Red Chameleon (3 page)

“Floor?” Zelach asked.

“Three,” said Rostnikov, moving to the stairwell. The trip up the concrete steps was slow due to Rostnikov's leg, and since their voices echoed unpleasantly, as in Lenin's tomb, they said nothing.

When Rostnikov opened the door on the third floor, a small girl, no more than four, stood staring at him. Her hair was braided behind her, and she sucked her thumb. Rostnikov smiled.

“Oo menya temperatoora,”
the little girl said, indicating that she had a temperature.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Rostnikov.

“They killed the man with the beard,” she said round her thumb.

“So I understand,” said Rostnikov.

“Who are they?” the little girl asked, now taking her thumb from her mouth.

“We will see,” said Rostnikov. Zelach stood, hands behind his back, patiently waiting for his superior to finish interrogating the child.

“Will they come back?” said the girl. Her eyes were so pale blue that they almost blended with the white and reminded Rostnikov of his own son as a child.

“They will not come back,” Rostnikov assured her. “Did you see them?”

The girl shook her head no and glanced down the hall at a door that was now creaking open. An old woman dressed in black came out of the open door, looking quite frightened and stepping as if the floor were made of the shells of eggs.

“Elizaveta,” the
babushka
whispered, not looking at the men. “Come now.”

“No,” the child said, looking coyly at Rostnikov.

“I think you should go, Elizaveta,” Rostnikov said. “You have a temperature.”

The girl giggled and ran to her grandmother, who snatched her in by the arm after giving an apologetic and very guilty look in the general direction of the two policemen. The door closed, and the men were alone again.

“You'll talk to the old woman later,” Rostnikov said.

Zelach nodded, and they strode to the door of number 31. Rostnikov knocked and was answered almost immediately by a woman's voice.

“Yes,” the voice said, strong, familiar, and in command.

Rostnikov knew who it was, and the knowledge drained him further.

“Inspector Rostnikov,” he said, and the door opened to reveal the uniformed presence of Officer Drubkova, her face pink and eager, her zeal oppressive and tiring.

“Comrade inspector,” she said, stepping back to let him in. “This is the victim's daughter and son, Sofiya and Lev Savitskaya. The victim is Abraham Savitskaya, eighty-three years. His body is still in the bath down the hall.” She nodded with her head as Rostnikov and Zelach came in. Rostnikov caught the eyes of the no-longer young woman standing in the corner with one arm around a boy whose frightened eyes tried to take in everything at once, to keep everyone and all things in view so they could not get behind him. There was something about the woman that struck Rostnikov. It was like seeing for the first time a relative known only in childhood. If she were the victim's daughter, then she was at least half Jewish, and so, he thought, there may be some reminder of Sarah, but it went beyond that, and when she moved, he knew what it was.

The woman stepped forward as if to ask a question, and her limp was pronounced, quite similar to Rostnikov's own. Perhaps she had seen him move into the room and made the connection.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Officer Drubkova, ever efficient, moved to the woman, probably to guide her back to the corner until the inspector was ready for her. Drubkova's firm hands took the woman's shoulders, but Sofiya Savitskaya did not turn away. The boy stayed back, eyes darting.

“It is all right, officer,” Rostnikov said, shifting his coat to his other arm.

Zelach asked, indelicately, “You want me to go look at the corpse?”

Rostnikov nodded first at Zelach, who lumbered back into the hall, and then at the woman, who had limped forward.

“They killed my father,” she said.

“We know,” Rostnikov answered, and realized that he had one of the dazed ones, the ones for whom the trauma had been so great that they viewed violent events of the immediate past as if they were of no time, no place, just vague images they were trying to get to stop shimmering long enough to ask questions about their reality.

“The two men shot him,” she said. The boy moved forward, frightened, to hold his sister's arm. If she were lost in madness, he would have no one.

“She will be all right,” Rostnikov assured the boy. “This is one of the natural reactions. Why don't we all sit down. …”

“Lev,” the boy said, holding his sister's arm firmly. “My name is Lev.”

“Why don't we all sit down after you get me a drink of water,” Rostnikov said, finding a kitchen chair and lowering himself into it. Lev considered whether there might be a trap in the request and then cautiously moved to the sink in the kitchen section of the room. Officer Drubkova watched the boy suspiciously, as if he might grab the glass of water and make a mad escape with it into the hall.

“Officer Drubkova,” Rostnikov said, taking the glass of tepid water. “Find a phone and be sure the evidence truck is on the way. Comrade—”

“Her name is Sofiya,” Lev said, leading his sister to a chair.

“Sofiya,” Rostnikov said, sipping the water, “where is there a phone in this building?”

“There's one—” Lev began, but Rostnikov put a finger to his lips, and the boy stopped.

“Comrade Sofiya?” Rostnikov repeated to the staring woman. “A phone. I need help here.”

Sofiya made an effort to refocus, came back into the world temporarily, and said, “Thirty-three, Vosteksky has a phone.”

Officer Drubkova nodded and went in search of the phone, closing the door behind her.

“Your father is dead,” Rostnikov said to the two in front of him. The boy was now standing, holding his sister, his hands on her shoulders. “And we should like to find out who killed him and why. Do you have an answer to either question?”

“Two men,” said Lev. “A young one and a very old one like—”

“Like me,” finished Rostnikov.

“No, older, like my, my—”

“And you have never seen them before?” Rostnikov said, finishing the water and putting the glass on the table, which was covered with a slightly worn flower-patterned tablecloth made from some oilclothlike material.

“Never,” said Lev.

“And you, Sofiya? You have never seen them before?” Rostnikov said gently.

“I've seen the old one,” she said, looking through Rostnikov into eternity.

“Good.” Rostnikov sighed with a gentle smile, thinking that perhaps he could wrap all this up and get home before ten for a decent dinner. “He is a neighbor, a friend, an old enemy?”

Sofiya glanced around the room as if looking for someone or something and then brought her puzzled glance back to Rostnikov. Her answer made him revise his plans for a reasonable dinnertime and the possibility of an hour of weight lifting before the hockey match on his little television.

“I don't know where, but I've seen him, but it wasn't quite him. Do you know what I mean?”

“Exactly,” Rostnikov said reassuringly, though he had no idea of what she meant. “Try to remember where you have seen him. Now, your father, what was his business, his work?”

“He didn't work,” Lev said, and Rostnikov thought there was a touch of something, perhaps resentment, in the words.

“He was ill,” Sofiya jumped in. “He used to be in the Party, but when my mother died, I don't know how long ago, he became ill and didn't work. I work. I teach children at the Kalinina School. I teach reading, shorthand, and—”

“Did your father talk about enemies?” Rostnikov put in before she could launch into an irrelevant discussion of the Soviet educational system.

“He imagined many enemies,” Lev said. “Mostly the police, the KGB, others.”

“Imagined?”

“He claimed he had an old friend in the government,” Sofiya said. “Someone who was having him watched.”

“And you think that might have been true?” Rostnikov asked.

“No,” Sofiya said. “He lied a lot.”

She seemed on the verge of crying, which was all right with Rostnikov, but he had information to get, and he would prefer to get it before she began. Then he would even help her to cry, throw her some cue that would set her free to moan and rejoin the world, but he wanted to do that as he left, after he had drained her of information. Anything else was wasteful.

“Did these men take anything?” Rostnikov asked, turning his attention to Lev, whose hand had come to his mouth as if to hold back a cry. The eyes continued to scan, but more slowly now. He was becoming a bit more calm.

“I don't know,” the boy said, looking around the not very spacious and not overly filled room. “Sofie?”

The woman shook her head to indicate that she did not know.

Rostnikov stood up with some difficulty. “Why don't you look around and let me know. I'll go down the hall and come back.”

“How did you injure your leg?” the woman asked.

“War,” answered Rostnikov, draping his jacket over the chair he had vacated to make it clear to them that he was coming right back. “When I was a boy not much older than your brother. And you?”

“I was born with it,” she said, shuddering. “My father and mother gave it to me as a birthday present. You know I loved my father?”

“I can see that,” Rostnikov said, moving as quickly as he could to the door.

“I did, too,” said Lev, a bit defiantly.

“Did you?” asked Rostnikov, opening the door. He suddenly felt hungry and cursed the fact that he had not joined Zelach in a quick blinchik or two.

“No,” said Sofiya, her eyes challenging. “I did not love him. I hated him.”

“I understand,” said Rostnikov.

“And I loved him.”

“I understand that, too,” he said to her gently, going out into the hall.

The wood of the door was thin. He expected a loud wail when he closed it, but instead he heard gentle sobbing. He had to strain to determine which of the two was crying and knew with certainty only when he heard the woman's voice. “Shh, Lev. Shh. We will be fine.”

The door to the communal bathroom was open, and Officer Drubkova was now guarding it.

“I called in,” she greeted him. “They will be here in minutes.”

Rostnikov grunted and stepped past her, resisting the urge to compliment her or say something pleasant. The Officer Drubkovas of the MVD were sustained by efficiency and self-satisfaction, a belief that those above them were above human feeling, images of an idealized Lenin. To compliment Drubkova would have been to diminish himself in her eyes.

Zelach was on his knees in front of the old tub, which looked as if. it had belonged to a relative of the czar's. It stood on clawed legs that gripped metal balls pitted with age and wear. Zelach had found a towel and placed it on the floor for his knee. He was methodically examining the grotesque body in the tub without emotion, concentrating on his task.

For a moment Rostnikov took in the scene. The water was almost orange with blood, and the sticky remnant of
Izvestia
quivered just below the surface. Rostnikov could see a photograph on the front page, though he could not, through the orange film, make out who it was. The dead old man was very thin and very white. One arm hung out of the tub, pointing down at the tile floor. The other was under the water, hidden, touching a secret place or thing. The old man's chest was thin and covered with wisps of gray hair. Two black holes in his chest peeked through, caked with blood. The old man's face was gray bearded and, like that of the boy, thin. The features were regular, and even in death there was something about him that said, “I've been cheated. You, anyone who comes near me, are out only for one thing, to cheat me out of something that is my own.”

“And?” said Rostnikov.

“Shot,” said Zelach.

“I am surprised.” Rostnikov, sitting on the closed toilet seat, sighed.

“No, look, the bullet holes are quite evident—” Zelach began. Rostnikov put his head down and almost whispered, “I see, Zelach. I see. I was attempting to engage in a bit of humor. Levity.”

“Ah, yes,” said Zelach, anxious to please but not understanding. “Yes, it was amusing.” He either chuckled or began to choke. Rostnikov, taking no chances, leaned over to pat the man's back, which resulted in Zelach's bumping into the dangling arm of the corpse, which set off a small chain reaction. The balance of the corpse changed, and Abraham Savitskaya's body began to sink below the surface of the reddish water.

“What should I—?” Zelach said hopelessly.

Rostnikov didn't care. He shrugged, and Zelach reached over to grab the corpse's sparse gray hair. He was pulling the body out by the hair as Officer Drubkova stuck her head in to announce that the evidence truck had arrived. If the sight of the kneeling officer pulling a corpse's hair revolted, surprised, or shocked her, she gave no indication. She simply made her announcement and backed away to let in a man and a woman, both wearing suits, both carrying small suitcases, both serious. Rostnikov recognized the two of them, Comrades Spinsa and Boritchky, a team who spoke little, worked efficiently, and reminded him of safecrackers in a French movie.

“He is already dead,” said Boritchky, a small man of about sixty. “You need not redrown him, Zelach.”

Zelach let go of the corpse's hair and stood up. The body did, this time, sink under.

“Thank you,” said Comrade Spinsa, herself about fifty, very thin with a prominent, pouting underlip. “Now we shall have to drain the tub for even the beginning of an examination.”

“I didn't—” Zelach began looking over to Rostnikov on the toilet seat for support.

Rostnikov's mind was elsewhere. Zelach was not worth saving from embarrassment. Rostnikov had better uses for his energy.