— Wine’s been scarce.
— Horseshit. I know you’ve got some in your little hideaway.
Andrei frowned. Senior Lieutenant Nikto did know that. Andrei had shared that information when Kostya asked how Andrei and his group of street children managed in winter. Kostya had paid for that information with more wine. And cigarettes, many cigarettes.
— It’s shared, Senior Lieutenant. We’re a collective. I can’t just take something from the others. It’s stealing.
— Shall I send the other officers here to round you up, your little collective? Hey? A children’s home, is that what you want? Home of the Child of the Struggle Moscow Number Two Supplemental Number Three is not far from here, Andryushka.
Andrei took a step back. He knew the rumours. Orphans entered the state homes; doctors injected them; orphans disappeared. Senior Lieutenant Nikto had confirmed some truth to these rumours, adding that orphan boys might also join the army and be sent who knows where, or they might take sick and die all on their own, simple bad luck. —I’ll give you the wine, Senior Lieutenant. Wait here.
Kostya smoked two cigarettes, waiting.
Glass clinked. Andrei ran to him, his jacket bulging.
As he gave Andrei cash and cigarettes and took the two bottles of wine, Kostya knew he’d just destroyed an important friendship. The boy’s eyes confirmed it; Andrei would never trust him again.
And in that moment, Kostya did not care.
Besides, he’d discovered a much more pressing problem: his lack of a corkscrew.
Andrei carries one. Next to his knife. —Hey!
Andrei closed his eyes, sighed, and turned to face the drunk NKVD officer. The drunk, armed NKVD officer. —Yes, Comrade Senior Lieutenant?
Kostya held the bottles out before him. —Open these.
— Both at once?
— Now!
Andrei obeyed, struggling with his corkscrew as Kostya refused to let go of the bottles.
Kostya gulped down a quarter of a bottle; some of it dribbled past the edges of his mouth. —Now Andrei, where can I drink this in peace?
— This way.
He followed Andrei into an alley, one slimy with refuse and excrement. Leaning against a rough stone wall, he drank from the first bottle, vomited, waited a few moments for his head to clear, drank some more. Then he dropped the bottle. Green glass shattered; red wine spilled.
— Fucked in the mouth!
He’d still got the second bottle by the neck. And he knew, oh, he knew, just where to go and enjoy it. Not too far of a walk. Not far at all.
Dampness seeped through Kostya’s clothes, into his skin, as he worked to recognize the voice saying his name. He stared up at the concerned face of Matvei Katelnikov. Even in civilian clothes, the young officer seemed very out of place here in Arkady’s flowerbed.
Matvei’s voice sounded crisp. —Nikto?
Kostya’s own voice sounded like a cooling sauce, clotted and thick. —Katelnikov.
— Comrade Major Balakirev found you here.
— Here in the irises, yes. Lovely night.
— Can you stand up?
— What time is it?
— Just after eleven.
— Oh. Lovely night.
— So you said. Comrade Senior Lieutenant, please, I need you to stand up.
— Arkady Dmitrievich is such a fussy old woman about his flowers. If I’ve broken any, I’ll never hear the end of it. Fuck, did I spill the wine over myself?
— The wine, and some puke. You’re lucky you didn’t choke.
— Laundry service will…Katelnikov? It’s Katelnikov, right?
Sighing, Matvei extended a hand. —Yes, it’s me.
— You look younger every day.
— Comrade Senior Lieutenant Nikto, please. I need you to stand up now.
— I don’t think so.
— If you don’t stand up, then I shall have to call Comrade Major Balakirev down here.
Kostya squinted at Matvei. —Wait, he called NKVD because of someone in his garden?
— I was in the area. He shouldn’t try to lift you on his own. He also told me that if I must call him back down here, then I must arrest you for debauchery in a drunken state, in a garden, while in uniform.
— The old man really said that? Is that even a charge?
— Well, it might fall under anti-Soviet activities. And you are in uniform.
Kostya giggled. —Then I’ll save you the paperwork, yes?
Leaning on Matvei, Kostya managed to stand, and the pair of them staggered and dipped to the back door of Arkady’s house.
Arkady had been watching through the study window. He met Matvei and Kostya at the door, opening it before Matvei could knock. —Good work, Katelnikov. Help him inside, first room on the left.
Kostya winced. —Don’t shout.
— I’ve not raised my voice. Over there, Katelnikov, just get him as far as the bed. Good. You may go. The front door, please, over there.
Obedient, curious, Matvei gawked as he moved through the parlour, and he found himself outside again before he could ask Comrade Major Balakirev if he might assist in any other way.
Then he let out a long breath, relieved he’d not been compelled to arrest Senior Lieutenant Nikto in a flowerbed. Such an interaction and its results would be, well…
He got into the NKVD car, started the engine.
Difficult.
Just over an hour later, Arkady opened his front door, this time to Efim Scherba and the NKVD driver who’d delivered him. —Took you long enough. Dismissed.
The driver saluted and left.
Efim followed Arkady inside. —I’d like to know why you sent NKVD to knock on my door. He frightened the hell out of me.
— Why? Have you got something to hide?
— It’s late, Comrade Major.
— Kostya needs you. In the study. Follow me. We found him drunk and passed out in my garden. I got him stripped down to his pants, but the stench on him.
Kostya lay on the bed, insensible, halfway turned onto this right side, his right arm bent across his chest. His breathing lapsed into snorts and snores.
Efim gave Arkady a smug half-smile, feeling, for the first time, the man’s equal. Here, Scherba the doctor could do things that Balakirev the Chekist could not: ease someone’s misery and call it his job. —The wine fumes are enough to knock me over. Any idea how much?
— We found only one bottle on him, but I’m sure he drank more.
— Has he said anything about his shoulder?
— Nothing I could understand.
Efim took up a thin rug from the desk and chair, intending to drape it over his patient. —Not much to be done for him until he wakes up.
— Not the Persian! If he pukes on that, it’s ruined. Don’t look at me like that. It was expensive. I’ll get you something else.
As Arkady strode upstairs, his tread and breathing heavy, Efim glanced around the parlour and the study. All this space, this entire house, for one man? A cat flap squeaked, and soon a large tom sauntered over to Efim. The animal eyed the strange human in apparent disdain. Efim called to him, rubbing his fingertips against his thumb, and the cat, eyes wide, trotted over and accepted a fondle around his ears. Then he wound his body around Efim’s ankles.
Returning with a worn grey blanket, Arkady noticed the cat. —He normally avoids people.
As Efim took the blanket for the patient, the cat leaned hard against his lower legs and purred. —Cats like me. What’s his name?
— Tchaikovsky. The other two are Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Well, why not? They live with Balakirev.
— I didn’t know you liked music.
Arkady adjusted the grey blanket over Kostya. —Vadym would say I only recognize The Internationale because everyone stands up. He named the cats. Come to the parlour. I’ll get us something to drink.