Leon had come to a passage that always pleased him. It was flowing, beautiful, a moment of salvation in a world of madness.
In his music, in Bach, Mozart, Schumann, and sometimes Brahms, Leon could stop being the confident, wise, supportive physician whom he had made himself into, and inside of whom existed an angry and sometimes frightened man.
Even in the hospital the people of Moscow were not safe. A woman had recently bled to death while giving birth because the power company had, without warning, turned off the hospital’s electricity in a dispute over nonpayment of bills.
The trio was coming to the end of the piece and the end of the concert. Leon did not want it to end. Given the slightest encouragement from the audience, Leon would be willing to give encore after encore throughout the night. He was sure his fellow musicians felt the same.
The horrors would not stop even during the most delicate of passages.
Leon remembered helping to treat the victims of a utility company blunder in which a high-pressure gas line had been attached to a residential neighborhood instead of the industrial plant for which it was intended. Fifteen homes had burst into flames. Fortunately, it happened in the early afternoon, which kept the number of burn victims down.
Leon knew well from the statistics he accessed on his computer that Russians are five times more likely to die from accidents than are Americans. Deaths in Russia exceed births by more than six hundred thousand. Of the boys who are now sixteen, only half would reach the age of sixty, which is a worse rate than a century ago.
The Mozart piece came to an end with Leon’s brief solo, a slow and bittersweet conclusion.
The audience consisted mostly of university students and teachers, with a smattering of old people who attended anything-concerts, lectures, travel films-as long as the evening or afternoon entertainment or enlightenment was free.
The applause was enthusiastic, appreciative, but there was something in it that the musicians frequently sensed. The people before them had decided that the diversion was over. There would be no encores this night. The audience trickled out. A few, as always, almost always the young, approached the trio, thanked them, and asked questions or simply wanted to talk about their own love of music. Part of the trio’s mission, as they saw it, was to listen em-pathetically to those who approached.
Leon adopted his physician’s manner. The others, Lev Bulmasiov and Dmitriova Berg, alternatively beamed and took on serious looks, nodding their heads, saying something that showed the person who had approached that they understood what they were trying to express.
All three-Leon, Lev, and Dmitriova-were Jews. It was the combination of their love for the same genre of music, their mu-tual background as Jews without religion, and their talent that brought them together. Lev was a successful carpenter in his forties who held an advanced degree in electrical engineering, a profession that would have earned him far less than he brought home to his family as a carpenter. Leon knew that Lev did not dislike being a carpenter but would have preferred the profession for which he had been trained and which he loved. Lev’s oboe was his solace. Dmitriova was a medical lab technician at the hospital where Leon did his volunteer work. She was in her twenties, short, approaching a serious weight problem, and very plain with slight recurrent acne. Her compensation for the body and skin that had been given her was her cello, her music. Dmitriova was easily the most talented of the trio and should have been making her living on the concert stage.
But those who managed musicians, while recognizing her talent, were certain that they could not market someone who looked like Dmitriova.
When the last questioner, the one who always lingered until the musicians said they had to leave, had departed, the trio had said good-bye, told each other that the concert had gone well, and went their own ways.
Leon dreaded the next day. He had tried to put it from his mind, but he now had to deal with it. In the morning, he would have to call his cousin Sarah and tell her that she probably needed more surgery, that something had happened, that he wasn’t sure what it was, though he was certain, as was the woman who had been the surgeon on Sarah’s original operation, that an internal examination had to be made. Leon thought the problem was a growing clot of blood in the brain, a clot resulting from the original surgery, which may have weakened a crucial vessel.
Leon had a car and, unlike the other musicians in the trio, he had no instrument to carry. He did not know how they would get home. He had offered Lev and Dmitriova rides on many occasions.
They had always politely refused with thanks. Leon understood.
They wanted to be alone with the still-living memory of the music inside them. On this night, however, Leon would have welcomed company and conversation.
Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich would take the news well and ask that the surgery be performed as quickly as possible. Leon would arrange it and tell them the absolute truth about what the surgeon might find and have to do. He would tell them that he would be present in the operating room and that, while any surgery on the brain was serious, it was likely that this operation was not life-threatening.
Leon had no brothers or sisters. Sarah was the closest relative of his generation, more a sister than a cousin. Leon’s wife had died almost ten years ago, leaving him with their son, Ivan, whose real name was Itzhak. Ivan was watched over in motherly fashion by Masha, a Hungarian woman, who had a small but comfortable room in Leon’s apartment. Leon loved his son to the point where it hurt just to see him.
Ivan showed an interest in and talent for the piano, but he did not delight and lose himself in practice as his father did. Leon doubted if his son had the emotion inside that would carry him into a musical career. No matter. The boy was smart, loving. He would do well.
Meanwhile, Leon dreaded the morning.
He had long since stopped deluding himself about his feelings for his cousin Sarah. He had loved her from the time they were children. He had longed for her. When he had married, those feelings remained tucked carefully in imaginary velvet, never to be opened for careful scrutiny.
Ivan would be asleep, but Leon would go into his room, sit at his bedside, and watch his smooth, peaceful face for as long as half an hour. Then he would go to bed, dreading what he must do in the morning.
Porfiry Petrovich did not snore, but from time to time he made a deep sigh that sounded full of promises to keep. Sarah listened to her husband sleeping. He had brought home a surprise of pizza and had done his nightly workout while the two girls sat watching.
Sarah knew the routine by heart. Rostnikov seldom deviated.
First, he turned on the cassette player after having selected whatever suited his mood. Tonight it had been Creedence Clearwater Revival. Occasionally, when he was very tired, he hummed or even sang along with the music. Tonight he had hummed.
Five people in a one-bedroom apartment was both good and bad. It was good because Sarah, when she came home after working in the music shop, liked to have company, to hear what Galina Panishkoya and her grandchildren had done all day. Galina too worked while the girls were in school. Usually, Sarah and Galina collaborated to prepare dinner. The apartment was full of life.
That was also the problem. Privacy was impossible, or almost so.
Rostnikov had kept his leg on for stability when he sat up or lay on the narrow, low exercise bench. Tonight he had worn his blue-and-white Prix de France sweatpants and shirt. Perspiration had come quickly and the humming had turned to grunts. This was the favorite part for the little girls, and Sarah knew her husband was doing a bit of play-acting to make it look hard. Porfiry Petrovich was working out with great zeal. Next month was the Izmailovo Park annual weight-lifting championship competition. Porfiry Petrovich was now eligible for the senior competition, but it was really no competition for the one-legged policeman. He usually won.
His primary rival was a younger, likeable man with almost white hair. The younger man named Felix Borotomkin looked like the photographs of Arnold Sc
hwarzenegger on the covers of CDs of music from his movies. Felix Borotomkin worked out for several hours everyday. Since he worked in a private gym, this was not a problem for him. It was a problem for Porfiry Petrovich.
Sarah wondered if her husband might be dreaming of the competition, going over each move. For Rostnikov, the excitement was in the struggle more than in the winning, though he dearly enjoyed his victories.
Rostnikov slept on his back, no pillow, no cover except in the coldest of weather. His ritual nightwear was a clean pair of exercise shorts and the largest T-shirt he could find in his drawer.
Tonight he was wearing a black one with the words THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE in white letters.
Leon had told Sarah to come when Rostnikov went to work in the morning, that he had to talk to her.
She had gone to him about her headaches, which were increasing in pain and frequency. He had given her medication. When the headaches continued, he had called his cousin in for an examination. Now, three days after the tests, he wanted to see her. It couldn’t be good news.
Sarah would have gotten up and read a book, but there was really nowhere she could turn on a light. Any light and most sounds immediately awakened Rostnikov, though he had no trouble getting back to sleep instantly when he was sure no problem existed that he had to help deal with. Oddly enough, he did not awaken if Sarah reached over to touch him, which she now did.
She was certain now that the news would be bad. It was best if she got some sleep, was rested when she had to cope with the news.
It would be better but it would be impossible.
Her husband’s missing leg was not a problem for Sarah. She had been relieved when it had been amputated. It had been a less-than-handsome sight, and Rostnikov frequently had pain from it while he slept. Now, the sounds of pain were gone, replaced by these mournful grunts.
Sarah had lived for half a century. In that lifetime, she had never been unfaithful to her husband and she was sure he had been faithful to her. Sarah, with her red hair, smooth complexion, white skin, and ample body, had experienced many overtures from co-workers, men in cafes, customers, strangers in odd places. She had been tempted a few times, but the temptations had been slight and passing. She lay wondering if she had missed something. She knew, however, that she would never go beyond that slight temptation.
She closed her eyes and tried the relaxation techniques, the breathing, the visualization she had learned before her last surgery and had practiced till her recovery seemed complete. The techniques helped a bit and she needed them now to control her headache and to try to sleep.
She closed her eyes, imagined the full moon, and tried to let her consciousness go in full concentration on the glowing ball where men had walked and would walk again. No, she told herself, it is just a glowing ball that I must think of and watch while words and thoughts stop. She was just beginning to have some success when she fell asleep.
Anna Timofeyeva, her cat, Baku, in her lap, sat by her window.
A table with folding legs was before her, the light from a lamp il-luminating the pieces of the half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table.
Jigsaw puzzles had proved to be a comforting meditation for the former procurator. A few years earlier she considered such things a waste of time that could have been productive, and she silently scorned pastimes that did not exercise one’s mind, vocabulary, or dexterity. Now, however, she could be so relaxed by the process, so engaged in fitting the small pieces together that when Lydia Tkach came to complain, she could almost block out her piercing voice and stories of hardship and woe. Lydia didn’t mind the puzzle as long as Anna said something sympathetic from time to time.
Each small piece attached to another was a tiny moment of satisfaction to Anna. The puzzle before her had a thousand pieces and would, when it was finished, present a picture crackled by the hundreds of edges comfortably fitting together. From the cover of the box she knew that she was working toward the completion of a Swiss chalet in the winter, snow-covered mountains in the background with blue sky and white billowy clouds. In the foreground would be two children playing on a sled. The chalet would, as it did in the picture on the box, look like it was made of fragile white-and-brown chocolate.
Elena had not been home for three days. Anna knew why and had given her niece some ideas of how she might handle the undercover assignment. Elena had listened attentively, nodding her head, absorbing. Elena was smart, a good investigator.
Her niece’s relationship with Iosef Rostnikov was welcome to Anna, though she would not say so even if asked. She would not and could not exert any influence on Elena on such an issue. It would happen or it would not.
Anna petted Baku, who purred, a purr that was more a vibration than a sound. An elusive piece was found, a section of one of the chalet windows with a shutter. Without being aware of it, Anna smiled with pleasure.
Though she said and showed no reaction to her niece when Elena’s current assignment had come, Anna was worried. She told Lydia nothing about the nature of what Lydia’s son, Sasha, and Elena were doing. Lydia was already so obsessed with her son’s safety that such a revelation would have resulted in mock hysteria, if not the real thing.
Moscow was more dangerous now than it had ever been, and the most dangerous part for a police officer was probably the gangs.
Life was without value. Violence simply took place and was forgotten. Sasha and Elena were attempting to destroy the operation of one such gang, or Mafia, as they liked to call themselves now.
The Ministry of the Interior, which was supposed to be responsible for gang activity, was completely overcome by the size of the problem. What Elena and Sasha were doing was worth doing, but it would probably accomplish little.
Anna examined her work of the evening with satisfaction, satisfaction that it was coming along well, satisfaction that there was still more than half the puzzle to complete, two nights’ work. Anna seldom worked on the puzzle during the day. She watched the world in the concrete courtyard outside her window, took her pre-scribed walks, listened to music, read history books and occasional novels. Lately, she had been taking note of and notes on a young mother who was in the courtyard each day with her small child.
Anna found the young woman very interesting.
It was late.
Lydia Tkach had knocked insistently and Anna had admitted her, perhaps feeling a slight touch of loneliness that she did not want to admit to herself. Lydia had entered wearing a heavy blue man’s robe at least a size too large for her. Anna had returned to her chair and puzzle, and Lydia had closed the door and moved to sit across from her.
“Have you heard from Elena?” asked Lydia.
“No. I didn’t expect to.”
“She could be dead,” said Lydia.
“Thank you for coming late in the night to cheer up a woman with a heart condition,” said Anna, not looking up from her puzzle.
“Are you being sarcastic, Anna Timofeyeva?”
“Yes, Lydia Tkach.”
“I did not think such sarcasm was in you.”
“I have, since my retirement, nurtured and developed it with great care. Soon I will be able to reduce all but the most oblivious or determined-and that includes you-to frustration and departure.”
“More sarcasm. You play games with words and pieces of cardboard and I am sick, sick with fear about my only son,” said Lydia, pressing her fists into her frail chest.
“That is understandable,” said Anna, finding a place for a piece of the puzzle that had eluded her.
Bakunin, who did not like Lydia, had cautiously leapt back into Anna’s lap, eyes fixed on the loud intruder.
“My Sasha is a brooding, reckless young man. He has a family, children, a wife who is growing weary of his frequent absences, long hours, and. . his rare indiscretions caused by the pressures of his work.”
“And he has a mother,” said Anna, examining a small puzzle piece that may have been part of a human face.
“He has a
mother,” Lydia said, reaching for a puzzle piece near her hand.
Anna considered taking the piece from the woman and remind-ing her that she was in violation of the agreement they had made when Lydia had moved into the building. Lydia was to come when invited, to keep her visits brief, and to engage in no complaints about her son, his family, or the simple dangers of being alive.
Lydia had begun violating the agreement within a week of moving in. Reminders had been of no use. Anna had even taken the extreme step at one point of informing Lydia that she could not visit under any circumstances until further notice. This had been successful for almost two days.
Lydia reached over and placed the piece of the puzzle snugly into the proper space.
It was not a question of the quality of Lydia’s work. The woman obviously had an almost eerie ability to do the puzzles without even thinking about them. But Anna’s goal was not to race through each and hurry to the next. Anna had a great deal of time. She wanted the satisfaction of completing each puzzle by herself.
Anna put down the piece in her hand and gently took the piece Lydia was now holding.
“I cannot talk to Porfiry Petrovich about this,” said Anna. “I do not wish to talk to him. It is not my business. I would not even talk to him about Elena.”
The Dog Who Bit a Policeman ir-12 Page 13
