Metro.”
“Not to mention brigades of forced labor.”
“Some convicts redeemed themselves through labor, that’s true.”
“Which reminds me, has anybody notified the Communists that Stalin is back? I think the Pope would be informed if Saint Peter were seen in the streets of Rome.”
“As a courtesy, Prosecutor Zurin, knowing the Party’s interest and concern, did inform us. I’ve been delegated to make a report.”
“So, besides teaching and playing chess, you are also a Party bureaucrat?”
“I told you at the chess club that I was well-connected.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Any sane man would have run from the assignment, Arkady thought. “And you chose me?”
“I thought I detected a glimmer of intelligence.” Platonov sighed. “I may have been wrong.”
The train had collected the dregs of the evening: an inebriated officer of the Frontier Guard who leered at four prostitutes shivering in skimpy jackets and high-heeled boots. Arkady and Platonov took one end of the bench, the pensioners Antipenko and Mendeleyev took the other end. The violinist dropped into a corner seat, set his violin case across his knees, and opened a book. He had a round face and a wispy beard à la Che. Arkady didn’t expect many passengers in the last carriage; the Metro was famous for its safety, but the later the hour the more people gravitated toward the front of the train.
As the doors closed, Zelensky, the filmmaker, rushed in and took a seat near the far end, where he emanated nervous energy in a spooky black leather coat that emphasized how thin he was. His frizzled hair looked especially electrified and iPod cords hung from his ears. As the train pulled out he pushed a duffel bag under the bench. If he noticed Arkady he didn’t show it.
Park Kultury station fell behind; Kropotkin, Lenin Library, Okhotny Row, Lubyanka and Chistye Prudy stations lay ahead. Lightly loaded, the train flew through the tunnel with added whip. Windows turned to mirrors. A pale man with deep set eyes sat across from Arkady. No one should ever have to confront himself, he thought, not on the last train of the night.
Platonov rambled on about the Metro’s glories, the white marble hauled from the Urals, black marble from Georgia, pink marble from Siberia. At Kropotkin station he pointed out the enormous chandeliers. The station was named for Prince Kropotkin, an anarchist, and Arkady suspected that the chandeliers would have made the prince’s hand itch for a grenade. Six elderly riders got on, including those two ancient riders from the night before, Antipenko and Mendeleyev. Arkady wondered what the odds were of three passengers riding the same carriage as the night before. Why not, if they had regular schedules?
Zelensky listened to his music with his eyes closed, an occasional nod betraying the beat. Arkady had to give him credit; iPods were the most frequently stolen item on the Metro, but the filmmaker seemed blithely unconcerned. Mendeleyev and Antipenko snatched glances at Arkady, their eyes bitter and bright. Their youth had coincided with the peak of Soviet power and prestige. Little wonder they were wistful and furious at the downward course their lives had taken.
At the Lenin Library station the officer of the Frontier Guard got off and vomited in his cap. The station conductor, a stout woman in a Metro uniform, made sure he didn’t spill a drop on her platform. Eight passengers boarded, intellectuals by the thinness of their coats. One attended to his comb-over and vaguely acknowledged Platonov.
Platonov spoke over the rush of the train. “A so-called chess master, but really just a wood pusher. Oslo, 1978, he resigned against me in eleven moves. Eleven! As if he had sudden indigestion instead of a bishop shoved down his throat and a rook shoved up his ass.”
“Do you make many enemies?”
“Chess is war. Zhenya understands that.” Platonov puffed up a little. “I’m playing the winner of a local tournament
“Not to mention brigades of forced labor.”
“Some convicts redeemed themselves through labor, that’s true.”
“Which reminds me, has anybody notified the Communists that Stalin is back? I think the Pope would be informed if Saint Peter were seen in the streets of Rome.”
“As a courtesy, Prosecutor Zurin, knowing the Party’s interest and concern, did inform us. I’ve been delegated to make a report.”
“So, besides teaching and playing chess, you are also a Party bureaucrat?”
“I told you at the chess club that I was well-connected.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Any sane man would have run from the assignment, Arkady thought. “And you chose me?”
“I thought I detected a glimmer of intelligence.” Platonov sighed. “I may have been wrong.”
The train had collected the dregs of the evening: an inebriated officer of the Frontier Guard who leered at four prostitutes shivering in skimpy jackets and high-heeled boots. Arkady and Platonov took one end of the bench, the pensioners Antipenko and Mendeleyev took the other end. The violinist dropped into a corner seat, set his violin case across his knees, and opened a book. He had a round face and a wispy beard à la Che. Arkady didn’t expect many passengers in the last carriage; the Metro was famous for its safety, but the later the hour the more people gravitated toward the front of the train.
As the doors closed, Zelensky, the filmmaker, rushed in and took a seat near the far end, where he emanated nervous energy in a spooky black leather coat that emphasized how thin he was. His frizzled hair looked especially electrified and iPod cords hung from his ears. As the train pulled out he pushed a duffel bag under the bench. If he noticed Arkady he didn’t show it.
Park Kultury station fell behind; Kropotkin, Lenin Library, Okhotny Row, Lubyanka and Chistye Prudy stations lay ahead. Lightly loaded, the train flew through the tunnel with added whip. Windows turned to mirrors. A pale man with deep set eyes sat across from Arkady. No one should ever have to confront himself, he thought, not on the last train of the night.
Platonov rambled on about the Metro’s glories, the white marble hauled from the Urals, black marble from Georgia, pink marble from Siberia. At Kropotkin station he pointed out the enormous chandeliers. The station was named for Prince Kropotkin, an anarchist, and Arkady suspected that the chandeliers would have made the prince’s hand itch for a grenade. Six elderly riders got on, including those two ancient riders from the night before, Antipenko and Mendeleyev. Arkady wondered what the odds were of three passengers riding the same carriage as the night before. Why not, if they had regular schedules?
Zelensky listened to his music with his eyes closed, an occasional nod betraying the beat. Arkady had to give him credit; iPods were the most frequently stolen item on the Metro, but the filmmaker seemed blithely unconcerned. Mendeleyev and Antipenko snatched glances at Arkady, their eyes bitter and bright. Their youth had coincided with the peak of Soviet power and prestige. Little wonder they were wistful and furious at the downward course their lives had taken.
At the Lenin Library station the officer of the Frontier Guard got off and vomited in his cap. The station conductor, a stout woman in a Metro uniform, made sure he didn’t spill a drop on her platform. Eight passengers boarded, intellectuals by the thinness of their coats. One attended to his comb-over and vaguely acknowledged Platonov.
Platonov spoke over the rush of the train. “A so-called chess master, but really just a wood pusher. Oslo, 1978, he resigned against me in eleven moves. Eleven! As if he had sudden indigestion instead of a bishop shoved down his throat and a rook shoved up his ass.”
“Do you make many enemies?”
“Chess is war. Zhenya understands that.” Platonov puffed up a little. “I’m playing the winner of a local tournament
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