great political satirists Vladimir and Anatoly Durov and their pig. Chuska. Pigs are the smartest of all animals. Not dogs, not horses, not bears, not cats. Pigs.'
'Monkeys?' asked Rostnikov without taking his eyes from the act below him.
'Monkeys, perhaps,' said the man, moving to sit beside Rostnikov, 'but only because they share with us the opposable thumb. You've worked in a circus? No, I'd know you. But you have the arms of a lifter or catcher.'
'I lift weights,' said Rostnikov as the act in the ring came to a sudden end. The man who had placed the pig on the other's feet grabbed the animal and tucked it under his arm. The perpendicular man eased himself down and the two men strode away talking, arguing, as Rostnikov turned to face the man at his side.
'I am Mazaraki, Dimitri Mazaraki, announcer and assistant to the head of the New Moscow Circus. I used to be a trick lifter. I still do the act occasionally, but my back is not so certain as it was. Now I cannot hold up twelve young women on a platform all representing a year in a new agricultural plan, all dressed as different grains. No, now I can only do five-year plans.'
Rostnikov took the man's hand. It was, like the man himself, strong, firm. Mazaraki was wearing a perfectly pressed light gray suit with a one-color black tie. Standing, he would be half a head taller than Rostnikov. He was about Rostnikov's weight and about ten years younger, perhaps forty. He had a billowing black mustache and dark wavy hair with a white streak on the left temple. Most impressive were his bearing, his straight back, his muscles straining against his suit.
Rostnikov wondered if Mazaraki's white streak looked like the white streak of Cotton Hawes in the 87th Precinct novels. For a moment he couldn't quite remember on which side Hawes's white streak was, only that it had been caused by a knife.
'… as it usually is,' Mazaraki said.
'I'm sorry,' said Rostnikov. 'I was thinking.'
'I said,' Mazaraki said with a weary grin, 'the circus is not as busy today as it usually is. The accident. Yaro said you were here about the accident?'
'It may not have been an accident,' said Rostnikov, watching Mazaraki's face.
Mazaraki smiled as if he were being told a joke. Then he realized it was no joke.
'Not an…'
'Perhaps,' Rostnikov said with a shrug. 'Who knows? First one partner leaps from a statue and at the same time another accidentally dies in a fall. It could be a coincidence.'
'The officer who came earlier…' Mazaraki began.
'… did not know of Duznetzov and his flight from Gogol's head,' finished the inspector. 'I haven't been to the circus for a dozen years.'
Mazaraki was probably confused, which was fine with Rostnikov.
'The safety net did not hold, is that correct?' asked Rostnikov, looking down at where the net would be during a performance.
'That's right,' said Mazaraki, adjusting his lapels, which needed no adjustment. 'We have the best support crew in the world, the best, but Oleg may have tried to adjust the net himself. Maybe…'
'Maybe,' agreed Rostnikov with a sigh, standing up. 'I should like to talk to the surviving partner, Katya Rashkovskaya.'
'She's not here,' said Mazaraki. 'We sent her home. This was difficult for all of us, but for her it isit is devastating.'
'Yes,' agreed Rostnikov, resisting the urge to massage his leg for the trip back down the stairs he should not have climbed. 'Duznetzov drank?'
'Yes,' said Mazaraki, standing. He was even taller than Rostnikov had guessed, not quite a giant, but a man to be looked at twice on the street. 'Valerian Duznetzov was fond of vodka.'
'Did he say strange things when he was drunk?' asked Rostnikov, starting down the stairs. A new act had begun to take over the ring for rehearsal; a wire was being strung about a dozen feet from the ground. The four gray-uniformed attendants moved quickly, quietly, efficiently, while a man and woman in zippered sweat suits waited patiently for them to finish.
'We all say strange things when we are drunk. It is the nature of being drunk. Would you like to stay and watch for a while, Inspector…'
'Rostnikov. No, I would like to be given the address of Katya Rashkovskaya.'
'You say Valerian said strange things before hehe jumped from the statue. What strange things?'
'He said he could fly and he could teach me to fly to other countries if I had the money. And he seemed to be afraid of a man who saw thunder.'
'That makes no sense,' said Mazaraki.
Rostnikov shrugged and continued down the steps.
'Does a pig balanced on the feet of an acrobat make sense?' Rostnikov asked.
'Yes,' Mazaraki said, laughing, as he followed behind him. 'It all makes sense. The pig is a figure of the farm economy, delicately balanced to serve the needs of the peo pie by the skill of the Soviet farmer, who can juggle, balance, perform near-miracles of skill. It also demonstrates the level of specialized skill Soviet society can nurture, admire, and protect.'
'It is fascinating,' said Rostnikov, coming to the arena exit door. 'But it makes little sense.'
He turned to face the larger man, who worried his mustache with his fingers and cautiously examined this rather strange policeman. Then the bigger man grinned and shook his head as he whispered, 'Perhaps you are right, but it would be just as well to protect illusions. The illusions of adults are as important as the illusions of children. I trust that this conversation is between us alone.'
'Your trust is safe,' said Rostnikov, turning for a glance at the young woman who was climbing up to the wire. She began to bounce gingerly, her breasts rippling under the sweat suit.
'It can't hurt for you to watch for a minute or two,' said Mazaraki.
'Well,' said Rostnikov, 'perhaps for a minute or two.'
The two men turned and watched the act from the darkness of the entranceway, and Rostnikov thought that it would not hurt to see Katya Rashkovskaya a little later, to eat a little later, to get home a little later tonight, to talk to Sarah about Josef's posting to Afghanistan a little later tonight. His eyes moved to the young woman, who balanced, turned to the voice of the man who stood below her, and Rostnikov felt for an instant as if the woman were moving in slow motion.
Precisely at noon, according to the clock on his desk, Emil Karpo placed the pen he was writing with in line with the two other identical pens on his desk and got up from his chair. He walked to the small sink in the comer of the room, filled his teakettle with water, prepared his cup, and started the hot plate, on which he placed the kettle. He took a neatly wrapped half-loaf of grainy dark bread from the cabinet under the table on which the hot plate stood, tore off a large piece of the bread, placed it on the plate that held the waiting teacup, and stood facing the wall over his bed. He began the exercises he had been taught to strengthen his left hand, began counting as he opened, closed, twisted, tensed, relaxed. He finished the last exercise within three seconds of the water's boiling.
Karpo removed the teakettle using his right hand, prepared his tea, and sat at the small table near the window to eat. He considered raising the window shade but decided against it, against the distraction that daylight might cause. He ate slowly, chewing fully, drinking in small sips, not allowing himself to think, concentrating on the patterns of grain in the bread, the particles of tea in the dark bottom of his cup. Emil Karpo never ate at the same table at which he worked and he never thought about his work when he ate. It wasn't because he-enjoyed eating. Emil Karpo neither enjoyed nor disliked it. He knew his body; his sense of taste responded to ice cream, a fact that caused him to avoid eating ice cream as an act of discipline. No, he ate away from his desk because he believed his mind needed cleansing, respite.
Following the meal, Karpo cleaned his cup and plate hi the sink, set them out to dry, and then stepped behind his desk chair, on which he placed his palms, and closed his eyes. Images came. He thrust them aside, ordered them to go without words, and they went. Words came. He banished them as well. When they were gone, he banished thinking about them and for what seemed but an instant Karpo heard only the possibility of a hum and saw only the faint hint of roundness. When he opened his eyes, he saw by the clock that he had been meditating for almost an hour.
Karpo sat at his desk and reviewed what he had. The eight cases appeared to have their means of death in
