A Whisper to the Living ir-16

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  There were days like today that Sara and Porfiry Petrovich missed having the girls from early morning until they fell asleep on makeshift bedding on the floor of the living room only a dozen feet from where Rostnikov now sat.

  “Good,” he said.

  “The news or the food?”

  “Both. How are you feeling?”

  He paused in his eating and looked at his wife. It had been the crucial nightly question in their lives for years, particularly since the successful surgery to remove a tumor from her brain three years ago. The wound had healed, but her once vibrant red hair had quickly lost its flare and settled for a more subdued hue. Her face was still round and pretty. Her lips were full and her voice was still as husky as when he had first heard it almost forty years ago.

  “I have an appointment with Leon tomorrow,” she said.

  Leon was her doctor and Porfiry Petrovich’s. Leon was also her cousin.

  “The headaches?” Rostnikov asked.

  “Yes, but they could be caused by many things.”

  Rostnikov nodded and resumed eating. They both feared the return of the tumor or a new one, but there was nothing to say that would enlighten them or give them hope.

  It was almost midnight. Rostnikov would have to be up early and he had yet to do his weights, remove his leg, and quite literally hop into the shower to shave and wash. He hoped the water would at least be tepid. He had done his best to ease the flow of heating gas. His efforts had proved to have dubious success.

  Rostnikov’s hobby was plumbing. Plumbing fascinated him. The pipes in the wall, the sinks, were all part of a system not unlike that of the human body that disposed of waste. Pipes and sinks were things that he could repair. There were many things he as a policeman dealt with every day that he could not repair.

  The entire building in which the Rostnikovs lived counted on him and not the post-Soviet owners to take care of everything from leaking faucets to major assaults on the rusting system.

  When they could, the two little girls accompanied him in his efforts. Nina was particularly fascinated by his efforts and tools. The older sister, Laura, joined them when she had nothing else to do.

  He finished the food in his bowl and wiped it clean with a piece of heavy grain-filled bread.

  “More?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  She brought him more and smiled as he began working on another bowl.

  “You are a great cook,” he said.

  “When we first married, I believed that, but I have learned that you will eat almost anything and declare that it is delicious.”

  “Your cooking is special,” he said. “Your chicken tabak is so good it would even make Vladimir Putin smile with gastronomical delight. Ask Iosef.”

  “Our son is as undiscerning about food as you are. Almost every morning when he still lived with us he had the same breakfast as you, a large bowl of hot kasha with milk and sugar, and declared it delicious.”

  Rostnikov said nothing. She was right. He too thought the morning bowl of kasha was delicious. He had thought so since childhood.

  “Finished,” he said with a grin. “It was delicious.”

  “And I am a great cook.”

  “The greatest in all of Russia and all the former member states of the Soviet Union.”

  Getting up took great effort. It was not just his leg but also a weariness in his bones. For some reason he thought of the boy on the bench that afternoon. What was his name? Yes, Yuri Platkov. He wondered if the boy would be back the coming afternoon. Rostnikov had enjoyed their conversation. The coming day was supposed to be mild, without either rain or snow. Trusting forecasts could be disappointing in Moscow.

  He still had the chance of six hours’ sleep if he moved quickly and efficiently. Six hours would be fine. He would be one hour short of that goal. At 5:00 a.m. the phone would ring to inform him that the Maniac had struck again.

  Aleksandr Chenko had eaten not one but two sandwiches of radishes and sardines. He had turned on the television when he came home but absorbed almost nothing that passed in front of him.

  Aleksandr could not stop thinking of the man, the barrel of a detective who had looked right at him in Bitsevsky Park. It would be right to make him the next victim, but when would that be? The need was there and the passion was in him. He needed to kill again soon. His chessboard called to him. He needed it as others might need a third sandwich. He felt the need in his stomach, his heart, his throbbing head.

  If he was to make a place for himself in history, he would have to act quickly. The policeman would have to wait. Aleksandr’s watch told him it was almost midnight. He moved with certainty to the hook on the wall near the door to the hall. He removed his jacket from the hook and put the jacket on.

  Aleksandr locked his door behind him and moved down the silent stairwell to the basement. He encountered no one. He wouldn’t have been surprised to run into one of the other tenants in the building wandering in drunk and loud. There were several who would have made excellent additions to his list, but he did not want the police to be this close, not yet.

  Aleksandr turned on the light. Behind a pile of boxes against the wall was a loose brick. He flattened himself between boxes and wall and removed the brick, first with the tips of his fingers and then with his hand. He reached into the now-open space and found the handle of the hammer. He closed his eyes as the familiar feeling of almost sexual pleasure electrified his hand and moved over his entire body. He shuddered as he carefully withdrew the hammer and placed it on top of the boxes. It took him only seconds to put back the brick and slither back into the light.

  As he stepped toward the light, he looked back knowing that he would see his shadow, bent in half by the juncture of floor and ceiling, clutching the hammer.

  It was midnight now. He turned off the light and headed up the stairs and out the building to head for the park to find a stranger to murder.

  Taras Ignakov was content, as content as a homeless man in the park could be on a cold day in Moscow. He wore a brown sweatshirt that had the words “Property of the Cleveland Browns” written across the front. Over the brown sweatshirt he wore a heavy black wool coat two sizes too large for him. He had gotten the sweatshirt and coat by telling the rabbi in the little black Jew cap at the synagogue on Poklonnaya Gora that he was a Jew. Maybe the man was not a rabbi. He had no beard. It did not matter. The man told Taras he did not have to be a Jew to get used clothing that had been donated by the small congregation. The Jew had looked at him carefully when he came to the door. Synagogues had been bombed and attacked in the past year. Taras had learned that from an overheard conversation.

  Nonetheless, Taras had wandered around wondering if he could or should trade the very nice coat to the fake Catholic priest who was always willing to look at decent clothing, jewelry, shoes. The coat would surely be worth a bottle of vodka. The one thing Taras would not trade was the watch in his pocket. It was the vestige of humanity to which he clung. When he had sunk so low that he had to exchange it for vodka, he would no longer have the right to think of himself as anything but an animal. He was reasonably sure that day would eventually come, eventually, but not tonight.

  Taras had for the moment forgotten where to find the man who pretended to be a Catholic priest. It would come to him. Yes, in the bar off the Arbat. The pretend Catholic priest would not be there at this hour. Besides, it was too far a journey for tonight. Now Taras needed a place to sleep.

  Taras walked, walked in thick socks and heavy army boots. He could not remember where he had found the boots. There was a hole the size of a large coin in the toe of the left boot. Taras had filled it in from the inside with newspaper. He had wrapped both feet in newspaper. The boots, like the coat, were too large.

  But Taras had hope. With three newspapers, fished from the garbage behind a restaurant where he sometimes delved into the garbage for something edible, he walked. His boots sloshed through shallow puddles made by melted snow.


  The reason Taras Ignakov was filled with hope as he trudged through the night was the bottle in his coat pocket. Luck had been with him. A parked car. The door open. The almost full bottle on the floor. And it was Putinka vodka, the vodka claimed to be good for relaxing and overcoming fatigue. Good. He had drunk most of it while standing in the doorway of a bookstore far from the car. There was still a lot of vodka remaining in the bottle.

  He touched the watch in one pocket and then caressed the bottle with his hand in the other pocket. He decided he would drink half of the remaining contents slowly and save the rest for tomorrow. He would do this when he got to a spot where he could sleep for the night without being disturbed by the police.

  Normally, Taras walked with his shoulders slumped and head facing down. Now he looked up, wondering where he was. He had walked for hours, many hours. He needed to abandon his plan and drink the rest of the vodka.

  He found himself in front of a vaguely familiar park. The wind was blowing, but not hard. The leaves of the many trees were whispering to him to stop.

  Taras moved into the park but did not use the path just beyond the bench. He walked into what seemed like total darkness. He stopped, almost fell, put a hand on a tree to balance himself. It took a long time for his eyes to adjust.

  Taras reached up to pull his hat down and discovered that he had no hat. He knew several others who endlessly roamed the streets and had lost ears to frostbite. Taras touched his ears to see if they were still there.

  “They are intact,” he told the darkness.

  He tried to remember the name of the park he had entered. He could not. It would come to him.

  He trudged on, his eyes now capable of seeing outlines and shadows. Trees, bushes, a fence, a man.

  The man was in front of him. Taras could not judge how far away the man was. The man was not moving. Taras took a step to his left and began walking away from the man.

  “Wait,” the man said.

  Taras waited.

  The man approached and said, “I did not think I would find anyone in the park this late.”

  The man looked neither old nor young from what Taras could see in the dark.

  Taras began walking again. The man kept pace with him.

  “I often come to the park at night just to get out, sit on a bench, and drink a bottle of wine. Sometimes I find someone with whom I can share it. Do you like wine?”

  “Do I look as if I would turn down wine?” asked Taras. “Where is a bench?”

  “This way,” said the man, walking just a bit ahead of Taras on his left.

  “I really do not feel like drinking wine tonight. Here, you take the bottle. I have brought some juice for me.”

  “Please yourself,” Taras said, taking the bottle.

  The cork was already halfway out. Taras pulled it the rest of the way out and dropped the cork. No matter. He had every expectation of drinking the entire bottle. It continued to be a very good day.

  The stone bench was cold against his rear end even through two layers of pants.

  “I am fifty-nine years old. I was born in Omsk. I was a dealer in expensive watches, a writer for a newspaper, a tire thief. I had a wife and two daughters. I have not seen them for a very long time.”

  “You miss them,” the man said sympathetically.

  “No,” said Taras, taking a long drink from the bottle. The wine was not bad. It was not vodka, but it would do.

  Taras held out the bottle with little enthusiasm.

  The young man declined, saying, “Maybe I will take it later.”

  “Must I tell you more of my biography?”

  “No,” said the man.

  “My health history? I have but one tooth left. It will not last much longer. I am fond of it. I wiggle it a great deal with my finger. I shall miss it when it is gone. My heart functions adequately, as do my other organs, with the likely exception of my liver. My right arm does not rise above my waist. An accident when I was stealing tires in Omsk. . Is that enough for you?”

  “I said I did not want to hear any more about your life.”

  Taras shrugged his shoulders and stopped talking.

  It was then that the young man lifted his hand from his jacket pocket and showed Taras a hammer.

  “I am in Bitsevsky Park,” said Taras.

  “You are.”

  “And you are the Maniac?”

  The man did not answer.

  “Once, not many years ago, I was tall and strong and I would have taken that hammer from you and shoved the handle down your throat. Now I am shorter and weak. And I am drunk, but I will fight you.”

  “You think you can beat me?”

  “There is not a chance that I could, but I want to live.”

  Taras pulled the coat around him. A cold wind had suddenly been brought to life to dance through him.

  “You are very drunk,” the man confirmed.

  “Well, I will still fight you and try to get that hammer from you. This is probably the last few minutes of my soul in this almost worthless body. Until my death this had been a very good day for me.”

  Taras lunged toward the man, swinging the wine bottle at his head. He missed by at least two feet and landed facedown on the cold, wet grass. He thought about crawling away, but he knew that effort would be of no use. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and managed to touch the watch.

  Akardy Zelach lay on his bed in the living room. In the lone bedroom of the apartment he could hear his mother cough, a moist, rattling cough. She had gotten home from the hospital that morning. He was afraid, afraid of losing her, afraid of being alone. There was nothing he could do. He did not know if she was awake and he did not want to wake her at this hour to offer her tea or medicine.

  She coughed again and again, and through the door he could hear her sitting up. He got out of his bed and went to her bedroom. He knocked gently.

  “Yes, come in,” his mother said hoarsely.

  Akardy entered.

  “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

  “Do we have any brandy left?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Raspberry tea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tea with a little brandy,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Are you tired, Akardy?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “You could perhaps read to me a little while.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Tea with brandy and a book. Which book would you like?”

  “I’ll get it. You make the tea. Make a cup for yourself. I’ll read the leaves.”

  When he had finished making the tea, Akardy Zelach carefully brought it to his mother on a wooden tray. He had also made himself a cup of tea, but he had added no brandy to his.

  Her eyes were closed, but when she sensed him in the room they opened. He placed the tray carefully on the table next to her bed.

  “Thank you.”

  She touched his cheek when he sat on the bed next to her.

  “Don’t look so frightened. I’m going to be fine.”

  He nodded and smiled, not knowing what to say. He had no gift for words and he knew it. This may have been the reason he was so drawn to those who could create words, poets, novelists, politicians, rock musicians, and rappers. He took the book she held out and he opened it to a place she had marked with a red feather, all that remained of a hat she had worn once almost thirty years ago.

  Zelach read the poem by Anna Akhmatova she had marked.

  He loved these three things.

  White peacocks, evening songs,

  And worn-out maps of America.

  No crying of children,

  No raspberry tea,

  No women’s hysterics.

  I was married to him.

  “The tea is good,” she said, patting his hand.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Have you finished yours?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Let me look at your
leaves.”

  She took his cup and held it at a slight angle to catch maximum light from the bedside lamp. She looked at it long, perhaps a full minute.

  “What do you see?”

  Both mother and son knew they were endowed with certain connections to thoughts and events that others did not have. These visions, feelings, were not controlled by intent. They just came. Akardy Zelach knew his mother was not reading the leaves but looking to them to give her a flash of insight. She and her son had no great intellect, but they did have the insight.

  Akardy’s mother felt the shudder of connection and put down the cup.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Sometimes there is nothing. Another poem please.”

  He obliged and she lay back with closed eyes, listening and wondering about the shadowy specter she had just seen. The vision was too dark to really see, but the dread, the certainty of death that clung to her son now, was evident not in images but in a certainty that pervaded without giving its name.

  In the vision, the creature of dark dreams had been looking at her.

  “You are still happy with the wedding plans?”

  The studio apartment of Iosef Rostnikov was almost dark. The lights were out, but moonlight and street lamps managed to penetrate the drawn shade and thin drapes over the lone window. This was the way Iosef liked it when he slept, just a little light. He retained a dread of total darkness when he slept from an incident during his days in the army. The barracks held memories of a sleepwalker, Private Julian Gorodov, who appeared at Iosef’s bedside babbling. Then there were thieves: Private Ivan Borflovitz had reached gently under Iosef’s pillow looking for his wallet. Iosef had grabbed Borflovitz’s wrist and twisted until the arm of the transgressor strained with a pain that would endure for weeks. Sergeant Naretsev was not so gentle, and Iosef, a light sleeper, awakened to grab him by the neck and whisper a death threat.

  “Yes,” said Elena, who lay at his side.

  Both Elena and Iosef, on their backs atop the blankets, were looking up at the shadows on the ceiling. Elena wore one of Iosef’s gold T-shirts with the words “Lightning in the Woods” in crimson on the front. Lightning in the Woods was one of the plays Iosef had written, produced, directed, and acted in during the years after his military service.