‘I was right to do it, Mama,’ she said to the marble, drawing her shawl closer about her cheeks. ‘I was right.’
*
Half an hour later she was crossing back through the old town, waiting for a bus connection, when she saw the trolleybus. Number 25. For a moment she stared at it as if her mother was standing beside her. The trolleybus pulled in a few metres away, and before she could question the decision she had hurried over and climbed aboard.
Within minutes she was at the Dimitrova stop on Great Polyanka Street. She crossed to the other side, cut through the familiar tumbledown alley by the telephone kiosks, and a minute later arrived outside the Tretyakov. In the snow it was no longer simply an art gallery; it was a magic castle from a fairy tale. Her imagination transformed the steeply pitched roofs over the entrance doorways, piled high with snow, into muffs on an old lady’s hands, she saw warm jewels in the bright colours of the tiled facade.
She held back, suddenly unsure, conscious that today she had no one to share her fancies with. No Mama. No Nikolai. In fact, if he knew she was here, tantalising her emotions in this way, he would be furious. Pausing in the doorway to shake the snow from her shawl and overcoat, she wondered if he was right. On the other hand, didn’t she owe it to him to prove that she could handle her memories and feelings? They had to be faced sometime; she had waited long enough. She stamped the melting snow from her boots and went on.
Just as in the old days, she ignored every other painting and made her way directly to the gallery hall where the Plastov hung. It made her smile to remember how as a child she was always teased for the way she would race right past so many fine works, seeing none of them in her hunger for that one painting.
Suddenly, there it was. ‘Spring’. Shining out to her the moment she stepped into the room. Drawing her again like a vortex.
Now she was standing transfixed before it, her heart thumping harder than ever. Her eyes devoured the painting.
A woman. Young, with red-gold hair right down to her waist. Behind her a log cabin, its door open. Beyond the cabin and its fence, fields. There was snow on them but it was beginning to thaw, the dark earth showing through in streaks. The woman was crouching to fix a shawl over a little girl’s head and shoulders: her daughter. Snowflakes were in the air, fighting the thaw.
But spring would win. There were clues. A bucket near the mother was filled with clear water, not ice. And fresh straw, not snow, carpeted the ground on which she knelt.
Then, the artist’s most breathtaking, most memorable inspiration: the young mother was naked. She’d even kicked her shoes aside. She was naked while the snowflakes brushed her skin; naked in defiance of them. Their day was past. Her bare flesh believed in the spring.
Galina bowed her head as the tears started.
‘Nikolai,’ she whispered. ‘You were right. It’s still too soon. I’m not strong enough yet. Why did I do this?’
She looked to the side but her mother wasn’t there. How could she be? But she wasn’t in Vagankovskoye either. No, not under the cold marble with no love in it. Not under the snow that wouldn’t melt. She was here, waiting for her here all the time. In the picture, where the snow was melting. Where spring was coming. Waiting for her with soft, white arms. Waiting to enfold her in warm love. See, she was smiling as she unpinned the shawl. She wasn’t fixing it on, she was unpinning it. Asking where her little girl had been, what had taken her so long.
‘Mama!’
The cry reverberated through the long gallery.
‘Mama!’
Faces turned to her, voices called out. What were they calling? It didn’t matter. Heavy footsteps approached, running. They didn’t matter either.
She had found her mama, that was all that mattered.
*
The man in the crumpled parka puffed slightly as his pudgy body waddled uphill along Gorky Street. His name was Vladimir Chernavin, he held the position of senior special inspector in the Department for Struggle Against Embezzlement of Socialist Property and Speculation, a division of the KGB’s Second Directorate, and his mission this morning was the elimination of a piece of the fraud that infected his city. Today his chosen role was that of a man squeezing in a little shopping during office hours, and to this end he carried a cheap nylon shopping bag with a few purchases already in it. These would be charged to the department but they would end up in his larder. No one was perfect.
He crossed to the north side of the boulevard by the Central Telegraph Office, taking advantage of where the engineers’ vans had flattened the hillocks of snow at the edge of the kerb. It didn’t escape his notice how some of the engineers were loafing inside the vehicles, with the motors running and the heaters roaring full blast, but he kept his views to himself and continued on his way.
As he passed Soviet Square he scanned the pavement on the other side, to check the whereabouts of the four officers that shadowed him as he had ordered. The two men and two women were armed, an unavoidable precaution these days. He paused in a side alley to draw breath, leaning against the syrup drinks kiosk and shaking his head at the old woman inside. Next door was Yeliseyev’s, the biggest and best food store in town. It was officially known as Food Shop Number One but people tended to stick with the old pre-Revolution name.
He had reached his destination. He meandered along the shop front, pretending to eye the displays of biscuits and canned goods. He watched in the plate-glass windows as one by one his backup team crossed the traffic coming off Pushkin Square. When they were within a few metres he piloted his bulk through the ornate glass doors.
*
He went straight to the meat counter, where eight or nine people were jostling together. Some of them had already chosen what they wanted and had been to pay at the cash desk. They had returned to hand over their tickets and collect their goods. But others, like him, were there to see what was to be had.
Chernavin pushed his way to the front and peered along the glass counters.
‘No beef?’
‘No beef.’ The shop assistant looked bored. Her cheeks creased as she chewed something.
In his inside pocket lay the Supply Ministry dispatch note, signed by store director Gulyaev, that confirmed delivery of forty tonnes of beef only the previous week. He knew from the subsequent surveillance reports that it couldn’t all be sold already – not over the counter, at any rate.
The assistant swiped at a persistent fly and yawned. ‘Hurry up if you want something else instead.’
‘Don’t rush me. I’m looking.’
‘I’ve got some nice neck of lamb.’ She pointed to a tray. When Chernavin shook his head she leant across and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I could let you have some special chops.’ She winked, still chewing. ‘Really special. Don’t let on.’ She produced a greasepaper package and lifted a corner of the wrapping. ‘Unofficial.’
‘And two or three times the official price.’
She shoved the package back out of sight. ‘If you’re not interested, there’s plenty that are.’
An old woman behind Chernavin clucked impatiently. He slapped the counter, making everyone jump.
‘Everywhere it’s the same!’ He turned to the people behind him. The old woman backed away, clutching her shopping bag before her.
‘No beef, never any fresh fruit, now they’re cutting down on vodka as well. The only shoes I can get cripple me. All day I queue, all day my wife queues. What do we get? Sore feet and a bit of scrawny lamb. Or we end up paying through the nose for under-the-counter junk I wouldn’t give to my dog. I’ve had enough.’ He swung back to the assistant. ‘Where’s the store director? I want to complain.’
‘Comrade, comrade,’ the old woman croaked toothlessly. ‘I know how you feel. We all do. But I’m getting a bit tired of standing here. And you’re creating an awful fuss. What’s the use? You’ll just get into trouble. Take some sausages or something. Some nice salami.’
To the assistant’s dismay, however, a hatchet-faced
supervisor was elbowing her way through the interested crowd that had started to gather. Some distance behind a lanky man with a disdainful expression was also approaching.
‘What’s all this about?’ demanded the supervisor. She faced Chernavin. ‘Director Gulyaev heard you all the way across the store. You can’t carry on like this when people are doing their best. You’re lucky I don’t call the militia.’
The throng parted to let Gulyaev through. The pudgy man’s backup team closed in.
‘What’s going on here?’ Gulyaev poked Chernavin in the chest with his finger. ‘Are you the person who’s making a nuisance of himself? All this shouting and hoo-ha. This is a respectable store and I won’t allow it.’
‘I want some beef, that’s all.’
‘We’re out of it. Surely you’ve been told that.’
The assistant nodded vigorously, chewing again.
‘Then kindly make an alternative choice or leave.’
Chernavin nodded to the backup team. The supervisor noticed and turned just in time to see the two male agents grab Gulyaev. His look of superiority changed to alarm. One of the female agents, a redhead, moved quietly alongside the counter assistant, while the other took the supervisor’s arm. Suddenly, what the crowd had been looking forward to as merely the ticking-off of an overheated customer promised to be a good deal more.
Knowing that he was the centre of attention, Chernavin sauntered up to Gulyaev and took his time dipping into the crumpled parka to withdraw his wallet. Necks craned. He flicked the wallet open, revealing his identity card, and spoke in ringing tones so that everyone could hear.
‘I, Vladimir Chernavin, Senior Special Inspector in the Department for Struggle Against Embezzlement of Socialist Property and Speculation, arrest you, Eduard Borisovich Gulyaev, director of Gastronom Number One. You are charged with perpetrating, in association with others as yet unnamed, gross economic crimes against the peoples and state of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The maximum penalty for your offences is death and the confiscation of all personally owned property, whether or not acquired as a result of your illegal activities. You will be detained in custody until the time of your trial. With immediate effect, you forfeit all rights as a Soviet citizen, except the right to legal representation.’
Gulyaev looked near death already. His lips twitched but he said nothing.
‘Have you anything you wish to say at this point?’
Gulyaev shook his head. Chernavin flipped the wallet shut and returned it to his pocket. The crowd was very still and watchful.
The redhead guided the shop assistant down from behind the counter to the custody of the other female agent. Taking the girl’s place, she planted her fists on the counter and thrust her bosom forward.
‘Your attention please, comrades!’ she sang out. ‘General Secretary Gorbachev and the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics have determined to eliminate the vile corruption that petty officials have rolled their stinking bodies in for too long, thereby denying the Soviet peoples the fruits of their own labour.’ By now most of the floor was paying attention. ‘A foul conspiracy has been uncovered in this store. You see before you some of those involved. Despise them, for in their activities they have despised you. Tell your family, your friends, anyone you meet, what you have seen today. Tell them our leaders are stamping on corruption as you would a cockroach. Most of all, tell anyone you know who may themselves be involved in antisocial or fraudulent activities. Tell them their days are numbered.’
She rattled on for another minute or two, during which time Chernavin led the others off upstairs with their captives.
He took Gulyaev’s office on the second floor as his interrogation room. He wanted to get started right away, on the spot, while the rest of the team searched through files and papers for further evidence.
‘You’ll be for the chop, you know,’ he told Gulyaev cheerfully, drawing a paperknife across his throat. He ensconced himself comfortably in the winged recliner behind Gulyaev’s desk. Opposite him the director was sitting stiffly upright on a steel and canvas chair.
‘I might persuade them to go a bit easy if you cooperate. I already know the basic mechanics of what was going on. You had a smart operation, if you don’t mind me saying so. I admire your commercial skills. Really.’
Gulyaev sneered and looked away.
‘It was two-tier,’ Chernavin went on. ‘You diverted portions of legitimate deliveries and sold them to your contact for up to three roubles a kilo – a rouble better than the official price. That kept your books straight and you pocketed the difference – apart from what you handed out in bribes to your staff. Some of them were holding stock back on their own initiative anyway and offering it to customers at over the odds. I was offered some myself this morning. You turned a blind eye to that because it reduced the bribes you had to pay. This place was a goldmine.’ He broke off. ‘How am I doing so far?’
Gulyaev scowled but said nothing. Chernavin shrugged and ploughed on.
‘We know where the stuff went from here.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘A disused church in Balashikha, east of town. We’ll pin down its exact location when we round up the District Food Trade Administration drivers who made the deliveries for you. We have their names.’ He leant confidentially across the desk. ‘Look, comrade Director, this isn’t a personal thing. I’m all for a little private enterprise. Who isn’t? Forget my captain’s speech downstairs. She’s a bit keen. The man I’m really after is your contact. Just a name, that’s all I need. Or what he looks like. Or where you used to meet. What’s his official job? A smart operator like you would deal only with the top man. Well?’
Gulyaev’s lips remained sealed.
Chernavin made an exasperated noise. ‘Why protect him? He was fleecing you. Three roubles he was giving you, but he’d be selling to the kolkhoz markets for five, maybe six! That’s fair? You run the risk and he takes the lion’s share. What way is that to do business? What’s this crook ever done for you? Apart from get you into this mess.’
At last Gulyaev broke his silence. ‘What’ll he do for my family if I turn him in?’
Chernavin looked shocked. ‘He’ll be under lock and key, my friend. What could he do?’
‘Plenty, if you didn’t get to him fast enough.’
‘We got to you, didn’t we?’
‘When he hears I’m under arrest he’ll assume the worst. You should guard my wife and children right now.’
Chernavin frowned. ‘We can’t give protection to the families of felons. Once you’ve been convicted they won’t even be guaranteed a roof over their heads. If you were helping us it’d be different. I could arrange protection now and some measure of special treatment for them when you’ve … departed.’
Gulyaev looked at the floor. When he answered, it was as if he was thinking aloud.
‘Inspector, even if I thought for one minute I could trust you, and told you what you want to know, even if you did talk them into going easy on me – then what? Instead of a bullet in my neck I might get off with thirty years breaking rocks. Is that what you’re offering me? Meanwhile, I’ve put my family on the line.’ He looked up and smiled sadly. ‘It’s not much of a trade. Is it, comrade Inspector?’
Chernavin saw that he was wasting his time. He’d tried; what more could anyone do? He shrugged and dropped the paperknife with a clatter on the polished desk top.
‘It’s your funeral.’
He came around the desk and clipped a set of handcuffs on Gulyaev. Then he pushed him across the room and into the outer office. The redhead was waiting by the door with a stack of papers. Chernavin waved her inside and glared at the other officers as they sat Gulyaev down.
‘Remain vigilant,’ he told them. ‘I need to review progress with the captain.’
Back in Gulyaev’s office he closed and quietly locked the door. The redhead dumped the papers on the desk.
‘Make any headway?’
she asked.
‘Not yet, my lovely Nina.’ His eyes fastened on her tightening blouse as she slipped her jacket off and reached up to hang it on the hook behind the door. ‘Give him an hour with the gorillas in Lefortovo, however, and we won’t be able to shut him up.’ He took her hand and returned to the winged chair. She leant against the desk.
‘I’m proud of us,’ he said. ‘It’s been a good day’s work.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it too.’ She leafed through a file.
‘As much as you enjoyed last night?’
She giggled.
‘By way of modest celebration,’ he continued, ‘I’ve decided to send out for some lunch for us all. I’ll order up something by phone from the Aragvi. I’ve also got to send for a secure van for our catch and it’ll pass right by the Aragvi. So I thought I’d tell it to stop off and collect the food for us. What do you think?’
‘An excellent idea, Vladimir. It’d save any of us having to leave the detainees.’
‘Exactly what I thought. Now – do I get a little reward for this well-planned operation?’
*
Among the pine trees out at Yasyenevo, south of the city, squatted the wedge of concrete and glass that was the FCD’s headquarters. In Serov’s office on the top floor all was quiet. He’d spent the morning tearing through a mound of paperwork.
The phone rang. He snatched at the receiver.
‘I told you – no calls.’
Sergei, his secretary, was contrite but hurried to explain. ‘It’s a Superintendent Glassov of the People’s Militia.’
‘Never heard of him. What’s it about?’
‘He’ll only talk to you, sir.’
Maybe it was something to do with being stopped at Ordynka.
‘Get the tape machines switched off and put him through.’
A click or two, a delay while Sergei passed his order on to the technical people, then the policeman’s careful voice came on the line.
‘Am I speaking to General Nikolai Serov?’
Patriots Page 6
