During this time, a crowd of half a million had gathered on the outskirts of the city, at a military staging area known as Khodynka field, with a promise of free food, beer, and souvenir mugs. When a rumor spread that the beer was running out, the crowd surged forward. More than a thousand people—some said as many as three thousand—were trampled to death in the panic.
For hours afterwards, carts loaded with bodies raced through the streets of Moscow, while their drivers searched for places where the dead could be kept out of sight until the wedding cortege had passed. In the confusion, some of those carts, with the legs and arms of the dead lolling out from under their tarpaulin covers, found themselves both ahead of and behind the royal procession.
“That afternoon,” the Tsar told Pekkala, “before the wedding ceremony began, I drank a toast to the crowd on Khodynka field. That’s the last time I ever touched vodka.” Now the Tsar smiled, trying to forget. He raised the flask. “So what do you think of my alternative? I have it sent to me from Belgrade. I own some orchards there.”
“I like it well enough, Majesty.”
“Well enough,” repeated the Tsar, and he took another drink.
“It wasn’t your fault, Majesty,” said Pekkala, “what happened on that field.”
The Tsar breathed in sharply. “Wasn’t it? I have never been sure about that.”
“Some things just happen.”
“I know that.”
But Pekkala could tell he was lying.
“The trouble is,” continued the Tsar, “that either I am placed here by God to be the ruler of this land, in which case the day of my wedding is proof that we are living out the will of the Almighty, or else”—he paused—“or else that is not so. Do you have any idea how much I would like to believe you are right—that those people died simply because of an accident? They haunt me. I cannot get away from their faces. But if I believe it was just an accident, Pekkala, then what about everything else which happened on that day? Either God has a hand in our affairs or he does not. I cannot pick and choose according to what suits me best.”
Pekkala saw the torment in his face. “No more than the plum can choose its taste, Majesty.”
Now the Tsar smiled. “I will remember that,” he said, and he tossed the flask down to Pekkala.
Pekkala had been carrying that flask five years later when Bolshevik Guards arrested him at the border, when he tried to flee the country after the Revolution had begun. Although his badge and gun were eventually returned to him, the flask vanished somewhere along the way.
Since that day out in the twilight in the Alexander Park, the glassy green of Slivovitz had taken on a meaning almost sacred to Pekkala. In a world where a Shadow Pass allowed him to do almost anything he chose, the taste of ripe plums served as a reminder to him of how much he did not control.
LATE THAT NIGHT, AS PEKKALA SAT ON THE END OF HIS BED, READING his copy of the Kalevala, the phone rang at the end of the hall. There was only one phone on each floor and the calls never came for him there, so he did not even look up from his book. He heard Babayaga’s apartment door open and the patter of Talia’s footsteps as she raced to grab the receiver.
Nobody liked to be the one who had to go out and answer the phone, especially when it was so late, so an unofficial arrangement had been made that Talia would pick up the call and notify whoever it was for. In exchange for this, the child would receive a small gift of some kind, preferably something made with sugar.
Then there was more pattering and Pekkala was surprised to hear Talia knocking on his door. “Inspector,” she called, “it’s for you.”
The first thing Pekkala did when he heard this was to look around the room for something he could give Talia as a present. Spotting nothing, he stood and rummaged in his pockets. He inspected his handful of change.
“Inspector,” asked Talia, “are you in there?”
“Yes,” he answered hurriedly. “I’ll be right out.”
“Are you finding me a present?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you can take your time.”
When he opened the door a moment later, she plucked the coin from his hand. “Come along, Inspector!” she urged.
It was only as Pekkala picked up the receiver that he had time to wonder who might be calling at this hour.
“Inspector?” said a woman’s voice. “Is that you?”
“This is Pekkala. Who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Yelena Nagorski.”
“Oh!” he said, surprised. “Is everything all right?”
“Well, no, Inspector, I’m afraid it isn’t.”
“What is it, Yelena?”
“Konstantin has learned the reason why my husband and I were splitting up.”
“But how?”
“It was Maximov who told him.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know. He showed up here this evening. Maximov had gotten the idea in his head that he and I should get married.”
“Married? Was he serious?”
“I think he was completely serious,” replied Yelena, “but I also think he was completely drunk. I wouldn’t let him in the house. I told him that if he did not go away I would report him to the guards at the facility.”
“And did he go away?”
“Not at first. Konstantin came out and ordered him to leave. That was when Maximov told him what had happened between me and Lev Zalka.”
“But how did Maximov know?”
“My husband might have told him, and even if he didn’t, Maximov might have figured it out on his own. I always suspected that he knew.”
“And where is Maximov now?” asked Pekkala.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think he drove back to the facility, assuming he didn’t run off the road on his way there. Where he might have gone from there I have no idea. The reason I’m calling you, Inspector, is that I have no idea where my son is either. When I had finally persuaded Maximov to leave, I turned around and discovered that Konstantin was gone. He must be out there in the forest. There’s nowhere else for him to go. Konstantin knows his way around those woods in daylight, but it’s pitch-black out there now. I’m worried that he’ll get lost and wander too close to the facility. And you know what is out there, Inspector.”
An image flashed into Pekkala’s mind of Captain Samarin, impaled upon that rusty metal pipe. “All right, Yelena,” he said. “I’m on my way. In the meantime, try not to worry. Konstantin is a capable young man. I’m sure he knows how to take care of himself.”
ONE HOUR LATER, AS THE HEADLIGHTS OF THE EMKA BULLDOZED back the darkness on the long road that bordered the testing facility, Pekkala felt a sudden loss of power from the engine. While he was trying to figure out what might have caused it, the engine stumbled again.
He stared at the dials on the dashboard. Battery. Clock. Speedometer. Fuel. He muttered a curse. The fuel gauge, which had registered three-quarters full when he left the city, now slumped against empty. He remembered the mechanic who had told him the fuel gauge appeared to be sticking and should be replaced. Pekkala wished now that he’d taken the man’s advice. The engine seemed to groan. The headlights flickered. It was as if the car had swooned.