by Robin White
Volsky looked at Nowek, then back.
Gavril smiled, then said, “Welcome to Moscow.”
Chapter 3
The City
Gavril maneuvered the old Chaika into the stream of traffic heading for the M10 highway. Theoretically, the blue flasher on the roof was reserved for official traffic, though you could buy one on any street corner. It might make Moscow’s famously corrupt traffic police hesitate before requesting a bribe. Then again, it might not. “You really work for the President?” asked the driver. “Normally they send his people to the Metropole.”
The most expensive hotel in Moscow and so tightly controlled by the mafiya it appeared mafiya-free. Volsky said, “We’re not?”
Gavril looked into the rearview mirror. “You’re booked at the Rossiya. It’s not the Metropole, but it’s very convenient.”
“Convenience is important,” said Nowek, earning him a dirty look from Volsky.
Everyone knew the Rossiya. Built in 1967, the concrete monster was proclaimed the world’s largest hotel, eight hundred seventy-five rooms on eighteen floors. Now the Rossiya was famous for being the very worst place to stay in Moscow. Its endless corridors and gloomy halls had become a kind of vertical slum.
“Chairman Petrov uses the Rossiya for foreign visitors of a different rank. . . .” Gavril let his words trail off into a cloud of implication.
Volsky said, “Which?”
“Visiting diamond men from Angola, Botswana. You know . . .”
“Africans,” said Nowek.
When Gavril nodded, his ponytail slithered up and down his leather-clad back like a puppet’s string. “I hear the restaurant on the top floor still has a great view.”
“We’ll be sure to look.” The radio was tuned to Radio Orfee, the best classical music station in Moscow. Nowek recognized one of the Bach “English Suites,” though he wasn’t sure which one. A violin was individual, full of character and innuendo. A piano was a machine made from hammers, pulleys, wires. A piano dominated. A violin insinuated, seduced. A violin sang.
They turned onto the highway, heading southeast. The Chaika slowly gathered speed. It might be a derelict, but it still moved with exaggerated dignity, as though it were carrying a Politburo member to an important meeting. The announcer identified the piece as the Suite Number 6 in D Minor.
“Look at all this traffic,” Gavril chatted. “And a Saturday. Did you know there are more cars in Moscow now than in all of Siberia?”
“In Siberia,” said Volsky, his voice like rocks rumbling down a steel chute, “we say the same thing about thieves.”
Through the outer MKAD Ring Road, by the giant tank trap sculptures commemorating the defense of Moscow, they rolled by the sparkling new IKEA furniture store, marooned in a muddy field.
“The Swedes should have known better,” Gavril chatted amiably. “They built their store just outside city limits so they wouldn’t have to pay off the mayor. No one told them all the roads came from the Moscow side. The mayor said if the Swedes want customers, they can fly them in by helicopter.”
Volsky gave Nowek a look that said, Moscow.
They crossed the inner Garden Ring. The Chaika lumbered on into the heart of the capital. Coming out onto Ulitsa Varvarka, the windshield filled with an extraordinary sight: a cluster of attractive sixteenth-century stone buildings dwarfed by an overhanging tidal wave of cracked, filthy concrete: the Hotel Rossiya.
Across the street, partially blocking the view to the domes of St. Basil’s, a billboard advertised an American cigarette with A TASTE OF FREEDOM!
“Here we are,” said Gavril.
Nowek peered up at the hotel’s stark facade. There were windows missing, smashed, covered over with plywood sheets.
Gavril docked the old limousine under the Rossiya’s swooping concrete canopy, scattering a few prostitutes out working the afternoon shift. “The Chairman is expecting you at six-thirty. He’s booked a private room at Ekipazh. It’s the best club in the city. What time would you like me to pick you up?”
Volsky looked at the Rossiya’s forbidding entrance. “Early.”
“Good idea. It’s safer in daylight. We’ll say five-thirty. And one piece of advice about the elevators . . .”
“Don’t worry,” said Nowek. “We’ll walk.”
Outside, the rain had settled into a spitting mist. Inside, the Rossiya looked depressingly normal to Nowek. It could be any one of a hundred hotels scattered across Siberia, only bigger.
Their rooms were on the fifth floor. They took the stairs.
“So,” Volsky huffed as they climbed the stairwell. The carpet had once been red. It was now stained to an Oriental complexity of yellows, purples, browns, and whites. It seemed less a carpet, more like something that once was alive and might be still. “It’s almost four. You’ve got some time. What will you do?”
Nowek carried his own bag and one of Volsky’s. “There’s a record shop called Melodiya that stocks old recordings. My father thinks they have some of his. I also want to check my mail.”
“Mail?”
“Elektronka. I can connect by phone to the Internet.”
“Is it expensive?”
“It’s free.”
Volsky looked puzzled. “How is that possible?”
“To be honest, I don’t think anyone knows.”
They opened the fire door to their floor and hunted for the dezhurnaya, the keeper of the keys, the minder of everyone’s business. The Rossiya might be owned by mafiya, but the fifth floor was hers. They found her in an empty room, passed out on the bed, the television on. They claimed their keys from her desk.
Nowek’s room was reassuringly normal. The window had glass, triple-paned and with a tiny operable portion caulked shut. The bed was monkishly narrow. He hoped the bathtub stains were rust.
Nowek unpacked his laptop computer. A Pentium, so it elicited sighs and substantial offers whenever it was seen. Nowek tried to keep those occasions to a minimum, for of all sins, envy was the most Russian. He switched it on. The screen glowed soft, cool blue. He picked up the telephone. There was no dial tone. He tapped the receiver a few times. Nothing.
He put the machine away and knocked on the communicating door to Volsky’s room. It was unlocked. The room reeked of cologne. Volsky was taking a shower. “Arkasha!”
“. . . believe it? There’s no fucking hot water.”
“The phone doesn’t work, either. I’m going out.”
“The car arrives at five-thirty. Don’t be late.”
“Arkasha, why are you going to war over diamonds? What about coal miners? Teachers? None of them have been paid, either.”
The water splashed a steady sshhh, then Volsky said, “They’re killing them. It has to stop. I’ll tell you more after we beat up Petrov.”
Killing them? “If I’m not back in time, I’ll meet you at the club.”
“There’s a business card by the phone. Read it.”
Nowek found it. On the back was a telephone number with a 095 prefix, followed by 661-18-94, and a word. Buran. Blizzard.
“If you need help, call that number and use the code word.”
Yeltsin’s private number was easy enough to remember; 661 was June 1961, Nowek’s birthday. 18 was Galena’s age. And 94? The year his wife, Nina, had died.
“Don’t get lost. I need you there tonight, Grisha,” Volsky called out.
Nowek slipped the card into his jacket. “I’ll be there.”
The music store Melodiya was on Nikitinskaya Street. The rain had stopped and it wasn’t far, so Nowek walked. He spotted it beyond a dour brick building that proclaimed itself the Soviet Home for Working Artists. A small jewelry shop called Eleganza had been carved into a corner of its first floor.
Nowek was drawn to the golden light of its window. Beyond the thick glass were coiled heaps of necklaces executed in thick, heavy gold. Just the thing for a warrior princess, or a mafiya’s girlfriend. Behind them, under a hot spotlight, were the diamonds. A
small sign shouted A DIAMOND FOR EVERY WALLET!
Maybe they were diamonds, maybe not. It took serious science to tell the difference between a cubic crystal of silicon carbide and a cubic crystal of pure diamond. Both were clear, colorless gems. Both superbly hard. Both filled with brilliant, refractive fire. One was industrial waste, the other a priceless gem signifying eternal love. But that was psychology.
Eleganza was closing. The shopkeeper peered out at Nowek, then tossed a cloth over the display and switched off the lights.
It began to rain. Nowek turned and headed for the music store.
Melodiya didn’t look like the sort of place that specialized in old recordings. Teens in black leather and polychromed hair lounged against the windows, blocking the door. Advertisements behind the glass touted acid-jazz, Caribbean ska, and something called house.
Nowek pushed his way inside.
The shop was bigger than it seemed. The main room was filled with long tables stacked with CDs. A half-dozen kids in headphones tested music in a separate listening room. They swayed, eyes shut. The air vibrated with heavy bass notes.
The smell of coffee wafted over from the bar. The price for a cup was a breathtaking one hundred twenty-five rubles. A fifth of a teacher’s monthly pension, when he got one. There were computers there, too, turned on, probably connected to the Internet. He could check for messages from Galena if there was time. He made his way to the counter.
A girl in a forest-green tunic stood behind a computer screen. Her shoulder-length hair was lank yellow, pinned back with tiny black headphones. Her face was hidden behind enormous glasses set with rhinestones. Her nose was decorated with a ring. In her matching green tights she looked like a forest elf gone bad.
“I’m looking for . . .”
“Classical’s over there,” she said, briefly looking up.
“What makes you think I was looking for classical?”
“Just a lucky guess. Is there something in particular?”
“The Dvo(breve)rák Violin Concerto in A Minor. It’s performed by the Czech Philharmonia.”
Her fingers poised at a keyboard. Her fingernails were painted a bright, acid green. “Violinist?”
“Tadeus Nowek.”
“Your name?”
“Gregori Nowek.”
She looked up, focusing on his face. The light made her eyes seem almost violet. She entered the name into the computer.
“Has this store been here long?”
“My grandfather opened it.” She peered at her screen. “I’m not showing anything in current stock.”
“It wouldn’t be current. It’s an old recording. My father thought you might have some left.”
“Maybe upstairs. It will take a little time to check.”
He’d have to leave soon. “Ten minutes?”
She nodded over in the direction of the coffee counter. “Buy a cup of coffee. I’ll be back.” She disappeared behind a door.
He bought a cup of coffee, found an open computer, and logged on to his elektronka account. There was a message from Galena.
His daughter was staying in America with Anna Vereskaya, an American woman of Russian parents, and a biologist at the University of Idaho. He’d met her when she came to Siberia to save the last few hundred Siberian tigers. Once, they thought they might be in love. Anna’s Russian was fluent, but underneath she was one hundred percent American. It was a gap too wide for either one of them to cross.
From: Gail Nowek <[email protected]
To: Gregori Nowek
Father:
You probably already could guess, but I won’t be coming back to Irkutsk next week. Please thank Uncle Arkasha for everything he did to get me into the university. But there’s not one student in Irkutsk who would stay if she had the chance to live here. It’s like switching on a TV and instead of black and white, everything is now in color. I know what you’ll say, but you haven’t seen America so you don’t have a clue. Sure, I could study for years in Irkutsk. Then what? Don’t be too mad. Even better, why don’t you come? If you do, you’ll never want to go back, either.
Gail
Gail? Nowek stared into his expensive cup of coffee. He started typing, slowly at first, then faster, then pounding.
To: Galena Nowek <[email protected]
From: Gregori Nowek
Galena:
I read your letter. “Gail” can stay in America but Galena must come home. Your classes will begin soon and your visa will run out. If you are still in America when that happens, they can arrest and deport you. I am in Moscow now. I will be in Irkutsk next week. Make sure you are, too. It’s autumn now, the trees are beautiful. There are colors here, too.
Your father
“You’re in luck.” It was the girl in green.
He followed her behind the counter, through the door, and up a narrow set of stairs. “What’s your name?”
“Tatiana.”
“Have you read Pushkin’s Onegin?”
“It’s a book?”
“Never mind.”
She knocked on a door, and then opened it.
The air smelled of must and age and old vinyl. The walls were hidden behind thousands of records carefully racked in specially built shelves. Thin, dusk light came through yellowed lace curtains.
An old man sat in a padded chair. There was a cardboard record sleeve on his lap. He had a pink face and a fringe of white hair. He wore a loose cardigan of indeterminate color, a white shirt and tie, maroon corduroy pants. His eyes were magnified behind thick lenses. They were pale, watery blue.
“Your granddaughter said she found a copy of the Dvo(breve)rák. . . .”
“The A Minor. It’s rare. I have just the one.” The old man peered at the back of the old record. He handed it to the girl. “Show him.”
It was the Dvo(breve)rák A Minor, Tadeus Nowek with the Czech Philharmonia. The picture on the back, taken in the early sixties, was of a young, intense man. It could be Nowek’s own face looking up at him from the old, fragile cardboard.
“The Wild Siberian. He came out of the snows with a strong arm and a fast bow. He glided. He flew. He was remarkable.”
“He still is.”
The old eyes gazed up. “Tadeus Nowek is alive?”
“Absolutely.” Though he meant, barely. Nowek’s father was nearly blind, nearly immobile. He could hardly stumble, much less glide. Though he still made life miserable for the young students Nowek hired to look after him. “He practices an hour a day.”
The old face wrinkled into a grin. His teeth were stained yellow with tea and time. “Put on the Dvo(breve)rák,” he commanded his granddaughter. “We’ll listen to some real music.”
Nowek looked out the window. Daylight was fading fast. He should be going back to the hotel to meet Volsky. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’d like to buy the record as a gift for him.”
“You can’t. I’m giving it to you. Now listen.”
The old turntable began to spin. There was a scratch, and then, from large speakers Nowek hadn’t noticed, his father’s music, his father himself, poured forth and filled the dim room with light.
The black chaika pulled away from the Hotel Rossiya. It left behind a few determined prostitutes huddled beneath the hotel’s concrete canopy, shivering but still hopeful.
Volsky thought, Where is Nowek?
“The Rossiya has had three managers this year,” said Gavril.
“Why did they leave?”
“They weren’t given a choice. They left in body bags. Contract killings.” Gavril paused. “Where is your assistant?”
“Why?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Don’t.”
The car turned right onto a wide boulevard scaled for parading tanks. Still known as Marx Prospect, the road was swarming with rush-hour traffic: charcoal-gray Mercedes, ministry Volvos with rooftop flashers blinking pinball blue, mafiya Lincolns. And at the edges, Russian Ladas cowered
and darted, shouldered aside by sleek tons of victorious foreign steel. The red stars atop the Kremlin walls disappeared behind a curtain of freezing rain.
“How about a magazine?” asked Gavril. “Cigarettes?”
“What I’d like,” said Volsky, “is not to be late for my meeting.”
Gavril stepped on the accelerator and the Chaika bounced more enthusiastically.
They turned onto Tverskaya Street, outbound.
“Winter’s coming early. They say it’s going to be a cold one.”
“Really?” said Volsky. “How cold?”
Gavril was encouraged. “I’m not complaining. Moscow looks cleaner in snow. But in a month it will be minus twenty,” he said with civic pride. “Maybe lower.”
“In Siberia, sixty degrees of frost is typical. Your breath freezes to crystals, and when the crystals fall to the snow there’s a sound. We call it the ‘whisper of stars.’ ” He breathed in, then let it out. “Ssssshhhh. Like that. So how long have you worked for Petrov?”
“Three years,” Gavril answered. “I’m leaving to start my own livery service soon. I have a used limousine lined up.”
“Your job must pay well.”
Nobody in Russia admitted to that. “Not well, but reliably.”
“In Siberia, a lot of people aren’t getting paid at all.”
“I’m not familiar with the situation outside Moscow.”
“Neither is your boss.” Volsky sat back against the faded red upholstery. “That will change.”
The driver braked hard, then swerved for a side street.
“You know where you’re going?”
“Ekipazh. This way is faster.”
“Ekipazh.” Volsky snorted. A fancy word for a saddle and reins, it carried a whiff of elaborate country manors staffed by armies of diligent serfs in red felt boots. “Is it a restaurant or a horse farm?”
“A private club. No horses. No bulls, either.” Gavril used the word byki, slang for mafiya. “They have strict rules. It costs plenty to join. Businessmen of the first rank only. The bandity can’t get in.”
“Even if a bandit can pay the membership fee?”
“In that case,” said Gavril, “he’s a businessman.”
