Ascendancies (45 page)

“That's right,” Tamara said, surprised. “Plus a little group of cheerful peasants with their sickles. It was a socialist-realist poster, you see, from one of the collectivization campaigns…My husband came up through the Agriculture Bureau. It was a little gift to us from some grateful villagers.”

“Wow,” Starlitz said, reaching into his pocket. “I'd really like to have that. Can we do business?”

“I do business,” Tamara said with dignity. “But I'm also the wife of the Party Chairman. I don't have to sell the clothes off my back!”

“Yeah, I know that, but…” Starlitz began. “How about if—”

“Turn here,” Tamara commanded.

They had reached the railway. The place was black as pitch. “Oh dear,” Tamara said. “I wish they'd do something about these power failures. I can't go walking out there in these heels.”

“And I don't know the territory,” Khoklov said quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, I get the point,” Starlitz said. He opened the door reluctantly, saddened to leave the driver's seat. “Well, there's bound to be somebody out there I can hustle. I'll be back later for the jerry cans.”

“Maybe there's a flashlight,” Tamara said, sliding lithely into the back of the bus. “If I can find it, we'll come after you.”

“I'll help her look,” Khoklov said.

“Sure, sure,” Starlitz said.

He walked off into darkness, pebbles crunching under his sneakers. The smells were promising: hot brake oil, raw whiffs of petrochemical stench. Starlitz pulled his Cricket lighter, twisted it, and flicked the switch. A six-inch butane jet flared up. Starlitz lit a Marlboro at arm's length, and found his way up a concrete ramp to the loading docks.

A series of yellow-stencilled tank cars had been parked on a siding. Quick flashes of the lighter guided him.

Starlitz felt his way to the tank car's gigantic manual faucet. It wouldn't budge. Starlitz took a few deep breaths, then crouched down and wrenched a railroad spike from a tie with his bare fingers. He whacked enthusiastically at the tap, with earsplitting clanks and thuds. No dice.

A red railroad lantern came swaying down the line. Starlitz ducked under a freight car, clutching his spike. As the guard crept past, Starlitz recognized him. He crept out and tapped the man's shoulder.

The guard whirled with a yelp. “Be cool,” Starlitz said. “It's me, man.”

“Comrade Starlits!” the guard said.

“I thought you were on strike, Vartan,” Starlitz said, tossing his spike.

“I'm on strike from my
illegal
job, unloading the Boss's black-market airplanes,” the Armenian said. He was still jittery; his eyes rolled a little under their corduroy cap brim. “But my
legal
job here, as a railroad guard, is too vital to neglect!”

“You mean you can't give up stealing from freight cars,” Starlitz said.

“Well, yes,” Vartan admitted. “But if I didn't steal freight, I couldn't stay in the black market.” He shrugged unhappily.

“Get real,” Starlitz said, dusting his hands. “Everyone's in the black market. That's the beauty of the system.”

Vartan cleared his throat uneasily. “It wasn't my idea to strike, you know,” he said. “It was Hovanessian's.”

“He's the skinny kid in the crew, with the glasses, right? The smart one?”

“The stupid one,” Vartan said. “Always talking ‘openness' and ‘restructuring.' Calls himself a ‘dissident' and leads protests in the street. He's a big pain in the ass.”

“Lemme guess,” Starlitz said. “He's the one who had the bright idea to steal our kerosene from the hangar.”

“That's right.”

“And it's all in empty vodka bottles now, with rags stuffed on top of it. Hidden in basements and attics. Belonging to Hovanessian and his radical nationalist pals.”

“It's no use hiding anything from you, Comrade Starlits,” Vartan said. “Yes, Hovanessian wants to fight. Any weapon is useful, he said. Even the famous flaming cocktails of former Minister Molotov.”

“Yeah?” Starlitz said. “He's gonna match his little busted bottles against these big Red Army tank cars?”

Vartan smirked. “None of us want to fight soldiers. We're all good Soviets; ask anybody! The son-of-a-bitch Moslem ragheads are the real problem.”

“Think so, huh?”

“They breed like rats. They're taking over everything! A whole swarm of them moved into the house next door, right into a Christian neighborhood. It's intolerable!” Vartan glowed with righteous determination. “Besides, the Red Army won't hurt
us
. They're used to killing Moslems. They're on
our
side, really.”

“There's gonna be a crackdown,” Starlitz told him. “Or a big crack-up… I'm not sure yet, but I can smell it coming. The system here is gonna blow.” His words hung on the empty air. Starlitz scratched his bristled head and smirked, with a scary parody of candor. “I know what I'm talking about,” he muttered. “I got a definite
feel
for this kind of situation.”

Vartan shuffled his feet, which were clad in boots soled with folded newspapers. “I'm sure you do, Comrade Starlits! Although your role in the Boss's operation is humble, all your Armenian subordinates greatly respect your insight and political perspicacity.”

“Knock it off with that crap!” Starlitz said. He frowned. “Listen to me. When your real trouble comes, it's gonna be serious news, pal. Not at all like you think.”

Vartan blinked unhappily. “Life is hard,” he said at last. “I'm not asking for miracles, comrade. All I really want, is to see my neighbor's house burn down.” Vartan spread his hands modestly. “It wouldn't take very much, would it? Just lob in a few flaming bottles, some dark night…It's worth a try.”

“You ever try to burn a house down before?” Starlitz said. “You'll burn down your own house, man.”

“I thought
my
Russian was bad,” Vartan scoffed. “I didn't say
my
house; I said
his
house.” Vartan drew a breath. “We Armenians have had it, that's all. I'm a regular guy; I'm no egghead dissident. But we're gonna settle some scores here, once and for all. The old-fashioned way.”

Vartan kicked the tank car viciously. “So just forget about our little theft from the Boss's air strip. Here's all the fuel you need, right here. I'll steal it for you; you can take all you want. Just take it away, and forget you saw me here.”

“Better think it over,” Starlitz said.

Vartan narrowed his eyes. “Look, you're no red-blooded Armenian either, Comrade Straw Boss. You're a Tadjik, right? Or an Uzbek or something…”

Vartan stopped suddenly, surprised. An odd subliminal chill had entered the air. There was a faint, sullen, almost inaudible rumble. The railway cars rocked and squeaked on their axles.

Starlitz, his eyes alert, was balanced on the balls of his feet. He rolled a little from side to side, his knees bent, his hands hanging loose and open. “D'you
feel
that, man?”

Vartan shook his head. “It was nothing…just the rail settling. Some of the ties are rotten.”

Starlitz looked at him. “Have it your way,” he said at last. “I'll be back soon with some jerry cans.”

Starlitz trotted back to the bus. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. “You guys okay?” Starlitz said. Subdued giggling came from the back of the bus, and the springy crunching of a bunk.

Starlitz sighed. “Either of you feel the earth move, just a while ago?”

“Don't make bad jokes,” Tamara chided.

“Okay,” Starlitz shrugged. “We're gonna roll now.”

He drove the bus along the rail line until he found the proper siding. He parked the bus and started ferrying ferry cans.

Vartan had opened the tap with a pry bar. Kerosene was dribbling steadily. The rails beneath the tank were already dark and slick with it. “You're wasting fuel,” Starlitz said.

“So what?” Vartan said. “This is a whole tank car.”

“It's splashing over everything,” Starlitz said.

“You think the army's gonna put it to better use?”

Starlitz ferried filled cans to the back of the bus. “That fuel really stinks,” Khoklov complained. “I hope you're almost done, Starlits.”

“Close,” Starlitz said.

“Burn some more hashish,” Tamara suggested. “That Afghani brick smells lovely.”

“I lost the matches,” Khoklov said. “Throw me your lighter, Starlits.”

Starlitz tossed him the Cricket. Khoklov thumbed it and shrieked as the flame jetted out. “Christ! Cut in the after-burner,” he said. Tamara laughed.

“Gimme some of that,” Starlitz said. Khoklov appeared from the darkness, in his ribbed Christian Dior undershirt. He passed Starlitz a fist-sized clod of hash.

When Starlitz had filled the last can, he gave the hash to the Armenian. “It's for your trouble,” he said. “Don't smoke it on the job, okay?”

“Stop worrying,” Vartan said, pocketing it.

“Here's a lighter,” Starlitz said. “Be real careful with it.”

“You must think I'm an idiot,” Vartan said. He was struggling with the broken tank-car tap. It had been stripped somehow; it refused to shut off.

Starlitz drove away. “Well, ace, I told you we'd manage,” he said. “What do you say, Tamara Akhmedovna? Do we drop you off at the Palace of Culture, or do we head straight for the airstrip?”

“If you think I'll let you drive this bus all by yourself, you must be more stoned than I am,” Tamara said. “Open some windows, darling. That kerosene reeks.”

“It's kind of a mess back there at the railhead,” Starlitz said. “Had to smash and grab. Not too subtle.”

“Drive fast, then, and drive to the farm,” Tamara said. “Anyway, I'm not through consoling this Soviet hero yet.” She laughed giddily. “Whoa! What a shiver! I think those pills are coming on…What did you call those?”

“Dexedrine,” Khoklov said. “For combat alertness.”

“And you say the
air force
gives you these?” Tamara said. “My! I think I
know
some people in the air force. They've been keeping secrets.”

“Oh, not us air boys,” Khoklov said. “We're as clear and simple as the day is long.”

“Everyone has secrets,” Tamara protested gaily. “Even the chauffeur. Tell Captain Khoklov some of your secrets, Lekhi Starlits!”

“Gimme a break,” Starlitz said.

“You know where we found this man?” Tamara said. “In prison. The Soviet border guards had caught him trying to sneak into Iran!”

“Holy mother,” Khoklov said, interested.
“Why?”

“Smuggling gig,” Starlitz said reluctantly. “Had some business friends there…trying to smuggle rock and roll into the country. The mullahs shoot people for possession of rock. Makes music worth a lot.”

“Oh, I love rock and roll!” Khoklov enthused. “Especially Yankee music from the sixties. It really speaks to my groovy soul, when I'm strafing a village…What kind of rock music was it, exactly?”

“I dunno, man. Stuff I got cheap. Cowsills, Carpenters, Bobby Goldsboro…”

“I never heard of those,” Khoklov said, crestfallen.

“Ask him about his money,” Tamara prodded. “He always has a roll of hundred-dollar bills. Even in prison he had it! You can strip him naked and burn his clothes, and next day he just reaches into his pocket, and there it is again!”

“You're stoned,” Khoklov protested. “If he can do that, why didn't you just shoot him?”

“We wanted to at first, but he's too useful,” Tamara said. “He's the best mechanic we've ever had here in Azerbaijan. It's a weird ability he has—he can fix anything! We just give him some wires and screws, and maybe some oil and a jack-knife, and even rusty old wrecks start running again. Sometimes he just
stands next
to a machine, and
frowns
at it, and it gets better right away! Isn't that so, Lekhi?”

“It's no big deal,” Starlitz muttered. “She's putting you on, ace.”

“I know that,” Khoklov said indulgently. “She talks just like Scheherazade. It's charming.”

“No, it's true!” Tamara said. “That's exactly how he is! I'm not kidding, you know.” There was a leaden silence. Tamara laughed gaily. “But it doesn't matter, really. I don't care if you believe me or not! We don't care
how
strange he is, as long as he belongs to us.”

It was almost dawn when they reached the airstrip. They fueled the plane as quickly as they could. Even Tamara helped.

Khoklov helped Starlitz move the paint ladder to the cockpit. “I'll have to tell them I had engine trouble, and was forced to fly very slowly. To stay aloft so long, and still return safely to base—I think I just performed a superhuman feat of aviation!” Khoklov chuckled and elbowed Starlitz in the ribs. “Just like one of your so-called miracles, eh, Comrade Starlits? It's amazing what nontechnical people will believe.”

“Sure,” Starlitz muttered. “Whatever works, man.”

Khoklov climbed up into the cockpit. “I'll die happy now, Tamara,” he shouted. “Save a place for me in one of those black-market cemetery plots.” He slid the cockpit shut.

Starlitz started the tractor and expertly backed the Ilyushin-l4 out of its hangar and onto the runway. He decoupled and drove back to the hangar.

Tamara stood at the hangar gate, her arms folded, watching the spyplane climb. “Russians are so morbid,” she said. “He's a very sweet boy, for KGB, but I don't trust him in our business. He's got Death written all over him.” She shivered, and buttoned her jacket. “Besides, he might brag about me…Get rid of him for me, Lekhi, there's a dear. Tell my husband that Captain Khoklov has a bad attitude. We'll find ourselves a different pilot. Someone who hasn't killed more people than I can count.”