by Sam Eastland
Following their arrests, Talia’s parents had been dismissed from the Communist Party and her membership in the Young Pioneers revoked. In spite of this, she continued to wear her uniform, although only inside the building where she lived.
‘Here he is, Babayaga,’ said the little girl, swinging wide the door to their apartment.
Babayaga sat at a bare wood table. In one hand, she held an outdated copy of Rabotnitsa, the Women’s Journal of the Communist Party. In her other hand, she clasped a tiny pair of nail scissors. Her eyes squinting with concentration, the old woman cut out pieces of the paper. In front of her, strewn across the table, were dozens of tiny clippings. ‘Now then, Pekkala,’ she said.
‘What are you cutting?’
Babayaga nodded at the clippings. ‘See for yourself.’
Pekkala glanced at the neat rectangles. On each one he saw the name of Stalin, some in large print, others in letters almost too small to read. Nothing else had been cut out – only that one word. ‘Are you making a collage?’ he asked.
‘She’s making toilet paper!’ announced Talia.
The woman put down her scissors. Neatly, she folded the paper. Then, with crooked fingers, she gathered up the clippings. Rising from the table, she went over to a wooden trunk in the corner. It was the kind of trunk which might have stored blankets in the summer months, but when Babayaga opened the lid, Pekkala realised that it was entirely filled with paper clippings of Stalin’s name.
‘I heard a story,’ said Babayaga, as she tossed in the clippings, letting them fall like confetti from her fingertips. ‘A man was arrested when the police came to search his house and found a newspaper in the toilet. Stalin’s name was in the paper, of course. It is on every page of every paper every day. But because Stalin’s name was on the paper, and because …’ she twisted her hand in the air, ‘of the purpose of the paper, they arrested him. Sent him to Kolyma for ten years.’ She smiled at Pekkala, folds of skin crimping her cheeks. ‘They won’t get a hold of me that way! But just in case –’ Babayaga pointed at a laminated cardboard suitcase by the door – ‘I always keep a bag packed. If they do find a reason, at least I’ll be ready to go.’
What saddened Pekkala about this was not that Babayaga kept the suitcase ready, but that she believed she would live long enough in custody to make use of whatever it contained.
‘I understand,’ said Pekkala, ‘why you might want to cut Stalin’s name from the paper, but why are you saving all the clippings?’
‘If I throw them away, I could get arrested for that, too,’ she replied.
Talia sat between them, doing her best to follow the conversation. She looked from Babayaga, to Pekkala and then back to Babayaga again.
Once or twice a week, the old woman sent for Pekkala, knowing that he lived alone.
Babayaga was lonely, too, but less for human contact than for those days before the revolution, when the world had made more sense to her. Now she lived like an overlapping image seen through a pair of broken binoculars, half in the present, half in the past, unable to bring either into focus.
‘Off you go now.’ Babayaga rested her hand on Talia’s forehead. ‘Time for bed.’
When the little girl had gone, Pekkala sat back in his chair. ‘I have a present for you, Babayaga,’ he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two small, votive candles and set them down in front of her. He had picked up the candles at the Yeliseyev store on his way home that day, knowing that she liked to burn them when she prayed beside her icons.
Babayaga picked one up, smelled it and closed her eyes. ‘Beeswax,’ she said. ‘You have brought me the good ones. And now I have a present for you.’ She went into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a curtain of wooden beads, and reappeared a moment later with a battered brass samovar. Steam puffed from the top as if from the smokestack of a miniature train. She returned to fetch one glass in an ornate brass holder and a small, chipped mug, which Pekkala recognised from its pattern of interwoven birds and flowers to have been made by the old firm of Gardner’s. The firm had been founded in Russia by an Englishman, and Pekkala had not seen or heard anything of the firm since the Bolsheviks took over. It was quite likely, he imagined, Babayaga’s most treasured possession. She laid before him a dish of rock sugar and another dish in which lay the twisted black grains of smoked tea. Laying out the tea was done as a gesture of politeness, allowing the guest to strengthen the tea if he thought it was not brewed correctly. But, out of politeness, Pekkala did not touch it. He merely bent down and breathed in the slightly tar-like scent of pine-smoked tea, which he doubted Babayaga could afford.
She poured him a cup, taking the strong-brewed tea from the pot at the top of the samovar and diluting it with the water stored in the lower section. Then she handed it over to him. ‘That glass belonged to my husband,’ she said.
She told him that every time, and every time Pekkala took the glass from her with the reverence it deserved.
Babayaga produced a lemon from the pocket of her apron, and a small silver knife, with which she carved a slice and held it out to him, thumb pressing the sliver to the blade. And when he had taken it, she held the blade in the steam coming out of the samovar, so that the silver would not tarnish from the lemon juice.
‘The Tsar was very fond of pine-smoked tea,’ said Pekkala, squeezing the lemon into his drink.
‘Do you know what people say, Inspector? Those of us who can still remember the way things used to be? They say the spirit of the Tsar sees through that emerald eye of yours.’
Pekkala reached up to his collar. Slowly, he folded it back. The eye came into view like that of a sleeper awakening. ‘Then he must be looking at you now.’
‘I should have worn a nicer dress.’ She smiled and her face turned red. ‘I miss him. I miss what he meant to our people.’ Then her smile suddenly vanished. ‘But not her! Not the Nemka! She has much to answer for.’
Pekkala travelled to the mansion of Mathilde Kschessinska. He did not present himself at the front door, which might have drawn attention. Instead, he went around to the quiet street at the back of the mansion and let himself in through the gate that the Tsar himself used when he came to visit Madame Kschessinska.
The private door, just beyond the gate, was overgrown with ivy, making it difficult to spot. Even the brass doorbell had been overpainted green to camouflage it.
Pekkala glanced back into the street, to see if anyone had seen him come in, but the street was empty. A rain shower had passed through about an hour before. Now a pale blue sky stretched overhead. He pressed the doorbell and waited.
It was only a few seconds before Madame Kschessinska appeared. She was short and very slight, with a softly rounded face and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her hair was wrapped in a towel in the manner of a turban and she wore a man’s silk-brocaded smoking jacket, which probably belonged to the Tsar. ‘I heard the gate creak,’ she began, but then she breathed in sharply, realising it was not the Tsar. ‘I thought you were somebody else.’
‘Madame Kschessinska,’ he said, ‘I am Inspector Pekkala, the Tsar’s personal investigator.’ He reached up to his lapel and turned it over, revealing the badge of his service.
‘The Emerald Eye. Nicky has often spoken about you.’ Suddenly she looked afraid. ‘Oh, no. Has something happened? Is he all right?’
‘He is perfectly well.’
‘Then what brings you here, Inspector?’
‘May I come in?’
She hesitated for a moment, then swung the door wide and stood back.
Pekkala followed her into a well-lit house, on whose walls hung numerous framed programmes and posters from the Imperial Ballet. In the front hall, peacock feathers sprouted from a brass umbrella holder like a strange bouquet of flowers. Tucked in among the feathers, Pekkala noticed one of the Tsar’s walking sticks, throated with a band of gold engraved with the Imperial crest.
They sat in her kitchen, which looked out on to a small garden w
here a willow tree draped its leaves over a wooden bench.
She served him coffee and toast with apricot jam.
‘Madame Kschessinska,’ Pekkala began, but then words failed him and he gave her a desperate look.
‘Inspector,’ she said, reaching across the table and touching the tips of her fingers against the gnarled bumps of his knuckles, ‘whatever this is, I am not in the habit of killing messengers who bring bad news.’
‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ replied Pekkala. Then he explained why he had come. When he got to the end of his story, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped drops of sweat off his forehead. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘I would never have troubled you with this if I could have found a way to refuse.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Kschessinska. ‘She knows about me. She has known about me for years.’
‘Yes, I believe she does. It is also a mystery to me.’
For a moment, Kschessinska seemed lost in thought. Then she brushed her hand across her mouth as an idea occurred to her. ‘How well do you get along with the Tsarina?’
‘Not well at all.’
‘Then I think, Inspector Pekkala, that this investigation really has nothing to do with me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It is about you, Inspector Pekkala.’ She got up and walked to the open window. Outside, in the garden, a breeze rustled the willow branches. ‘What do you think the Tsar will do when he finds out you have been investigating him, especially on a matter such as this?’
‘He will be furious,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but the Tsarina has ordered the investigation. I cannot refuse the order, so the Tsar can hardly blame me for coming here to speak with you.’
She turned and looked at him. ‘But he will blame you, Pekkala, for the simple reason that he cannot blame his wife. He will forgive her anything, no matter what she does, but what about you, Pekkala?’
‘Now I am worried for both of us.’
‘You shouldn’t be,’ she replied. ‘I will not be hurt by this, Inspector. If the Tsarina had wanted me out of the way, she would have seen to that a long time ago. It is you she is after, I’m afraid.’
Her words settled on him like a layer of dust. Everything she said was true.
During the course of their conversation, it became clear to Pekkala that Madame Kschessinska was, in almost every way, the polar opposite of the Tsarina. For the Tsar to have fallen in love with a woman like Kschessinska seemed not only plausible, but inevitable.
‘Thank you, Madame Kschessinska,’ he said as she walked him to the door.
‘You must not worry, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘The Tsarina may try to feed you to the wolves, but from what I know about you, you may be the one who ends up eating the wolf.’
One week later, Pekkala presented himself once again at the Tsarina’s study door.
He found the Tsarina exactly as he had left her, lying on the daybed. It was almost as if she had not moved since they’d last parted company. She was knitting a sweater, the needles clicking rhythmically.
‘I have concluded my investigation,’ he told her.
‘Yes?’ The Tsarina kept her eyes on her knitting. ‘And what have you discovered, Inspector?’
‘Nothing, Majesty.’
The click of the knitting needles came abruptly to a stop. ‘What?’
‘I have discovered no irregularities.’
‘I see.’ She pressed her lips together, draining the blood from the flesh.
‘In my opinion, Majesty,’ he continued, ‘everything is as it should be.’
Her eyes filled with hate as she took in the meaning of his words. ‘You listen to me, Pekkala,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Before he died, my friend Grigori made clear that there is a time of judgement coming. All secrets will be laid bare and for those who have not followed a path of righteousness, there will be no one to whom they can turn. And I wonder what will happen to you on that day.’
Pekkala thought about Rasputin after the police had pulled him from the river. Pekkala wondered what the Tsarina would have said about the day of judgement if she could have seen her friend that day, lying on the quayside with a bullet in his head.
The Tsarina turned away. With a swipe of her hand, she dismissed him.
After that, Pekkala sometimes came across Madame Kschessinska, buying food in the Gostiny Dvor market or shopping on the Passazh. They never spoke again, but they always remembered to smile.
As often happened, by the time Pekkala had finished his tea, Babayaga had already fallen asleep, chin resting on her chest and breathing heavily.
He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. In the hallway, he took off his shoes and carried them, so as not to wake the others on his floor.
The next morning, when Pekkala walked into his office, Kirov was already there.
So was Major Lysenkova.
Kirov stood beside her, holding out his kumquat plant in its rust-coloured earthenware pot. ‘You should try one!’ he urged.
‘No, really,’ replied Lysenkova, ‘I would rather not.’
Neither of them had seen Pekkala come in.
‘You may never see another,’ persisted Kirov. Sunlight through the dusty window glinted off the waxy green leaves.
‘I wouldn’t mind that at all,’ answered Lysenkova.
Pekkala shut the door more loudly than usual.
Kirov jumped. ‘Inspector! There you are!’ He hugged the plant to his chest as if trying to take cover behind it.
‘What can we do for you, Major Lysenkova?’ asked Pekkala, taking off his coat and hanging it on the peg beside the door.
‘I came here to ask for your help,’ said Lysenkova. ‘As you might have heard, the Nagorski case has been reopened, and I am no longer in charge.’
‘I did hear that,’ said Pekkala.
‘In fact, I have been told that you and Major Kirov will be running the investigation from now on.’
‘We are?’ asked Kirov, as he replaced the plant on the windowsill.
‘I was just about to tell you,’ explained Pekkala.
‘The truth is,’ said Lysenkova, ‘I never wanted it in the first place.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You seemed pretty certain before.’
‘I was certain about a number of things,’ replied Lysenkova, ‘and it turned out I was wrong about all of them. That’s why I need your help now.’
Pekkala nodded, slightly confused.
‘I need to keep working on the case,’ she said.
Pekkala sat down in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. ‘But you just said you didn’t want to be working on it in the first place.’
Lysenkova swallowed. ‘I can explain,’ she said.
Pekkala held open his hand. ‘Please do.’
‘Until yesterday,’ she began, ‘I’d never even heard of
Project Konstantin. Then, when Captain Samarin called, informing me that Colonel Nagorski had been killed, I told him he must have dialled the wrong number.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘I am, as you know, an internal investigator. My task is to pursue crimes committed inside the NKVD. I was explaining that to Samarin when he told me he believed someone in the NKVD might actually be responsible for Nagorski’s death.’
Pekkala’s focus sharpened. ‘Did he say why?’
‘The location of the facility is a state secret,’ continued Lysenkova. ‘According to Samarin, the only people who had access to that information and who might have been able to infiltrate the facility were NKVD. We didn’t have time to discuss it any further. He told me to get out there as quickly as I could. At that point, I realised I didn’t have any choice, even though this was nothing like the cases I normally handle. I deal in cases of corruption, extortion, bribery, blackmail. Not murders, Inspector Pekkala. Not bodies that have been ground up by tank tracks! That’s why I didn’t spot the bullet fragment you pulled out of his skull.’
�
��I don’t understand, Major. You say you never wanted the case, and it sounds to me as if you got your wish, but now you want to keep working on it?’
‘I don’t want to, Inspector, I have to. It’s only a matter of time before I’m accused of counter-revolutionary activity for coming to the wrong conclusion about Nagorski’s death. The only chance I’ve got is to remain on the case until it is solved, and the only person who can make that happen is you.’
Pekkala was silent for a while. ‘I understand,’ he said finally, ‘but I will have to speak with Major Kirov here before making any decision.’
‘I realise we did not get off to a good start, but I could be useful to you.’ Her voice had taken on a tone of pleading. ‘I know how the NKVD works, inside and out. Once you start investigating them, they will close ranks and you’ll never get a word out of them. But I can and I will, if you’ll let me.’
‘Very well.’ Pekkala took his feet off the desk and stood up. ‘We will let you know our decision as soon as we can. Before you go, Major, I do have one question to ask you.’
‘Of course, Inspector. Anything.’
‘What do you know about the White Guild?’ asked Pekkala, as he walked her out into the hall.
‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. It’s some kind of top secret department in the Bureau of Special Operations.’
‘Have you heard them mentioned recently?’
‘Special Operations is a tribe of phantoms, Inspector. You ought to know that, since you’re one of them. Where I come from nobody even speaks their name.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ sighed Pekkala.
‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ From her pocket, Lysenkova removed a stained and tattered piece of paper. ‘Consider this a peace offering.’
Pekkala squinted at the document. At first glance, what he saw looked to him like Arabic writing on the page. Then he realised it was actually scientific equations, dozens of them, completely covering the paper. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.
