by Sam Eastland
‘If they are looking,’ said Pekkala, ‘then perhaps you should let them find what they think they’re searching for.’
‘That has already been arranged,’ said Stalin, as he fitted a fresh cigarette between his lips. ‘Now go back and question Nagorski again.’
*
In the forest of Rusalka, on the Polish–Russian border, a dirt road wandered drunkenly among the pines. It had been raining, but now bolts of sunlight angled through the misty air. On either side of the road, tall pine trees grew so thickly that no daylight could penetrate. Only mushrooms sprouted from the brown pine needles carpeting the ground – the white speckled red of Fly Agaric and the greasy white of the Avenging Angel, so poisonous that one small bite would kill a man.
The sound of hoofbeats startled a pheasant from its hiding place. With a loud, croaking squawk, the bird took to the air and vanished into the fog.
From around a bend in the road appeared a rider on a horse. He wore a uniform whose cloth was the same greyish brown as the fur of a deer in the winter. His riding boots glowed with a fresh coating of neat’s-foot oil and the brass buttons of his tunic were emblazoned with the Polish eagle crest. In his left hand, the man carried a lance. Its short, pigsticker blade shone brightly as it passed through the pillars of sunlight. Both horse and horseman looked like ghosts from a time long before the one in which they had materialised. Then more men appeared – a troop of cavalry – and these had rifles slung across their backs. They moved in beautiful formation, two columns wide and seven deep.
The men belonged to the Pomorske Cavalry Brigade and were on a routine patrol. The road on which they travelled snaked back and forth across the Polish–Russian border, but since it was the only road, and since the forest was so seldom visited except by woodcutters and soldiers patrolling the border, Soviet and Polish troops sometimes crossed paths in the Rusalka.
As the point rider moved around another bend in the road, he was lost in thoughts of how uneventful these patrols were and what a dreary place the Rusalka was and how unnaturally quiet it always seemed here.
Suddenly his horse reared up, almost throwing him. He struggled to stay in the saddle. Then he saw, blocking the path ahead of him, the huge, squat shape of a tank unlike any he had ever seen before. The barrel of its cannon pointed straight at him, and the opening at the end of the barrel seemed to glare like the eye of a cyclops. Its rotten-apple green paint made it seem as if the machine had sprouted from the dirt on which it stood.
As the other troopers came around the bend, both men and animals were startled. The clean lines of their riding formation broke apart. The lancers snapped commands and tugged at reins, trying to bring their mounts under control.
Awakened from its iron sleep, the tank engine gave a sudden, bestial roar. Two columns of bluish smoke belched from its twin exhaust pipes, rising like cobras into the damp air.
One of the Polish horses reared up on its hind legs. Its rider toppled off into the mud. The officer in charge of the troop, identifiable only by the fact that he wore a revolver on his belt, shouted at the man who had fallen. The trooper, his whole side painted with mud, scrambled back up into the saddle.
The tank did not move, but its engine continued to bellow. All around the huge machine, the khaki-silted puddles trembled.
The lancers exchanged glances, unable to hide their fear.
One trooper unshouldered his rifle.
Seeing this, the officer spurred his horse towards the man, knocking the gun from his grasp.
Just when it seemed that the lancers were about to withdraw in confusion, the tank’s engine clattered and died.
The echo faded away through the trees. Except for the heavy breathing of the horses, silence returned to the forest. Then a hatch opened on the turret of the tank and a man climbed out. He wore the black leather double-breasted jacket of a Soviet tank officer. At first, he gave no sign of realising that the Poles were even there. As soon as he had cleared the turret hatch, he swung his legs to the side and clambered down to the ground. Only then did he acknowledge the presence of the horsemen. Awkwardly, he raised one hand in greeting.
The Poles looked at each other. They did not wave back.
‘Tank bust!’ said the tank officer, speaking in broken Polish. He threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
In an instant, all fear vanished from the Polish lancers. Now they began to laugh and talk amongst themselves.
Two more soldiers emerged from the tank, one through the turret and another through a forward hatch which flopped open like the lazy blinking of an eyelid. The men who climbed out wore stone-grey overalls and padded-cloth helmets. They glanced at the Poles, who were still laughing, then went around to the back of the tank. One man opened the engine compartment and the other looked inside.
The black-jacketed Soviet commander seemed unaffected by the laughter of the cavalrymen. He only shrugged and said again, ‘Tank bust!’
The Polish officer gave a sharp command to his men, who immediately began to form up in their original columns. As soon as this had been done, the officer snapped his hand forward and the troop advanced. The two columns divided around the hulk of the tank, like the flow of water around a stone set in a stream.
The Poles could not hide their contempt for the broken machine. The point rider dipped the tip of his lance and dragged the blade along the metal hull, scraping up a curl of white paint from a large number 4 painted on its side.
The Soviets did nothing to stop them. Instead they busied themselves with repairing the engine.
As the last Polish lancer rode by, he leaned in his saddle until he could have touched the tank commander. ‘Machine bust!’ he mocked.
The officer nodded and grinned, but as soon as the horses had passed, the smile sheared off his face.
The two crewmen, who had been stooped over the engine compartment, both straightened up and watched the swinging rear ends of the horses as they rounded the next bend in the road and disappeared.
‘That’s right, Polak,’ said one of the crewmen, in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘Laugh it up.’
‘And we’ll laugh, too,’ said the other, ‘when we are pissing on your Polish graves.’
The tank commander spun one finger in a circle; the signal for the engine to be started up again.
The crewmen nodded. They closed the engine cover and climbed back inside the tank.
Once more, the T-34 thundered into life and the machine jolted forward, gouging the road and kicking up a spray of mud as it rolled onwards. When it came to an unmarked trail, the driver locked one of the tracks. The tank slewed sideways and then both tracks began to move again. The T-34 crashed into the undergrowth, splintering trees as it went. Soon, it had vanished from sight and there was only the sound of its engine, fading into the distance.
*
In a dark, narrow side street two blocks from the Kremlin, Pekkala inserted a long brass key into the lock of a battered door. The door was plated with iron which had once been painted a cheerful yellow, as if to lure in more light than the few minutes a day when the sun shone directly overhead. Now, most of the paint was gone and what remained had faded to the colour of old varnish.
As Pekkala made his way up to the third floor, treading heavily upon the scuffed wooden stairs, his fingers trailed along the black metal banister. The only light came from a single bulb, fringed with dusty cobwebs. In a dark corner, an old grey cat with matted fur lounged on a broken chair. Empty zinc coal buckets were stacked outside a doorway and coal dust glittered on the carpeting.
But at the third floor, everything changed. Here, the walls were freshly painted. A wooden coat rack stood at one end of the hallway, an umbrella hanging from one crooked peg. On the door, stencilled in black letters, was Pekkala’s name and under it, the word Investigator. Beneath it, in smaller letters, was ‘Kirov, assistant to Inspector Pekkala’.
Every time Pekkala reached the third floor, he silently gave thanks to his fastidious a
ssistant.
There were times when, entering his office, Pekkala wondered if he had got lost and wandered instead into some strange arboretum. Plants sat on every surface – the sweet, musty smell of tomatoes, the pursed lips of orchid blossoms, the orange and purple beak-shaped bloom of the Bird of Paradise. The dust was swept daily from their leaves, the soil kept damp but not wet, showing marks where Kirov regularly pressed the earth down with his fingers, as if tucking an infant into bed.
The air felt heavy in here, almost jungly, Pekkala thought, and seeing his desk almost hidden among the foliage, he had the impression that this was how his office might look if all humans suddenly vanished from the world and plants took over, swallowing the world of men.
Today, the office smelled of cooking and Pekkala remembered it was Friday, the one day of the week when Kirov prepared him a meal. Pekkala breathed a sigh of contentment at the odour of boiled ham, cloves and gravy.
Kirov, still in his uniform, hunched over the stove, which took up one corner of the room. He was stirring the contents of a cast-iron pot with a wooden spoon and humming quietly to himself.
When Pekkala shut the door, the young man wheeled around, spoon raised like a magic wand. ‘Inspector! Just in time.’
‘You know you don’t have to go to all this trouble,’ said Pekkala, trying to sound convincing.
‘If it was up to you,’ replied Kirov, ‘we would be eating army-issue cans of Tushonka meat three times a day. My taste buds would commit suicide.’
Pekkala took a pair of earthenware bowls from the shelf and carried them over to the window sill. Then, from the drawer of his desk, he brought out two metal spoons. ‘What have you got for us today?’ he asked, peering over Kirov’s shoulder into the pot. He saw a dark sauce, a knot of ham, potatoes, boiled chestnuts and a bundle of what looked like yellow twigs.
‘Boujenina,’ replied Kirov, tasting the end of the steaming wooden spoon.
‘What’s that?’ asked Pekkala, pointing at the twigs. ‘It looks like grass.’
‘Not grass,’ explained Kirov. ‘Hay.’
Pekkala brought his face closer to the bubbling mixture in the pot. ‘People can eat hay?’
‘It’s just for seasoning.’ Kirov picked up a chipped red and white enamelled ladle and scooped some of the stew into Pekkala’s bowl.
Pekkala sat down in the creaky wooden chair behind his desk and peered suspiciously at his lunch. ‘Hay,’ he repeated, and sniffed at the steam as it rose from his stew.
Kirov perched on the window sill, among his potted plants. His long legs dangled almost to the floor.
Pekkala opened his mouth to ask another question. Several questions, actually. What kind of hay was it? Where had it come from? Who thought this up? What does boujenina mean? But Kirov silenced him before he had a chance to speak.
‘Don’t talk, Inspector. Eat!’
Obediently, Pekkala spooned the boujenina into his mouth. The salty warmth spread through his body. The taste of cloves sparked in his brain, like electricity. And the taste of the hay reached him now; a mellow earthiness which summoned memories of childhood from the darkened corners of his mind.
They ate in comfortable silence.
A minute later, when Pekkala’s spoon was scraping the bottom of the bowl, Kirov loudly cleared his throat. ‘Have you finished already?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Is there any more?’
‘There is more, but that’s not the point! How can you eat so quickly?’
Pekkala shrugged. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘What I mean,’ explained Kirov, ‘is that you should learn to savour your food. Food is like dreams, Inspector.’
Pekkala held out his bowl. ‘Could I have some more while you explain this to me?’
Sighing with exasperation, Kirov took the bowl from Pekkala’s hand, refilled it and handed it back. ‘There are three kinds of dream,’ he began. ‘The first is just a scribble in your mind. It means nothing. It’s just your brain unwinding like a clock spring. The second kind does mean something. Your unconscious mind is trying to tell you something, but you have to interpret what it means.’
‘And the third?’ asked Pekkala, his mouth full of stew.
‘The third,’ said Kirov, ‘is what the mystics call Barakka. It is a waking dream, a vision, when you glimpse the workings of the universe.’
‘Like Saint Paul,’ said Pekkala, ‘on the road to Damascus.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ Pekkala waved his spoon. ‘Keep going. What does this have to do with food?’
‘There is the meal you eat simply to fill your stomach.’
‘Like a can of meat,’ suggested Pekkala.
Kirov shuddered. ‘Yes, like those cans of meat you put away. And then there are the meals you buy at the café where you eat your lunch, which are not much better except that you don’t have to clean up after yourself.’
‘And then?’
‘And then there are meals which elevate food to an art.’
Pekkala, who had been eating all this time, dropped his spoon into the empty bowl.
Hearing this, Kirov shook his head in amazement. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Inspector?’
‘No,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but I’ve had some excellent dreams. I don’t know why you didn’t become a professional chef.’
‘I cook because I want to,’ replied Kirov, ‘not because I have to.’
‘Is there a difference?’ asked Pekkala.
‘All the difference in the world,’ said Kirov. ‘If I had to cook all day for men like Nagorski, it would take all the pleasure out of cooking. Do you know what he was eating when I went into that restaurant? Blinis. With Caspian Sevruga, each morsel like a perfect black pearl. He was just stuffing it into his face. The art of food was lost on him completely.’
Self-consciously, Pekkala glanced into his already empty bowl. He had done his best to eat at a dignified pace, but the truth was that if Kirov hadn’t been there, he would have set aside the bowl and would be eating right out of the pot by now.
‘Any luck with Nagorski?’ asked Kirov.
‘Depends,’ sighed Pekkala, ‘on what you call luck.’
‘That machine he built,’ said Kirov. ‘I hear it weighs more than ten tons.’
‘Thirty, to be precise,’ replied Pekkala. ‘To hear him speak of it, you’d think that tank was a member of his family.’
‘You think he’s guilty?’
Pekkala shook his head. ‘Unpleasant maybe, but not guilty, as far as I can tell. I released him. He is now back at the facility where his tank is being designed.’ It was then he noticed a large box placed just inside the door. ‘What is that?’
‘Ah,’ Kirov began.
‘Whenever you say “Ah”, I know it’s something I’m not going to like.’
‘Not at all!’ Kirov laughed nervously. ‘It’s a present for you.’
‘It’s not my birthday.’
‘Well, it’s sort of a present. Actually it’s more of a …’
‘So it’s not really a present.’
‘No,’ admitted Kirov. ‘It’s really more of a suggestion.’
‘A suggestion,’ repeated Pekkala.
‘Open it!’ said Kirov, brandishing his spoon.
Pekkala got out of his chair and fetched the box. He placed it on his desk and lifted the lid. Inside was a neatly folded coat. Several other garments lay underneath.
‘I thought it was time you had a new outfit,’ said Kirov.
‘New?’ Pekkala looked down at the clothes he was wearing. ‘But these are new. Almost, anyway. I bought them just last year.’
Kirov made a sound in his throat. ‘Well, when I say new, what I mean is up to date.’
‘I am up to date!’ Pekkala protested. ‘I bought these clothes right here in Moscow. They were very expensive.’ And he was just about to go on about the prices he’d been forced to pay when Kirov cut him off.
‘All right,’ Kiro
v said patiently, trying another angle. ‘Where did you buy your clothes?’
‘Linsky’s, over by the Bolshoi Theatre. Linsky makes durable stuff!’ said Pekkala, patting the chest of his coat. ‘He told me himself that when you buy a coat from him, it’s the last one you will ever need to wear. That’s his personal motto, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Kirov brought his hands together in a silent clap, ‘but do you know what people call his shop? Clothes for Dead Men.’
‘Well, that seems a little dramatic.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Inspector, Linsky sells clothes to funeral homes!’
‘So what if he does?’ Pekkala protested. ‘Funeral directors need something to wear, you know. They can’t all walk around naked. My father was a funeral director …’
Kirov was finally losing his patience. ‘Linsky doesn’t sell clothes to the directors! Linsky makes the clothes that go on bodies when they are laid out for a viewing. That’s why his clothes are the last ones you’ll ever wear. Because you’ll be buried in them!’
Pekkala frowned. He inspected his lapels. ‘But I’ve always worn this style of coat.’
‘That’s the problem, Inspector,’ Kirov reasoned with him. ‘There is such a thing as fashion, even for people like you. Now look.’ Kirov walked across the room and removed the coat from the box. Carefully, he unfolded it. Then, holding it by the shoulders, he lifted it up for Pekkala to see. ‘Look at this. This is the latest style. Try it on. That’s all I’m asking.’
Reluctantly, Pekkala put on the jacket.
Kirov helped him into it. ‘There!’ he announced. ‘How does it feel?’
Pekkala raised his arms and lowered them again. ‘All right, I suppose.’
‘You see! I told you! And there’s a shirt there and a new pair of trousers as well. No one will be able to call you a fossil now.’
Pekkala frowned. ‘I didn’t realise anyone called me a fossil.’
Kirov patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s just an expression. And now I have something else for you. A real present this time.’ He held his arm out towards the windowsill, where a small plant sagged under the weight of bright orange fruits.
‘Tangerines?’ asked Pekkala.
