“Ah. So the historian of Catherine the Great is getting involved in our own times. You smell the happy flowers and the bitter ashes? That shows you’re a real historian.”
“Thank you, Marshal.”
“Tell me again,” he said, leaning forward suddenly. “Your name’s Vinsky. Why did
“I was recommended by Academician Beliakov. I was his top student.”
“Of course,” Satinov said, sucking on his cigarette, eyelids sliding down. “I can see you’re a clever girl, a special person. Academician Beliakov was right to choose you out of all his hundreds of students over his many decades of teaching…Think of that.”
“I think he wanted to help me.” Katinka felt annoyed. She could see that he was toying with her, as he had with so many other inferior beings in his lifetime. This was another Satinov, sly and reptilian. The chilliness shocked her, poisoning her liking for him.
“Marshal, please could you answer my question. Sashenka and Vanya Palitsyn are the people I was meant to find, aren’t they? What became of them?”
Satinov shook his head, and Katinka noticed a muscle twitching in his cheek.
“There’s no record of their trial or sentencing. Could they have survived?”
“Unlikely but possible. Last year a woman found her husband, who had been arrested in 1938—he was living in Norilsk.” He gave her a brief, bitter smile. “You’re on a quest for the philosopher’s stone, which so many have sought and none has found.”
Katinka gritted her teeth and started again. “I really need your help. I need to see their files—the ones the KGB are still holding.”
He inhaled, taking his time, as always. “All right,” he said, “I’ll call some old friends in the Organs—they’re all geriatrics like me, waiting to die at their dachas, fishing, playing chess, cursing the new rich. But I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.” She sat forward in her chair. “The files mentioned that the Palitsyns had two children, Volya and Karlmarx. What happened to them?”
“I have no idea. Like so many children of those times, they too perhaps just disappeared.”
“But how?”
“That’s your job to find out,” he said coldly, shifting in his chair. “Where did you say you came from? The northern Caucasus, wasn’t it?”
Katinka took a quick breath of excitement. He’d changed the subject, a petty diversion. She scented her prey. “May I just ask—you knew the Palitsyns. What were they like?”
He sighed. “They were dedicated Bolsheviks.”
“I saw her photograph in the file. She was so beautiful and unusual…”
“Once you saw her, you never forgot her,” he said quietly.
“But such sad eyes,” said Katinka.
Satinov’s face hardened, the angles of his Persian nose and cheekbones sharpened, became more triangular. His eyes slid closed. “She was hardly alone. There are millions of such photographs. Millions of repressed people just like her.”
Katinka could feel Satinov closing down, so she pressed him again.
“Marshal, I know you’re tired, and I’m going now…but was Roza Getman one of their children?”
“That’s enough, girl!” Mariko, draped in a black shawl like a Spanish mantilla, had come into the room. She placed herself between Katinka and Satinov. “You shouldn’t have come here in the first place. What kind of questions are you asking? My father’s tired now. You must go.”
Satinov sat back in the chair, wheezing a little.
“We’ll talk again,” he said heavily. “God willing.”
“Sorry, I’ve asked too much. I stayed too long…”
He did not smile at her again but he offered his hand, looking away.
“I’m tired now.” There was a piece of paper in his hand. “Someone you must meet. Don’t wait. You may already be too late. Say hello from me.”
11
Two days later, Katinka was awakened by the green plastic phone in her tiny, fusty room deep inside the square colossus of the Moskva Hotel. Her bed, bedside table, light and desk were all one piece of wooden furniture. The bedspread, carpet and the curtains the color of brimstone. She was dreaming about Sashenka: the woman in the photograph was talking to her.
“Don’t give up! Persevere with Satinov…” But why was Satinov so obstructive? Would he refuse to meet her again? She was still half asleep when she grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” she said. She expected it to be her parents—or maybe Roza Getman, who was phoning regularly for updates on her progress. “Hello, Katinka, any jewels in the dust?” was how Roza always started her calls.
“This is Colonel Lentin.” Katinka was amazed: it was the Marmoset of the KGB archives. “You wish to see more documents?”
“Yes,” she said, heart surging. “That would be wonderful.”
“Wonderful? Wonderful indeed. You’re such an enthusiast. Meet us at the Cafe-Bar Piano at the Patriarchy Ponds at two.”
Katinka pulled on her boots and the denim miniskirt with the spangles. She was earning money for the first time in her life but still it did not feel like her own. She was using it to pay for her room, food and transportation but nothing else. She was only doing this for Roza, she told herself, so that she, like Katinka, would have a family.
She took the elevator down to the grey marble lobby, damp as wet rat fur, and walked through to another hall, where she climbed the steps, followed a corridor left then right and finally opened a red curtain to reveal a little cubbyhole with three tables and an old woman in a minuscule kitchen. The tempting tang of cooking fat and the music of sizzling eggs welcomed her. A young English journalist and an ancient Armenian man were at their usual tables, sipping espresso coffees.
“Morning, senorita,” said the old woman in a blue apron, speaking bad Russian. Her brown face, with its large jaw, was deeply wrinkled. “Spanish omelette?”
“The usual,” said Katinka. The cook was an old Spaniard who claimed to have been cooking in this cubbyhole since the Spanish Civil War.
“The best cook in Moscow!” murmured the Armenian, kissing his hand and blowing it toward the old woman.
An hour later, Katinka walked slowly up Tverskaya—the new name for Gorky Street—and then took a left through an archway that led down to the Patriarchy Ponds, a square with a park in the middle containing two lakes surrounded by trees. Bulgakov, she knew, had lived around here, when he was writing
At 2:00 p.m. she walked out of the square and looked around the far end of the street. There it was—a black and white sign,
“Come and sit down, girl.” He guided her to a chair. “Let me introduce you to my comrade here, Oleg Sergeievich Trofimsky.”
“Delighted, Katinka, delighted. Yes, sit!” Trofimsky’s head was wide and misshapen and looked as if it had been fired out of a medieval cannon, and his pitchfork beard gave him the air of an aging magician. The barman
