Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  The check on the weather had been as far as his research went. Never having been anywhere in the Arkhangelsk Oblast, Laverov found himself wondering if they had any daylight at all in winter. Situated on the Severnaya Dvina, near its mouth into the White Sea, Arkhangelsk was as far north as Laverov ever wanted to go. Despite his deep-seated antipathy towards hotels, the people who owned them, ran them or even stayed in them, he experienced a sense of relief as the taxi entered the better-lit city centre and slid to a stop in front of the Business Centre Hotel on Voskresenskaya Ulitsa. He wondered what overtly romantic person had dreamed up the name. Maybe in the new capitalism era ‘Business Centre’ was considered sexy? Though not even mildly romantic his room turned out to be comfortable, and after a single medicinal shot of vodka he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  The following morning was the first time in some years that Laverov had managed to be up, dressed and breakfasted before sunrise. His feat was somewhat diminished by the latitude — this far north the winter sun didn’t put in an appearance before 10 am. Even then it was, at best, a fleeting appearance. Its desultory attempt to mount the sky was abandoned by midday, followed by a hasty descent; the entire event usually over by 2.30 pm. Not much of an effort, Laverov thought gloomily as he looked out at the leaden sky; it was doubtful the sun would bother putting in an appearance at all today. The night’s snowfall had blanketed the city and it was a fair bet that there was more on the way. Oh well, what couldn’t be avoided must be confronted. He heaved on his coat and headed out into the cold.

  The first deputy police chief of the Arkhangelsk region finally deigned to grant him an audience, but not until he had left Laverov sitting in an unheated waiting room long enough to understand that functionaries from Moscow were not going to get preferential treatment in his fiefdom. The man was in his mid-thirties, elegantly dressed, with a complexion and body that owed a lot to sun lamps, obsessive work-outs and possibly a steroid or two. Despite his relative youth and fitness, it was immediately apparent that Volodarsky liked to present himself as a world-weary individual who had seen it all.

  ‘I expected someone younger,’ he murmured as though to someone else. ‘Pleasant train trip?’

  It was too pointed. Too obvious. He even sounded like Kozlovsky. Laverov nodded and, sensing that there was no point engaging in pleasantries, plunged in. ‘I need to arrange transport to Kimzha.’

  There was silence for a moment as Volodarsky narrowed his eyes and studied Laverov.

  ‘Kimzha . . . Kimzha . . .’ He repeated the name a couple more times, rolling it round his mouth to experience the flavour. By the look on his face it was not to his taste. Then he heaved a sigh, thumbed through a folder on his desk, extracted a sheet of paper and made a pretence of reading it. Finally he looked up.

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t tell me that before you left Moscow. The only access is by river and . . .’ he glanced out at the snowflakes feathering past the window, ‘this time of year, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘They’re frozen. You could come back in spring, after the thaw. I’m sure we could assist then.’

  I am a brick wall, the man was saying, beyond which you shall not pass. Go back to Moscow. Stop wasting my time. There was nothing subtle about the obstruction nor the confidence with which it was delivered. He sat back in his chair like a headmaster who, having chastised a pupil, awaits his departure. But to his surprise Laverov didn’t appear inclined to play the pupil’s role.

  ‘I’m also a very busy man,’ the policeman added. Still Laverov sat, a slight smile on his face. Volodarsky began to feel unsettled. ‘And so if there is nothing else . . . ?’

  Laverov took the letter from his pocket and handed it over, almost apologetically. ‘I was asked to show you this. It probably won’t help. Certainly can’t unfreeze rivers but . . .’

  He left the sentence unfinished and made a pretence of cleaning his glasses while Volodarsky read the document. The point at which he saw the signature was obvious. He sat up and fixed Laverov with his eyes.

  ‘I should have been informed that this was presidential business,’ he snapped. ‘I would have had you met.’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t have been necessary. I can see how busy you are.’ Laverov put his glasses back on and smiled generously.

  Unaccustomed to feeling uncomfortable in his own office, Volodarsky carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Kimzha? It was nowhere. During winter there were two, three hundred peasants there at most. Half the houses were abandoned. There was the church of course, but that was hardly likely to interest anyone but a student of architecture. He composed himself, handed back the envelope and made a valiant attempt at a friendly smile. ‘Of course, I shall do what I can.’

  ‘That would be most kind.’

  ‘You must understand that these are difficult times. Crime is getting out of control.’ He indicated the pile of folders on his desk. ‘So much crime and so few resources.’

  The lack of resources obviously didn’t extend to his personal wardrobe: the suit was imported, the shoes beneath the desk Italian, and the ostentatious gold watch nicely matched to a pair of eighteen-carat cufflinks.

  ‘In Soviet times everything belonged to the people. The change has created the situation where things have ceased to be “ours” but didn’t become “mine”. They’re nobody’s. Now people have no qualms about destroying something that was created by other people to buy a bottle or support themselves.’

  Laverov listened to the suddenly expansive policeman, wondering why he was getting the all too familiar lecture on the breakdown of the post-Soviet state. Maybe it was like the snow outside the window, he thought gloomily, something that had to be endured. He made a sympathetic clucking noise and nodded. Times were tough. They always had been. As the policeman ladled out the statistics to support his argument, Laverov tuned out. The man was getting kickbacks. Nothing new or surprising in that. He resented Moscow? Everybody outside the capital did.

  After a time the lecture came to an end and Volodarsky, perhaps feeling he had demonstrated that he was a loyal servant of the people, came full circle. ‘So may I ask what you are seeking in Kimzha?’ The tone was friendly now, inclusive. Two professionals getting stuck in, shoulder to shoulder. He had already made a mental note to see what he could find out about Laverov, just to cover his own back.

  ‘I need to interview a man named Tarasov.’

  ‘The man is a resident? It’s not a popular winter destination.’ Volodarsky’s grin confirmed that he also had well-placed friends in the dental profession. Laverov had never seen such perfect teeth, except in the advertisements on television.

  ‘He moved there several years ago. He’s a very old man.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Volodarsky nodded knowingly. ‘Digging up the past, eh?’ He reached behind him for a file, flicked through it and ran his finger down a list of names.

  ‘Ancient history. More of an archaeologist than a policeman,’ Laverov offered, more in a spirit of conciliation than humour. The over-hearty laugh that his remark elicited seemed to indicate that he was making progress.

  ‘Mikhail Lvovich Tarasov?’ Volodarsky read from the file. ‘Moved to Kamenka six years ago. Stayed a few months and has been registered in Kimzha for the last five years.’

  ‘That’s the man. Any idea why he chose Kimzha?’

  ‘It’s not a retirement village.’ Volodarsky snorted, his expression making it clear what he thought of the place. ‘Masochism or in-laws.’

  ‘In-laws?’

  ‘There’s no other Tarasov on the register but his file says he was married to a Marina Fyodorova Vetrov, now deceased.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her brother, Ivan Vetrov, was a timber worker who lived in Kamenka a few years ago.’

  ‘Lived?’

  ‘Died. I know the name because he and his wife were killed in a house fire. I figure Tarasov probably came to collect whatever survived the fire and decided to stay. So what has this Tarasov done that br
ings someone like you halfway across the country?’

  ‘He may have known people who knew other people,’ Laverov said obliquely, wondering what kind of person Volodarsky thought he was.

  Sensing that he was going to get precious little out of his taciturn guest, Volodarsky closed the file. ‘Let me get my driver to take you back to your hotel and I’ll see what I can organise.’

  ‘You can unfreeze the rivers?’

  ‘In the old days, if the bosses said it was unfrozen . . . Now, unfortunately, we have to deal with reality. There is a zimnik — a temporary winter road — that the lumber factory at Kamenka maintains to supply its winter maintenance crew. It’s only used once a fortnight but it could be accessible if the weather clears. The problem is finding a vehicle. There are plenty on the books, but those that are still in working order tend to get stolen. Even those that aren’t repairable . . .’

  ‘Are stripped for scrap?’

  Volodarsky nodded.

  This was not unexpected. Russians had taken to recycling in a big way. Anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor was considered fair game and if the floor was wooden — well, it usually went too.

  ‘We had an entire locomotive taken last year. And just last week . . .’ He fished another file from his desk. ‘A local thug decided that he would take a kilometre of electrical cable right off the power lines. So unlucky, really — the one day the power was working. Eleven thousand volts. Killed him instantly, leaving him fried and hanging from a safety harness. Of course the lines went dead and another group of enterprising thieves took four hundred metres of copper wire during the night without disturbing the body.’ He glanced down at the file again and frowned. ‘No, not quite right. It seems they took his boots.’

  Any doubts about the strength of his improved relationship with Volodarsky were quickly dispelled when Laverov arrived back at the hotel. His room had been upgraded and a bottle of vodka was sitting on the bureau — compliments of the management. So the police chief had the hotels in his pocket as well. Still, Laverov thought as he opened the bottle, it was probably less risky than cutting down power lines, and a hell of a lot more lucrative.

  Later, fortified by lunch and another shot of vodka, Laverov took advantage of an unexpected break in the weather to take a brisk walk through the city. Turning from Voskresenskaya into Troitskiy Prospect, he followed the tramlines to Karl Libkneht and on down to the embankment. It was, even in winter, an interesting city. Old wooden houses, survivors of an earlier era, sat oddly alongside modern concrete apartment blocks and office buildings. Off the main thoroughfare the tramlines and overhead wires were replaced by streets lined with poplars, now stripped of their leaves. When he reached the embankment he was in another world again. The expanse of the Dvina lay frozen in front of him and from between the clouds a low sun sent a single spear of light onto the snow-covered ice. The noise of the trams and traffic was lost behind the wind crackling the ice in the trees and the crunch of the snow beneath his feet. A couple of hardy skiers shot past him, fiercely working their sticks and trailing small clouds of mist from their heavy breathing. A lone man, all fur coat and astrakhan, walked behind him. Down here on the exposed banks of the Dvina the cold was intense, so Laverov turned back to the city through Pomorskaya with its quaint old stone buildings. He glanced up at the metre-long icicles hanging from their eaves, imagining them breaking off in the spring. But spring and the danger of accidental death by icicle was a long way off and as he turned back into Troitskiy Prospect the clouds returned, and with them the snow.

  On the steps of the hotel Laverov paused and looked back along the street. The man in the astrakhan hat had developed a sudden interest in architecture and was examining the front of a nearby building. Poor sod probably had less idea of what he was doing than Laverov did, but the exercise would have done him good. He would most likely be stuck in a car for the rest of the day, or at least until they concluded that Laverov wasn’t going to venture out from the hotel again.

  As it turned out Laverov didn’t leave the hotel for the next forty-eight hours. Twice Volodarsky rang to assure him he was on the case but was having difficulties getting a vehicle, problems with drivers being ill and, of course, the weather. Laverov had to concede that at least he was telling the truth about the weather. The snow showers had combined to produce blizzard conditions with — if the television report was to be believed — little hope of respite in the next few days.

  However, the morning of the third day Laverov awoke to clear skies and a drop in temperature down to minus twenty-five. As if on cue the phone rang.

  ‘I have a driver and a tracked vehicle.’ Volodarsky sounded a little too crisp; the friendliness gone from his voice. Laverov wondered what had happened in the interim. Maybe the effect of the letter was wearing off and the man was simply too busy to play transport nanny to a southerner. Maybe he was just busy; snowed under.

  ‘When can we leave?’

  ‘The driver is collecting supplies and I have to confirm the accommodation. How long do you intend to be in Kimzha?’

  ‘A couple of days at the most.’

  ‘Vladimir Almukhamed is not the regular driver but he works as a log hauler during the summer and knows the area. He’ll be at the hotel in an hour.’

  Vladimir was still wearing the astrakhan hat and if he had ever worked as a log hauler it was a long time ago and with a different body. His hands looked as though they hadn’t touched anything more wooden than a pencil. Still, Laverov thought as he settled back in the cabin, it was warm, the man didn’t appear to be talkative and there was a bottle of vodka jammed in between the seats. Compliments of the Kamenka Timber Company. It seemed news of his letter of authorisation had spread.

  It was one of the slowest journeys Laverov had ever made. Vladimir exchanged the minimum of pleasantries, clamped on a pair of earphones, plugged his walkman into the cigarette lighter on the dashboard and retired into whatever music was on his collection of CDs.

  After winding their way through the outskirts of Arkhangelsk they followed a country road for a few kilometres and then, after passing through what looked like a deserted village, slowed down to a crawl. Laverov had no doubt that the roads would usually be in dreadful condition, but snow was a great leveller and the passage of a recent snowplough had left them with an almost smooth ride. He was about to tap Vladimir on the shoulder and ask why the reduction in speed when the reason became obvious.

  There was little to mark the entrance to the temporary road and they could easily have missed it if someone had not tied a red flag to a snow-encrusted larch on the right-hand side of the main road.

  ‘The zimnik!’ Vladimir bellowed above the music in his headphones.

  ‘How far is it?’ Laverov mouthed, not bothering to put any effort into shouting.

  ‘Four hundred kilometres.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said . . . how . . . long?’ Laverov repeated.

  The headphones came off one ear and for a moment Laverov thought he heard a snatch of Madonna.

  ‘About ten hours they tell me. Maybe more. Depends on the weather.’

  They tell me? Laverov was concerned not by the man’s lapse from the flimsy cover story he had been fed about being a lumber hauler, but by the implied admission that he had never travelled the route before. Four hundred kilometres along a temporary road in the middle of winter was not to be undertaken lightly. Ten hours? He hoped that Vladimir had brought along enough CDs.

  He fished a cigarette packet from his pocket and lit one. Instinctively he rolled down the window but the sudden blast of sub-zero air was an immediate reminder that they could all make mistakes. He quickly closed the window and resigned himself to travelling in a smoke-filled cabin.

  Within a couple of hours they had lost the daylight, but despite the recent heavy snow the road was in reasonable condition and it appeared to Laverov that they were making good progress. He wondered what Vladimir was on, for apa
rt from two desperately cold stops to urinate he drove without a break, choosing to eat, drink and smoke on the move, all without a hint of the exhaustion that Laverov was feeling merely as a passenger. Mostly they travelled through dense forest, but occasionally ventured across what was presumably, in the warmer months, boggy marshland. At each point where they had to re-enter the forest, the red flags were clearly visible in the headlights. They looked brand new. Above them the aurora borealis glittered and shimmered, sending wave after wave of intoxicatingly beautiful curtains of light across the narrow band of sky between the trees.

  With great restraint Laverov held back from the vodka for the first few hours, but eventually relented, telling himself it would distract him from the growing numbness in his rear. To his relief and surprise Vladimir declined the offer that, given the circumstances, he felt impelled to make. They drove on into a strengthening wind from the north. They were still travelling under a clear sky but the wind whipped up the fresh snow on the road in occasionally blinding flurries. It seemed to have no effect on Vladimir, who sat on the same speed for hours, not even slowing for the stretches of ice or the infrequent but deep track marks left by a previous traveller on the road. Eventually the vodka worked its way through Laverov’s system and he dozed off, hypnotised by the endless white road through the forest.