them, not that oaf of a Pato. He had not lost his temper, had not hit the old man, stepped on his fingers, had not killed him, not that he would have hesitated for an instant, not that he wasn't prepared to kill, not that he hadn't been properly- The women were laughing still.
He should get closer. He sighed deeply, looked at his watch again, and tried to give the impression that he was now convinced that the person he pretended to wait for was not coming. With his one good eye watching the two women and his glass eye focused straight ahead, he moved down the path, past the statue of Chekhov and in front of the statue of Gorky, under which the two women sat. He did not hesitate. He moved past them as if he had an appointment. His plan was to find shelter behind trees or a bush, to stay a discreet distance behind.
These women were ponderously slow.
'I'll never forget this moment,' the skinny American woman said, still laughing as he moved past the bench. He had the distinct impression that they were laughing at him, laughing at his size, his clothes, his misaligned eye, the look on his face.
He could understand no English, had no idea what her words meant. It filled him with frustration, anger, as he headed for a turn in the path behind an outcrop of bushes and wondered if Pato was having a better time than he. He hoped he was not.
At the precise moment the one-eyed man named Yuri passed the two women in Gagarin Park as they sat under the statue of Maxim Gorky, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov bit into a sandwich of rough bread, tomatoes, and a rather lumpy butter. He found it quite tasty.
Anton had brought the sandwiches to him and Misha Ivanov on the little rise outside the hotel where Rostnikov and Sarah ate when the weather permitted.
Sarah had gone off with the American woman, while the woman's husband remained in their room, saying he welcomed the chance to sleep late for a change.
Rostnikov had gone to meet the pear shaped KGB man, who came out in a heavy denim coat with an artificial fur collar and was definitely overdressed for the rapidly changing weather.
Rostnikov's morning had begun early with two phone calls, one from him to Moscow, the other to him from Moscow.
The first call had come from Sasha Tkach, a rambling confession just before dawn that made little sense to Rostnikov, who had been summoned from his bed to the lobby phone.
'Sasha,' Rostnikov had interrupted, 'do you know Alice in Wonderland?'
'Alice in…? No,' Tkach answered.
'You should read it,' said Rostnikov. 'It is about the Soviet Union. At one point a crazed hat maker says what I am about to say to you: Begin at the beginning and when you come to the end, stop.'
Rostnikov had pulled up a nearby chair, tucked in the unbuttoned shirt he had thrown on over his pants, and sat while Sasha told his tale. When he had finished, Rostnikov said, 'Well?'
'I am responsible for what happened to Zelach,' he said, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. 'I was supposed to be in that apartment, not betraying my wife with a woman I don't know, a woman whose smell I don't like, a woman who-'
'And what would you like to do?' asked Rostnikov, smelling something that might have been coffee brewing in the kitchen. It would probably be quite tasteless, but the odor triggered hope.
'Do? I'm telling you,' said Sasha. 'You must decide what to do with me.'
'Ah, you wish to shift the responsibility to me,' said Rostnikov.
'No,' said Tkach with some confusion. 'I am accepting responsibility. It is your responsibility to judge and punish.'
'What would you like me to do?' asked Rostnikov.
'I don't know. That's not my-'
'Shall I tell Colonel Snitkonoy? Demand a review, ask for your dismissal? Shall we call your wife, your mother? Will that make everyone happy? Will you feel better knowing you have made them feel worse? Or will you be relieved of responsibility? No, Sasha, I'm afraid you are going to have to decide what to do. I see nothing to be gained by anyone but you by punishing you. Zelach will not suddenly be cured. The thieves will not suddenly be caught and punished. You want advice? Go sit with Zelach. Call me as soon as you know how he is doing.'
'I'm at the hospital,' said Sasha. 'They say he will live, but he will probably lose the use of his eye.'
'Which eye?' asked Rostnikov.
'Which… what difference…? The left,' said Sasha.
' 'He will probably need glasses,'' said Rostnikov. ' 'I think he will look better in glasses, perhaps just a bit more intelligent.'
'What shall I do?' asked Tkach.
'You shall suffer,' said Rostnikov. 'You're Russian. You will suffer. But you will also find the thieves while you suffer. You know where to start?'
'No,' said Tkach. 'Wait. There's an old woman coming down the hall. I think it must be Zelach's mother. She looks like him. I've got to go.'
'Go, and call me back before midnight or after eight tomorrow morning,' said Rostnikov. 'I like to shave before I answer the phone. And Sasha…'
'Yes.'
'Survive.'
As soon as he hung up the phone, Anton the waiter appeared with a cup of tea and a roll. Rostnikov stood to keep his leg from locking. He took the tea in one hand and the roll in the other.
'It's a scone,' said Anton proudly. 'British.'
Rostnikov bit it and took a sip of tea.
'Tasty,' he said, though the roll tasted a bit as Rostnikov imagined crushed seashells might taste.
With a smile of satisfaction, Anton hurried back to the kitchen, and Rostnikov made a call to Moscow. He asked the Petrovka operator to connect him to Emil Karpo's phone. The operator informed him that Inspector Karpo was out but had left a number where he could receive messages. Rostnikov recognized the number.
He hung up and called it. Mathilde Verson answered sleepily and with some irritation.
'Yes? What do you want?'
'Rostnikov. Have you ever eaten something called a British scone?'
'No,' she said. Mathilde was also the closest thing, besides Rostnikov, Emil Karpo had to a friend. Karpo's relationship to her had been going on for three years. At first they had met once a month. That increased to every other Wednesday and now was on an every-Thursday basis. Rostnikov knew that Karpo was required to pay Mathilde for each of their encounters. He also knew that the payment was the mortar that kept their growing relationship from a situation Karpo did not wish to handle.
Although she was almost forty, Mathilde lived with her aunt and cousin on Herzon Street in an apartment that they vacated in the late afternoon or early evening so that Mathilde could pursue her profession.
'Scones taste like crushed seashells,' Rostnikov told her, looking at the lump in his hand, 'but perhaps I got a bad one.'
'You woke me to tell me that?' she asked with amusement.
Rostnikov imagined her sitting up in bed, her dark brown hair loose over her shoulders. Mathilde was not a pretty woman in the conventional sense, but she was tall, handsome, strong, confident, and Russian sturdy.
'Karpo,' he said.
'Give me your number. I know where to reach him. I'll have him call you right back,' she said.
Rostnikov sat watching the bleary-eyed early risers in the lobby as he finished his tea, tore crumbs off his scone, and popped them into his mouth. Emil Karpo was being very careful. Rostnikov knew that if anyone but he had called, Mathilde would have said that she would pass on the message, though she had no idea when she would be hearing from Karpo. Karpo did not want to be reached.
'Call,' said the desk clerk across the lobby, and Rostnikov had picked up the phone.
'Emil Karpo,' Rostnikov said even before Karpo spoke. 'How is Moscow doing without me?'
Although he was accustomed to Rostnikov, Karpo was frequently at a loss in replying to him. Humor was wasted on Karpo, though he recognized it. He recognized but had no idea of how to respond to it. When in doubt, he resorted to literalism.
'Moscow proceeds,' he said. 'Do you wish to speak?'
