Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (58 page)

He had to smile. How the times do change!

~ * ~

Yes, indeed, things
moved in the most unimaginable ways. Kosargin
’
s job was an example. There were always some thugs with shaven heads and submachine guns guarding the Organized Crime Office, but the office was a lot more sophisticated than that. Kosargin wasn
’
t stupid, by any means, but what wisdom did he have to impart to his onetime arrestee? Any smart person could not fail to realize that the system could solve nothing by itself: You might have the best cabin on the ship, but what did it matter if your ship was sinking?

The point is, are
they
capable of changing? Remember what Tolkovyanov was like at the interrogation. Still, there was no way a person could avoid thinking about the overall situation in Russia; that was true of today
’
s KGB people as well. It wasn
’
t always about oneself. Though these company men from Ellomas weren
’
t without brains either, and if they managed to gain some political power, they would soon quadruple their capital.

. . . And so they went on. Two months had passed since the attempt on his life, and all was well. The investors had confidence in their Transcontinental and were not about to pull out their investments; they even increased them. Large-scale farmers began coming in from the surrounding areas; they came to them for money, not to the state sources and not to the Financial Division.

Then, at the end of April, Easter came. Tanya was busy baking Easter cakes and coloring eggs, something she had not done before.

“
Please,
”
Alyosha implored her,
“
this is all fine, but don
’
t color any eggs. I don
’
t want to touch any colored eggs. Easter cakes are fine, but don
’
t even think of having them blessed by a priest. I won
’
t eat them.
”

“
Why on earth not?
”
A stray curl was hanging on her forehead.
“
Granny always colored eggs and had the cakes blessed. What
’
s the matter, don
’
t you follow our religion?
”

“
Our religion?
”
She had never said anything like that before, but perhaps she was right. What other religion would I follow? And it might well be that religion can pull a person out of depression and despondency. Still, what did the blessing of Easter cakes have to do with it?

Tanya came to him and placed her cheek against his:
“
Don
’
t you realize that we were doomed? That we were saved by some Higher Power? What do you think was keeping us safe these past months, if not that Power?
”

All right, one might say that. But there
’
s also the theory of probability.
And theoretical variants in any experiment.

There was, however, a different kind of explosion, the Big Bang.

There were also Black Holes.

And there was the incomprehensible foresight of the DNA molecule.

~ * ~

A few days
later, the attempted murderer went on trial. Even Kosargin was astonished: given that the accused had made a full confession and provided all the material evidence, he was sentenced not for attempted murder but for
“
illegal possession of a weapon
”
and given four years in a labor camp, and not even a strict regime camp.

Obviously, someone had given the wheels of justice a good bit of grease.

At this point, Tolkovyanov grew very alarmed.

He asked Kosargin to get him a copy of the photo of the
accused
’
s
brother-in-law from the police files. But it—that particular piece of evidence—had disappeared from the trial documents without a trace. It was still listed in the file index, however . . .

None of the names of the principal managers who had ordered the murder were mentioned in court, but they could not but be aware that
Tolkovyanov
knew.
Then he ran across one of them on the street—ironically, near the university where he was going to sit in on a scientific conference as he sometimes still did. He forced himself to give him only a passing glance and to say nothing.

Should he flee somewhere abroad? This would be a way to save his wife, his son, and himself, of course. But Alyosha could not run away.

He would protect Tanya like some fragile piece of glassware. But he could not run away.

He was amazed at himself, walking around every day in this heavy bulletproof vest, a man with a submachine gun at his heels. He had taken a second apartment to give himself some room to maneuver . . . Who wasn
’
t getting killed these days? Lenders were being killed for one reason, borrowers for another. His head was whirling: deposits, investments, deductions, balances, taxes, propping up businesses. But within
all this
intense whirl, even when he was utterly worn-out, he maintained one indestructible and unmoving point within himself: that was to follow—by chance, by what he heard from someone else, by some scientific article he managed to glance at—the latest developments in physics. He heard rumors of successful experiments by a group of our scientists who were able to raise the octane level of gasoline through irradiation. A monumental discovery! It would reduce world demand for oil. The Arabs learned of it and rushed here to buy the invention and then stifle it. Our side did nothing to support them; the scientists didn
’
t care so long as they could line their own pockets. So they sold it.

But still, it was
our
people, Russians, who made the discovery! No, Russian science isn
’
t finished yet, nor is Russian know-how.

“
Just wait!
”
he imagined himself saying to someone. But saying to whom? The image of the person was blurred, but it was someone vile and hateful.
“
We
’
ll get back on our feet once again!
”

Still, it seemed that it was not the banker Tolkovyanov who was to restore Russian science. The government had established a foreign currency
“
corridor
”
to channel exchange rates, cutting down the furious gambling and huge profits. The state allowed banks to multiply but had no thought of supporting them. New regulations were coming to govern the banks
’
capitalization, liquidity, and stability. The weaker banks were now on their last gasp. The market for securities partially guaranteed by the state was still holding up, however. Those who had very distinguished clients were managing, but Tolkovyanov did not fawn upon these changelings from the former party bureaucracy who barely deigned to give him a nod. And then the most serious thing: his partner-friends, forced into a tight corner, began having disagreements and then even split. What had happened to the enthusiasm they had all felt just so recently, when they were expanding on the leaven of their own success, when they chatted like old friends, happily placing their beer mugs on those silly mats made of enlarged hundred-dollar bills? Now there was one disagreement after another: No, that
’
s not the way to build up capital; no, that
’
s not where we should be spending. First Rashid, then the others asked to withdraw their shares, which represented most of the bank
’
s resources. Money had brought them together, and money had driven them apart.

These quarrels were more unsettling than the decline of their business. Gloom settled over him.

When money is involved, there
’
s no limit to the passion and the thirst for vengeance.

The circle of Alyosha
’
s friends grew smaller. The whole situation in the world of finance had become a dark forest; you never knew when a pit might open beneath your feet or a dagger be thrust in your back. He carried on by guesswork: He bought a building in the city market; he set up two stores; he set up a dozen money exchange booths. But he was short of working capital and needed more credit. Where should he turn? He went to ask Yemtsov, one of his backers in the past and a man who knew he had to encourage a new generation.

Yemtsov had always supported him, but with a jolly familiarity.

“
So, the greenhorn
’
s here. Tell me, how
’
s your little half-assed
moneymaker
doing?
”

He was now almost seventy, yet he still had the same vitality, the same eye for the ladies, and the same agile body and mind. And how had he been able to survive all this?
To fall from such heights . . .

Yemtsov recognized no obstacles: We
’
ve charted our course and off we
go,
no room for the gutless! We
’
ve hit a wall? So we
’
ll find a way around it.

“
You
’
re stuck, are you? Need some help? Well, that
’
s possible.
”

But what if you
’
re not yet thirty?
And they can kill you any day? And your friends are deserting you? And how many more mental convolutions will it take to find your way through this ever-changing labyrinth? Will you ever be able to get out of it?

And so he went on, lamenting the passing of the hope-filled years of his youth, his two years in the Physics Faculty before the army. Perhaps he should have stood his ground then and not changed direction. Perhaps he shouldn
’
t have given in to temptation. He could see a light, far off in the distance, and it was growing dimmer.

Yet a faint light persisted.

1996

<
>

~ * ~

NO MATTER WHAT

1

S
upper for the reserve regiment was served at six in the evening, even though lights-out did not come until ten. Someone had correctly figured that the men would get by without any more food that way, and would sleep through until morning.

Lights-out may have been at ten, but no amount of political reading could match up against the long, dark November evenings, and the lights in the barracks were dim besides. So the soldiers were allowed to hit the sack earlier, and night inspection was done earlier, too.

Lieutenant Pozushan was company commander, a straight arrow not so much from service (they had been hurried through military school), but from his internal sense of duty, and the present dread moment for the Soviet Union. Bitterly he swallowed the radio news accounts from Stalingrad. We were barely holding them back, it seemed, and the lieutenant even wished their regiment had been sent there. He could find no peace on these dull evenings, could not even sleep. And tonight, as the hours dragged on to midnight, he up and went to inspect company quarters.

All quiet with the first and second platoon—only the dim blue light of the tinted bulbs. The stoves were already dark and had cooled. (The rooms were heated with tin stoves, with makeshift ducts leading out the windows. The old basement furnace had long stood dormant.)

At the third platoon, not only was the stove still hot, but five of the men sat huddled around it, bundled in their dark, padded jackets and pants, butts right on the floor.

The lieutenant entered—they flinched.
And jumped up.

The lieutenant attached no meaning to this at first, but let them sit, just scolded them quietly, so as not to wake the others: Why weren
’
t they asleep? And where did they get the firewood?

Private Harlashin answered right away:
“
Woodchips, comrade lieutenant. Picked them up over at the target range.
”

Well, all right.

“
And why aren
’
t you sleeping? Got too much strength? You better save it for the front.
”