Tatiana: An Arkady Renko Novel (Arkady Renko Novels) (6 page)

“Well, here we are. I would offer you tea and something to eat but the cupboard seems to be bare.”

“Not everyone who is shot in the head gets a second chance. You should be appreciative of that. Remember your headaches?”

The medical term was “thunderclap headache,” a sudden howl in the black of the night that was the marker of a bleeding brain. Arkady remembered.

Dr. Korsakova said, “Exercising caution, there might be nothing to be alarmed about. Are you paying attention?”

“I’m glued. You told me not to worry, that probably nothing would happen.”

She stood to slide out the films and rearranged Arkady’s desk so that his lamp lay on its back and faced upward. “You don’t mind?”

“Not a bit.”

“Six months ago.” She held an X-ray above the light and then a second X-ray over the first. “A week ago.”

The X-rays merged into a single luminous skull, similar in every detail except for a white speck circled in each plate.

“Something has . . .”

“Moved,” Dr. Korsakova said. “We never know when such a particle will stop or move or in what direction. Shrapnel emerges from war veterans after fifty years. We do know that violence
doesn’t help. Did you consider that when you joined the demonstration for Tatiana Petrovna?”

“It was a public gathering.”

“It was a demonstration, and for you it could have been fatal. Who knows what direction this particle may take? Right now pieces are aimed at the frontal lobe. You may experience confusion, nausea, personality changes.”

“I could live with that. Who knows, it may be for the better.” He opened desk drawers rapid-fire until he found an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes.

Dr. Korsakova, at once, was on her feet. “You’re going to smoke too?”

“While I can, like a chimney.”

When Arkady and Anya sat down for breakfast, the bread was fresh, the coffee was hot and she wanted to know why he was spoiling a perfectly good morning by going to meet Maxim Dal at a church of all places.

“Hoping for a confession? And after, are the two of you going to sit down with a comforter and a pot of tea and reminisce about being clubbed by the riot police?”

“No, that’s what vodka is for. The church was Maxim’s idea. Besides, he might know something about Tatiana’s death that would help us.”

“Exactly what are you after? What is the case?”

“Tatiana’s body is missing. I’m looking for it.”

“A senior investigator searching closets at the morgue? Do you know how pathetic that sounds?”

Arkady’s cell phone rang.

“Who is that?”

“Zhenya.” He looked at the phone and turned it off. He had to gird himself for a conversation with the most truculent boy on earth, so he stalled as usual. Between Anya and Zhenya, he didn’t think he could fight on two fronts at the same time.

Anya asked, “Are there any witnesses besides the girl with the cats? As I remember the buildings around Tatiana’s apartment were empty.”

“Nearly. You never know when someone will turn up, but you have to knock on doors. I don’t have enough men to do that and even if I did . . .”

“No one will talk to the police. After last week, who can blame them? Have you seen the editor, Obolensky? I thought he was pretty brave when the riot police attacked. Didn’t you think he was brave?”

“Very. Is he going to keep the journal going?”

“Of course.”

“As long as he has writers.”

“Yes. Why this sudden interest in Sergei Obolensky?”

Arkady rushed a bit, like a skater approaching thin ice. “I went to see him.”

“At his office?”

“I know he gave you Tatiana’s final notes for a glorious, going-down-in-flames sort of article. They also may be the notes that got her killed.”

“When were you going to tell me about this visit?”

“When were you going to tell me about the article?”

Arkady thought that the two demands had equal weight but she ignored logic. Instantly the bread was stale and the coffee cold. He never had been good at arguing with women; they
tapped into pools of resentment over slights that had steeped for years.

She asked, “Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is? Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to be accepted as a reporter? Or how humiliating it is to be ‘saved’ by a hero from the Prosecutor’s Office? And now you want me to turn down the most important article of my life?”

“I only meant that Tatiana’s notes might contain information that got her killed and it might be wise to let Victor and me go over them first.”

“Sergei gave me the notes on the condition that I share them with no one.”

“At least tell me, was there any mention of Grisha Grigorenko?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Or Kaliningrad?”

“Why Kaliningrad?”

“It just keeps popping up. I have no doubt that Sergei Obolensky is a great editor but there’s the possibility that he is also, let’s say, creative at the expense of his writers.”

Anya pushed herself away from the table. “I can take care of myself.”

“Like at the demonstration?”

“Maybe, but that’s my choice. It has nothing to do with you. You know, Arkady, if you wanted to be more involved in my life, you had your chance.”

That, Arkady thought, would silence any man.

•  •  •

The Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer was a copy of a church demolished by Stalin to make room for a statue of Lenin pointing
to the future, only the statue was never erected and the Soviet future never arrived. The new cathedral was a white confection with golden onion domes. Grisha Grigorenko had contributed the cost of a dome and cashed in his investment with a funeral service fit for royalty.

Arkady preferred a smoky hole-in-the-wall sort of church with stooped priests whose beards touched the floor. Babushkas visited the chapels of their favorite saints, standing on tiptoe to kiss beloved books and icons. They bought thin candles for one, five or ten rubles depending on their length. Arkady thought if he lit a candle for everyone Grisha had wronged, the cathedral would burn down.

He could see why Maxim chose to meet at the cathedral; it was one of the few places that commanded a 360-degree view of the city. In other words, a person could see who was coming. Gypsies suckled babies at the door. Beggars demanded charity. Tourists were immobilized by their guidebooks while babushkas glided by on polishing rags wrapped around their feet. Icons of saints, prophets and apostles covered the walls, even the poorest in gold frames. Most of the figures offered a languid blessing and their flatness gave the impression of being inside a house of cards.

“Saint Pelagia. One of my favorite martyrs,” said Maxim. The poet nodded to the icon of a girl stoically on fire. “Martyred by being roasted in a bronze bull. Patron saint of chefs, or ought to be.”

“It sounds as if you know the saints intimately,” Arkady said.

“And sinners. I knew your father. What a son of a bitch he was.”

Arkady couldn’t disagree. His father had been an army officer
who had never adjusted to peacetime. The last person Arkady wanted to talk about was his father.

Maxim moved along the wall. “Here is another favorite, Saint Phanourios. First beaten with stones, then stretched and flogged and put on the rack, crushed and burned with coals. Sounds like you.”

“I hope not.”

“You should take a good look at yourself sometime.”

Maxim himself deserved more than a glance. As a boy Arkady had devoured adventure stories set in the Wild West. That the authors had never been to America bothered him not in the least, and Maxim, with his narrow eyes, buckskin jacket and ponytail, had a wolfish charm. Two of the floor polishers stared at him and whispered behind their hands as if they were teenage girls.

“This is a little public,” Arkady said.

“Oh, nobody pays attention. They’re all in their own world, thinking deep religious thoughts. The church is a dead telephone; even though people know better, they pick it up and listen. Have you been listening?”

Arkady wondered whether Maxim was referring to the cassettes of Tatiana that he had been listening to late into the night, until Maxim added, “The acoustics of a church like this can carry whispers through the air.”

“That’s very poetic. What did you want to talk about?”

“Look at the murals here. All that swirling; Botticelli with a beach towel. I understand you were at Grisha Grigorenko’s funeral service.”

“Yes.”

“That was the same day as the rally for Tatiana Petrovna.”

“It was a busy day.”

“Where I rescued you, remember?”

“I remember and I thank you again.”

Chinese tourists streamed into the church and set off rounds of echoes. Men and women, they all had the same enthusiasm and all wore the same crushable hats.

“Have they located her body?” Maxim asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Obolensky called and asked if I would write a poem about the police and the rally. Since I was there, perfectly placed. Serendipity, you could say.”

“For his magazine?”

“For a special Tatiana Petrovna issue of
Now
. I understand that your friend Anya will contribute an article based on notes that Tatiana acquired.”

“Who else did Obolensky tell?”

“No one. What do the notes say?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you saw them.”

“For a moment. And even if I knew, why would I tell you?”

“You owe me.”

“What possible interest can you have in Tatiana’s notes?”

“I’m interested in everything about Tatiana.”

“Why?”

“Because once upon a time I loved her.”

•  •  •

The ZIL was superannuated, but it had style. A silver chassis lashed with chrome, lots of chrome. Twin headlights that signified alertness, leather upholstery that offered comfort, tail fins that promised speed. A futuristic touch was a push-button transmission.

“They manufactured a total of ten ZILs in 1958. Of course, it swallows gas like a drunk, but a man who lets guilt ruin pleasure is the pincushion of fate. Go ahead, you drive.”

It was a rare experience. As Arkady edged into traffic on the Boulevard Ring, other cars—Mercedes, Porsches and especially Ladas—parted.

“You certainly make an impression in a car like this,” Arkady said.

“That’s the idea.”

The ZIL also afforded privacy. With the windows rolled up, all Arkady heard was the whisper of air-conditioning.

“You and Tatiana? No offense, but that seems, in terms of personality, a bit of a mismatch. Not to mention the fact that you’re thirty years older.”

“I know. No one knows better than me.”

“Where?”

“Sochi. The Black Sea Cultural Festival. I was doing readings. Tatiana was a student on holiday with friends. When they left early, she stayed. Some guys who were high on drugs tried to mug her. I chased them off. I bought her a drink, and she bought me a drink, and one thing led to another. By the time the festival ended, we were totally in love. Forever.

“In Moscow everything changed. Everybody needed her. She was involved in every cause. Palestinians, Africans, Cubans. Russians too, can’t forget reform in Russia. I was drowning and she was in her element. We both knew it. At the end, I didn’t think she even noticed I was gone. As a philosopher once said, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’ ”

They cruised by the art galleries and florist shops on the Boulevard Ring. Maxim rolled a cigarette. Arkady declined. More and
more, the poet put Arkady in mind of a mountain man checking his line of traps.

“Why do you want the notes? Do you think you’re in them? It sounds like it’s been years since you and Tatiana saw each other. Why would she be writing about you now?”

“It was years, then I ran into her a month ago. And a couple of times after that. There’s just a chance that I would be mentioned.”

“If you were, so what?”

“Personal reasons.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Okay. I’m up for an award in America. A lifetime achievement award.”

“What does that mean?”

“Basically, that you’re still alive. The dead do not qualify. Standards in the United States are low.”

“Then why do it?”

“The prize comes with money.”

“Even so.”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Ah.”

“If the Americans hear that I’m involved somehow in a murder case, I can kiss the prize good-bye.”

“The person you should talk to is Obolensky. He’s the man with the notes.”

“Obolensky? When shrimp whistle. No, I’m talking about your friend Anya. I understand she has the notes. She’d let you see.”

“I doubt that. I don’t know that she’s even talking to me.”

“I’ve seen you two together. She was born to talk to you, like drops of water drilling through a stone. Drip, drip, drip. Drilling until there’s space for dynamite.”

They had made a circle back to Arkady’s Niva, which became smaller with the approach of the ZIL.

“A fantastic car,” Arkady said.

“And bulletproof. You’re in the illustrious company of presidents, despots and hero cosmonauts who have led parades.” Maxim handed Arkady a business card with the address and telephone number crossed out and a new phone number penciled in. “It would be even better to get a copy of the notes.”

“With Anya’s consent.”

Maxim said, “Any way you want to do it.”

•  •  •

When Arkady first met Zhenya, the boy was standing in the cold outside a children’s shelter. He was eight years old, stunted like a boy who pushed tubs in a coal mine and virtually mute. At seventeen, Zhenya seemed simply a larger version of himself. He was the ugly duckling that did not change into a swan and was self-effacing to the point of disappearing. Except in chess. In the confines of a chessboard he ruled and humiliated players whose ratings were far higher than his because he preferred cash to tournament trophies.

Arkady found Zhenya at a computer repair shop a block off the Arbat. Three technicians were at work, each surrounded by plastic trays of candy-colored diodes, miniature tools and flexible lights. Each also wore earphones connected to his separate world. Zhenya’s specialty was audio enhancement. Not music, just sound. A hookah bliss hung in the air.