The White Russian

10

B y the time he got back to the office, the only light in his department was from Pavel’s desk lamp, but Ruzsky noticed that his partner’s coat was not on the stand in the corner.

Ruzsky walked over to his own desk. Propped up against the telephone was a letter. He recognized Maria’s hand instantly. He tapped it once against his fingers and then tore it open.

My dear Sandro, she had written, it was so good to see you today.

Folded into the letter was a ticket for The Firebird at the Mariinskiy on the following night.

Ruzsky sat down. He put the letter on the desk and moved it gently to and fro.

He stood again and looked out of the window into the darkness. Was this just an act of friendship? But hope made him want to dance.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing?”

Ruzsky turned around. Pavel stood in the shadows just inside the doorway.

“I thought you’d gone,” Ruzsky said.

“ Russia ’s most beautiful woman.” Pavel took a pace toward his partner. “She delivered it herself. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I should imagine she has many admirers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

Ruzsky folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.

“So,” Pavel continued. “How did you get on?”

“You’ll never believe what I have to say, so you first.”

Pavel raised his eyebrows. “Nothing from the embankment. I spoke to some junior official in the Winter Palace household who assured me it was not possible that anyone could have witnessed anything from an upstairs window.”

“We’ll go and see him together tomorrow.”

“I don’t think there’s much point. He was quite adamant that the rooms on the top floor are the preserve of the family and none of them were present last night. I don’t think he was lying.” Pavel yanked his trousers up. “But I’ve just come from the American embassy, and that sounded promising.”

Ruzsky waited. “And?”

“The official we need to speak to has gone out of town and won’t be back until the morning, but one of his colleagues said they’d had a report from home six weeks ago asking them to ask us to be on the lookout for a Robert White. An armed robber from Chicago. Said they’d passed it on to the Okhrana. I told them a lot of good it would do them.”

“So what does that have to do with the couple on the ice?”

“Someone from the Astoria telephoned the embassy this morning. Apparently, a man calling himself Whitewater checked into the hotel just over a week ago, saying he was a diplomat and writing ‘care of the embassy’ on the registration form. They suspected him of leaving without paying his bill, because his room was empty and they hadn’t seen him for two days.”

Ruzsky was silent. “Did you go down to the Astoria?”

“Give me a chance. I’ll go first thing. Come on,” Pavel spoke with feeling, “I need a drink.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Neither can I, but there is a place nearby. I’ve threatened it with closure. They’re very cooperative.”

Pavel led the way down the darkened stairwell.

Outside, the snow was thick on the ground. The wind had dropped, but the air was still crisp and the night cloudy. Ruzsky’s feet were instantly cold again.

“Tell me what happened at Tsarskoe Selo,” Pavel said.

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

Ruzsky smiled to himself. It was hard to believe the episode had not been a figment of his imagination-and yet it had been so ordinary.

“I went to see Vyrubova, but the Tsarina arrived.”

“You’re not serious.”

“On my honor.”

Pavel shook his head and Ruzsky did not press it.

“She had horns growing from her head?” Pavel asked.

“Mmm. And she carried a flaming pitchfork.”

“No, really, what happened?”

“I went to see Vyrubova.”

“She received you?”

“Not exactly. I saw the Tsar depart in his car and then I was taken to her house. We walked past the imperial children, or some of them, playing in the snow. And then the Tsarina arrived.”

“Just like that?”

“More or less.”

“On her own?”

“Yes.”

“No staff, no officials, no fanfare?”

“It was very ordinary.”

“No strange priests?”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“And?” Pavel went on.

“Have you ever seen her close up?”

“Of course not.”

“She looks very tired.”

“Don’t tell me she answered questions?”

“The girl’s name was Ella and she worked in the imperial nursery. She was originally from the Crimea. Yalta or Sevastopol.” Ruzsky watched his feet in the snow. “Vyrubova insisted she’d taken pity on the girl and given her an old dress, but if she cared for her enough to do that, she seemed to me strangely indifferent to news of her demise. The Tsarina forgot herself and began to answer some questions, but they were both evasive and… cold. I didn’t know what to do; should I ask the Empress of the Russias questions?” Ruzsky shrugged. “And they didn’t seem to know whether or not to dismiss me out of hand.” Ruzsky thought about the episode for a few paces more. “Vyrubova was obviously lying, or at least not telling much of the truth, but I found it difficult to guess at why.”

“What did they say?”

“The girl was close, or so they said, to the imperial children. She was dismissed for stealing. That’s as far as I got.”

“For stealing?”

“Yes.”

“Stealing what?”

“They said money, but I’m fairly certain it was something else.”

Ruzsky and Pavel waited as a Finnish sled was driven past, its bells jangling, then crossed the street. This side was darker, with no light from the houses and the gas lamps unevenly spaced. Ruzsky’s hand closed instinctively on the butt of the Sauvage revolver in his pocket.

“So we know her name, but nothing more,” Pavel said.

“I’ll telephone the household staff tomorrow and find out who she was and exactly why she was dismissed.”

“What about the man?”

“They said they’d never seen him before.”

“Were they lying about that as well?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what do you think did happen with the girl?”

Ruzsky thought about this for a few moments. “I don’t know.”

Ruzsky and Pavel passed a tall brick building that looked like a warehouse and came to a small door with a white sign above it. Pavel knocked once and it was opened by an enormous man with a round face and a long beard. He nodded at each of them and stepped back to allow them inside. Light, warmth, and music spilled down the stairs.

In the center of the wooden floor of the room above, an old man played a violin with manic energy, two men and two women sweating as they danced before him.

A young gypsy girl led them to a table, returning a moment later with an unmarked bottle and two glasses. She was pretty, Ruzsky noticed, with serious eyes and curly, dark hair that spilled over her shoulders. She smiled at him, then laughed as she leaned forward to touch his arm.

The restaurant was packed. All the tables were full, and a crowd lurked in the shadows behind them. Everyone was drinking from the same unmarked bottles. Prohibition had been introduced at the start of the war, to reduce drunkenness and boost national effectiveness, but had instead robbed the treasury of substantial revenue, reduced the quality of the vodka, and contributed to rampant alcoholism. The fact that expensive wines and champagnes were exempt from the ban didn’t do much for social equanimity either.

Ruzsky had heard about these illegal cafés and speakeasies, where people danced and drank to forget the world around them, but this was the first time he had been into one. They’d not existed before his departure.

“They keep this table for you,” Ruzsky said.

“A man must have somewhere to relax.”

Pavel filled the glasses and they looked at each other over the rim. “‘Sante,’ as you would say,” Pavel said, before they both drank.

Ruzsky shook his head with the force of it. Pavel smiled and refilled. They drank again.

Ruzsky watched the dancers. The women were voluptuous and fully aware of the hungry eyes upon them. Their dancing was sensual and provocative. Ruzsky dragged his eyes away from the floor, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to light it in the candle’s flame, before pushing the case across to Pavel, who shook his head.

“You’re going to go back to Irina?” Pavel asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She won’t entertain the notion.”

“Does she know that you know about her affair?”

“No.” Ruzsky had confided in Pavel during a moment of weakness before his departure to Tobolsk.

Pavel sighed. “Isn’t that a little perverse?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. His eyes were on the prettier of the two gypsy girls, who was dancing with her back arched, her chest thrust high and forward, her forehead glistening with sweat.

Ruzsky thought of Maria on the stage in the last performance he had seen before his exile, and of her long, sinewy body and graceful movement.

“Why haven’t you told her?” Pavel asked.

“Who?”

“Irina.”

“About what?”

“That you know about her affairs. That you have known for years.”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to occupy the moral high ground.” Pavel was annoyed. “Even if it costs you your boy.”

“I want to leave Michael out of it.”

“That’s not possible and you know it. It’s killing you, not seeing him, so tell her, tell your father.”

“I don’t want her, I’ve no desire to see my father, and it’s not going to cost me Michael. I’m determined that it won’t.”

“If you say so.”

“How is Tonya?” Ruzsky asked. “And your boy?”

“You won’t want to know that they couldn’t be better.”

“I don’t begrudge anyone happiness, and especially you.” Ruzsky looked at his friend. “I mean that.”

“I just want to be at home. All the time. With them.” Pavel looked as if he would burst with longing. Ruzsky reached forward and patted his bunched fist.

“The little fellow must be what, four?” Ruzsky always avoided calling the boy Sandro, because, although it was flattering, Pavel’s decision to name his son after him had always felt uncomfortable.

“He had his birthday two months ago,” Pavel said, smiling at the thought of his son. “He laughs all the time. He always wants to see the joke. He’s got a great Russian sense of humor and he’s big like a bear.”

“Like his father, in other words.”

Pavel shook his head. “I don’t laugh enough anymore.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

“Go home, Pavel. That’s where you should be.”

“I want to be with you.”

Ruzsky laughed. “No you don’t.”

Pavel filled both glasses again. “Once more.”

They drank. Pavel looked at him. “I shouldn’t leave you here.”

“This is exactly where you should leave me and you know it. Go home to your wife and child.”

Pavel hesitated, staring into his empty glass. “Do you think we should… you know, pass on this case. Leave it?”

“Leave it?”

Pavel looked up, a deep unease in his eyes.

“How can we leave it?”

Pavel shrugged. “The Empress, the palace. The Okhrana. I know you saved me last time, lied for me, but I couldn’t… you know. Tonya wouldn’t come to Tobolsk, and these are bad times.”

“We broke the law. I was the chief investigator. If anyone was going to be punished, it should have been me.”

“Do you think that was what it was about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think that you were punished because we broke the law?”

“I think Vasilyev wanted to bring the whole department down a peg, show us who was boss in this city.”

Pavel shook his head. “Sometimes you’re not such a brilliant investigator, after all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You think he gives a shit about breaking the law?”

“No, but-”

“He’s the devil. You, more than Anton, posed a threat. You like digging around in things, you’re highborn and disdainful of anyone who doesn’t operate on the same moral plain.” Pavel raised his hand. “I mean it as a compliment. Above all, you’re difficult to control and impossible to intimidate. You’re dangerous. And I don’t like this case.” Pavel leaned back with a sigh. “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. It smells dirty. We should push it on to the Okhrana. They’ve got the bodies, they’re equipped for dealing with that kind of stuff. Why fight for it?”

They stared at each other in silence. Pavel lowered his gaze. “You’re thinking what love has reduced me to,” he said, reading Ruzsky’s mind.

“Of course I’m not.”

“I don’t mind if you are. They’re all I care about, Sandro.”

Ruzsky leaned forward to touch his friend’s hand. “Of course.”

“You think that I think you’re emotionally reckless,” Pavel went on, “but I don’t. We’re just different. Or perhaps you’ve never been in love.”

Ruzsky stared at the dancers. “Perhaps.”

Pavel stood reluctantly, but Ruzsky could tell he wanted to be at home, and he was determined not to accept charity. “Go on, go.”

“Be careful, Sandro.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I suppose this means we’re working tomorrow.”

“It’s up to you.”

“But I know you will be.”

Ruzsky shrugged. “It’s a Sunday, you have a wife and family. Stay at home. Go to church.”

Pavel put one giant hand on Ruzsky’s shoulder and then ambled slowly toward the door. Ruzsky watched him go and then turned back to the dance floor and the bottle of vodka. He poured himself another glass.

He was watching the prettier of the girls on the dance floor again when the waitress put down a wooden tray and slipped in beside him. The tray had on it fresh and pressed caviar alongside salted cucumbers and herring fillets. There was a cup of tea with lemon.

The girl looked like the one on the dance floor. They could have been-and probably were-sisters. She was smiling at him, her hand on his knee, her body tilted toward him so that the smell of her cheap French scent caught in his nostrils.

The audience cheered and clapped as the dancers reached a climax. The waitress poured two glasses of vodka, but with her left hand. Her right was massaging his thigh.

They drank and, as he put his glass down, her hand reached his groin. The girl’s face was in front of his now, her dark eyes searching his own.

She leaned closer still and her mouth was warm, her hand working beneath the table as the music seemed to get louder and louder.

The woman leaned back, her eyes still searching his. “Come,” she said, shifting away from him and taking his hand.

“No,” he said.

“You want to come.”

“No.”

“Upstairs.”

“No.”

She looked genuinely disappointed. “Your friend has gone.”

“And so must I.”

She stared at him a few moments more and then shook her head angrily. Ruzsky was too drunk and tired to care. As she marched away from him, he pushed himself to his feet, dimly aware of the eyes on him as he tried to walk steadily toward the door. On the other side of the room, he saw-or thought he saw-Stanislav the rat, watching him.

The journalist immediately turned his back and disappeared past a red curtain. Ruzsky pushed through the crowd and followed him up a dingy staircase beyond. It smelled of varnish, dirt, and cleaning liquid.

He reached a long corridor, with rooms off each side. As Ruzsky walked along it, he heard the unmistakable sounds of copulation. He stopped. “Stanislav?” He wondered why Pavel had brought him here. Was this what he thought he needed? Or was there something else?

“Stanislav?” he called again.

Ruzsky moved slowly forward to the source of the sounds and glanced in through the gap in the door. He saw a girl astride a large man, long blond hair hanging down her back. Whoever it was-and Ruzsky could not see the man’s face-he did not see how it could have been Stanislav.

Ruzsky turned around and retraced his steps.

He had not taken his overcoat off inside, and had felt warm for the first time today, but it only served to exacerbate the impact of the cold air as he stepped out into the street. It was snowing heavily again, a new wind whipping the flakes into tiny cyclones. He began walking, head bent, his mind spinning. He knew this was how people died in the winter. They emerged drunk from the warmth, fell over in a dark corner, and froze to death.

On the far side of the street, two likhachy drivers eyed him. It was a matter of honor that the likhach, drivers of the better sprung carriages, with soft rugs and velvet cushions, never touted for or haggled over a fare. There were no droshky drivers in sight-another indication of the kind of place Pavel had taken him to.

Ruzsky kept walking. He tried to shake the vodka from his mind. It was a few moments before he realized that he was not heading back to his apartment, but toward his father’s house on Millionnaya.

He passed a doorway and then stopped, his head spinning. He stepped back and looked closer, struggling to focus. There were two of them huddled together. “Anything you like,” one said. “Good price.”

They could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen. One girl was blond, the other dark, both deathly thin and pale, clinging onto each other for warmth. Their clothes were ragged and their shoes threadbare and holed. “Both of us together?”

On the wall above them and crudely drawn was another depiction of the Empress of the Russias. She lay on her back, her skirt above her waist, stockings visible, her legs wrapped around a half-naked Rasputin whose trousers were down by his ankles. The caricature was graphic and above it was the word Niemka-German woman.

For a moment, Ruzsky was paralyzed as the girls tried to appeal to him and then he reached into his pocket, found a few scrunched-up rubles, and thrust them into their suddenly outstretched hands. He stumbled away.

The girls cried out and Ruzsky turned again to see them running toward a car that had pulled over by the side of the road, almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to reach the open back door. They, like Ruzsky, instantly recognized its occupant.

Ruzsky stepped back into the shadow of the wall. The girls climbed into the car and the door banged shut. The driver revved the engine and the wheels slipped on the icy road as the car belonging to the chief of the Petrograd Okhrana moved off.

Ruzsky caught a glimpse of Vasilyev’s square face. He watched until the car disappeared over the canal and then marched on, through Palace Square and into Millionnaya.

He stopped and stared up at the yellow stone facade, the snow settling upon his face. He hammered on the door and stepped back.

A light came on in one of the upstairs windows. At the same time, Ruzsky heard a growl from within and the door was flung open.