that?”
“My father knew Stalin.”
“They were friends?”
“That’s hard to say. Stalin had most of his friends shot. Let me drive you to the clinic.”
“No. I’ll walk. I can use the fresh air.” Eva was on a different tack. “Did Stalin ever visit this apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I’m standing where Stalin stood?” She looked down at her bare feet.
“Not here in the bedroom, but in the rest of the apartment, I suppose so.”
“Because I always like to absorb the atmosphere and now I feel that I have really come to Moscow.”
“That’s the historian in you.”
“It’s certainly not the romantic.”
Ah, that was it, Arkady thought, Stalin was to blame.
For the workers who burned with ambition, for soldiers slack-jawed from hash, for those too old and too poor to wave down a car, for revelers going home with a split lip and broken glass in their hair, for lovers who held hands even wearing gloves, and for the souls who had simply lost track of time, the illuminated red M of the Park Kultury Metro was a beacon in the night. They stumbled in like survivors, stamping off snow and loosening scarves while Arkady watched. Fifteen minutes to the last Red Line train and he had seen no one resembling a Stalin expert.
Eva knew he had been less than forthcoming about part of his conversation with Zurin. Now they had both lied. What should he have said? If he had told her that the prosecutor was using her as leverage, she would have packed and been gone in a day. Even if she had promised not to, he would have come home to find the apartment empty.
Something was moving along the banked snow of the sidewalk. It made progress and then stopped and rested against the bank. A faint snowfall sparkled. The approaching something developed an overcoat and the sort of tufted knit cap a Laplander might wear for herding reindeer, and closer, a prow of a nose, woolly brows, and blood-raddled eyes. Grandmaster Platonov.
“Investigator Renko! Look at these fucking boots.” He pointed to the felt valenki he wore.
“They’re on the wrong feet.”
“I know they’re on the wrong feet. I’m not a cretin. There was no place to sit down and switch them.”
“Are you my Stalin expert?”
“Are you my protection?” Platonov’s glare folded into resignation. “I guess we’re both fucked.”
5
T he Moscow Metro is the underground palace of the people.” Platonov limped, one boot on and one off, as he pointed at the walls. “Milk white limestone from the Crimea. Now that the riffraff is gone, you can see it properly.”
With its arches and tunnels, the hall of the Park Kultury station looked more like a monastery than a palace. A cleaning woman shuffled on towels across a wet section of the floor at about the same speed Platonov was moving.
Arkady asked, “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“To meeting a phony Stalin? This is an idiotic prank. Did you find Zhenya?”
“No.”
“You won’t, not until he’s ready.” Platonov stepped onto the down escalator, sat to finish switching boots, stood to put his cap in one pocket and, from another pocket pulled a white silk scarf he flung around his neck. Fumes of liberally applied cologne finished the effect of a bon vivant, a man about town.
Ahead, a man with a violin case hurried down the steps. Behind, an old man in what had once been an elegant astrakhan cap gallantly carried a handbag for his wife while she pursed her lips and rouged her cheeks.
“Nervous?” Arkady asked.
“No,” Platonov said too quickly, and repeated, “no.” With his heroic beak, he could have been a Roman senator or King Lear cast out by ungrateful daughters so they could play chess. “Why should I be nervous? I take this subway line every day. It was dug by volunteers during the most difficult times of the thirties and the war. You can’t imagine it now, but we were idealists then. Everyone, male and female, the young cadre of the Party, vied to dig the
“My father knew Stalin.”
“They were friends?”
“That’s hard to say. Stalin had most of his friends shot. Let me drive you to the clinic.”
“No. I’ll walk. I can use the fresh air.” Eva was on a different tack. “Did Stalin ever visit this apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I’m standing where Stalin stood?” She looked down at her bare feet.
“Not here in the bedroom, but in the rest of the apartment, I suppose so.”
“Because I always like to absorb the atmosphere and now I feel that I have really come to Moscow.”
“That’s the historian in you.”
“It’s certainly not the romantic.”
Ah, that was it, Arkady thought, Stalin was to blame.
For the workers who burned with ambition, for soldiers slack-jawed from hash, for those too old and too poor to wave down a car, for revelers going home with a split lip and broken glass in their hair, for lovers who held hands even wearing gloves, and for the souls who had simply lost track of time, the illuminated red M of the Park Kultury Metro was a beacon in the night. They stumbled in like survivors, stamping off snow and loosening scarves while Arkady watched. Fifteen minutes to the last Red Line train and he had seen no one resembling a Stalin expert.
Eva knew he had been less than forthcoming about part of his conversation with Zurin. Now they had both lied. What should he have said? If he had told her that the prosecutor was using her as leverage, she would have packed and been gone in a day. Even if she had promised not to, he would have come home to find the apartment empty.
Something was moving along the banked snow of the sidewalk. It made progress and then stopped and rested against the bank. A faint snowfall sparkled. The approaching something developed an overcoat and the sort of tufted knit cap a Laplander might wear for herding reindeer, and closer, a prow of a nose, woolly brows, and blood-raddled eyes. Grandmaster Platonov.
“Investigator Renko! Look at these fucking boots.” He pointed to the felt valenki he wore.
“They’re on the wrong feet.”
“I know they’re on the wrong feet. I’m not a cretin. There was no place to sit down and switch them.”
“Are you my Stalin expert?”
“Are you my protection?” Platonov’s glare folded into resignation. “I guess we’re both fucked.”
5
T he Moscow Metro is the underground palace of the people.” Platonov limped, one boot on and one off, as he pointed at the walls. “Milk white limestone from the Crimea. Now that the riffraff is gone, you can see it properly.”
With its arches and tunnels, the hall of the Park Kultury station looked more like a monastery than a palace. A cleaning woman shuffled on towels across a wet section of the floor at about the same speed Platonov was moving.
Arkady asked, “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“To meeting a phony Stalin? This is an idiotic prank. Did you find Zhenya?”
“No.”
“You won’t, not until he’s ready.” Platonov stepped onto the down escalator, sat to finish switching boots, stood to put his cap in one pocket and, from another pocket pulled a white silk scarf he flung around his neck. Fumes of liberally applied cologne finished the effect of a bon vivant, a man about town.
Ahead, a man with a violin case hurried down the steps. Behind, an old man in what had once been an elegant astrakhan cap gallantly carried a handbag for his wife while she pursed her lips and rouged her cheeks.
“Nervous?” Arkady asked.
“No,” Platonov said too quickly, and repeated, “no.” With his heroic beak, he could have been a Roman senator or King Lear cast out by ungrateful daughters so they could play chess. “Why should I be nervous? I take this subway line every day. It was dug by volunteers during the most difficult times of the thirties and the war. You can’t imagine it now, but we were idealists then. Everyone, male and female, the young cadre of the Party, vied to dig the
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