Vodka

by Boris Starling

  Irk hadn’t seen Sabirzhan since he’d brought him into Petrovka more than thirty-six hours ago. This was deliberate. Sabirzhan was a professional interrogator; he’d probably forgotten more about extracting information than Irk would ever know, which meant that he’d know every resistance technique around. Irk had therefore figured that his best strategy was to be counterintuitive. Even Sabirzhan might be put on edge by a day and a half cooling his heels, wondering what evidence the prosecutor’s office was digging up. Now was the time for Irk to see if he could exploit such uncertainty.

  He’d prepared a bare room for the interview, stripped of anything that might take Sabirzhan’s focus away from him. Tables and chairs had been removed; there were no bookcases, filing cabinets or windows, no posters, maps or calendars. The walls had been repainted white, so there were no irregularities or damp patterns from which Sabirzhan could make shapes and faces. There would be one light: an ordinary desk lamp in the corner that would be barely bright enough for them to see each other.

  Irk went to Sabirzhan’s cell himself rather than send a policeman. It would be just the two of them, right from the start; that was the only way it could work. His reservoir of patience was inexhaustible. He would search for Sabirzhan’s weakness, and if it was there, he would find it.

  Irk talked about himself to start with, to put Sabirzhan at ease. He spoke of his childhood on the small island of Saaremaa—a part of Estonia largely untouched by Soviet industry and immigration—and the fantastic medieval castle at Kuressaare, where he’d played with his friends. He spoke of the wrench he’d felt when moving to the capital, Tallinn, and how he’d clung to the fairy tales of his youth by wandering the cobbled back streets of the beautiful Old Town on misty Sunday afternoons. He spoke of Moscow and the way in which it simultaneously energized and depleted him. He spoke and spoke, lacing his words with affability and self-deprecation, and watched for the moment when the habitual suspicion in Sabirzhan’s eyes began to fade.

  “I think we’ll grow to like each other, Tengiz Lavrentiyich,” Irk said. “I sincerely hope so.”

  Interrogation is usually a duel that ends in one of two ways: confession or acquittal. Irk was unusual in that he looked for something beyond either of those eventualities; he sought the truth. He wanted to find out why. It was not enough for him to say that this was Russia and these things happened. He wanted Sabirzhan to hand him his soul.

  Irk told Sabirzhan that he’d found the pictures of the children in his apartment. He’d recognized Vladimir Kullam and Raisa Rustanova; the staff at Prospekt Mira had identified the others, and were keeping a close eye on them.

  “I sympathize,” he said quietly, to make Sabirzhan strain and concentrate to hear him. “It must be terrible to have a disease society can’t understand—won’t understand, perhaps?” Even in the low light, Irk saw a bubbling of sweat at Sabirzhan’s temple. “Let’s face it, Tengiz, we don’t live in the most enlightened country, do we? The law still classifies homosexuality as a mental illness; it’s hardly going to push the boat out for child molesters, is it?”

  He paused to let Sabirzhan answer, and went on himself when he received silence. “Are you queer, Tengiz? The person who’s doing this, it wouldn’t be surprising if they were queer. Society teaches homosexuals to loathe themselves, and self-loathing leads to destructive behavior. If you are queer, Tengiz, you’d better tell me, and soon. You’ll be classified as mad, not bad. You’ll go to a hospital, not jail; you’ll be treated, not left to rot. You’ll get life, not death. You must have seen the inside of prisons here, Tengiz. Imagine what they’d do to you in one of those when they found out you were inside for slicing children open. They’d tear you limb from limb.”

  “You can talk all you want, Investigator,” Sabirzhan said, “but I didn’t do it.”

  He was still at the dead point of absolute denial. Irk had to get him away from that; he’d be in business only when he did. All he needed was the first yes, and the rest would come. It was like murder itself. Once a man has murdered, he has two choices: stick or twist. It’s a strong man who can stick and still live with himself. Crimes mean secrets, secrets mean isolation, isolation means an urge to confess. Twisting is in many ways easier; the first time’s the easiest. Once that barrier has been breached, the natural compulsion is to keep going, to kill again and again.

  “Do what you want, Investigator, but you’ll never get me to admit it, because it’s not true.”

  Not true? Irk felt fury rise in him. The KGB had arrested tailors for making suits that didn’t fit; they’d arrested musicians for playing badly at a concert and spoiling the evening for a Party grandee; they’d arrested teachers for giving low grades to investigators’ daughters. They’d put these people in cells eight inches square and watched them go insane—and Sabirzhan had the gall to talk about what was and wasn’t true?

  Irk spoke only when he’d let his anger ebb from him. “Do what I want? What does that mean, Tengiz? Do you mean torture? Of all the people I’ve ever interrogated, Tengiz, I’ve never hurt one. Electrodes on their genitals? Never. Pulling out their fingernails? Not me. Pentothal truth drugs? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Two men, a bare room, a prizefight with their minds and wills the only weapons; that was where Irk felt most in the mix. He was a predator hunting prey, and when he was here he cared little for his reputation. The praise that came with success left him indifferent; he shrugged off the criticism that followed failure. He felt that Kipling would have been proud of him.

  “What time is it?” Sabirzhan said.

  They’d been there hours, though without any light from outside it was impossible to tell exactly how long or whether darkness had fallen.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Look at your watch, then.”

  Irk pushed back his sleeve. “I took it off.” He gestured to himself and then to Sabirzhan. “I’m wearing no more than you are, Tengiz. I’m sitting on the same hard floor you are, I haven’t eaten or drunk any more than you, I’m hungry and thirsty like you. We’re in this together.”

  “What a load of shit.”

  A knock on the door signaled food. Irk opened the door just wide enough to collect the tray. Two meat-filled pastries known as “gastritis,” for obvious reasons; two cups of tea; three hunks of bread.

  “The Petrovka canteen is renowned throughout the federation for its haute cuisine,” Irk said, but not the faintest trace of a smile disturbed Sabirzhan’s fat cheeks.

  They ate in silence. Irk left the third piece of bread for Sabirzhan. It sat on the floor between them for more than an hour—that was Irk’s estimate, anyway—before Sabirzhan picked it up. He crammed it into his mouth with the frenzy of a man sliding down a slope.

  Sabirzhan lay on the floor and closed his eyes. Irk couldn’t tell whether he was sleeping or merely pretending; either way, he chose not to disturb him. The KGB manual would have counseled sleep deprivation for subjects as a matter of course. Irk would therefore do the opposite. The KGB had thrived on inhumanity; how better to subvert it than through humanity?

  Sabirzhan began talking when he opened his eyes.

  “Thou shalt not kill is a sanctimonious commandment, Investigator.”

  “Why so?” There was curiosity in Irk’s voice; no excitement, no sense of triumph.

  “The proletariat should approach this rule in strictly utilitarian fashion, from the point of view of class utility. Murder of the most incorrigible enemy of the revolution, murder committed in an organized manner by a class collective on the order of class rulers in the name of salvation of the proletarian revolution is lawful, ethical murder. The metaphysical values of human life do not exist for the proletariat, for whom there exist only the interests of the proletarian revolution.”

  “Zalkind,” Irk said. “Revolution and Youth.”

  Sabirzhan smiled, thrilling and unnerving in the gloaming. “An educated man!”

  “Are we talking about Vladimir Kullam and Raisa Rustano
va here?”

  “What do you think, Investigator?”

  “What about the informers you keep?” Irk asked.

  “What about them?”

  “How do you select them?”

  “Select them?” Sabirzhan snorted. “People line up to volunteer, Investigator.”

  “For what reasons?”

  “They want to serve their country. They want the money. They’re angling for promotion.”

  “Do you promise you’ll help them out?”

  “All the time.”

  “And do you keep your word?”

  “Things don’t always work out, Investigator. People insist that you promise them the moon, and then wonder why you can’t make good on those promises.”

  “But by that time they’re working for you anyway.”

  “Exactly.”

  “They all sign the statements?”

  “Of course.” Sabirzhan began to recite the text; Irk had seen enough such statements to know how they ran. “‘I, Ivanov, Ivan Ivanovich, voluntarily declare my wish to cooperate with the organs of state security. I have been warned of the penalties for divulging the fact of cooperation. I will sign the material I submit with the pseudonym “X,” followed by the date and signature.’ It’s very necessary, Investigator. There are enemies of the people in all branches of industry.”

  “The system’s finished, Tengiz.”

  “The system will never be finished, Investigator. You know why? Because we’re all involved. People bleat about how awful and unfair it is, but it couldn’t have happened without them. Only men like Sakharov and Solzhenitsyn are exempt; they held out, and suffered the consequences. Everyone else is to blame. You let Sakharov and Solzhenitsyn suffer; you let it happen.”

  They talked like old friends; trading stories, arguing, putting the world to rights. Irk had split his mind in two, one half chatting away and keeping the conversation going, the other filtering everything Sabirzhan said for something he could work on, and finding nothing.

  “It’s a funny thing, Investigator. A year ago, I’d never have been here, being interrogated by you. The KGB was the power, everybody was terrified of us.”

  “And now they’re not.”

  “Not as much; and they resent us because they despise themselves for having submitted. It’s a hard shift to accept, Investigator.”

  He still maintained his innocence, though he admitted a sneaking admiration for the perpetrator. Not for the killings, of course—they were reprehensible—but for covering his tracks in a manner worthy of the KGB.

  25

  Thursday, January 16, 1992

  Irk spent the night with Sabirzhan. They slept with their backs against the walls and their legs on the floor, like drunks passed out. They had neither blankets nor pillows, and when the bulb popped in their solitary lamp, they had no light either. They took it in turns to fumble for the bucket that Irk had agreed to accept for calls of nature; and still, in their windowless prison, Sabirzhan did not confess, even when Irk said: “I’m your friend, Tengiz. Friends don’t lie to each other.”

  Denisov himself came to the interrogation chamber and asked Irk to come to his office. Irk left the room on wobbly legs, screwing his eyes up against even the corridor’s dim glow. Streetlights dropped amber pools through windows. “What time is it?” he asked as he followed Denisov up the stairs.

  “Half past seven.”

  “Morning or evening?” It would be dark in either case. Denisov stopped and looked around.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Morning.” Denisov shook his head. “No wonder you look like shit.”

  In his office, Denisov sat down behind his desk without offering Irk a chair. Irk looked at a Soviet propaganda poster that showed Andropov opening a new school, and read the caption below: Children are our only privileged class.

  “How are you doing with him?” Denisov asked.

  Irk puffed his cheeks. “Slowly, slowly.”

  “Slowly’s no good. Go get yourself tidied up, Juku, then either charge Sabirzhan or release him.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Irk shook his head; Denisov and jokes were mutually exclusive concepts. “I’ll have him in another week, no problem. Three days, then another seven, that’s how we work, isn’t it?”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why do you think, Juku? Sabirzhan’s KGB; he still has friends in high places.”

  “You let me take him in to start with.”

  “Yes, but now we cut him some slack.”

  “I thought I had ten days. I’d have done things differently if I’d known otherwise.”

  “Too bad. You know how it is.” Denisov shrugged.

  Irk did indeed. Power in Russia is a complex and mutable entity; Sabirzhan didn’t have enough influence to save him from arrest, not when Lev had given his approval, but he had enough to ensure that he was released as quickly as the law provided. “Three days expires this afternoon, Denis Denisovich. I won’t get him to confess in that time.”

  “Then you’ll have to let him go.”

  Much as Irk wanted to will Sabirzhan into confessing, he could find no way in which to do it. His strategy had been predicated on time; time to lower Sabirzhan’s guard, time to establish trust, time to wheedle away until he broke. Hurrying things up now, after a visit from the prosecutor general, would only have alerted Sabirzhan to Irk’s desperation and therefore to his own imminent release, and he’d have clammed up with the speed and finality of a Venus flytrap. Since he had to let Sabirzhan go, Irk decided that his best course would be to act as if he’d given up on him; send Sabirzhan on his way with the impression that Irk’s interest in him was over, then see what he could dig up on the sly.

  Sabirzhan went straight back to Red October. Lev poured him a glass of Russkaya.

  “I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Tengiz,” Lev said. “I had no other option. This thing needs to be solved, and I’ll do anything to make that happen.”

  “You suspected me?”

  “The prosecutor’s office suspected you. I’m glad they let you go.”

  Sabirzhan shrugged. “It’s no big deal. No hard feelings.” His hand disappeared inside Lev’s, a gesture of conciliation. “Really, none. The investigator and I had a good talk. He understands, you know.”

  “Understands what?”

  “How difficult it is for a man like me to make sense of what’s going on in Russia right now.”

  “For us all, Tengiz. It’s happening, whether we like it or not. We must adapt or die.”

  “You had a good meeting with the American woman?”

  “Very much so. I made her give up more than I conceded, much more.”

  “I’d have expected nothing less.”

  Lev searched Sabirzhan’s face for insincerity or mockery, and found none. Sabirzhan seemed serious enough, though Lev would reserve final judgment for now. Lev had been used to thinking of Sabirzhan as a creature who swam in murky waters; now Sabirzhan seemed … well, cleansed, for lack of a better word. It was not what Lev had intended when he’d allowed Irk to take Sabirzhan away three days before; then again, it was not a result of which he disapproved.

  The salt taste of disappointment grazed at the back of Irk’s throat. First Denisov had made him extract a confession from a man quite obviously innocent; now he’d insisted on the opposite. Irk’s job was hard enough as it was, harder still if his boss kept pulling the rug from under him. He should go up to Denisov’s office and have it out with him, but what good would it do? Denisov wouldn’t relieve him of the case; he was on it until he found proof that this was related either to privatization or to the Mafia. Besides, every other investigator Irk could think of was incompetent, corrupt or both. All he could do was keep plugging away and hope for a break.

  Irk’s phone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Prosecutor’s
office.”

  “It’s Galina Khruminscha here.” Her voice was high, and she was talking fast. “I’m at the apartment. You must come, Juku, quick as you can. Something awful’s happened.”

  The rain was falling hard, which made Moscow driving even more hazardous than usual, as did the fact that Irk had left his windshield wipers at home. Wiper blades were in short supply—what wasn’t?—and a vehicle left unattended with blades attached didn’t remain that way very long. In many ways, he reflected, driving without wipers was easier on the nerves; what he couldn’t see couldn’t hurt him.

  The Khruminsches’ front door had splintered at the hinges, and their living room was covered in blood. Irk’s first thought was that one of the family must have been injured—or worse—but they were all there waiting for him, and all unhurt.

  That was as far as the good news went. Galina had her hands clasped to her temples, as though to keep her head from bursting; Svetlana was sobbing in heaving wet gulps; and Rodion’s jaw was set into a snarl of masculine impotence at whoever had done this.

  The cats were dead, islands of blue and silver in an archipelago of red. Lying on their sides, they could have been asleep, except for the slashes across their throats. Seven Russian blues, fed on vitamin pills and zucchini and washed every other day in laundry detergent; all with the life now drained from them. The prize rosettes on the wall swam as wreathes in Irk’s vision.

  “Fucking Chechens,” Rodion said. “Fucking, fucking black bastards.”