“You didn’t even copy it right. It’s not really like that, it goes this way.” He picked up Malianov’s pencil, jumped up, put the paper on the table, and, pressing heavily with the pencil, drew another line over Malianov’s chart. “There. And over here it goes like this, not like that.” When he was finished, and the pencil point was broken, he threw away the pencil, sat down again, and looked at Malianov with pity. “Eh, Malianov, Malianov. You’re a highly educated man, an experienced criminal, but you behave like the lowliest punk.”
Malianov kept looking back and forth from his face to the graph. It didn’t make any sense at all. It was so ridiculous that it was pointless to say anything, or scream, or say nothing. Actually, the best thing to do in this case would be to wake up.
“And is your wife on good terms with Snegovoi?” Zykov asked, once again polite to the point of colorlessness.
“Good terms, yes.”
“Do they use the informal you?”
“Listen. You’ve ruined my graph. What’s going on?”
“What graph?” Zykov was surprised.
“This one, right here.”
“That’s of no consequence. Does Snegovoi drop over when you’re not home?”
“Of no consequence,” Malianov repeated. “It may be of no consequence to you,” he said rapidly, gathering his papers and stuffing them into the drawers. “You sit here and work and kill yourself like a damn fool and then anyone who wants to comes around and tells you it’s of no consequence,” he muttered, getting down on all fours and gathering the rough drafts scattered on the floor.
Igor Zykov watched him expressionlessly, neatly screwing his cigarette in the holder. When Malianov, huffing, sweaty, and angry, got back to his chair, Zykov asked politely:
“May I smoke?”
“Go ahead. There’s the ashtray. And get on with your questions. I have work to do.”
“It all depends on you,” Zykov maintained, delicately letting smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. “For example, here’s a question: What do you usually call Snegovoi—Colonel, Snegovoi, or Arnold?”
“Depends. What’s the difference what I call him?”
“You call him Colonel?”
“Well, yes. So?”
“That’s very strange,” Zykov said, carefully flicking his ash. “You see, Snegovoi was promoted to colonel only the day before yesterday.”
That was a shock. Malianov said nothing, feeling his face turn red.
“So how did you find out he was made colonel?”
Malianov waved his hand.
“All right. I was bragging. I didn’t know he was a colonel, or lieutenant colonel, or whatever. I dropped in on him yesterday and saw his tunic with the epaulets. And I saw he was a colonel.”
“When were you there yesterday?”
“Last night. Late. I got a book. This one.”
That was a mistake, mentioning the book. Zykov grabbed the book and started leafing through it. Malianov began sweating again because he didn’t have the slightest idea what was in it.
“What language is this?” Zykov asked distractedly.
“Er …” Malianov mumbled, sweating for a third time. “I would imagine English.”
“I don’t think so,” Zykov said, peering into the text. “It looks like Cyrillic to me, not Latin. Oh! It’s Russian!”
Malianov broke out in a sweat for a fourth time, but Zykov merely replaced the book, put on his dark glasses, leaned back in the armchair, and stared at Malianov. And Malianov stared at Zykov, trying not to blink or to look away. A thought ran through his mind: You son of a bitch. I won’t tell you where our boys are.
“Who do you think I look like?” Zykov suddenly asked.
“Like a Tonton Macoute!” Malianov blurted without thinking.
“Wrong,” Zykov said. “Try again.”
“I don’t know.”
Zykov took off his glasses and shook his head accusingly.
“That’s bad! It won’t do! You have strange ideas about our investigatory organizations. How on earth did you come up with that—Tonton Macoute?”
“Well then, who do you look like?” Malianov asked, faltering.
Igor Zykov waved his sunglasses under Malianov’s nose as though giving the whole thing away.
“The Invisible Man! The only thing in common with Tonton Macoute—the only one—is that they’re both capitalized!”
He fell silent. There was a thick, heavy silence in the air; even the cars outside stopped making noise. Malianov couldn’t hear a single sound, and he desperately wanted to wake up. And then the silence was shattered by the telephone.
Malianov jumped. It seemed that Zykov did, too. The phone rang again. Leaning on his forearms, Malianov raised himself up and glanced questioningly at Zykov.
“Yes. It’s probably for you.”
Malianov climbed over to the bed and picked up the phone. It was Val Weingarten.
“Hey, stargazer,” he said. “Why don’t you call, you pig?”
“You know how it is … I was busy.”
“Fooling around with the broad?”
“No—what do you mean, ‘with the broad’?”
“I wish my Svetlana would force her girlfriends on me!”
“Y-yes …” He felt eyes on the back of his head. “Listen, Val, I’ll call you back later.”
“What’s wrong over there?” Weingarten demanded anxiously.
“Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“Is it that broad?”
“No.”
“A man?”
“Uh-hum.”
Weingarten sighed into the phone.
“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can come right over. Do you want me to?”
“No! That’s all I need.”
Weingarten sighed heavily.
“Listen, does he have red hair?”
Malianov glanced over involuntarily at Zykov. To his surprise, Zykov wasn’t looking at him at all. He was reading Snegovoi’s book, his lips moving.
“Of course not! What kind of nonsense is that? Look, I’ll call you later.”
“Definitely call!” Val yelled. “As soon as he leaves, call me.”
“All right,” Malianov said and hung up. Then he returned to his chair, mumbling excuses.
“It’s all right,” Zykov said and put down the book. “You have wide-ranging interests, Dmitri.”
“I can’t complain,” Malianov muttered. Damn, I wish I could get at least one look at that book. “Please,” he said placatingly, “let’s finish up, if it’s at all possible. It’s after one already.”
“Naturally!” Zykov proclaimed helpfully. He glanced at his watch anxiously and pulled out a notebook from his folder. “All right, so last night you were at Snegovoi’s, correct?”
“Yes.”
“For this book?”
“Y-yes,” Malianov said, deciding not to clarify anything.
“When was this?”
“Late, around midnight.”
“Did you have the impression that Snegovoi was planning a trip?”
“Yes, I did. I mean it wasn’t an impression. He told me that he was leaving in the morning and would bring me the keys.”
“Did he?”
“No. I mean, he might have rung the bell and I didn’t hear him. I was sleeping.”
Zykov wrote quickly, leaning the pad on the folder that lay on his knee. He did not look at Malianov at all, even when he addressed the questions at him. In a rush, perhaps?
“Did Snegovoi mention where he was going?”
“No, he never told me where he went.”
“But you guessed?”
“Well, I think I had an idea. To a proving ground, or something like that.”
“Did he tell you anything about it?”
“No, of course not. We never spoke about his work.”
“Then what do you base your guess on?”
Malianov shrugged. What did he base it on? It’s impossible to exp
lain things like that. It was clear that the man worked in a deep bunker, his face and hands were all burned, and he had a manner that corresponded to that kind of work … and the fact that he refused to discuss his work.
“I don’t know. I just always thought so. I don’t know.”
“Did he introduce you to any of his friends?”
“No, never.”
“His wife?”
“Is he married? I always thought he was a bachelor or a widower.”
“Why did you think so?”
“I don’t know,” Malianov said angrily. “Intuition.”
“Perhaps your wife told you so?”
“Irina? How would she know?”
“That’s what I would like to clear up.”
They stared at each other in silence.
“I don’t understand,” Malianov said. “What is it you want to clear up?”
“How your wife knew that Snegovoi wasn’t married.”
“Ah … she knew that?”
Zykov did not reply. He was staring intently at Malianov and his pupils dilated and contracted ominously. Malianov was on edge. He thought he would start banging his fist on the wall, drooling, and losing face if it lasted one more second. He couldn’t stand it anymore. This whole conversation had some evil subtext, it was all like a sticky web, and for some reason Irina was being dragged into it.
“Well, all right,” Zykov said suddenly, shutting the note pad with a snap. “So the cognac is here,” he pointed at the bar, “and the vodka is in the refrigerator. Which do you prefer? Personally?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Personally.”
“Cognac,” Malianov said hoarsely and swallowed. His throat was dry.
“Wonderful!” Zykov said cheerfully; he stood up and walked with small steps over to the bar. “We won’t have far to go! Here we go,” he said digging through the bar. “Ah, you even have some lemon—a little dry, but all right. Which glasses? Let’s use these blue ones.”
Malianov watched listlessly as Zykov deftly set up the glasses on the table, sliced the lemon thin, and uncorked the bottle.
“You know, speaking frankly, you’re in bad shape. Naturally it’s all up to the courts, but I’ve been at this for ten years, and I have some experience in these matters. And you can always guess what sentence each case will get. You won’t get the maximum, of course, but I can guarantee you fifteen, at least.” He poured the cognac carefully into the glasses without spilling a drop. “Of course, there may always be mitigating circumstances, but for now, frankly, I don’t see any—I just don’t see any, Dmitri! Well!” He raised his glass and nodded invitingly.
Malianov took his glass with numb fingers.
“All right,” he said in a voice that was not his own. “But could I at least know what’s going on?”
“Naturally!” Zykov shrieked. He drank his glass, popped a piece of lemon into his mouth, and nodded energetically. “Of course you can! I’ll tell you everything. I have every right to do so.”
And he told him.
At eight o’clock that morning a car came to pick up Snegovoi to take him to the airport. To the driver’s surprise, Snegovoi was not waiting downstairs as usual. He waited five minutes and then went up to the apartment. No one answered even though the bell was working—the driver could hear it himself. So he went downstairs and called the office from the corner. The company began calling Snegovoi on the phone. Snegovoi’s phone was constantly busy. Meanwhile, the driver walked around the house and discovered that all three windows in Snegovoi’s apartment were wide open and, in spite of the daylight, all the electric lights were on. The driver phoned with the information. The right people were called in, and they broke down the door and examined Snegovoi’s apartment. Their investigation revealed that all the lamps in the apartment were on, that an open, packed suitcase stood on the bed, and that Snegovoi was at his desk in his study, holding the phone in one hand and a Makarov pistol in the other. It was determined that Snegovoi had died of a bullet wound to the right temple fired at point-blank range from that gun. Death was instantaneous and took place between three and four a.m.
“What does that have to do with me?” Malianov whispered.
In reply Zykov told him in detail how ballistics had plotted the trajectory of the bullet and found it lodged in the wall.
“But what does that have to do with me?” Malianov kept asking, thumping himself on the chest. They had already had three shots each.
“Aren’t you sorry for him?” Zykov asked. “Do you feel sorry for him?”
“Of course I do. He was an excellent man. But what do I have to do with this? I’ve never had a gun in my hand in my whole life; I was rejected by the army. My eyesight …”
Zykov wasn’t listening to him. He kept explaining in detail that the deceased had been left-handed and that it was very strange that he shot himself with the gun in his right hand.
“Yes, yes, Arnold was left-handed, I can corroborate that. But as for me! I slept all night! And anyway, why would I kill him? Judge for yourself!”
“Then who did? Who?” Zykov asked gently.
“How should I know? You should know who!”
“You!” Zykov said in an ingratiating tone reminiscent of Porfiry in Crime and Punishment, peering with one eye at Malianov over his vodka glass. “You killed him, Dmitri!”
“This is a nightmare,” Malianov muttered helplessly. He wanted to cry.
A light breeze crossed the room, moving the blind, and the strident midday sun rushed into the room and hit Zykov smack in the face. He squinted, shielded his face with his hand, moved in his chair, and quickly set the glass on the table. Something happened to him. His eyes blinked rapidly, color came to his cheeks, and his chin quivered.
“Forgive me,” he whispered in a completely human voice. “Forgive me, Dmitri. Perhaps you could … it’s very … in here.”
He stopped because something fell in Bobchik’s room and shattered with a resounding noise.
“What was that?” Zykov asked, tensely. There was no more trace of human quality in his voice.
“There’s someone there,” Malianov said, still not understanding what had happened to Zykov. A new thought came to him. “Listen!” he shouted, jumping up. “Come with me! My wife’s girlfriend is in there! She can vouch that I slept all night and didn’t go anywhere.”
Shoulders bumping, they jostled their way into the foyer.
“Interesting, very interesting,” Zykov was saying. “Your wife’s girlfriend. We’ll see.”
“She’ll vouch for me. You’ll see. She’s a witness.”
They rushed into Bobchik’s room without knocking and stopped. The room was cleaned up and empty. There was no Lidochka in there, no sheets on the bed, no suitcase. And sitting on the floor next to the pieces of the clay pitcher (Khorezm, eleventh century) sat Kaliam with an unbelievably innocent air.
“This?” Zykov asked, pointing at Kaliam.
“No,” Malianov answered stupidly. “This is our cat, we’ve had him a long time. But wait, where’s Lidochka?” He looked in the closet. Her white jacket was gone. “She must have left?”
Zykov shrugged.
“Probably. She’s not here now.”
Stepping heavily, Malianov went over to the broken pitcher.
“B-bastard!” he said and cuffed Kaliam’s ear.
Kaliam beat a hasty retreat. Malianov crouched. Shattered. What a beautiful pitcher it had been.
“Did she sleep here?” Zykov asked.
“Yes.”
“When did you see her last? Today?”
Malianov shook his head.
“Yesterday. Well, actually today. In the night. I gave her sheets and a blanket.” He looked into Bobchik’s linen trunk. “There. It’s all there.”
“Has she been living here long?”
“She arrived yesterday.”
“Are her things here?”
“I don’t see any. And her coat is gone.”
&
nbsp; “Strange, isn’t it?” Zykov said.
Malianov just waved his hand in silence.
“The hell with her. Women are nothing but trouble. Let’s have another shot.”
Suddenly the front door swung open, and in walked …
Excerpt 6.… elevator door, and the motor hummed. Malianov was alone.
He stood in the doorway to Bobchik’s room leaning on the frame and thinking about nothing. Kaliam appeared out of nowhere, walking past him, tail twitching, and went out onto the landing, where he set about licking the cement floor.
“Well, all right,” Malianov said finally, then tore himself away from the door frame and went into his room. It was smoke-filled and three blue glasses stood abandoned on the table—two empty and one half full. The sun was up to the bookshelves.
“He took the cognac with him! That’s all I need!”
He sat in the armchair for a while, finished his glass. Noises from the street came in through the window, and the open door let in children’s voices and elevator grumblings from the stairs. He got up, dragged himself through the foyer, bumping into the doorjamb, plodded out onto the landing, and stopped in front of Snegovoi’s apartment door. There was a big wax seal on the lock. He touched it gingerly with a fingertip and pulled his hand away. It was all true. Everything that had happened had really happened. Citizen of the Soviet Union Arnold Snegovoi, colonel and man of mystery, was no more.
CHAPTER 4
Excerpt 7.… washed the glasses and put them away, cleaned up the pieces in Bobchik’s room, and gave Kaliam some fish. Then he took down Bobchik’s milk glass, put three raw eggs into it, added pieces of bread, heavily salted and peppered the mixture, and stirred. He wasn’t hungry; he was functioning on automatic pilot. And he ate the glop, standing by the balcony window watching the sun-flooded empty courtyard. Couldn’t they plant some trees? Even one?
His thoughts moved on in a feeble trickle, not really thoughts, just bits and pieces. Maybe these are the new investigative methods, he thought. The scientific and technological revolution and all that. Free and easy behavior and psychological attack. But the cognac, that was completely unclear. Igor Petrovich Zykov. Or was it Zykin? Well, anyway, that was what he said his name was, but what did it say in his documents? Those con men! he thought suddenly. They pulled that whole prank just for a lousy half bottle of cognac?