by Adam Roberts
‘Occupation?’
‘I work as a translator.’
Zembla looked hard at me. ‘As it might be, foreign languages?’
‘As it might be.’
‘In particular?’
‘The English particular. I speak a little French too.’
‘That’s a job?’
‘Doesn’t it sound like one to you?’
‘Just speaking a language?’ said Zembla. ‘Not really. You speak English? But isn’t England full of people who speak English?’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But not many of them speak Russian.’
‘Why go to England for that? The Soviet Union contains millions of people who speak Russian!’
I looked closely at him to see if he was joking, but he seemed to be serious. ‘You make an interesting point, comrade,’ I said eventually.
‘Anyway. Never mind that. So. You were present at the crime scene?’
‘I haven’t been told what the crime is.’
‘James Coyne, an American citizen, was discovered dead on Zholtovskovo Street by two officers. You were discovered kneeling next to him. This is a serious matter.’
‘Death is rarely otherwise.’
Zembla switched the tape recorder off. ‘The Americanness of the deceased is serious,’ he said, with a poorly repressed fury. ‘Death is absolutely fucking ordinary and everyday in this job, comrade. You understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Death is not serious. Death is fucking comedy, as far as I’m concerned. Death is the jester, yeah? He—’ Zembla turned his hand over and back in the manner of an individual searching for right words. ‘He, he does whatever it is that jesters do.’
‘Juggling balls?’ I suggested.
Zembla’s face stiffened. It possessed, in repose, a really quite impressive sculptural quality: massy and stone-coloured. Then his lips started working, and eventually words came out. ‘I’ll cut off your balls and juggle them in the air you fucking little cock-end. You understand?’
‘Perfectly, comrade.’
‘Don’t fuck me around.’
‘No, comrade.’
The tape went on again. ‘Describe how you came to be beside the deceased.’
‘I was walking with him along Zholtovskovo Street when he was killed.’
‘You killed him?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You knew him, though?’
‘I met him for the first time today. Or perhaps, yesterday. If it is now past midnight.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘I was working as a translator in the Office of Liaison and Overseas Exchange. Mr Coyne was there, together with a Miss Norman, discussing—’
‘Wait!’ Zembla took out a notepad. ‘Also an American?’
‘Yes.’
‘Spell her name.’ I did so, and he wrote it down, tracing out large letters like a child with a crayon. ‘His wife? Mistress?’
‘I’ve really no idea, comrade. They were both representing the American Church of Scientology with a view to establishing a cultural exchange in Moscow.’
‘That’s what they said?’
‘Yes, comrade.’
He leered at me. ‘You believed them?’
‘It seems to me that the business of an official translator is to translate,’ I said. ‘Not to believe or disbelieve.’
Zembla’s chunky thumb went back to the tape recorder. Off. He leaned forward. ‘You remember what I said about your balls?’
‘Juggling them, you mean?’
‘You remember that? Do you have memory problems, old man? Or do you remember? You think, perhaps, that was just a figure of speech? It wasn’t a figure of speech. I will literally cut off your testicles and throw them about this room. Do you think I’ve never done it before? Do you think I’ve never cut off a man’s balls?’
‘I’d imagine there’s a considerable loss of blood.’
He glowered at me. ‘Loss of blood!’ he said. ‘That’s right. Not to mention the loss of balls. That’s another loss. That’s a more significant loss. Blood can always be transfused, can’t it? But there’s no hospital in the world will transfuse you new balls.’ He let me ponder this medical undeniability for a moment. Then he said, in a gloating tone, ‘Do you think we didn’t know about Dora Norman? Well we did. We know all about Coyne, and his business here. You don’t fool us.’
‘Comrade, I’m honestly not trying to fool you.’
‘When I got you to spell her name just then,’ he said, ‘I already knew it! It was a trick. We’ll soon have Norman Doriski in custody. Very soon.’
‘Dora Norman,’ I said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Think of your ballbag,’ he said. ‘Think about it long and hard. Give your ballbag careful thought. I would, if I were you.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d think about my ballbag?’
‘The tape recorder isn’t king in here,’ he told me, his eyes going from side to side. ‘I’m king in here.’
‘I had always assumed that the optimum interrogation strategy was nice cop nasty cop,’ I said. ‘Not nice cop confusing cop.’
He opened his eyes very wide at this, but didn’t say anything. Perhaps he couldn’t think of a retort. Instead he pointed his forefinger at my face and gave me a severe look. Then he jabbed his meaty thumb at the tape recorder. The spindle-wheels of the cassette again began turning again. ‘How did you come to be walking with Mr Coyne along Zholtovskovo Street after midnight?’
‘I encountered him quite by chance.’
‘By chance? You didn’t arrange to meet him again?’
‘No. I went to the Pushkin Chess Club, and he happened to be there.’
‘You went to the Pushkin Chess Club?’
‘Yes.’
He turned off the recorder again. ‘Big chess fan, are you?’ he sneered.
‘The club has a social function in addition to the playing of chess.’
‘Ever played chess with your own balls instead of the kings? Eh? Have you? Because I can arrange exactly that sort of game. I’ll cut them off myself with my penknife, and you can use them as the two white kings. Understand?’
He turned the tape recorder on again. I’ll confess I was finding his one-note attempt to intimidate me strangely endearing. ‘There’s only one white king,’ I said. ‘One king per player in a game of chess.’
He jabbed the tape recorder off. ‘I know that!’ he snapped. He poked his thumb at the machine, turned it on, turned it off again, perhaps by accident, turned it on again. ‘Don’t fuck with me, little man. You seem to enjoy being disrespectful to me. Do it once more and I won’t cut your balls off, I’ll fucking rip them off with my own right hand.’
I considered telling him that he was recording this tirade onto his cassette, but elected, after a moment’s consideration, not to. It was his machine, after all. ‘Fair enough,’ I said.
‘OK. We’re going to proceed with the interview in a moment. I’ll ask questions, and you’ll give me the answers I want to hear, OK? No more disrespect, or your balls will no longer be attached to your body.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Good.’ He pressed the cassette button, turning the machine off. He seemed to believe that he had turned it on.
‘So, comrade. You met Mr Coyne in the Pushkin?’
‘He was there, yes.’
‘And you didn’t expect to see him there?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Why not?’
‘For one thing, I assumed he couldn’t speak Russian.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I suppose I reasoned: if he spoke Russian, why had he needed my services as a translator in the ministry, that afternoon?’
‘Why indeed? So he did speak Russian?’
‘Fluently.’
‘Why, then, had he asked for an interpreter at the ministry?’
‘I’ve no idea, comrade.’
‘You can’t gu
ess?’
‘I suppose he didn’t want the ministry to know the extent of his Russian knowledge. As in a game of poker, one keeps certain cards hidden from the other players.’
‘So he was playing poker?’
‘Metaphorically, yes, I suppose so.’
‘What was he playing, though?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Poker?’ I hazarded.
The thumb jabbed at the tape, switching it, as he thought, off; although in fact he had turned it on. ‘You fucking little shit, you testicular idiot. Don’t fucking backchat me, all right?’
‘No, comrade.’
‘You know what I meant when I asked that question?’
‘The poker question?’
‘No! No!’ He seemed genuinely to be losing his temper. ‘I asked what he was playing at. Answering poker is just, fucking - what’s the word - facetious. It’s glib. If you’re fucking glib, I’ll remove your testicles. Yes?’
‘I understand,’ I said gravely.
‘You haven’t forgotten what I said about your testicles?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’
‘Then perhaps,’ he said, ‘we can proceed. Or we’ll be here all fucking night.’ He pushed the switch on the tape recorder again, and the little wheels stopped turning. ‘For the record,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘What was Mr Coyne actually doing in Moscow?’
‘You’re asking my opinion?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s not an opinion.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘All right, all right. Look. Tell me how you came to be walking down Zholtovskovo Street with the deceased.’
‘He said he wanted to have a word with me. About something important.’
‘You were talking Russian?’
‘Mostly. Occasionally we’d swap to English.’
‘And what did he want to talk about? Wait! Wait! Shit, shit, shit.’ Zembla lurched forward and peered at the tape recorder. ‘The little wheels aren’t going round. Is it broken? Piece of shit.’
‘I believe it is turned off.’
Gingerly, Zembla tried the REC button. The spindles began to turn. He switched it off and they stopped. I watched, as realisation kindled in his big face. ‘I’ve been doing it the wrong way round,’ he said. ‘Turning it off during the interview, and turning it on during the . . . ah, the interruptions.’
‘It looks that way, comrade.’
‘Shit!’ he said, with real panic in his voice. ‘All the stuff about balls is on tape!’ His gaze, when it came up to meet mine, was imploring. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean any of it. All that stuff about cutting off your balls. I would never actually do anything so brutal.’
‘I believe you,’ I said.
‘It was just a strategy! It was just jabber, to get you talking! Really, I’m a gentle-hearted man.’
‘Your gentleness shines through.’
‘The captain is going to be peeved. He won’t like it.’ Fumblingly he pressed the rewind button. ‘Maybe I can just erase the whole thing? Start again? How does one erase these fucking little cassettes anyway?’
‘I’m not an expert with such machines,’ I said.
‘Oh, and shit. Shit and oh. The captain is going to be annoyed.’ This prospect really seemed to alarm him. He stopped the rewind and pressed play. Tinnily his own voice sounded out, fucking little shit, you testicular idiot. Don’t fucking backchat. He jabbed it off. ‘Oh dear. Oh,’ he said. ‘Dear. Oh no.’
‘We can start again,’ I offered.
But Zembla picked the machine up and burlied his way out of the interrogation room, leaving the door open. For a while I simply sat there, looking through the open door at the stretch of corridor outside, and wondering what the likelihood was of my being able simply to walk out of the Militia headquarters. I didn’t move. It recalled to me my strange experience in the restaurant the previous day: staring at a door, thinking about walking through it, but not doing so.
Buzz buzz.
Soon enough, another officer came through, carrying a different cassette tape recorder. This man was older, and wore a more worldly-wise expression. ‘Comrade Skvorecky,’ he said, and if the spirit of a million cigarettes could have been gifted a voice it would have rumbled and creaked exactly as his voice did.
‘Yes, comrade.’
‘Officer Zembla has been called away on urgent police business.’
‘I understand.’
‘My name is Liski.’
‘Officer Liski.’ I nodded.
He settled the machine on the table, turned it on, and reached into his pocket for a packet of Primos. He offered me one, then took one himself. His lighter ticked to life, the flame like a painter’s brush painted fire against the ends of each of the white tubes in turn. We both inhaled at the same time. ‘Now,’ he said. He expelled smoke the colour of a summer sky as he spoke. ‘If you please, tell me about your last encounter with the deceased.’
‘Comrade,’ I said, feeling calmer for the cigarette, ‘do not think me disrespectful, but may I ask: he is dead, then?’
‘He is.’
‘It all seems,’ I confessed, ‘somehow, unreal.’
‘It is, nevertheless, very real and very serious. An American citizen, found dead on the streets of Moscow, and you the only person in the vicinity. You comprehend why you have been taken into custody?’
When put like this, my situation seemed graver than I had previously realised. ‘I am not responsible for Mr Coyne’s death,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you tell me how it happened?’ said Liski, settling back in his chair. It was obvious that he was a dedicated smoker, both from the deep vertical creases that marked his face, and from the fact that those wrinkles visibly lessened as the tobacco relaxed his muscles.
‘As I was explaining to the previous officer,’ I said, ‘I had met Mr Coyne for the first time that day. Then by chance I encountered him again at the Pushkin Chess Club. At the end of the evening he asked me to walk with him a little way, as he made his way back to his hotel. He said he had an important thing to tell me.’
‘Why you?’
‘Why me?’
‘What I mean is: what was it about you that made him want to confide these things?’
‘A good question, comrade. I can’t really answer it.’
‘And what were these things he had to tell you?’
‘They concerned alien life.’
One heavy eyebrow defied gravity. ‘UFOs?’
‘Precisely. Perhaps that is why he wanted to talk to me. There had been some discussion in the Pushkin on this subject. I had been represented as being an expert.’
‘You are an expert on UFOs?’
‘No, I’m really not.’
‘Then why were you so represented?’
‘A long time ago,’ I said, ‘I used to write science fiction stories.’
‘Like Zamiatin?’
‘I met him once, actually,’ I said. ‘Although the stuff I wrote is feeble indeed compared to his genius.’
‘What,’ said Liski, ‘did Mr Coyne want to say to you about UFOs?’
‘He said they were a great danger to the world.’
‘I see. Did he specify this danger?’
‘It had something to do with nuclear power stations.’
‘Any particular power station?’
‘He mentioned one in the Ukraine. He said there was a prophecy concerning this station. In the Bible.’
Liski finished his cigarette. ‘To be clear: he claimed that the Bible contains a prophecy that UFOs will attack Ukrainian nuclear facilities?’
‘When you put it like that, comrade,’ I said, ‘it does sound a little . . . far-fetched.’
‘You’re sure he wasn’t joking?’
‘He seemed very earnest.’
‘He actually believed in these UFOs?’
I thought about this. ‘I believe he did.’
&n
bsp; ‘And do you?’
‘Believe in UFOs?’ I said. ‘No. I don’t. Or—’
‘Or?’
‘I don’t want to be evasive, comrade. Doesn’t it depend on what you mean by UFOs? If you are asking me whether there are actual metallic saucers that have flown here from Sirius to snatch up a long-distance lorry driver outside Yakutsk and rummage around his lower intestine: no, I don’t believe that. But there is a - phenomenon. That can’t be denied. A cultural phenomenon. Many people believe in UFOs. So many that UFOs possess actual cultural significance. We might say that my individual unbelief in God doesn’t wish away the Catholic Church.’
Liski looked enormously uninterested in the particularities of my unbelief. ‘So what happened?’
‘What happened?’
‘After Coyne told you about the imminent UFO attack on Ukraine?’
‘Then,’ I said, trying to get the order of events straight in my head. ‘Then.’ But it had been so strange a sequence that sorting it out in my recollection was harder than you might think. ‘What followed is very strange, comrade. I can’t think you’ll believe it.’
He was motionless in his chair. ‘Try me.’ His voice a purr.
‘First there was a power cut. The streetlights on Zholtovskovo Street all went out.’
‘Just on that street?’
‘Yes. The lights were still lit on the Garden Ring; I could see the glow over the rooftops. And some of the windows in the buildings were still lit. So, yes, just the streetlights. And then - well then somebody turned a spotlight on us.’
‘A spotlight?’
‘Like in a theatre. Or a prison camp.’ I stumbled over this latter phrase, with an unpleasant sensation in my spine that I shouldn’t have made that particular comparison. It was dawning on me, I think, that my chances of being released from criminal captivity were very small. An American had been killed, and I was the only individual at the scene. ‘It was,’ I said, resolving to tell the police the truth, howsoever strange it might be, ‘shining straight down upon us, from directly above. It must have been a very powerful bulb, because the light was blinding.’
‘Could you see who was shining this light?’
‘I couldn’t see anything apart from the light.’
‘Was it mounted on the roof? Was somebody leaning out of a window with it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I see. And then.’
