Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  I call her apartment. No answer. Maybe she had to go back to work. Militia Headquarters has my number. They’ve called her here before when they were shorthanded. Why didn’t she beep me or leave a note? I call the dispatcher’s office. But before I can explain, the woman who answers informs me Vera finished her shift and lectures me on the rule against personal calls. I hang up and take stock of the apartment.

  Nothing appears to be missing. Even my library of subversive literature, as it was called not long ago, seems untouched. Controversial works smuggled in from the West—Sakharov, Solzhenitsyn, Hemingway, Nabokov, Shakespeare, Orwell, Sartre, Voltaire, Churchill, Locke, Lincoln, and countless others I risked my freedom to acquire, along with binders bursting with articles pirated from wire services—are all as I left them.

  Did I take them out of hiding too soon? Did Vera’s hunger for knowledge have consequences she never anticipated? A familiar hollowness is growing in my stomach. Perhaps, unlike winter, our newly won freedom is neither inevitable nor lasting.

  The pot of coffee on the stove smells earthy and tart. I turn on the burner and pace anxiously as it heats, fighting my craving for alcohol, fighting to keep my imagination from getting the best of me. Vera probably got tired of waiting and went home; she’s probably still on the Metro. I haven’t had coffee in months, and the first swallow goes down like vodka after a week on the wagon. I’m savoring the second when someone raps on the door.

  Vera? Why wouldn’t she use her key?

  Another salvo of knocks rattles the latch. “Mr. Katkov? Mr. Katkov, it’s Mrs. Parfenov,” an elderly voice calls out.

  I open the door to find the old babushka who cares for the building, clutching at her bathrobe in the unheated corridor. “It’s three in the morning, Mrs. Parfenov. I know I’m a little behind in my rent, but—”

  “They took her away, Nikasha.” She has the shaken look of those who have seen the Secret Police come in the night, though these things don’t happen anymore.

  “Took her away? Who?”

  “Men. Who else?”

  “Men? What did they look like? In uniforms?”

  She shakes her head no, and maneuvers past me into the apartment. Her cloudy eyes dart about, taking stock of the place.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “Yes,” she says angrily. “They made an awful racket on the stairs. Woke me up.”

  “I mean, what they said.”

  “No. I watched from behind the curtains. They put her in a car.” She cocks her head curiously and sniffs at the air. “What’s that?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Ah,” she whines with suspicion. “I thought I recognized it. You have a source?”

  “Vera does.”

  “Maybe that’s why they arrested her.”

  “For buying coffee on the black market?”

  “They’re cracking down, Nikasha.” She punctuates it with a chop of her bony hand, turns toward the door, then pauses and turns back. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. . . .” Her face twists with the confusion of age. “Aggghh, it escapes me.”

  “Something about Vera?”

  “No. No, I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”

  “The rent?”

  “No. I know you’re good for it. Don’t worry, it’ll come to me.” She smiles weakly and shuffles out the door, her breath trailing behind her.

  Did Shevchenko say if the KGB was still in business?! My gut is a knot of pain now. I lock the door and pull the curtains. I know better, but I place calls to the Militia and the KGB anyway. Anonymous calls. Neither has a record of Vera’s arrest. That doesn’t mean they don’t have her. It’s always been difficult to get information on citizens who’ve been arrested. I know the frustration all too well. I wrestle with it for a while, then do what I always do when I can’t do anything else. I roll a sheet of paper into the typewriter and get to work.

  V. I. Vorontsov, a longtime servant of the Motherland who spent years in constructive and frank discussions of the prospects for the development of trading and economic exchanges with the Western powers, was shot to death in his car last evening. This heinous act of hooliganism, this cold-blooded murder of a high-ranking Interior Ministry official raises many questions about the Committee for State Property. Thought to be rife with the most criminal type of corruption, the CSP may be contributing mightily to the rapid flight of capital that is stifling economic growth. Furthermore . . .

  As Vera anticipated, the coffee keeps me sharp, and the pages continue to roll out of the typewriter, despite the distraction. I’ve lived with these fears and uncertainties all my life. If they interfered with writing, I’d have never published a word. I’m leaning back in my chair, searching for an appropriate phrase, when a ray of light that has found its way through the smog announces it’s morning.

  I try Vera again with the same result. The next call is to a friend at the Interior Ministry. Yuri Ternyak is a respected economist who studied at the Institute of National Economic and Scientific-Technical Progress under a defiant genius named Shatalin who taught free-market theory. His disciples labored in cautious obscurity until the Communists fell and the new government engaged them to draft market-oriented reforms. Schooled in contemporary monetary policies and management techniques, many also find themselves conducting liaison with Western bankers, businessmen, and entrepreneurs doing business in Russia; though Yuri, a shy fellow who prefers academic solitude to corporate wheeling and dealing, has concentrated on formulating policy rather than implementing it. Our friendship began twenty-five years ago at Moscow State University, where he ran an underground literature exchange that has kept my library well stocked. More importantly, he’s been a reliable source of information. In the past, we met in parks or on public conveyances to avoid KGB surveillance. Now, we talk more openly—but not today; not after what happened to Vera.

  “You know the name Vorontsov?”

  “Vaguely. I’ve heard it mentioned,” Yuri replies over the crackling phone line.

  “Heard anything lately?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Get me what you can on him, and meet me at GUM.”

  “I can’t. My schedule’s jammed. I’m crazed.”

  “Come on, Yuri. It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m about to go into a meeting, and then I have to—”

  “Yuri. Yuri, it’s really important. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  He lets out a long breath and sighs. “All right. GUM. About noon?”

  I’m not surprised that Yuri is pressed for time; he’s been working round the clock as of late. But the fact that the Ministry isn’t buzzing with news of the murder piques my curiosity. I ask him to have his secretary transfer my call to Vorontsov’s office. The woman who answers says he called in sick. I’m not sure what to make of that. A cover story was standard procedure under the old regime. Either something’s wrong, or Shevchenko is keeping the lid screwed on even tighter than he promised.

  I jot down a few thoughts, then head for the Metro station. An hour later, I’m fighting my way through the crowds in GUM, the massive department store opposite the Kremlin. Sound bounces off the marble floors and vaulted glass roof like ricocheting billiards. The noise level is almost deafening. Yuri and I have had many meetings here without fear of being overheard. It’s almost twelve-thirty by the time he joins me on one of the pedestrian bridges that arch between the shopping arcades.

  “Sorry. The phone rang just as I was leaving,” he explains; then, puzzled by my clandestine behavior, he lowers his voice and prompts, “So, what’s going on?”

  “They took Vera from my apartment last night.”

  Yuri’s face pales. There’s no need to ask who. His trimmed mustache, sharp cheekbones, and close-set eyes usually give him the look of a mischievous rodent; but he’s deadly serious now. He’s about to reply when he stiffens with fear at something he sees behind me.

  I glance over my shoulder to see a compact m
an charging in our direction. Trench coat, fedora, face of stone. Hallmarks of the KGB. They are never alone, preferring to hunt in packs of three. I’m looking about frantically for the others. Yuri is poised to run, but they’ve trapped us on the bridge. I’m beginning to think it’s a long way down when the man hurries past us without so much as a glance and brightens at the sight of a woman who runs into his arms, giggling like a schoolgirl.

  Yuri sighs, relieved. I could drain a half liter of vodka without coming up for air. We hear of the KGB’s demise. Even see signs of it. But decades of intimidation will take decades to forget. We take a moment to settle down, then walk to the opposite end of the bridge in silence.

  Finally, Yuri lights a cigarette and briefs me on Vorontsov: sixty years old; born in Zhukovka, an elite suburb of Moscow; studied economics at the Plekhanov Institute, attended MGIMO, the prestigious Institute for International Relations; a member of nomenklatura, the privileged Party hierarchy; served in embassies in London, Berlin, Tokyo, and Washington, D.C.; currently in charge of oversight for the Committee for State Property.

  “Oversight? I thought the CSP was autonomous?”

  “They were—until the corruption got out of hand and the Interior Ministry got into the act.”

  “Vorontsov’s a watchdog?”

  Yuri nods again. “One way of putting it.”

  “Clean or dirty?”

  “I’ve no idea. Why?”

  Yuri is clearly shaken when I brief him on the murder. “You realize what you have here?”

  I nod solemnly.

  “It threatens the development of a free economy. As it is, the G-Seven countries are hedging their bets, and private investment is lagging; but this—this—internal corruption—not a renegade Congress, not betraying Yeltsin or taking over the White House—is what will bring the new government down. Declaring emergency rule and dissolving parliament have bought him time but Yeltsin still has to deliver. If he doesn’t, we can kiss it all good-bye, and hard currency along with it. No dollars, no francs, no pounds, no marks, nothing.” He pauses, stunned by his own assessment, then his eyes capture mine with concern. “I’d handle this very carefully if I were you.”

  I nod again, trying not to commit my heart to it. We reach the end of the bridge, and begin walking along the upper shopping level.

  “Where are you taking it?” he asks. “The News?”

  Moscow News was the breakthrough newspaper of Glasnost. The first to exercise freedom of the press, to support political reform, to be published internationally—in England, France, the United States; and in Israel in Russian—but it has since fallen into weak, cautious hands.

  “Do you still subscribe?” I challenge, already knowing the answer.

  “No. I’ve switched to Independent Gazette,” he replies with a grin, referring to the nonpartisan investigative journal that wants to be The New York Times, but comes closer to the New York Post.

  “Oh, how come?”

  “Well, I think the News has become staid. It’s lost its independence.”

  “I agree. Why did you suggest it?”

  “It just seems more suited to your style.”

  “Staid?! Not independent?!”

  “You know better than that, Nikolai. The News has maturity and substance. The Gazette—it’s trendy and hot. Of course, I’m sure they’d be interested.”

  “Yes, but everyone takes articles to them. It’s a buyer’s market.”

  “Then where? Commersant? Argumenty i Fakty? Ogonyok?” he prompts, listing popular liberal journals.

  “Pravda.”

  “Pravda?!” Yuri echoes with a derisive snort. Shoppers in a nearby queue react as we board the down escalator. “I thought Pravda was out of business?”

  “Temporarily. It’s coming back as a political journal. Exposing the scandal would give it legitimacy. That alone would be news.”

  “The sort of news that’d get the wires to pick up the story,” Yuri offers, aware that for years Western wire services have been publishing dissident writers and paying them in hard currency instead of rubles.

  “Exactly.”

  “Even so. Pravda is a defunct Communist rag. Their circulation is in the toilet.”

  “Which makes it a seller’s market.”

  “No. Which is why they pay so little.”

  “They’ll pay plenty for this.”

  “Come on, no one takes them seriously. You know better than I, the joke has always been that Pravda means truth.”

  “The only way to stop the laughter is by proving it, by finally publishing truth. I’m going to offer them the best chance they’ll ever have, and they’re going to jump at it.”

  “If you’re right. If this alleged corruption can be proven. If you are able to—”

  “Enough. I have a good feeling about this, Yuri. A very good feeling. It’s going to change my life.”

  “Or end it.”

  “This is new? We’ve been dealing with thugs for years. Stalin’s thugs, Khrushchev’s thugs, Brezhnev’s thugs. They’re all gone, and we’re still here.”

  “True,” he says thoughtfully as the escalator deposits us in a crowd of shoppers scurrying from one queue to the next. “But it’s much more difficult to identify them now.”

  4

  She isn’t here,” Mrs. Parfenov rasps, her birch-twig broom moving in crisp whisks across the cold pavement.

  “Thanks. It’s been over twelve hours. I still haven’t heard anything.”

  She nods gravely, working a small mound of litter to one side of the staircase.

  “Has anyone else been here?” I prompt casually.

  “You mean those men, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  She stops sweeping and grunts no. Then her eyes cloud, and she snaps, “And before you ask, I still can’t remember.”

  “What? What you wanted to tell me?”

  She nods, annoyed with herself, and sends me inside with a wave of her broom.

  No perfume, no coffee, and no surprises this time. The apartment is dark, cold, and empty. I spend several hours working Yuri’s information into the story and fine-tuning clumsy paragraphs. A rush comes over me as I roll the last page from the typewriter. Not because I’m finished. No, this is the beginning, not the end. The sheet of carbon and the copy go into separate trays on my desk; the original, paper-clipped with the other original pages, into a slim, leather briefcase.

  My wife gave it to me over twenty years ago when I sold my first story to a French wire service. Faded and scarred, it endured my career far better than our marriage, which ended when my activism endangered her promising medical practice. I snap the tarnished latch and hurry from the apartment, my excitement tempered by Vera’s disappearance and Yuri’s unnerving observation about thugs.

  It’s barely midafternoon, but smog and the early dusk of winter have already plunged Lyublino into darkness. Headlights come from behind me, projecting shadows across the gritty facades. My pulse quickens, then settles as the vehicle passes. Not a militia van. Not a KGB troika in a Zhiguli. Just a taxi cruising for fares; but there are no takers among the browsers at the kiosk opposite the Metro station. It’s one of the few that actually sells newspapers. Most are mailed because Soyuz Pechat, the state supplier, won’t pay merchants enough to carry them. But this one gets a fair price from commuters who must leave for work well before their mail is delivered.

  I spend the subway ride to Pravda checking afternoon editions for stories on Vorontsov’s murder. Not a word in any of them. Shevchenko has kept his promise. The escalator at the Belorusskaya Station in north-central Moscow launches its bundled riders into an icy drizzle. It’s a short walk to the pedestrian underpass that leads to Leningradsky Prospekt; and about half a mile to Pravda Ulitsa and the journal’s gloomily efficient offices at No. 24.

  The elevator is in use. I charge up the stairs to the newsroom. Every surface is covered with copy and piles of photographs that threaten to topple. The furniture, lighting, cast-iron ra
diators, and chatter of manual typewriters are all right out of the fifties. Indeed, everything here is dated. Everything except the faces. Young and diligent, their eager eyes are riveted to the pages in their typewriters.

  I snake between the desks to a row of offices at the far end of the newsroom. A chunky middle-aged man with hair that rolls back from his forehead in tight waves sits behind a glass partition labeled EDITOR. Round spectacles bridge his nose giving him the look of a well-fed owl—an “owl” I recognize. This is a stroke of luck beyond anything I could imagine.

  Sergei Murashev is a highly respected journalist. Like many Party intellectuals afraid of being shipped off to the gulag, he kept a low profile until the political climate changed, then came out swinging. He was a charter subscriber of Yuri’s literature exchange, and we’ve worked together on and off over the years. At the moment, Sergei is editing copy with a vengeance and doesn’t notice me in the doorway.

  “What am I bid for a juicy political murder with a terrific scandal and an inside source?”

  “Nikolai!” he exclaims as he bolts from his chair and circles the desk to greet me.

  “You’re the last person I ever expected to find here, Sergei.”

  “Ah, it’s a marriage of convenience. They couldn’t find anyone to take the job; and I’ve grown unashamedly accustomed to food, clothing, and shelter.”

  My eyes dart to front pages from past editions displayed on the wall behind him. In typical Pravda style, each headline is subordinated to the masthead, which depicts Lenin’s profile and proclaims:

  Proletarians of the world, Unite!

  Communist Party of the Soviet Union

  PRAVDA

  Established the 5th of May 1912 by V. I. LENIN

  Organ of the Central Committee of the CPSU

  “I’m surprised those aren’t long gone,” I prompt.

  “They were. I put them back.”

  “You did what?”

  “I don’t ever want to forget; and I want to make damn sure those kids know.” He inclines his head to the newsroom, then gets to the matter at hand. “You really have something for me?”