He rocked the blotter over the fresh ink.
Olyushka, what have I done?
Acid and brine and vegetable fibres: pickles crammed Arkady’s mouth. In his parlour, staring out the back window at his garden, Arkady shoved little pickles between his teeth, one after another, and then crunched them down. He did not swallow, instead holding the chewed mess in the pouches of his cheeks. He always felt worse after eating pickles; his father had avoided them. He told himself that he enjoyed eating pickles: fill the belly, occupy the teeth, chew chew chew. Two famines and subsequent random shortages had stripped much of the pleasure of eating from Arkady, leaving him with only a grim instinct to devour. He swallowed the wads of pickle in three gulps, shoved a chunk of bread into his mouth, then groped for the bottles on his table. His glass of wine had done nothing to calm him after the visit of Boris Kuznets, and neither had the vodka. The drinks did, however, help him decide that Boris’s three separate mentions of cronyism, the charge so often thrown at disgraced NKVD officers, meant nothing.
Almost gagging on the bread, Arkady poured more vodka. If Kuznets wanted to threaten me with cronyism, he’d never have come to my party. He damn near insisted I invite him. He benefits as much from my generosity as any other officer. What is he playing at?
Glass clinked; liquid dribbled; knuckles knocked.
Three knocks, not five like NKVD on a raid. Spitting the bread into a handkerchief and stuffing that mess into his pocket, Arkady stood up to his full height, strode to the door, and yanked it open.
Then he sighed. —You have a key, Tatar.
Kostya stepped inside and, by long habit, sat on the little bench and fixed his heel into a bootjack. —I didn’t want to startle you.
— Leave your boots on. Just wipe your feet; the charwoman comes tomorrow. Why are you in uniform? I thought you had today off.
— I had to drop by Lubyanka.
Grateful he had his back to Kostya, Arkady shut his eyes and accepted the lie. You mean, you had to return Stepanov’s car to Garage Number One. —And what brings you here?
— Brings me here? Arkady Dmitrievich, I grew up in this house. Do I need a reason to visit my…you?
Arkady took a bottle from the table. —I expected you to be home today, sleeping it off. You need the rest.
Kostya shook his head at the wordless offer of vodka. —I’m fine. Can I help you tidy before the charwoman comes?
— I’ve got it looked after.
— Anything left behind?
Arkady stood where the sun shone bright, knowing Kostya would have trouble seeing him there. —Really, Kostya? Am I now the decrepit old man whose bib you must tie?
— I apologize, Arkady Dmitrievich.
— Let’s go to the park.
— What?
Arkady had to admit the utterance surprised him, too. —Yes, Gorky Park. Such a lovely afternoon. How often do we get the same day off anymore? I can’t go on holiday, like you keep pestering me to, but I can go to the park. Wait here. I’ll get dressed.
He left the sunbeam and ascended the stairs.
Kostya studied the older man’s back, his hunched shoulders, his tight grip on the stair rail. Then, once he heard Arkady close his bedroom door, he turned to the study.
Sunlight poured onto the tidy floor, the little bed, the desk. The piles of clothing, the heap of boots and shoes: gone.
Kostya took a deep breath, and he caught the echoes of sweet musks and Krasnaya Moskva.
He took another breath, and this time he smelled only stale tobacco smoke and men’s cologne.
A breeze played at the window, at his face, and it carried the scents of the early flowers in Arkady’s garden. Birds sang.
Upstairs, Arkady dropped something heavy, grunting as he bent over to retrieve it.
Kostya hurried now, checking beneath the bed, in the drawers of the desk.
No wristwatch, no handbag, no travel papers, no passport.
As if she’d never existed. I should expect nothing less from an old Chekist.
Then he spotted the Persian rug, folded over the back of the chair. He picked it up, drew it to his face, breathed in.
Arkady’s voice floated over the stairs, almost like a warning. —Kostya?
Kostya left the study, hurried across the parlour, and stood at the bottom of the stairs. —Yes?
— Are the boot hooks in the porch?
Where else would they be? Kostya checked the porch, picked up the hooks, and returned to the bottom of the stairs. —I’ve got them. Should I bring them to you?
— No, just stand clear.
Left, right: Arkady tossed his boots down over the stairs, and they landed at Kostya’s feet. Then the man himself descended, in uniform, armed, carrying his cap. He gripped the railing again, as if fearing a push, as if breaking a fall.
Kostya picked up the boots, held them out. —Why did you bother with uniform for a walk in the park?
— Kostya, what the hell is the matter with you? Ever since you came back from Spain, you’ve acted the foolish pochemuchka, always asking questions, why-why-why, and when you’re not asking questions, you refuse to believe what’s right in front of you. Save it for the cells. You’re even worse now than then you first came here from Odessa. I have bothered, as you put it, with my uniform because even without translating a calendar I can feel in my bones this is a Sunday. When I was a child, I always wore my finest clothes on Sundays.
Kostya watched the older man tug on his boots with the hooks and ignored the heavy breathing. How to say it, how to acknowledge crime after crime: Arkady Dmitrievich, did you find a British passport and travel papers?
And if he hadn’t found them? If she’d lost passport and papers somewhere else?
If one of the other men had found them?
Arkady looked up from his boots and waved a hook. —This gets harder every day.
Not speaking, they rode the metro to the park. As civilians made room for them, Kostya wished he could explain that he and Arkady were not on duty. Yet there they stood, uniformed from cap to boots, major and senior lieutenant of the NKVD, unmistakable.
Mistakes, thought Kostya. I’ve made so many mistakes.
Arkady touched Kostya’s bad shoulder, and pain zapped down the arm. —Our stop, Tatar.
Park Kultury station: pillar after pillar of variegated brown and tan marble, corners sharp enough to cut the air. No Odessa catacomb, this, yet Kostya felt trapped and hungry, as if hiding underground to escape the sleet.
He hurried up the stairs. On the street, he turned around, looking for Arkady, who called out to him to wait.
In the park, the men strolled a while, commenting on the gentle air, the beauty of the grounds, and the happiness of children.
— Arkady Dmitrievich, I should get back.
Face calm, patient, Arkady gestured to a bench. —Let’s sit down.
Kostya noticed the parachute tower, its twisting exterior a mash of Pisa upright and Tatlin constrained. Park visitors might climb this tower and then, wearing a motley parachute with a point like a budenovka cap, jump.
Arkady gestured to the woman who stood at the top of the tower adjusting her parachute harness. —I never understood the appeal.
Kostya made to light a cigarette; his match broke. He flicked the pieces of his shattered match to the ground and plucked out a second. Silk rustled and snapped as air filled the leaping woman’s parachute, and her scream warmed to a laugh as she descended in safety and grace.
Ignition, flame: Kostya drew on his cigarette. —She seemed to like it.