Komarov lit a cigarette and thought back to his boyhood outside Moscow, where he’d seen groups of Gypsies camped across the river.
He remembered hearing violins in the forest late at night while he was trying to fall asleep. He remembered the talk at school about Gypsies being run off by militia because they had been caught stealing livestock from local farmers. It seemed innocent then. Gypsies taking a few chickens to eat, the way he and his friends took a tomato or an onion from the fields when they were hungry. But later, when the Gypsy landlord confronted his father after the opera, he knew Gypsies were not the children of the forest they claimed to be.
Gypsies hid among civilized citizens. The landlord who killed his parents was a Hungarian Gypsy. Barbara, who seduced and humiliated him during his hazing in the GDR, was half-Russian and half-Hungarian. Hungarians, Gypsies, people famous for their supposed contribution to the arts. The musical Czigany. The so-called poets and writers. Perhaps Horvath and Popovics were among them, hidden away in a Kiev garret.
Komarov inhaled deeply on his cigarette, thinking of Tamara Petrov. Earrings flashing, bracelets clanging, hair as black as the night, black hair making her olive skin appear lighter than it was as she wept in his office, weeping because she had turned in one of her own.
This afternoon, even Deputy Chairman Dumenko had fallen briefly under Tamara Petrov’s spell when looking at photographs of her in the interrogation room. Tamara Petrov grimacing and frowning and even laughing at the hidden camera while Captain Brovko questioned her. More trickery, appearing courageous when she was really a coward. Or was she?
Komarov felt something on his finger and realized his cigarette had burned down to a butt. He put the cigarette out and lit another. He rubbed the surface burn, brought his finger to his nose, and smelled the acrid odor of burned flesh. The odor brought back memories of his years in the GDR at the “safe” house outside East Berlin. An old captain from the Great War named Alexeev used the method often. The captain would lean close to the victim, speaking softly, like a grandfather whispering to his grandchild. Then he would lock the victim in a grip with one arm and press his lit cigarette to the victim’s neck. Komarov had smelled this mixture of cigarette smoke and smoldering flesh many times when passing the interrogation room and hearing the screams of victims. It was a smell he had never forgotten.
If Captain Alexeev had come back from the dead to terrorize Tamara Petrov in the interrogation room, would more have been revealed? Perhaps it would be wise to interrogate her again. Perhaps he could do a better job than Captain Brovko, especially if he did it under different circumstances.
Komarov stood and put out his cigarette. He went into the house, where the only light came from the glow of the television in the living room. The television showed a rerun of Gorbachev’s spineless Chernobyl speech. On his way out the front door, he told his wife he would be gone at least two hours on business. Her only response was to raise her hand limply.
Komarov parked a block away from Club Ukrainka and walked. He would be able to check on his men. And if his men did not recognize him, there was no need to explain his follow-up questioning of Tamara Petrov. Better to visit Club Ukrainka as a stranger in an overcoat with the collar drawn up about his face. When he passed the Volga, he saw both men inside. A flashlight lit up the seat between them for a moment. They were playing cards. He walked on, purposely giving himself a slight limp, and entered Club Ukrainka.
The place was dark, the air thick with smoke and the smell of Turkish coffee. He sat at a table near the entrance and put out the candle on the table. He ordered coffee and paid for it as soon as it was delivered. He kept his coat on and held the cup in front of his face.
Tamara Petrov was on the far side of the room at a table to one side of the small stage. Onstage, a thin, bearded man made his saxophone sound like an old man who had eaten too many beans. When the man stopped playing, a few people clapped, and the man went to Tamara Petrov’s table. The man’s cheeks had been puffed up when he played. Now they were sunken, and, in profile, Komarov recognized Jewish features. First the Gypsy, now a Jew who blows farts on his saxophone while she applauds him, smiles at him, invites him to her table, and perhaps to her apartment.
Komarov imagined Tamara Petrov kissing the bearded Jew, using the wiry black beard to clean between her teeth the way prostitutes clean their teeth on pubic hair. Suddenly, he thought of Dmitry with a man, in bed with a man, the taste of salt and the feel of hair inside one’s mouth. A wave of nausea came over him, nausea so strong he had to go to the washroom and splash cold water on his face. The water from the spigot smelled metallic. He took deep breaths from the open window in the washroom. When he finally recovered, he returned to his table, held his coffee cup in front of his face, and watched Tamara Petrov.
The saxophonist was back onstage, puffing his cheeks and playing something reminiscent of a Hungarian song played on a violin, a ridiculously romantic elongation of melody, a sound like someone weeping, the sound made by the old man with the violin in Lenkomsomol Square the night Detective Horvath escaped. And there was Tamara Petrov smiling at the Jew. When the Jew switched to a Middle Eastern melody and gyrated his hips, Tamara Petrov stood and applauded.
If only Detective Horvath could be here now. If only he could see his Gypsy lover swooning like a child bride experiencing her first orgasm. Perhaps Horvath would be jealous enough to leave the club in anger, wait for Tamara Petrov in an alleyway, and confront her. A woman who first turns him in, then replaces him with a Jew so she can play his saxophone penis.
Komarov held his cup in one hand, reached inside his coat, gripped his knife, and thought of Pudkov and the poet, their necks like wet muted violin strings as he sliced across them. He thought of Gretchen staring at him with surprise as he pushed the knife in and twisted.
When the saxophonist approached the climax of his disgust-ing wail, and as Tamara Petrov remained standing, applauding, and gyrating her hips like a belly dancer, Komarov left Club Ukrainka.
Outside, he lowered his head into his collar and took up his limp.
When he passed the Volga, the men inside paid no attention to him.
He walked a half block and hid around the side of a building in a dark alleyway. From this position, he could see the entrance of Club Ukrainka and he could see the heads of the two KGB men who would soon be disciplined severely for allowing Tamara Petrov to be murdered under their very noses.
26
The village of Kisbor on the Ulyanov collective was on a dry plateau less than twenty-five kilometers from the Czechoslovakian border.
Although the Chernobyl accident was a topic of conversation, Kisbor residents felt relatively safe because Kiev was much closer and Kiev television news did not show citizens dropping dead in the streets.
Instead of worrying about the reported insignificant amount of radiation in their area, citizens of Kisbor and the Ulyanov collective were more concerned with spring planting.
Nikolai stood in the yard of the Horvath farm, watching the sunrise. The farmhouse was on a slight hill above the village, and only the tallest houses in Kisbor were visible, their peaked roofs like black witches’ hats against the orange sky. The morning was cool, and on the distant plain he could see patches of ground fog. According to local legend, these patches of fog were the last breaths of a person who had recently died. Perhaps one of the patches belonged to Pavel, his last breath drifting on the wind all the way from the town of Visenka, outside Kiev, and arriving now, his last breath wandering about until it came upon his friend Nikolai, who cradled him like a babe in his arms as he died.
Nikolai walked around the side of the farmhouse where a rooster strutted back and forth on the tin roof of a lean-to chicken coop.
The rooster’s claws on the roof sounded like someone scratching from inside a coffin. The rooster stopped strutting, puffed up its chest, and greeted the sunrise with a high-pitched wail.
When he went into the backyard, Nikolai passed a weathere
d wooden box set in the ground. The box had an old oilskin tablecloth draped over it, and on it were two battered tin plates holding water from the last rain. Tarnished and bent knives and forks rescued by local children completed the make-believe table setting.
Children. At the funeral, Pavel’s wife said they were going to have children. She repeated it over and over as he helped carry the coffin to the grave site set aside for Kiev’s KGB agents and militiamen. “He was only twenty-seven and no children!” screamed Pavel’s wife as the coffin was lowered.
Shortly after Pavel’s funeral, Nikolai was sent here. In the farmhouse there were three children-a baby belonging to the Sandors, who lived in the house, and the two daughters of Nina Horvath, who had come from Pripyat by way of a Moscow hospital. Walking beyond the oblong box with its oilcloth, discarded utensils, and border of untrimmed weeds, Nikolai wondered about Detective Horvath’s boyhood here with his brother, little boys playing games just as he and Pavel had done when they were boys. Today the games were more serious. The winner’s prize was to remain alive. Today’s orders were to be alert for the possibility Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics might show up. And tomorrow? Who knew?
Nikolai was not alone. He and the others took twelve-hour shifts alternating between the farmhouse and the small hotel in the village. Originally there had been four men. Now, with the arrival of Captain Brovko and three others, the total was eight. At any given time there were at least three of them at the house.
Nikolai reached the end of the yard where tilled soil began, looked at his watch, and turned back when he heard tires on the gravel road. He had been at the house for his twelve-hour shift and, walking to the side of the house, was glad to see Captain Brovko in one Volga and three replacements climbing out of a second Volga.
One of the men stretched and yawned loudly. Nikolai joined the other two who had spent the night at the house, each of them alone, alternating positions every two hours. One man in the house, one in the car, and one walking about the perimeter, all three armed with Stechkin machine pistols.
Nikolai was about to get into the second Volga with his two partners when Captain Brovko called him over and sent the other two ahead to the hotel. As the men drove away, Nikolai wondered what more could possibly happen to him.
“Come,” said Captain Brovko. “I’ll drive you back.”
The inside of the Volga was warm. For the moment, as Captain Brovko drove down the road into the dust of the other Volga, Nikolai felt safe. Here, in a warm Volga with his machine pistol stowed on the floor and his new captain driving, he was assured of not being attacked from behind by Detective Horvath returning to his boyhood home. No matter what Captain Brovko had to say, even if it was a reprimand, he was glad to be away from the house with its dark yard and the women inside who conveyed hatred by simply looking at him. Last evening when he took his turn in the house, Mariska Sandor, the resident farm wife, played a game with the little girls in which she claimed she could tell their fortunes by observing teacup stains. During the game, Mariska Sandor had turned to him and claimed she could tell how long he was going to live. The smile on her face when she said it frightened Nikolai, filling the remainder of the night with visions of Detective Horvath sending him to join Pavel in the grave.
Shortly after the road curved and dropped down the small hill, Captain Brovko pulled over to the side and parked. Ahead, and slightly below, the village greeted the sun, clay tiles on the roofs taking on the color of rouge on a woman’s cheeks. The Volga carrying his two partners disappeared into the main street of the village, leaving only the dust settling above the road.
He and Captain Brovko spoke of their pasts. Nikolai described the PK and his and Pavel’s assignment in the Pripyat post office.
Captain Brovko described working in Moscow and in the GDR.
Captain Brovko said he missed Moscow because he had a girlfriend there. Chernobyl had ruined plans to spend a furlough with her.
Nikolai mentioned his latest girlfriend in Pripyat, wondering if she had escaped. He told Captain Brovko how Pavel had come to the door the Saturday morning after the explosion and found him in bed with his girlfriend. Captain Brovko laughed with him, and this, combined with the morning sun shining through the windshield, made Nikolai feel more relaxed.
After a pause, during which they stared ahead at the awakening village, Captain Brovko asked about the assignment. “What do you think, Nikolai? Will Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics really come here?”
Nikolai knew it was time to choose his words carefully. “Because we are here, Major Komarov must have reason to believe so.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Detective Horvath?”
“No. Major Komarov.”
“I… I don’t think anything. I simply follow orders.”
Captain Brovko chuckled. “Don’t worry, Nikolai. I’m not trying to trick you. We’re in this together, assigned to a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Can you tell me why Detective Horvath would come here when he knows we’re waiting?”
Captain Brovko turned to stare at him. “I don’t blame you for not answering. Especially after being uprooted from your PK assignment and sent on a field mission during which your partner was killed before your eyes.”
Nikolai was silent as he stared at Brovko’s eyes.
“You and your partner were unprepared for the situation. Afterward you were angry because of the inappropriateness of the assignment. Correct?”
“Yes.”
Captain Brovko leaned closer. “Now I’ll tell you something, Nikolai. I believe Detective Horvath will come here. He’ll be drawn here because his brother’s wife and children are here. There are things about this case even I don’t know, things Major Komarov, for whatever reason, has chosen to keep to himself.”
“The major is a driven man,” said Nikolai.
“In what way?” asked Captain Brovko.
“He is willing to do anything to prove Detective Horvath is a saboteur.”
“What has he done so far?”
“I can’t say more, Captain. I’ll get myself in trouble the way Pavel got in trouble because he didn’t know the consequences of aiming a pistol at an armed militia detective.”
“Tell me,” said Captain Brovko, “why do you think, with the men available to him in Kiev, Major Komarov chose to send you and your partner to retrieve Juli Popovics?”
Nikolai looked out at the road, where an ancient battered bus began climbing slowly up the hill. “I don’t know, Captain. Pavel and I were both inexperienced. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
The bus lumbered past, lifting dust from the road. In the windows Nikolai saw the faces of wide-eyed farmers staring at the strange sight of two men sitting at the side of the road at dawn in a black Volga.
“The farmers are off to their fields,” said Brovko as he started the Volga and began driving down to the hotel in the village.
Five hundred kilometers east, near the town of Korostyshev, another collective bus drove down a dusty road. The bus was full of men and women wearing layers of clothing to keep away the morning chill. Some on the bus commented on the dry weather of the past few days allowing planting to progress. Some talked about family matters. But most conversations eventually turned to a more serious matter. These workers, belonging to the Kopelovo collective, a hundred kilometers southwest of Kiev, were now providing food and shelter for several hundred refugees forced to flee the Opachichi collective near Pripyat.
A man in a leather cap at the front of the bus stood facing the back, firing questions at those sitting near him.
“How do we feed our own families? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“You’re not starving,” said a woman in a yellow babushka.
“Not yet,” said the man. “But we’re the ones working the fields.
We need food so we can continue working.”
The man sitting next to the woman in the yellow babushka waved his hand. “Nothing makes
sense when people are forced from their homes. How would you like to lose everything and be forced to sleep in barns and tents and practically beg for food for your children?”
“At least,” said the man in the leather cap, “they could come work in the fields. What else have they got to do?”
“The people in my barn wanted to work,” said the woman in the yellow babushka. “But the chairman said no. He said they all have to stay where they are because officials are arriving today from Kiev.”
“What for?”
“A census,” said the woman. “The chairman says they might relocate some people farther south and west.”
“Good,” said the man in the leather cap. “Maybe things will get back to normal and I’ll have a decent meal. Look how thin I am.”
The bus passengers laughed, and even the man in the leather cap smiled as he turned to look out the bus windshield. The only one who didn’t laugh or smile was the driver, who was in his own world, the world of the throbbing engine and the shifting of gears and the dodging of holes in the road.
Within the Kopelovo collective village, behind one of the houses lining the road, Lazlo lifted the canvas tent flap and looked outside. The tent opening faced away from the house, with a view of the family’s freshly planted private plot. A thin layer of ground fog was being burned away by morning sun. The damp morning air smelled of livestock and smoldering trash fires.
Lazlo heard footsteps in the weeds, leaned out, and saw the man from the next tent over. The farmer from the north lived in a tent with his wife and two children. A goat tethered outside during the day was allowed inside the tent at night. The farmer walked back from the outhouse carrying a rolled-up newspaper in one hand and a tin cup in the other. He hummed a Ukrainian folk song. Although Lazlo did not know the name of the song, he knew it glorified morning. A cheerful song of hope and hard work, a song he sometimes heard the skinny baker at his favorite bakery whistle in the back room before bringing out a fragrant tray of pastry.
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