Polar Star (11 page)

No one had greeted Arkady yet. He wondered whether he should disappear or become part of the furniture. Another chair would be useful.

“I again enlisted the aid of Comrade Volovoi,” Slava told the captain. “I asked Fedor Fedorovich, ‘What kind of girl was Zina Patiashvili?’ He said, ‘Young, full of life, but politically mature.’ ”

“Typical of Soviet youth,” Volovoi said. For the occasion he wore a shiny running suit typical of political officers. It hadn’t occurred to Arkady before that the first
mate’s cropped red hair looked like the stubble on a pig’s snout.

Slava said, “The trawlmaster, who first found her body, was badly shaken.”

“Korobetz,” Volovoi reminded the others. “His deck team leads the ship’s socialist competition.”

“I questioned him and his team. Although he had only ever seen her in the cafeteria, he too remembered a worker who gave unstintingly.”

Of mashed potatoes? Arkady wondered.

As if he could read minds, the Invalid slipped Arkady a brief malevolent glance before holding up his end of the duet. “Still, we must face the mystery of what happened to her on the night of her death. Not only for her sake, but for that of all her comrades, that they may move past this unhappy event and again put their full effort into productive ends.”

“Just so.” Slava couldn’t agree more. “And that is what we have accomplished today. We established that Zina Patiashvili was at the dance held at the cafeteria that night. I myself was in the band, and I can attest to the heat generated within a closed space by active dancers. This led me to inquire among the female crew members who attended whether at any time they felt uncomfortable because of the heat. Yes, a number of them answered; they had to leave the cafeteria and go out on deck for fresh air. I then returned to the infirmary and asked the ship’s doctor whether Zina Patiashvili had ever complained of dizziness or headaches. His answer was affirmative. Earlier Dr. Vainu had performed an autopsy on the deceased. I asked him whether there were any signs of violence that could not possibly be accidental. ‘No,’ he said. Were there any signs he found difficult to explain? I asked. ‘Yes,’ there was discoloration on the torso and limbs, and there were evenly spaced bruises along the ribs and hips that he could not explain. Also, there was a small puncture of the abdomen.

“Comrades, there is no mystery. I myself retraced the steps of Zina Patiashvili the night of her disappearance. She was not seen in the passageways leading to her cabin, nor on the trawl deck. The only place she could have gone was to the stern. If she had fallen over the side directly into the water, yes, the marks on her body would be difficult to explain. However, alone and in the dark, Zina Patiashvili did not fall over the side rail but over the rail that surrounds the open stairwell above the stern ramp, hitting the back of her head as she fell on the stairs. Sliding down the steps, she also bruised her front and limbs.”

A rather handy “also,” Arkady thought. Marchuk earnestly studied the autopsy report on his desk. Arkady felt for him. Viktor Marchuk wouldn’t be a captain without a Party card, and he wouldn’t be trusted to fish with Americans unless he was a Party activist. An ambitious man, but still a “sailor’s captain.” The anonymous guest in the third chair rested his head on his hand. He wore the enlightened expression of a person who actually enjoyed the wrong notes in an amateur piano recital.

“There’s a landing on those stairs,” Marchuk said.

“Exactly,” Slava agreed, “and there the body of Zina Patiashvili rested while the dance went on. She lay with her body pressed against the outer rail of the landing, which explains the bruising of the ribs and hips. Then, when the dance was over and the
Polar Star
’s work began again, her body rolled as the ship moved. As you know, our designers bend their efforts to build the safest ships in the world for our Soviet seamen. Unfortunately, not every freak event can be foreseen. There is no protective rail on the inner side of the landing. Zina Patiashvili rolled free and fell onto the ramp. There is a safety gate further up the ramp to protect anyone falling down from the trawl deck, but not anyone falling from the well. Unconscious and unable to cry out, Zina Patiashvili slid down the ramp and into the water.”

Slava related his conclusion as if it were a radio play. In spite of himself, Arkady saw it: the girl from Georgia in her jeans and bleached hair leaving the smoke and heat of the dance; feeling light-headed, staring into the soft oblivion of the fog, stepping carelessly back toward the rail of the well … No, frankly, he couldn’t see it. Not Zina, not the girl with the queen of hearts in her pocket, not alone, not that way.

Unexpectedly Captain Marchuk asked, “What do you think of this theory, Comrade Renko?”

“Very exciting.”

Slava went on. “I do not have to explain to veteran seamen how briefly Zina Patiashvili could have survived in such near-freezing waters. Five minutes? Ten at the most. The only question left is the puncture wound in the abdomen, a wound brought to our attention by Seaman Renko. Renko, however, is not a fisherman and is not trained or familiar with trawling gear. Has he ever handled a cable frayed from dragging forty tons of fish over the rocks of the sea floor?”

Well, yes, Arkady thought, but he didn’t want to interrupt when the third mate was building to a climax, or at least to an end. Slava opened the sack on the floor, brought out a loop of one centimeter steel cable and held it up triumphantly. In a few places steel threads fanned out like spikes.

“Cable like this, frayed like this,” Slava said. “It’s a fact that the body of Zina Patiashvili came up in the net. We seamen know that the net is drawn by worn cables. We know that as the net is drawn through the water the cables vibrate, making any frayed threads into virtual saws. That’s what cut Zina Patiashvili. End of mystery. A girl went to a dance, became overheated, went out on deck alone for air, fell overboard and, I am sorry to say, died. But that is
all
that happened.”

Slava displayed the section of cable to Volovoi, who affected great interest in it, and to the stranger, who
waved it aside, and to Marchuk, who was busy reading a new document. The captain had a feline manner of stroking his trim black beard as he concentrated on the page.

“According to your report, you recommend no further inquiry on board, and that any outstanding questions be left to the proper authorities in Vladivostok.”

“Yes,” Slava said. “Of course the decision is yours.”

“There were some other recommendations, as I remember,” Volovoi suggested. “I saw the report only for a moment.”

“That is correct,” Slava answered dutifully. It was really wonderful, Arkady thought, almost as good as table tennis. “If there is one lesson to be learned from this tragic incident it is that safety can never be taken for granted. I propose two firm recommendations. First, that during evening social events volunteers be placed on watch at either side of the stern deck. Second, that social events be held as much as possible during the daytime.”

“Those are useful recommendations that I’m sure will be discussed with great interest at the next all-ship meeting,” Volovoi said. “The entire ship owes you their thanks for your labor, for the completeness and speed of your inquiry, and for the factual, clear-sighted nature of your conclusion.”

Tolstoy’s aristocrats spoke effervescent French. The grandsons of the Revolution spoke plodding, measured Russian, as if each word were so many centimeters that when carefully laid end to end would inevitably lead to consensus, and spoken politely and soberly because it was the genius of Soviet democracy that all meetings should reach comradely unanimity. Say a worker came before a factory committee and pointed out that they were turning out cars with three wheels, or told a farm committee they were turning out calves with two heads. Such news never stopped a calm, experienced committee from marching in single formation.

Marchuk sipped from a glass, lit another cigarette, a Player’s with rich, foreign smoke, and studied the report, his head down. The angle accentuated the Asiatic cast to his cheeks. The captain looked like a man made for subduing the taiga, not for nosing through bureaucratic jargon. The stranger in the oatmeal sweater smiled patiently, as if he’d wandered by chance into this meeting, but was in no great hurry to leave.

Marchuk looked up. “You conducted this inquiry with Seaman Renko?”

“Yes,” Slava said.

“I see only your signature at the bottom.”

“Because we did not have an opportunity to speak before this meeting.”

Marchuk motioned Arkady closer. “Renko, do you have anything to add?”

Arkady thought for a moment and said, “No.”

“Then do you want to sign it?” Marchuk offered a thick fountain pen, a Monte Cristo, right for a captain.

“No.”

Marchuk screwed the cap back on the pen. This was going to be more complicated.

The Invalid poured himself more water and said, “As Seaman Renko did not do the bulk of the work, and as the recommendations are purely those of the third mate, there’s no need for Renko’s signature.”

“Let’s see.” Marchuk turned back to Arkady. “You disagree with the conclusion that we leave the loose ends for the boys in Vladivostok?”

“No.”

“Then with what?”

“Only …”—Arkady searched for precision—“the facts.”

“Ah.” For the first time the man in the oatmeal sweater sat up, as if he had finally heard a word in a language he understood.

“Excuse me,” said Marchuk. “Seaman Renko, this is
Fleet Electrical Engineer Hess. I have asked Comrade Hess to contribute his able mind to our meeting tonight. Explain to him and to me how you can disagree about the facts and agree with the conclusion.”

The
Polar Star
hadn’t seen the fleet in six weeks and wouldn’t see it again for another four. Arkady wondered where Hess had been hiding, but he concentrated on the question at hand.

“Zina Patiashvili died the night of the dance,” Arkady said. “Since she was not seen belowdecks on her way to her cabin, she probably went either to some other compartment in the aft house or, as the third mate says, onto the stern deck. However, when people faint they drop, they do not take a running start so that they can flip over a rail that would have come up to Zina’s ribs. There are marks characteristic of drowning, none of them present with Zina, and when they open her lungs in Vladivostok they’ll find no salt water. The characteristic marks present on the body—the lividity on the forearms, calves, breasts and belly—result only
after
death, from being on all fours for a period of time, and the bruises on the ribs and hips come not from resting against a rail but from being packed viciously against hard protuberances. She was killed on the
Polar Star
and stowed on board. As for the puncture of the belly, it was done with the single stab of a sharp knife. There were no scratches or sawing, and there was little bleeding. The facts are that before being thrown over she was stabbed to prevent her from floating to the surface. Another proof that the cut was not made by a net bringing her up was that she was thirty fathoms down on the sea bottom, long enough for slime eels to penetrate the puncture wound, enter her and nest in her.”

“There’s nothing in your report about eels,” Marchuk said to Slava. Fishermen hated slime eels.

“More?” Arkady asked.

“Please.”

“Her co-workers state that Zina Patiashvili was a
ceaseless toiler, yet the Americans say she appeared at the stern rail every time, day or night, that the catcher boat
Eagle
delivered a net. Often that coincided with Zina’s watch, which meant that she dropped her work whenever she cared to and was gone for half an hour at a time.”

“You say Soviets lie and Americans tell the truth?” Volovoi asked as if uncertain about a distinction.

“No. Zina spent the dance in the company of the Americans from the
Eagle
, dancing with them and talking to them. I do not think a woman runs to a stern rail in the middle of the night or in the rain to wave to a boatful of men; she runs to wave to one man. The Americans are certainly lying about who that might be.”

“You mean one of our boys was jealous?” Marchuk asked.

“That would be slander,” Volovoi stated, as if this disposed of the question. “Of course, if there were derelictions in the galley, if any worker gave less than her full time, there will be a stern rebuke.”

“Water?” Marchuk lifted a bottle to Volovoi.

“Please.”

Bubbles danced in the Invalid’s glass. There was an ominous curve to Marchuk’s smile, but the words would stay Soviet, level and businesslike.

“The problem,” Marchuk defined it, “is the Americans. They will watch to see whether we conduct an open and forthright investigation.”

“We will,” Volovoi said. “In Vladivostok.”

“Naturally,” Marchuk said. “However, this is a unique situation and may require a more immediate effort.” He offered the Invalid a cigarette. All this was still within the bounds of Soviet discussion. Sometimes there were immediate crises, such as at the end of each month when the quota could be fulfilled only by turning out cars with three wheels. The equivalent on a fishing boat was
to meet the tonnage quota by turning the entire catch, foul or fresh, into fish meal.

“The doctor agreed with Comrade Bukovsky,” Volovoi pointed out.

“The doctor,” Marchuk said, trying to take the suggestion seriously. “The doctor was even wrong about the time of death, as I remember. A good doctor for the healthy, not so good with the ailing or dead.”

“The report may have some flaws,” Volovoi conceded.

Full of regret, Marchuk addressed himself to Slava. “Excuse me, the report is shit.” To Volovoi he added, “I’m sure he did his best.”

The last Russian ship the
Polar Star
had seen was an off-loader that had taken three thousand tons of sole, five thousand tons of pollack, eight thousand tons of fish meal and fifty tons of liver oil in exchange for flour, hams, cabbage, cans of film, personal mail and magazines. Arkady had been part of the crowd on deck that day. He hadn’t noticed any tiny fleet electrical engineer riding the block and tackle.