Red Chameleon (19 page)

She stood near the door, and he could see over her right shoulder the space from which the photo had been taken. There was something of the fragile bird about the woman that touched Rostnikov, though she was not thin. In fact, she seemed a bemused, disheveled, slightly younger version of his own Sarah, but that might simply be the cautious Jewishness of both women. There was no clear physical characteristic that marked Soviet Jews from other Russians. But there was a look nurtured by hundreds of years of wariness in an always-hostile culture.

“I would like a drink of water,” he said gently.

“A drink of water,” she repeated, as if no command could be acted upon unless programmed through her own voice. She moved, limped, to the small sink, turned on the faucet, and filled a glass for him. Instead of advancing to give it to him, she stood at the sink, holding it out. Rostnikov nodded solemnly and walked over to take it.

She was not pretty, he decided, looking at her as he drank, but there was that air of Cassandra, a distance, a sense that she was listening to voices on another plane. Rostnikov admitted that there was something intriguing about that, something that attracted him. Her air suggested madness, and madness suggested a vision he could not imagine, a fragile creative power that needed protection.

He drank the water and handed the glass back to her before he spoke.

“We have made some progress,” he said.

She looked at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Progress in finding the killers of your father,” he explained.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, looking directly at him and making it quite clear that it didn't matter to her. “All I want is the photograph and the candlestick. Lev and I have very little to remember.”

“When we catch the killers, we will have the candlestick. The killers do not have the photograph, however. We took that, as you may recall. And we will return it shortly.

“I have some names I want to say to you, names of the people who we think were in the photograph. I will say them, and you tell me if your father ever mentioned them, what he said. Can we do that?”

She didn't answer.

“And can we sit?”

She sat at one of the three wooden chairs at the small kitchen table, and he sat across from her. He considered asking for another glass of water just to keep his hands busy. Most Russians smoked. It was a habit Rostnikov' had never considered.

“Mikhail Posniky, Lev Ostrovsky, Shmuel Prensky,” he said. “I thought, perhaps, your brother Lev might be named for Ostrovsky, who was one of the men in the photograph.”

“Never,” she said without emotion.

“Your parents would never name—”

“Lev was named for my grandfather. But Mikhail Posniky—I heard that name. My father knew him, went to America with him. I think he died.”

“And Shmuel Prensky?”

“The magic snake,” she answered, looking down at her hands. “The poison snake of gold. To say his name is like saying the name of the Lord. It is forbidden.”

“Your father said this?”

“In the dark, once or twice. At night. To my mother when she lived. Inspector, have you ever thought that being alive is very difficult?”

“I have thought this, yes.”

“And?”

“And I eat my borscht, lift my weights, read my books, do my work.”

“Do you have a wife and children?”

“A wife, a son, a grown son.”

“You said your wife is Jewish. You said that the day my father was killed. Was it a lie?”

Their eyes met and Rostnikov smiled. “It was no lie.”

“Shmuel Prensky is Jewish,” she said almost to herself.

“So were all the men in the photograph,” Rostnikov said in return, wanting to reach out and pat the nervous hand of the woman as it rested on the hard wood table. But he did not reach out.

She shrugged, dismissing the thought.

“Where is your brother?”

“At the home of a friend,” she said. “He grew tired of all the police. All the questions.”

“All the— You mean more policemen came to talk to you since I—since your father's death?”

Her head was shaking in confirmation.

“They came, asked these same questions. Came again. We can't move. Can't hide. We can only sit and answer. In life, no one ever came to see father. Now that he is dead, he has many visitors. Do you think it is hot in here?”

“It is hot,” Rostnikov agreed. “I must go.”

He could tell her now that the investigation was closed. It wasn't too late. What could she do? Could she cry, wail? This was a woman with dreaded dreams who wanted her candlestick, her photograph, and a reason for insanity.

Rostnikov stood up with the help of the table, because, as usual, his leg had begun to stiffen. Sofiya watched and, he noticed, rubbed her own crippled leg. As he moved to the door, she rose, took a step toward him, and looked up at his face with a question. He opened his arms, and she put her head on his chest. He held her, patted her head, and waited for her to weep. He felt her cheek against his shoulder, her breasts against his chest, and wondered how long it had been since anyone had held and comforted Sofiya Savitskaya. He wondered, in fact, if she had ever been held and comforted, and inside himself he wept for her.

They stood that way for several minutes, and she was so silent that Rostnikov thought she might have fallen asleep. He could feel her breathing against him.

“I must go,” he said gently, but she didn't move back. He took her arms and held her a few inches away as he repeated, “I must go,” and then he sat her in the kitchen chair. Her eyes were closed, and her shoulders remained close together as if she had been hypnotized.

“I will come back when I know more,” he promised, going to the door. The woman did not move. He went out and closed the door noiselessly behind him. Then he paused to listen. If she cried, he might go back, invite her for dinner, stay with her and tell his life story, spin a tale about Isola in America, about Ed McBain's world of police who caught criminals and knew nothing of politics, of police who were supported by their system, policemen named Carella, Meyer, Kling, and Brown, of policemen in a nightmare world but one in which they could comfort each other and those they encountered who were the victims of the madness.

Rostnikov went home. He wondered when he looked up at the evening sun if Sofiya Savitskaya would remain in that chair, her shoulders together, her eyes closed, until a prince came who would break the spell. Rostnikov felt the grit and sweat under his rapidly wilting collar and knew he was no prince. He was, at best, a comic knight or a guardian of the secret, but he was no prince.

He almost wandered into a hole in the street clearly marked with a sign indicating
remont,
or repair, and he put off going home by entering a bakery where the line to find out the price was reasonably short. He got the price and then went to the line to pay the cashier. Ten minutes later he had gone through the third line, the one to pick up the bread, and was on his way home.

“Let's go to a movie,” he growled when he finally returned to his apartment and saw Sarah, her red hair tied back, her face solemn, her dress dark, placing food on the table.

She stopped, looked at him with her hands on her hips, and cocked her head to one side, which reminded him of the way she had looked one afternoon in 1962 when he had teased her about going on a vacation. He remembered that it was 1962, because he had just finished the investigation of the murder of the three shoe-store clerks on Lenin Prospekt, and he had been feeling wonderful.

“The Mir has a French movie about Napoleon and Josephine,” she said, testing him, for she knew that Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov's taste went to action films and comedies.

“The Mir sounds perfect,” he said, putting his bread on the table.

“Maybe, we could find—” Sarah began, ready to concede some ground.

“The Mir it shall be,” he said. “We will eat after I lift my iron babies. I will wash, and we will lose ourselves in decadent history and French romanticism. You smile? Does that mean we shall hold hands and kiss in the darkness like children?”

“You were never a child, Porfiry Petrovich,” she said, checking something cooking that smelled sweet and indefinable to Rostnikov, who had begun to remove his clothes and prepare himself for his beloved weights. It would, he decided, be a perfect night. He would merge with the weights, sweat upon his own sweat, exhaust himself, and eat. He would eat as if he were in a terrible contest in which he had to extract all taste and savor all odors to win. Then he would go with Sarah to the French movie and love it, talk about it, imagine himself Napoleon. For one night he would not be in Moscow. One night. That was all he could do, and deep down he thought that was all he really wanted to do.

E
MIL KARPO OPENED HIS EYES
, expecting to see the gray sky above the roof of the Ukraine Hotel. Instead, he saw pale gray walls, the solid, unsmiling face of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, and he heard voices around him.

“I saw a French movie last night,” Rostnikov said, looking down at him. “The French laugh too much, with too little feeling and with almost no reason. Do you agree?”

“I'm not an expert of the French mentality,” Karpo croaked through his painfully dry throat. He realized now that he was in a bed, in a hospital.

A man was standing beside the chief inspector. He was about forty with a birdlike chest and glasses with wire rims that made him look like an intellectual from a 1930s movie about the Revolution.

“The woman who fell from the roof,” Rostnikov said. “She was the Weeper?”

Karpo nodded.

“This is Monday morning,” Rostnikov said. “I'm going to sit on your bed.” He did. “They didn't call me yesterday when it happened. I think it was Procurator. Khabolov's way of punishing me for the destruction of his Chaika. Well, you are supposed to be curious. You are supposed to be amused. You are supposed to be burning with curiosity about this destroyed Chaika, and you just lie there.”

“Comrade inspector,” Karpo whispered painfully, “I have neither a sense of humor nor a morbid curiosity about the humiliation of others.”

“See?” said Rostnikov, turning to the man with the glasses. “Didn't I tell you he would steal his way into your heart, Alex?”

“You told me he would steal his way into my heart,” Alex agreed, moving forward to Emil Karpo's side and looking down at him intently.

“She jumped,” Karpo said, his eyes on those of Rostnikov's companion. “I will detail it in my report. Did she injure anyone in her fall?”

“No, no one, though the street had to be closed off for almost half an hour, I understand. The rifle she had with her went through the window of a clothing shop.”

Karpo took in the six other patients in the ward room. None had a visitor; three were displaying mild curiosity about Karpo and his guests, and three were in no condition to respond to their environment.

The man named Alex put his hand on Karpo's forehead, leaned down to look into his eyes, and then reached for the numb right arm.

“Comrade inspector, I take it this man is some kind of health professional and not a morbid lunatic you encountered in the hall,” Karpo said, watching his arm being lifted, seeing the dingy gray sleeve of his gown slide back, feeling a tingling in the fingers as the man examined.

“See, Alex, I told you he had a sense of humor. He can deny it all he likes, but Emil Karpo could make a living as a comedian.”

“He is very funny,” Alex agreed blankly as he ran his hand over the limp arm and bent it at the elbow.

“Alex is a doctor,” Rostnikov whispered, “but we will keep that a secret. The woman who is supposed to be your physician would not take consultation with exuberance. Alex is my wife's cousin. Remember? He went to a real doctor's school in Poland.”

Alex prodded away, ignoring Rostnikov, who continued, “On the way in we stopped at the X-ray department and told a slight lie which enabled Alex to examine your X rays.”

“They were botched.” Alex sighed, working ahead. “But I could see enough. I just want to be sure …” He rolled Karpo's shoulder firmly and caused a pain that brought a minor grimace to Karpo's pale face.

“You are supposed to give vent to some feeling when you have pain,” Alex said, looking at Karpo's pale face. “How am I supposed to know I'm hurting you if you do not cooperate?”

“I will scream the next time,” Karpo said.

“Would you like some water? They stuck a tube down your nose, but I don't know what the hell for,” Alex said, shaking his head and reaching for the water glass on the small table. “These sheets aren't even properly cleaned.”

Karpo took a drink of water, a small sip that burned as it rolled over inflamed and tender nodules at the base of his tongue.

“I'm going to tell you what you should do,” Alex said, adjusting his little black tie professionally. The room was warm, but a breeze did flow through the open windows. A spot of sweat showed, clearly etched like the outline of an amoeba on Alex's white shirt. “You should get out of here as fast as you can. Tell them you feel fine before they operate on you and maim you for life or, worse, infect you in an unsterile environment. They are controlling your fever with drugs. Who knows what drugs. Do you know why you have a fever?”

“I—” began Karpo, but Alex ignored him.

“You have a fever because you have an infection in your shoulder resulting from an improperly reset dislocation. You also have a severe cold. You can recover from the cold at home after I reset your arm in my office.”

“Listen to him, Emil Karpo,” Rostnikov whispered.

“Here you get treated free,” Alex said, adjusting his glasses. “A service of the state. I'll treat you for two hundred rubles. That's a month's salary for the doctors who work in this hospital, and as you probably know, it is less than a factory worker makes, which explains something about the quality of care you get here.”