Black Knight in Red Square

“You are a policeman,” Bintz said, examining Rostnikov.

“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’m a policeman.”

Bintz grunted and continued to examine him.

“What do they call you? You have a special name. An affection name?”

Rostnikov was puzzled.

“My name is Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”

“No, no,” sighed Bintz, impatiently clapping his hands together. “I am called Der Grosser in German, the big one.”

“Washtub,” said Rostnikov understanding. “I am called Washtub.”

Bintz smiled.

“This is a good name?”

“It is not a bad name,” agreed Rostnikov, beginning to like the huge man with the dancing gray eyes. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“You are hungry?” came Bintz’s answer.

“I…”

Bintz gave an enormous grunt, pushed himself out of the chair, and lumbered across the small room to the dresser. His robe slipped open, revealing a mountain of stomach and a small pair of shorts. Bintz absently retied his robe, plunged his hand into a travel bag, and came out with something. Then he turned to Rostnikov.

“You try,” he said, lumbering back to Rostnikov and handing him a sausage and a knife. Rostnikov accepted the offering and cut himself a small piece. Bintz gave an exasperated sigh and cut a more generous piece for himself and another for Rostnikov. Then he watched Rostnikov intently as he took a bite.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very good,” agreed Rostnikov, biting into the larger piece of sausage. Rostnikov’s reaction brought a look of satisfaction to the German’s face. He took his seat again and leaned forward. “We are bugged?” he asked. His voice was gravelly and resonant.

“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov.

“I know,” Bintz said, finishing the last of his sausage and pointing to his chest. “We are bugged. That is expected. You have seen my movies?”

“I’m sorry,” said Rostnikov shifting slightly. “I have not seen them.”

“I do not think they show my pictures in Russia,” Bintz said, nodding. “Only at the film festival, and only ones they think are socialist. I make socialist westerns, socialist horror movies, socialist historical movies. In this festival, they are showing my Bullets of Bonn.”

“I would like to see it,” said Rostnikov. “But for now, I have a few questions.”

“Excuse me,” said Bintz, folding his hands on his belly and giving his full attention to Rostnikov.

“Warren Harding Aubrey,” said Rostnikov, looking directly into the man’s gray eyes. Bintz’s face did not change. His mouth moved into a small pout, but he said nothing. Rostnikov repeated, “Warren Harding Aubrey.”

“I meet him,” Bintz whispered. “His German is not bad. His manner is not good.”

“Why did he interview you on Tuesday?” Rostnikov went on.

Bintz looked around the room slowly. Rostnikov wondered if he was in search of food.

“Aubrey is a…I don’t know the words, one who likes to write bad words, make jokes. On top he is smiles and friends, but behind one sees the derision. Is that the right word, derision?”

“Yes.” Rostnikov nodded. “And he only asked you about the movies?”

“No,” growled Bintz. “He asks about Herzog. They all ask about Herzog. And he asks why I am in Moscow.”

“Why are you in Moscow?” Rostnikov asked.

“To show my movie and”-he winked-“look around. I plan a big horror picture set in Moscow. I look, go back to Berlin, build Red Square. In English, we will call it either Werewolf in the Kremlin or Red Nights in Red Square.” Warming to the subject, Bintz got to his feet and began to act out the scene he described. “Imagine, a German werewolf, maybe French if we get Belmondo. The moon is above. He leaps to top of the Lenin Mausoleum, fighting off attack of soldiers, howling at the Kremlin. You know who he wants?”

Bintz was standing on top of the chair now, and Rostnikov was sure it was going to break and send the German director through the floor of the Rossyia Hotel.

“Who?” asked Rostnikov.

“Andropov,” Bintz shouted. “We have an actor, Hungarian, looks just like your Andropov. You like the idea, huh? Political allegory, better than Herzog.”

Bintz managed to get down from the chair, but not before the right arm flew off and hurtled into a far corner. Both Rostnikov and Bintz stopped to watch the wooden arm skitter across the floor. Then Bintz spoke.

“Aubrey made jokes with his eyes,” he said, easing himself into the one-armed chair.

“And that’s all you talk of?” said Rostnikov.

“All,” said Bintz.

“Herr Bintz,” Rostnikov pushed on, “have you ever heard of the organization World Liberation?”

Yes, no doubt about it, Bintz winced. He was an actor of the first order, but that wince came too spontaneously to hide.

“It is familiar,” he said, putting his clasped hands to his mouth.

“Terrorists,” said Rostnikov. “Aubrey was writing a story about them. So why did he interview you?”

“Because…I no know. Not about terrorists.”

“You have terrorists in Germany,” said Rostnikov.

“I make no movies with terrorists,” said Bintz, his hands still to his lips, his head shaking a vigorous no. “If they don’t like your movie, they put your head in bag and shoot off your knees. Werewolves are safe.”

“I agree,” said Rostnikov.

“Why you want to know about Aubrey?” Bintz said, cocking his head.

“He’s dead. Murdered. We think it might have been done by World Liberation.”

“I make movies,” said Bintz, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined, his statement almost a non sequitur.

“I catch criminals,” said Rostnikov, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined.

“You have acted?” Bintz asked.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“To be a Russian is to act, yes?” supplied Bintz, leaning forward.

Rostnikov tilted his head slightly to indicate that Bintz was not off the mark.

“You would be good in Werewolf in the Kremlin,” Bintz said, warming to the idea. “You could play yourself, detective, chasing the German werewolf. It appeals?”

“I catch real killers,” Rostnikov said. “What do you know of World Liberation?”

Bintz’s eyes looked toward heaven in exasperation at this Russian who would not let loose of an idea.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. No thing.”

Which, Rostnikov was now sure, meant that Wolfgang Bintz had something on his mind, and it was related to World Liberation.

Rostnikov rose, and asked, “How long are you to remain in Moscow?”

“Feature competition ends Tuesday next,” said Bintz. “Bullets of Bonn shows tomorrow night. I will win nothing. So I will go home two days. Food in Moscow is not good, not like Germany, not like Italy, not even like New York.”

Bintz now looked quite sad, but Rostnikov didn’t know just what he was sad about. Was it the poor chances of his film winning an award? The mention of World Liberation? The quality of food in Moscow?

“We will have to talk again,” Rostnikov said, going to the door. Bintz shrugged and looked up, but not at Rostnikov. His eyes found the flight bag that contained the sausage.

Bintz’s phone did not ring until a minute or two after Rostnikov left. The voice of the woman on the other end was familiar, a voice Bintz had hoped never to hear again, but there it was, like the voice of an actor who had been told he can’t have the role but who keeps coming back in the hope that all the other performers have met