11

It’s past noon when I get to Lyublino. I walk down Kurskaya from the Metro, looking over my shoulder. It’s an old habit, acquired twenty-five years ago—June 16, 1968 to be precise—the day the KGB arrested my father. A Saturday. The Jewish Sabbath. It was no accident. His outspokenness on the Prague issue is what landed him in the gulag, but his cultural heritage is what kept him there. Though the recent dismantling of the Secret Police has taken the edge off my paranoia, that rabid medal dealer quickly sharpened it.

My apartment is like a meat locker, the radiator silent and cold like Mrs. Parfenov’s aging brain, which can’t remember to turn on the heat. I bang on the pipes with a wrench I keep handy, put up a pot of coffee, and roll a couple of sheets of paper into the typewriter with a worn carbon.

Rafik’s point about the rise of nationalism is a perfect angle for the story: Despite the change from enslaved to free society, life for the average citizen has taken a turn for the worse. No wonder the nostalgia for the past. No wonder the demand for medals is such that thieves kill for them, dealers assault those who endanger their operation, and the police are faced with a rise in violent crime.

I write it, rewrite it, and polish it, fighting my inclination to sugarcoat bitter pills with government-speak. Countless cigarettes and cups of black coffee later, it’s finished. Six double-spaced pages. Fifteen hundred words that bristle with energy—that are my best shot at getting a line on Vorontsov’s killer.

I’ve been beaten, arrested, jailed, and dumped by Vera, and I’m still no closer than when I started. I’ve been hoping she’d stop by on the way to work, but no such luck. I slip the pages into my briefcase and head for Pravda. Sergei is in a meeting when I arrive. I’m talking shop with another free-lancer when he emerges from a conference room.

“Sergei?” I call out, hurrying after him as he recognizes my voice and quickens his pace. “Sergei? Sergei, wait. You were right.”

That stops him. He turns to face me, jut-jawed, head cocked challengingly.

“Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I acted like a jerk.”

“That’s one word for it. Anything else?”

“Yes. I need a favor.”

He groans.

I slip the pages from my briefcase.

Sergei snatches them, pushes up his glasses, and scowls. “The black market in medals? I thought I made it clear I’m not interested in street crime.”

“I’m not asking you to buy it, Sergei. I’m asking you to read it. I need a critique.”

His face softens like a parent with a prodigal child. “No more Novoyaz?"

“You tell me.”

He lumbers into his office, plucks a pencil from a mug as he rounds the desk, and goes to work. His expression seems to soften in tribute. “Better, much better,” he finally mutters, pencil darting across the pages. He’s nearing the end when he recoils and looks up. “Shevchenko had you arrested?”

“Uh-huh. Claimed he was making a point.”

“What point? Why would he . . .” Sergei pauses as the pieces fall into place. “You’re not letting go of this Vorontsov thing, are you?”

I shake my head no and smile.

“Dumb. But I’d be disappointed if you had,” he says enigmatically. “Why is it any skin off Shevchenko’s ass?”

“It complicates his life. He’s overworked, he’s got trouble at home, he—”

“Who doesn’t?” Sergei cracks, his pencil resuming its journey. “Where you going to submit this?”

“I was thinking about Independent Gazette.”

“Good. You know Lydia?”

“Lydia?”

“Lydia Brelova,” he says, scooping up the phone and dialing as he talks. “Best Metro editor in the city. Young, smart—Lydia?” he says effusively when she answers. “Sergei Murashev here. Crazed. What else? Listen, I’ve just come across a piece that’s more your thing than mine.” After briefing her, he hangs up, explains I’ve got a shot at tomorrow’s edition, and offers me a typewriter to do the rewrite.

I’m about to get into it when something dawns on me. “By the way, Sergei, the other piece?”

“Other piece?” he echoes, a little evasively.

“Yes, the one on Vorontsov. I’d like it back, if it’s handy?”

“Oh? Oh, yes, of course.” I’m probably reading into it, but he seems to be going through the motions as he shuffles a stack of files on his desk. He comes up empty and shrugs. “Funny. I could swear it was here.”

“You think maybe the kid has it?”

“Drevnya? It’s possible. He’s covering a story. I’ll check when he gets back.” Sergei chuckles to himself, savoring a thought. “He’s a pip. Always out there, digging. Relentless.”

“Try ruthless.”

“That too. They all are. You remember when we had that kind of drive?”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

Sergei laughs and points me to the newsroom. “Better get started; you’ll miss the deadline.”

I settle at a desk and make the changes. About an hour later, I’m leaving the building when a taxi pulls to the curb and Drevnya jumps out, nose buried in the pages of his notebook. He’s preoccupied, bristling with journalistic zeal. Like he’s onto a story and can’t wait to get to his typewriter.

What story? I wonder. Where’s he been? What’s he up to? Why do I feel threatened, dammit? He heads for the door, pretending he hasn’t seen me. After our last encounter, who’d blame him? “Hey? Hey, Drevnya? Got a minute?”

The kid pauses and eyes me apprehensively. “No. I’m on deadline,” he replies, keeping his distance.

“Me too,” I fire back, which seems to disarm him. I make a brief apology and ask about my Vorontsov article.

“Sergei has it,” Drevnya replies, clearly puzzled.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. He asked me for it.”

I was right. Sergei is up to something. But I don’t have time to go back upstairs and get into it now. “Ask him to call me if it turns up, okay?”

It’s a short Metro ride to Independent Gazette, the gutsy, Western-style journal that took over where Moscow News left off. Hidden in a courtyard near Lubyanka Square, where the Russian tricolor flies in place of the statue of secret police founder Felix Dzerzhinsky, the Gazette’s efficient offices are alive with youthful energy and the hum of word processors.

Sergei was right. Lydia Brelova is immediately taken by the article. She’s a decisive woman who knows what she wants and drives a hard bargain to get it. I’m in no position to argue. Besides, after paying my rent—Moscow Telephone takes forever to track delinquents, so the phone bill can wait—I’ll still have enough left to bury the hatchet with Vera over dinner, if she doesn’t bury one in me first. Then I remember she’s working tonight, so I head over to Yuri’s, instead.

His tiny one-room flat on Begovaya is located in a run-down area of the city—but it’s still in the city. Moscow has always had a critical housing shortage and those who don’t want to share living space with relatives or, as is often the case, total strangers, have two choices: live in a polluted suburb like I do, or in a “closet” like Yuri—though I expect his new status at the Interior Ministry will soon result in an upgrade. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are stuffed with economic treatises, among them works by Adam Smith, Robert Solow, Milton Friedman, the three Johns—Kenneth Galbraith, Maynard Keynes, Stuart Mill—and a treasured, samizdat copy of Samuelson’s Economics that I recall Yuri acquired in the days when studying Western economic theory required courage and guile.

He’s on the phone with his mother when I arrive. She lives alone on a farm in Sudilova, several hours north of the city by car. For as long as I’ve known him, every Saturday morning without fail, Yuri drives out to see her; and several times each week, she calls to remind him to come. After hanging up, he mentions he’s had no luck with Vorontsov’s documents, but promises to keep trying. I’ve been so caught up in the medals, I’d almost forgotten about them. Besides, once this story hits the streets, I may not need them.

We celebrate with a few beers.

I’ve been up over thirty-six hours and on the wagon considerably longer. The alcohol hits me like a sledgehammer. I spend the night on his sofa and pick up a copy of Independent Gazette in the morning on the way home. I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve seen my by-line in print, but I still get a little rush. This one is cut short by a man in a trench coat, leaning against a Zhiguli across the street from my apartment.

Tall, slim, his angular face masked by sunglasses, he flicks a cigarette to the ground and steps on it as I approach, then follows me with his eyes—or so it seems. It’s not the medal dealer who threatened to get me, but that doesn’t mean this guy isn’t one of them. I’m climbing the steps of the old mansion, telling myself it’s another flash of paranoia, when a shadow ripples across Mrs. Parfenov’s curtain. Is she keeping an eye out for him or me?

“Nikasha,” she says effusively, emerging from her apartment as I enter the foyer.

I know what she wants. “The rent,” I announce, producing a wad of rubles before she can ask.

She stuffs them in the pocket of her apron without so much as a glance, then turns to the door behind her. “Come in for a minute, Nikasha. Come in. I want to show you something.”

“This isn’t a good time, Mrs. Parfenov.”

“She’s not up there,” the old babushka says, sensing I’m anxious to find out if Vera’s here. “Take a minute. Please, it’s important.”

Important? Maybe she’s finally recalled whatever it is she hasn’t been able to remember. I follow her into a musty room filled with baronial furniture that dwarfs her. On the tired cushion of an armchair, I notice a copy of Independent Gazette open to my story.

Mrs. Parfenov shuffles to a closet and fetches something wrapped in a moth-eaten Army blanket. She cradles it like a swaddled infant and places it on the table in front of me. Then carefully folding back the coarse wool, she reveals a lacquered hardwood box. Her bluish fingers undo the latch and open it like a book. Both halves are lined with black velvet. One contains a rust-stained pistol. The other, dozens of gleaming medals with brightly colored ribbons. They’re arranged around a small, enameled frame that holds a photograph of a handsome young man replete with mustache, mutton-chops, and military uniform sporting officer’s epaulets.

Mrs. Parfenov’s eyes come alive with distant memories and search mine for a reaction.

“Your husband?”

“Sasha,” she says, nodding with pride, her fingers skimming reverently over the medals. “He fought in the revolution; and in the civil war too; then he fought the Nazis. My Sasha . . .” Her eyes glisten and her voice cracks with emotion. “My Sasha fought for Russia. The real Russia. A place where people would help one another. Where everyone would be equal. Where no one would go hungry or be without clothing or shelter. He fought for a dream.”

For a socialist fairy tale, is what comes to mind, though I’m so taken by her lucidity I don’t dare say it. It’s as if reading my story sent an electric shock through her brain, revitalizing long dormant neurons.

Her cool hand takes hold of mine. “You see, Nikasha, we loved our country, not our government.”

“I remember my father saying that at his trial.”

“Yes, there were some dark days; but you shestidesyatniks are all alike,” she says, referring to the generation that saw hope in the last political thaw. “You think we wanted purges? You think we wanted to live with fear and ugliness? We’re no different than you. All we wanted was a better life. Was that so terrible?”

“No, Mrs. Parfenov, it wasn’t.”

She nods, vindicated. “That’s why my generation still believes in Communism. The new order is for the young: those with no stake in the past and the strength to face painful change.” She pauses and shakes her head in dismay. “My life has gotten more difficult lately. Much more.”

“So has mine. But I believe that it will get much better in time.”

“Time,” she echoes with a sarcastic croak. “Time is a luxury the elderly can’t afford. We sacrificed to give life to the Rodina. Now she is sacrificing us.” She sighs resignedly. “But that’s how it is with one’s children, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She stares blankly, signaling her inertia has returned. The silence is broken by a truck that lumbers to a stop outside, making the casements shudder. She goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. A moving van is backing into a space in front of the building.

I’m more interested in the Zhiguli across the street. It’s still there, but the man in the trench coat isn’t. “Someone moving in?” I ask, relieved.

“Out,” she replies impassively. Then her posture straightens, and she looks up at me. “Ah, yes, I know what I’ve wanted to tell you, Nikasha,” she announces, pleased at having finally remembered. “At the end of this month—” A distant phone rings, interrupting her. She squints in search of the thought, then loses it and glances to the ceiling. The muffled ring is coming from directly above us, from my apartment.

I excuse myself, dash up the stairs, fumbling for the key, then swiftly unlock the door, and dive across the desk for the phone. “Vera?!”

“No—Lydia,” comes the reply, accompanied by an amused giggle.

“Oh? Oh, hi,” I say, glad the “city’s best metro editor” can’t see my sheepish expression.

“There’s a Mrs. Churkin here looking for you. She wants to talk about your story.”

“Churkin? Mrs. Tanya Churkin?”

“That’s right. I told her you were free-lance and suggested she write a letter to the editor, but she insists she has to talk to you. I said I couldn’t give out your number without permission.”

“She’s there now?”

“Uh-huh. Won’t take no for an answer. I’ll put her on, if you like.”

“No, I want to do this in person. I’ll be there in about an hour. Don’t let her leave.”

I’ve no doubt this is the break I’ve been looking for; no doubt that after reading my story Vorontsov’s daughter recalled something disturbing, something she doesn’t want to take to the militia, who were too quick to decide he was killed for his medals, whom she doesn’t trust. Why else would she come to me?

I hurry from the apartment, stopping briefly at the Zhiguli. A half-dozen cigarette butts are crushed into the macadam. All Marlboros. All half-smoked. I work my Ducats right down to the filter. The fellow in the trench coat is either a foreigner or a Russian who’s beating the system—like the medal dealers.

The escalator deposits me on the crowded Metro platform where a man leans against a column reading a newspaper. A man in a trench coat! The man in the trench coat! Is he out to get me? If he is, why is he stalking me? Why hasn’t he made his move? If wants me to squirm for a while, if that’s how he gets his kicks, he’s sure as hell succeeding.

I drift toward the opposite end of the platform. He watches me over the top of his newspaper, then drifts in the same direction. I quicken my pace, weaving between the other passengers. As soon as I’ve put some distance between us, I step back into one of the arched seating alcoves, and slip out of my parka. Then I turn it inside out, put it back on, put up the hood, and remove my glasses.

The station is a blur without them, but what looks like a woman with a rambunctious toddler hanging from one fist and shopping bags from the other comes toward me and takes a seat.

I settle on the bench next to them and wave at the child. He screeches playfully in reply. My gut tightens as the soft-edged silhouette of a trench coat moves into view on the platform. The child screeches again and lunges at me, almost toppling off the bench. He’s still screeching as I catch him by the seat of the pants and swing him into my lap.

The man in the trench coat reacts to the sound and glances over his shoulder at us. He’s looking for unkempt hair, wireframe glasses, and a beige parka; but I’m wearing a dark blue one with a hood now, and have just acquired a lovely family. He anxiously sweeps his eyes over the other passengers in the area as the whoosh of air rises and the train pulls into the station. The woman takes the squirming child from me and smiles in appreciation.

“Why don’t I help you with those,” I suggest, hefting her shopping bags without waiting for a reply. I casually escort my “wife and son” onto the train. The man in the trench coat moves off down the platform in search of me. There’s no sign of him during the ride to Moscow or walk to Independent Gazette, though I’ve no doubt he’s as adept at concealment as he is at intimidation.