Tatiana

17

The rain was miserable. The mud was miserable. Tomorrow would probably be miserable.

“Kaliningrad.” Maxim spread his arms to welcome Arkady. “A fantasy gone wrong.”

Starting with its Third World airport, Arkady thought. Construction and aspirations had each halted midway. Much of the roof had collapsed and what remained revealed twisted rebar and streaks of rust. Road barriers forced traffic to approach in a zigzag manner. Black BMW sedans queued to pick up officialdom, but Maxim trumped them all with his majestic ZIL.

“You drove from Moscow?” Arkady asked.

“Do you think I would leave my most valuable possession behind?”

“How did you know I would be on the plane?”

“Anya told me. I decided that like Dante in the inferno, you would need a guide. ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here.’ ” Maxim loaded Arkady’s bag. He actually seemed cheery. “Remember, I taught here for years. If anyone can lead you safely through the dangers in this land of contradiction, it’s me.” He showed Arkady a bottle of twelve-year-old Hennessy in a paper bag. “For special parking privileges. In fact, I’m showcasing the ZIL to promote a class car rally from Moscow to Kaliningrad. Get in and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Maxim bounded through the rain, bag and cognac tucked under one arm.

Arkady understood that, basically, Maxim Dal had volunteered in order to protect his Ancient Poet’s Prize and its windfall of $50,000. So why would he endanger the prize by going to a demonstration? The prize was American, but the relevant authorities in Moscow might take away his passport. Hard to say. Maxim was skilled at playing both sides. The old boy also had flair, as did the ZIL with its push-button controls, leather interior and swing-out ashtrays. Arkady lit a cigarette and immediately twisted it out. Ever since he had escaped being crushed, he was giving in to good habits.

“You look like hell,” Maxim said on return. “Just an observation.”

“Many have made it.”

Bleak fields lay on either side of the highway but the surface of the road was as smooth as the felt of a billiard table, and the streetlights sported fanciful galleon designs.

“We are now riding on the most expensive highway in Europe. In other words, the mayor’s wife has a road construction company. That’s the way things are done here. See, you need somebody to show you what’s what.” Maxim looked over. “You’re not happy. You don’t think we can work together?”

“You’re not a detective or an investigator.”

“I’m a poet. Same thing. Even more, I’m a Koenig.”

“What’s a Koenig?”

“A Koenig is a native of Kaliningrad. I can help you. We’ll be partners, as close as pickles in a jar.”

Kaliningrad had none of the sweep and power of Moscow or the elegance of Petersburg. Pickles sounded right.

“How can you help me?”

“Show you around.”

“Why?”

“I loved Tatiana,” Maxim said. “At least tell me what you came here for. If there’s no body and no case, what’s left?”

“A ghost. As a poet you should know that much.”

That was an arrow that found its mark; Maxim was always accused of being a one-song poet, just as Arkady was becoming a one-note investigator. If Ludmila Petrovna didn’t have any new information about her sister, Arkady could have saved himself the trip.

“Is it true what they say, that you’re finished?” Maxim asked. “Some people say you have a little piece of lead rattling around inside your skull, a time bomb that surgeons can’t remove.”

“Are you finished?” Arkady asked.

“Poets aren’t finished. They just babble on.”

“Well, there is an element of risk. I couldn’t let you help me if I wanted to.”

“That’s my problem.”

“No, it’s mine. Russia can’t afford to lose another beloved poet.”

Arkady glanced over. Maxim’s face was red as if slapped. As they approached the city, the architecture changed from the cement five-story horrors of the Khrushchev era to the cement eight-story horrors of the Brezhnev era.

“You visited my school,” Arkady said.

“Did I?”

“I was in third grade. It was a cultural outreach by members of the Writers’ Union to boys with runny noses.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it had a great effect.”

“I remember one poem in particular, ‘All Horses Are Aristocrats.’ ”

Rain settled into a pace of steady drumming. Pedestrians gathered on the corners and crossed in opposite tides of umbrellas. Maxim allowed himself a smile.

“So you liked that poem?”

• • •

Zhenya hadn’t played chess for weeks, but he was low on money, and an outdoor tournament at Moscow State University promised easy pickings. One or two club members recognized Zhenya and tried to escape his draw, but in general, confidence reigned among the students. Online gamers who usually tracked flashing lights sat at outdoor tables and chairs. The fashion among graduate students was torn denim and sweaters from Milan. Zhenya arrived in rumpled camo looking like a prisoner of war.

The university embodied everything he hated, which was what he didn’t have. Access, money, a future. He had no future and no past, only a circle. His father had shot Arkady and Victor had killed his father. Who knew what Arkady might have become without a bullet in his brain? A great pianist? A profound philosopher? At least prosecutor general. Zhenya imagined that nine grams of lead had lit up his brain like a Catherine wheel. The man had his limits. What was he chasing in Kaliningrad? Tatiana was dead and gone. The magazine, Now, was promoting a new cast of heroes. The prosecutor was targeting new agents of social disruption.

Zhenya recognized Stanford, the graduate student who had beleaguered him at Patriarch’s Ponds, and almost went dizzy trying to keep his head low. There were twenty contestants, including the girl with red hair who had been part of his humiliation. She probably screwed Mr. Stanford, Zhenya thought. They made a pair.

Stanford was Zhenya’s first opponent. Most of the students had kept their game sharp by playing electronic chess. Suckers. Taking away a face from the other side of the board eliminated tempo, psychology and the threat of violence.

A clinking of beer bottles drew his attention. Stanford stood opposite Zhenya and made an announcement. “It’s the Chess Creep. He’s back among us. ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!’ ”

It was his last laugh. Zhenya feigned the Dutch Opening, sucked in Stanford’s pieces and spat them out to dry. Zhenya had to inform him it was “mate in three.”

The rest of Zhenya’s matches went much the same way. He didn’t realize the girl had maintained the same pace until she sat across the board from him for the final match.

“We’ve played before,” she said.

“I doubt it. I remember good matches.”

“Years ago at a casino. We were kids.”

Zhenya remembered now. It was an exhibition. He had barely escaped with his skin.

“Why do you and your friend call me a creep?”

“That was his word, not mine. I said genius.”

The faint down on her cheek was illuminated by the afternoon sun. Her brows were thoughtful wisps of hair, her eyes a crystal green, and Zhenya was a dozen moves into the game before he realized that he was about to lose a pawn.