Fall of a Cosmonaut

Film Festival, at festivals all over the world. We are talking about an international cast and the brightest, most creative young Russian film director. We are talking about Cinema Russia Production Company, my life.”

The man making this small speech was pacing back and forth, smoking, looking at Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach, who were seated on wooden chairs facing him.

The room was clean but smelled of smoke, stale smoke. There was a conference table, one end of which was covered with scripts, mail, and papers with an overfull ashtray nearby. The end of the table where this clutter resided served as the desk of the man who was pacing and rambling.

His name was Yuri Kriskov. Sometimes he used the v. Other times he ended his name with the older ff and became Kriskoff. It all depended on his audience. Everything depended on his audience.

Yuri Kriskov was reasonably well known. He was not quite famous. He was a movie producer. His job, at which he had been mildly successful before the fall of the Soviet Union, was now busy and lucrative. Yuri had once been a businessman with connections in the government, some of which he still retained. He was fifty-two years old, of average height and weight, with a full head of dark hair which he carefully touched up each morning to keep the gray away. Yuri had two children by his current wife, Vera, his third, who had starred in his first film, Strange Snow. Yuri also had a young mistress. The mistress was primarily for show. Yuri had almost no sex drive, a fact about which his wives had frequently complained. Yuri’s passion was reserved for movies.

“Where was I?” he asked, looking at Elena.

“The Cannes Film Festival,” she said.

“Yes, the Cannes Film Festival.”

“May we summarize what you have told us so far?” Elena asked.

“If you wish,” Yuri said, sitting at his end of the table and searching for another cigarette.

Sasha looked at his watch. They had been in this room for almost an hour and he knew that Elena would and could summarize the whole situation in a few minutes.

“You were called at home at approximately three in the morning. A man said that he had the negative of your Tolstoy film and he wanted two million American dollars for it or he would destroy the negative and kill you. You told him he was crazy and hung up. He called again and told you to go check, that he would call you back in two days. That means tomorrow?”

“I think so. I think it must. He didn’t call this morning,” said Yuri, searching for the package of cigarettes now lost somewhere under the papers on the table. “He wants the money tomorrow.”

“You got dressed,” Elena continued, “called your editor, came to your office, where your editor met you to tell you that the negative was indeed missing, that the cabinet in which it was being kept had been broken into. You then made a call and discovered that the backup negative …”

“Of inferior quality because it is a copy,” Yuri said impatiently.

“Of inferior quality,” Elena continued, “was also missing. The film cost approximately thirty-six million American dollars to make, that’s a million dollars more than The Barber of Siberia, making your film about the life of Tolstoy the most expensive movie ever made in Russia and …”

“But that’s not the point,” Yuri said, standing and pointing his cigarette at the two detectives. “It took us two years to make that movie. The world expects it, awaits it. Our film industry is trying to earn worldwide respect. If we don’t have the film, and quickly, our country, our government, I will be humiliated, ridiculed, laughed at. Our government doesn’t want this. I don’t want this and our backers do not want it.”

“Your backers?” said Sasha.

Yuri sat again.

“They are not important in this discussion other than the fact that they want the movie finished and shown. They want awards. I don’t think they would simply be satisfied to get their money back.”

“You can go to them for the two million,” Sasha said. “If you have to give it to the thief, we can track him or them down and get the money back.”

“Hah,” said Yuri. “And hah again. I could pay these criminals and they could destroy my negatives and murder me.”

“Why?” asked Elena. “What could they gain?”

“They could do it out of spite,” Yuri said slowly, as if explaining the situation to a backward child. “They could do it for fun. They could do it to destroy me. There are people on the streets of Moscow who would kill you if they asked you for a match and you didn’t have one.”

“Your backers are Mafia,” Sasha said.

“I did not say that,” Yuri said, backing off. “I said nothing like that, implied nothing like that. If you choose to draw such a conclusion, I cannot stop you, but think, if my backers were Mafia, I could not go to them for money to pay a … a … a negative-kidnapper. Even if they gave me the money, even if I got the negative back, they might suspect that I was doing this just to get two million dollars. They might simply think I was incompetent. They might do anything. You never know what such people will do. No, no, I cannot go to my backers for money.”

“The government might …” Sasha tried.

“No,” said Yuri, pacing again. “I called people this morning, early, before you came. The government cannot be a part of this, will not. The embarrassment-no, it is clear. The government has enough problems. It will not get involved in a possible cultural disaster. I am alone.”

He ran his right hand through his hair as he paced in anguish.

“When do they want the money?” asked Elena.

“Tomorrow. I told you. They want the money tomorrow or they will destroy the negatives and kill me, or so they say. They will call tomorrow in the morning, early, at home, and tell me what to do.”

“How are you to deliver it?” asked Sasha.

“Cash, American dollars, nothing less than hundred-dollar bills and nothing more than thousand-dollar bills. They said they will meet with me alone and will give me phone directions about where to bring the money. I’m to have it ready at my home and be prepared to move quickly. They warned me that they would know if there was anything traceable on the bills, any markings or any dyes in the bag, they would come back and kill me and my family.”

“Unfortunately, you will be unable to go to this meeting,” said Sasha.

“Of course I can’t. I don’t have the money.”

“You will tell them you have the money but you can’t go,” said Sasha. “You have a bad heart. You had a sudden attack today, angina because of all this. You will send your nephew in your place.”

“You will send your niece,” Elena said.

“Nephew would be more convincing,” said Sasha.

“Do I get a vote?” asked Yuri.

“No,” said Sasha.

The two detectives were looking at each other now and not at the confused producer.

“We will discuss it and tell you in a few hours,” said Elena. “If the thieves call before the morning, tell them you are getting the money together. Say nothing about your bad heart, tell them you’ll be home and waiting for their call. We will be with you. They said they will call early. We’ll be at your home at five in the morning. If the phone rings before we arrive, don’t answer it.”

“But …”

“Don’t answer it,” Sasha said.

“All right,” said Yuri, going back to his space at the end of the table. “This is a great movie, a truly great movie. They’ve stolen the life of Tolstoy. Could anything be worse for a Russian to do? What has happened to national pride?”

“We will get your negative back,” said Elena, rising.

“We’ll get it back,” echoed Sasha, rising.

“Here,” said Yuri, pushing some papers across his desk and picking something up. He moved to the seated detectives and handed two yellow cardboard rectangles to Sasha. “Tickets for tonight. The Khudozhestvenny Theater. I don’t know what the movie is.”

“Thank you,” said Sasha, pocketing the tickets.

“And now,” Elena said. “We would like a list of everyone who had access to the negative and we would like