Zelach did his best not to be intimidated by this proud couple who looked at him with critical eyes. He almost managed to give the appearance of confidence.
Rostnikov, on the other hand, noted the frayed quality of the man’s trousers, the patched corners of the pillows on the sofa, and the very slightly odd angle of the tea table leg that looked as if it had been repaired one time too many, and said, “Remarkable.” He moved awkwardly, his new leg only partially cooperative. “Who is the man in the painting?”
They were in the apartment of Anya and Ivan Mesanovich. It was their son who had been shot with the three Jews on the embankment.
“That,” said Ivan with pride, “is my great-great-grandfather, Pavel Pestel.”
“Captain Pavel Pestel,” his wife corrected. “A cavalry officer who also served, for a brief time, as a member of the czarina’s guard.”
“Your name is not Pestel,” Rostnikov said conversationally, turning from the portrait to look at the couple.
“There was an incident,” the man said. “My grandfather was impelled by circumstances to change his name and move to Moscow.”
Rostnikov said nothing more on the topic. He turned to the subject of his visit, the couple’s dead son. As he did so, he noted that Zelach had finished his tea and was awkwardly balancing the empty cup and saucer on his broad knee.
“When did your son tell you he was interested in becoming a Jew?” asked Rostnikov, knowing the question would be likely to elicit some emotional reaction.
“He was not interested in becoming a Jew,” said the woman firmly. “Through two generations, in spite of the Communist doctrine of atheism, my husband’s family and my own have never deserted our religion nor our belief in and hope for the return of the monarchy. We want a country ruled by those bred to rule rather than louts who claim to be working for the people but are actually mad with their own power.”
“We are not fools, Inspector,” the man said. “My father was a precision machinist and a member of the Communist Party. I was a machinist and a Party member. My son was the best machinist of us all, but our dreams fascinated him.”
“Hypnotized him,” Anya corrected.
“The past,” said Rostnikov.
“Our heritage,” said Ivan. “We have our heritage. For my wife and me it is a symbol of our …”
“Superiority?” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said the man, meeting Rostnikov’s eyes.
“So you don’t know why he spent so much time with the Jews, even went to services?”
“No,” said Ivan.
Anya nodded in agreement.
“Since I never had the opportunity to meet your son,” said Rostnikov, “you must tell me: Is it at all possible that he would join the Jews to gain information about them for some organization to which he belonged?”
“Igor belonged to no organization,” said the woman. “He had a few friends, recent friends, but he didn’t believe in organizations.”
“Did he talk about the Jews?” Rostnikov asked, finishing his tea and handing the cup and saucer to the woman. He nodded at Zelach to do the same.
“We didn’t know what he was doing,” said the man.
“He did say once,” the woman recalled, “that he thought the Jews, who had been supposedly chosen by their God, had the longest history of suffering of any people on earth. The comment came, as I recall, when my husband commented on a news report about Israel. I argued with some vigor that the Russian people had suffered as much as the Jews.”
“You had this conversation recently?” asked Rostnikov.
“A few days before he was murdered,” said Ivan, head up. “We want the murderer caught. If the state does not execute him when he is caught, I will execute him. If the state does not find him, I will find him.”
Rostnikov believed him, at least believed that the proud man would try to see that a life was taken for the life of his son.
“Igor was our only child,” the woman said, touching her husband’s arm lightly.
“Can you tell us about his friends? Names? Addresses?” asked Rostnikov, notebook out. “Perhaps they can help.”
The woman gave them two names, Yevgeny Tutsolov and Leonid Sharvotz. She didn’t know where they lived, but she had the impression that they lived together. She also remembered that Igor had said that his friends’ families, had originally come from Saint Petersburg, as had theirs.
“We never saw his friends,” said the man. “My wife and I suggested that he invite them here. He never brought them. I’m surprised my wife remembered their names. I am not good with names and numbers. But I remember faces.”
He looked up at the portrait of his great-great grandfather and then back at Porfiry Petrovich.
“May we see his room?” asked Rostnikov.
It was a polite question to grieving parents. In fact, Rostnikov needed no authority other than his own to search the house.
“Yes,” said Ivan Mesanovich, pointing to a door over his right shoulder.
“Please,” said the woman. “Do not change anything. We want to keep it as it is for a while.”
Rostnikov nodded. He had the sense that it would be a long time before the woman would bring herself to change the room. This was a family that worshiped the shrine of a lost aristocracy. They would worship both the memory and the room of their dead son, keep it neat, clean, a memorial. He had seen such things before.
Zelach followed Porfiry Petrovich, who limped into the dead man’s room. It was small. It was neat. There was a chest of drawers, a small closet, and a neatly made-up bed with two pillows. The pillowcases were completely unwrinkled. Above the head of the bed hung a framed photograph. Rostnikov recognized the building in the photograph. Zelach thought it familiar.
“The Hermitage,” Anya Mesanovich said from the doorway.
“Has it been up long?” asked Rostnikov.
“Less than a year,” she said. “Before that there was a large poster of a woman in a bathing suit. He said her name was Demi Moore. She was an American actress. He knew we didn’t like it, but we never tried to get him to take it down. And then, one day, it was gone and the Hermitage was there.”
Her last words were said with pride. “We will be gentle, and quick,” said Rostnikov. “You may certainly watch.”
She did, from the doorway. Zelach was uncomfortable but he did his job, going through the chest of drawers while Rostnikov took the closet so that he would probably not have to bend down. There wasn’t much in the closet. The dead man had few clothes. What he had was clean and relatively unfrayed, but there was little. Zelach found the same in the drawers. In the bottom drawer he found a book. He showed it to Rostnikov, who took it. It was thin but in good shape, quite old, and in French. The title, as far as Rostnikov could tell, was Lost Treasures of the Czars.
“May we borrow this?” asked Rostnikov, knowing, once again, that he really didn’t need their permission.
“You’ll bring it back?” asked the woman.
“In two or three days,” said Rostnikov. “I give you my word.”
“And what is your word worth?” asked Ivan, suddenly appearing in the doorway, showing a tinge of anger at the violation of his only son’s room.
“In my work,” said Rostnikov, handing the book to Zelach, “it is all I have.”
When they got back to Petrovka, Rostnikov settled behind his desk, Zelach across from him. Rostnikov was turning the pages of the book, looking at the pictures, understanding only a drop of the text.
“Well?” Rostnikov asked.
Zelach didn’t know what to say.
“What did you think?” Rostnikov prompted.
“I don’t know,” said Zelach.
“What do you think we should do now?” Rostnikov persisted, still thumbing pages.
“Interrogate the dead man’s friends?” said Zelach.
“Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “What did we see at the Mesanovich apartment?”