The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

“Medals are easy to come by and there are still those who respect them.”

“Not Anna Timofeyeva,” said Elena.

Rostnikov agreed. “There was a policeman I worked with when I was a young man,” he said. “He was older than I was, funny, totally corrupt. I learned from his example how not to be-have and think. His name was Ivanov. Big man, bad teeth, very bad teeth, laughed a lot when we were alone, uniform was always too tight. One day, winter, he went off on his own, told me to wait at a kvass stand while he met with an informant who didn’t want anyone else to know who he was. I stood shivering. Then I heard shouting and a gunshot. I hurried as quickly as my leg would allow into the building where Ivanov had gone. I found him lying in an open courtyard used by the building tenants as a garbage dump. He had slipped on a patch of ice. His gun had accidentally discharged.

“I called for an ambulance. Ivanov was in pain. He had shot himself through the shoe and blown off the big toe on his right foot. His shoulder was separated and he had a concussion, and there was much blood from the laceration of his scalp where he had hit the sharp insides of a broken old radio. He was bleeding from both ends.

“Ivanov was given a medal. A general who had served in the war against the Nazis came to the hospital to present the medal.

Ivanov said he had seen a known criminal enter the building and that he, Ivanov, had been ambushed. Pictures were taken of the wounded policeman. The unnecessarily large white bandage that covered Ivanov’s head was a banner over his brave smile. Ivanov told me when we were alone that he had entered the building to pick up a regular payoff from a black-market dealer in electrical goods. I was disciplined for not backing up my mentor in spite of the fact that he had ordered me to stay in the street drinking kvass.

“A few days later, a petty thief was shot down by another policeman, a friend of Ivanov, who identified the dead man as the one who had ambushed him. Ivanov’s friend also got a medal.

“Now a hero, Ivanov, when released from the hospital, was promoted and insisted on working with his equally heroic, medal-winning friend who had courageously confronted and killed the enemy of the state.

“Ivanov and his friend appeared at public events, particularly when a police officer was honored. Ivanov and his friend were transferred to the Ministry of the Interior and eventually to the personal protective staff of the minister himself. Ivanov’s friend eventually became minister, and Ivanov was retired with a generous pension after years of additional corruption on a much grander scale than when I had worked with him. He asked me once if I wanted a medal. He was in a position then to give them himself. I politely said no. So, Elena, you want a medal?”

“Politely,” she said, closing her eyes. “No.”

If she was not asleep in the next few seconds, she soon would be. She had pulled the thin blanket up to her neck and was holding the fringe loosely. She looked like a very young child.

“Stay awake a moment longer,” he said. “There is someone I want you to meet. The person who told me that you were to be attacked.”

Elena opened her eyes and watched Rostnikov cross the room, open the door, and motion to someone in the small waiting room. He held the door open, and Elena, fighting sleep, looked up at the blond girl who had been with Boris the night before.

She was wearing a simple blue dress with a wide black patent-leather belt. The young woman approached the bed. Rostnikov remained at the door.

“They say you will be fine,” the young woman said, standing next to Elena’s bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell Inspector Rostnikov sooner.”

“You saved my life,” said Elena, taking the woman’s hand with her good one.

“I must go,” the young woman said, smiling and backing away from the bed.

“Your name,” said Elena, now fighting sleep.

“Svetlana,” the young woman said. “Sleep.”

Svetlana left the room, closing the door, and Rostnikov moved to Elena’s bedside.

“Yaklovev is her uncle,” said Rostnikov. “She is very valuable to him, and to us. Also, I like her.”

“So. . do. . I,” Elena managed to say as she was falling asleep. “I have reason to.”

“Rest,” said Rostnikov, who touched the bed and went through the door in search of a phone and Leon.

The small reception room with three comfortable chairs and a desk was empty. Leon had a part-time receptionist/nurse, but Rostnikov had not seen her today.

The phone was on the desk. He reached for it and saw Leon’s appointment book open to today. As he placed his call, Rostnikov glanced at the appointment book and read the upside-down name: Sarah. No last name.

Rostnikov got his call through and discovered from the man he had left at the hotel that Sasha was fine, that the plan had worked, and that the meeting was set for tonight before the scheduled battle of the dogs. Sasha had managed to give the man that much information and no more.

Porfiry Petrovich’s plan had been to return to Petrovka. There was much to do, much to learn. It was early, but days had a dis-comforting way of being over just as they seemed to be beginning. Rostnikov sat in one of the chairs. Normally, he would have read the novel he brought with him, but he had left it with Elena.

He adjusted his leg, rested on the arms of the chair, and fell asleep. He was awakened moments later by the sound of a door opening and the sight of Leon ushering out a very well dressed woman in her forties. She looked as if she had just stepped out of one of the new salons after visiting a tasteful but expensive clothing shop.

The woman, well groomed but plain in spite of her makeup, smiled at Leon and thanked him.

“It will be fine, Marianskaya,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the door next to Rostnikov.

She looked down at the block of a man seated awkwardly and then allowed herself to be ushered out.

“People like that pay the bills,” said Leon, turning to Rostnikov after he had closed the door.

“You owe me no explanation,” said Rostnikov.

“I know, but why is it that I feel I do?”

“A little guilt?” asked Rostnikov, rubbing his face into a semblance of wakefulness.

“Perhaps. Yes.”

“You needn’t feel guilt, Leon,” said Rostnikov. “I know the good you do.”

“Yes,” said Leon, sitting in the chair next to Rostnikov and unbuttoning his jacket. “But do I do the good things because I feel guilt for being able to live like this with the huge fees I get from the Marianskayas of Moscow, or do I do it because I am a saint?”

“You are a saint,” Rostnikov said solemnly.

Leon smiled.

“I suppose it is my duty to accept beatification from a distinguished member of the government. I like you, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“I am humbled and honored and I like you.”

“I did not mean to be patronizing,” said Leon. “I’m tired. I have more rich patients coming, some with very little wrong with them, all who want a great deal of my time. I would rather be in my apartment through that door, playing Mozart or even Brahms. I am thinking of getting a harpsichord. Do you like the sound of a harpsichord?”

“I prefer the piano,” said Rostnikov. “Harpsichords remind me of Russians in powdered wigs trying to act like Frenchmen.”

They sat silently in the waiting room chairs for a few seconds and then Leon said, “You saw my appointment book.”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Did you mean me to do so?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sarah is ill.”

“She will tell you,” said Leon.

“You tell me.”

And Leon did, concluding, “I have never lied to Sarah, but I have sometimes not told the complete truth. It is what doctors must do.”

“And policemen,” said Rostnikov.

“The surgeon may have no trouble relieving the pressure on the brain, but the recent tests are troubling.