry.”

Two natives had stretched languidly in the shade of a saxaul tree to smoke cigarettes and watch Arkady on his motorbike chase ground squirrels across the desert floor. The boys were brothers with similar short, swirly black beards. They wore turbans, baggy trousers, oversized shirts, sunglasses.

“They’re watching,” the General said. “The minute we look weak, we will be under siege. That’s why we surround the camp with mines and discourage the natives from coming near and why we have never let them inside to see our electronic gear, until today, when they carried in my son because of his ant stings.”

“I’m sorry,” Arkady said.

“Do you know the consequences? I could lose my command. You could have set off a mine and lost your life.”

A gecko had darted in Arkady’s way. He had twisted the handlebars without thinking, and as the back end of the bike caught up with the front he flew over the machine and plowed face first into the gritty mound of an ant colony.

“Do you know what made Stalin great?” his father asked. “Stalin was great because, during the war, when the Germans took his son Yakov prisoner and proposed an exchange, Stalin refused, even though he knew that saying no was a death sentence for his son.” The General drew on his cigarette to make it flare. In spite of the ant bites Arkady felt a chill. “Tobacco burns at nine hundred degrees centigrade. The skin knows it. So I will give you a choice, your skin or theirs.”

“Whose?”

“The men who brought you, your native friends. They’re still here.”

“My skin.”

“Wrong answer.” From his shirt pocket his father gave Arkady two snapshots, one of each brother, bareheaded and stripped to the waist, lying in a bloody heap. “They wouldn’t have felt a thing.”