CHAPTER TWELVE
Jerzy Michalec’s address was even further out of town than
Lena Crowder’s. When Emil turned down the long, poplar- lined drive, he couldn’t see the house. Then, from behind a grassy rise, there was a bearded peasant swinging a scythe a few inches above the earth. Then the house. It spread wide and high, a long porch wrapping around half of it. Another swig of brandy steadied him and held his headache at bay. It was one.
The young man with a wide green tie who opened the door was the second butler Emil had met in his life. The first had been at the home of the Academy director, who invited all the graduating cadets to a celebration of their entrance into the world. That butler had been reserved yet always smiling; this one was reserved and disdainful. He made no effort to conceal his instant distaste for Emil’s stench as he gazed down on him-a trick, since he was shorter than Emil.
“Comrade Michalec,” said Emil, tense. “Tell him a homicide inspector from the People’s Militia is here to see him.”
“He’s expecting you?”
“No.”
The butler shut the door in his face.
The peasant in the distance had stopped, leaning on his scythe to stare back. The blade glistened. Beyond him were stalks of wheat. In Ruscova they worked in groups of five and ten, cutting swaths over the low hills, down to the winding creeks, and dozed after lunch in the shade of a haystack, waiting for the sun to become merciful. He’d done some of it himself- hateful, hot work he’d never gotten used to. A cool breeze ruffled the stalks around the peasant, who now sharpened his blade with a stone. The scraping sound came faintly on the wind. Emil was very thirsty. He banged the door with a fist. It was jerked open.
“Comrade Michalec is attending to other matters,” said the butler, a stiff, anxious grin on his face. “You may return later.”
“I’ll wait inside.” Emil inserted his foot in the closing door, then leaned into it.
The marble entryway was cool and dark, and ahead rose a wide, spiraling staircase. He had seen this before, or something like it, in a picture show. A melodrama on the aristocracy. “Tell Comrade Michalec I’ve come on urgent state business. I’ll wait for him here.”
The butler was visibly angry, but controlled himself. Emil found it vaguely disappointing. He wanted a reason to put his fist in the man’s face. Anything. But the butler only unfolded an arm in the direction of a chair beside a rack of coats and umbrellas. Then he disappeared up the staircase with a soft pat pat of feet.
It was like Lena Crowder’s house in its absolute distance from anything Emil could ever imagine calling home, but even he could see that its scale was far more grandiose. There were no family portraits crowding the walls, no framed Orders of Lenin, nothing personal at all. The scarlet drapes covering the high windows looked foreign- Oriental-and new. The chair beneath him was modern, angular. Uncomfortable. Not made for human forms.
He shouldn’t have come here, not in this mood. All mood, no facts. He had no idea why a politicos-a war hero, no less-was in the photographs of a dead man, or why those photos were hidden behind an icebox. Whoever tore apart the dead men’s apartments-were they looking for these pictures? For the money? Jerzy Michalec, at least, had no need for money.
He paced, soles clicking on marble, his nerves slowly unraveling. Through the front window, the peasant swung his scythe again-slowly, ploddingly. You could put a peasant on a machine and know that, barring mechanical failure, that machine would go on for eternity. For nothing.
In place of family heirlooms was a sculpture centered along the wall, on a white pedestal. It was a long, vertical sliver of metal, curved slightly, thicker in the middle, pointed at the top and bottom. Perfectly smooth. He’d never seen anything like it in his life. And in the mist of the morning’s drinks, he hated it.
Pat pat
The butler trotted down the staircase with a worried eye measuring the distance between Emil and the sculpture. “I’m sorry, Comrade Inspector,” he said, raising his voice dryly. “Comrade Michalec cannot make exceptions when he’s working on his own state business. I’m sure you understand.”
Emil smelled the tonic lotion in the butler’s hair as he pushed past and started up the staircase.
“Did you hear what I said?” called the butler, close behind. “The Comrade is exceedingly busy; he’ll get in touch when he’s able. Inspector!”
Emil was running now, skipping steps, reaching the second floor, where the long red rug slid and buckled beneath his feet, past closed doors toward the sound of a man’s voice ahead. On the dark oak walls paintings appeared, but they were nothing like people. They were splashes of color, unidentifiable shapes. Unformed. Disturbing.
“Inspector! Inspector!”
The heavy door at the end of the hallway was half-open, spilling light, and he struck it with his palm. An office, vast walls covered with book spines. He stopped to catch his breath. A marble-topped desk in the center, where the shorter man from the photograph talked loudly into a black telephone.
“Yes, of course, yes,” he was saying, not looking at Emil. His face was pitted by old acne scars, their shadows lengthening as he nodded, smiling into the telephone. He even ignored the butler s whispered protests about the inspector he could not control. Jerzy Michalec waved his butler into silence with the back of his hand.
He looked nothing like a war hero. Certainly not a Smerdyakov. He was fatter than the pictures suggested, and his dark suit hung on him poorly, wrinkled at the joints. He rested his neutral gaze on Emil and said into the receiver, “Of course, we’ll do that then. Give her my best. Until later.” He hung up and gave Emil a cool smile. “So you’re the impatient inspector?” He had a voice of so many accents that it was untraceable.
“I tried-”
“Radu. Tell the trade commissar I’ll be with him in a moment.”
Radu bowed and withdrew.
Michalec’s eyes were a cool blue, surrounded by wrinkled, blackened sockets. He sniffed. “I assume you don’t need anything more to drink.” He reached into a pocket and removed a small red booklet emblazoned with a gold, five-pointed star inside a ring of golden laurel. Above it was a hawk at rest, its head in profile. “Comrade Inspector, do you know what this is?”
Emil stepped from one corner of the desk to the other, ready to snap, but he spoke clearly: “Proof of membership in the Party.”
“Yes, and no.” Michalec settled into his chair. His gravelly voice had a way of communicating in each syllable his disregard for Emil. He held the booklet out for him to read. “What does it say beneath the star?”
Black block print: political section.
“I’d heard,” said Emil.
“Maybe you’re unfamiliar with the terminology. Many people are unclear. Times change quickly, and you have to pay attention to everything in order to survive. Believe me.” Michalec leaned back in his chair and tossed a foot on the edge of his neat desk, folding the red card into his shirt pocket. “It’s not simply a word. Politicos has meaning. We, as members of the Political Section, have very specific duties. And these duties confer upon us specific rights. You’re following?”
He felt like he was back in the Academy. It was a hateful feeling.
“For example,” said Michalec, “a politicos cannot be imposed upon in the normal course of his duties. Not even by members of the Security Section. Unless, of course, there’s some specific piece of evidence making this necessary. Is there, Comrade Inspector?”
Emil tossed the ten photographs on the desk. They scattered. “Tell me who you’re talking with.”
“Maybe you’re as deaf as you are stupid,” said Michalec, only half-glancing at the images. “I knew a politicos once who walked into a Militia station, pulled out a pistol, and shot the station chief.” He raised his arm and used his hand to shoot Emil, then dropped it and shrugged. “The chief had made him angry. Today that man is a member of the Central Committee inner circle, the Politburo.” His smile became wider, more convincing. “I, Comrade
