“Do you know what that means?” asked Rostnikov, looking up.
“Of course,” the ragged man said, swaying. “Property of the father goes to the firstborn male. This bench belonged to my father. Many was the time when my mother sent me here to drag him home, if you call the hallway we lived in home.”
“We’re touched by your troubles,” said Stoltz, rising to face him. “Now go away and come back in an hour.”
The ragged man swayed, but he did not move.
“You have a name?” asked Rostnikov.
“Everyone has a name,” the ragged man said, hands still in his pockets, eyes meeting those of Stoltz, who could have lifted the filthy creature above his head and thrown him for a new park record.
“And yours is? …”
“Dovnikovich, Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich. I used to be a teacher of Russian to people who spoke only Spanish. I had Cubans, Mexicans. I made a living. Now the Cubans don’t come anymore and the Mexicans are learning English.”
“Would you be willing to tell your obviously interesting story to my son here over a cheeseburger?”
“I have my pride,” said the ragged man. “Does he want to hear my tale?”
“I can think of nothing I would prefer,” said Iosef, standing and looking at his father with a sigh.
“Two cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coca-Cola. No, a milkshake, strawberry,” said the ragged man, finally moving his eyes from those of Stoltz to those of Rostnikov, who was the only one still seated.
“That sounds reasonable,” said Rostnikov. “Iosef, break bread with Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich and hear his story. Then later you can tell it to me. I’m sorry we cannot join you, but with your permission we would like to conclude some business on your bench.”
“You have my permission,” said the ragged man, closing his eyes and bringing his head down with a bow.
Iosef and the man moved away, across the grass, toward the short line waiting to get into the McDonald’s.
Stoltz looked down. “His life story,” he said, shaking his head.
“I look forward to hearing it,” said Rostnikov, turning his head to watch his son and the ragged man move toward the line. “My son will tell it well. Iosef used to be a playwright.”
“And now he is a policeman,” said Stoltz.
“He was not a good playwright,” said Rostnikov. “He may become a good policeman. Vladovka.”
“Vladovka, Tsimion Vladovka,” Stoltz repeated, sitting again on the Dovnikovich bench. “You have the information you need in the file we gave to Director Yaklovev, but I understand you have questions …”
“Many. Where can I find the other cosmonaut? Kinotskin? His location is not indicated in the file.”
“Why talk to him?” asked Stoltz, throwing his cigarette stub in the general direction of a metal trash basket.
“I want to know what he knows about Vladovka, the last flight, perhaps why he mentioned my name. Do you know why he mentioned my name? Did he ever tell you when he was back on earth?”
“No,” said Stoltz. “Perhaps you can ask him if you find him.”
“When I find him,” Rostnikov corrected, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “Director Yaklovev has given me no option.”
Rostnikov could not imagine the ragged man sleeping here. It would take a decidedly unhealthy intake of vodka.
“I suppose I can give you Kinotskin’s address,” said Stoltz. “He would be easy to find in any case. He works for the space program, for me, in fact, in security at Star City. I’ll set up a meeting, but I warn you, there is nothing he can tell you that will lead you to Vladovka.”
“Perhaps not, but …”
“You have information on Vladovka’s entire life,” said Stoltz, a bit impatiently. “We sent your office a copy of our file. Where he is from, who his friends and relatives are, and what he looks like. Why not start with his family?”
“I think, perhaps, our office has the case because others, State Security, have talked to them and come away with nothing. I will talk to his family, but first another direction.”
“The other cosmonauts,” said Stoltz.
“Yes.”
“Well, it will be but one meeting. Baklunov is dead. Cancer of the liver. He went quickly.”
“On the flight, he was …”
“… conducting experiments. He was a biologist. Very promising. His death was a tragedy for the program, for Russia,” said Stoltz. “Other questions?”
“What happened on that last flight that required an emergency rescue of Tsimion Vladovka and the others?”
“Test results came in,” said Stoltz. “Results of tests taken routinely on all cosmonauts. Sometimes the results take a long time to get to us. We learned of Baklunov’s cancer and were told that he had to come back for treatment.”
“Why did the others not stay in space?”
“Vladovka and Kinotskin had been on the mission for many months. A new team was ready. Since we were nearing the end of the
“And the cosmonauts who replaced them,” said Rostnikov. “I would like to talk to them.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange, but it may well take a while.”
“May I ask why?”
“Oh, two are out of the country, an extended stay in the United States to consult on their proposed manned space efforts. An attempt to continue to build relations with the Americans. Actually, I do not trust the Americans, but I do not make policy.”
“And the other cosmonaut who took over the mission?”
“Bobchek is in China now,” said Stoltz, looking across the square at two old men engaged in a bitter argument. “Went with our blessing, reluctant blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. He is a consultant to a computer-chip development company. Eventually they will discover, if they have not already, that Bobchek was the least bright of all the cosmonauts in the last forty years. His conciliative powers are negative. We could not plant a more effective agent with the Chinese to impede their electronic research if we planned for a decade. There are no plans for his return.”
Rostnikov nodded and began the awkward process of getting up. “You have no idea of why Vladovka would run, hide?” he asked. “No theory of your own?”
Stoltz shrugged. “Who knows? A woman perhaps. An offer from a foreign government, possibly the French, possibly the English. Vladovka knows a great deal about our space program.”
“A great deal that we have not shared with other countries and that they do not already know?”
“Who knows what other countries will pay for? The space race is on again. We are behind on launching a new station with the Americans. Vladovka could possibly embarrass us with what he knows of our problems. We would certainly survive such embarrassment but … You know. You have superiors. I have people to whom I must report. Those in charge; as you well know, have but a tenuous grasp on their power. Embarrassments can be used to destroy people.”
Rostnikov, now standing, nodded. He believed very little that Stoltz had told him. The man was too cooperative, too ready with answers. More was going on than Rostnikov was being told, or was likely to be told by Kinotskin, the one cosmonaut other than Vladovka who knew about the flight, but still …
The two men shook hands.
“I’ll call your office with a time and place to meet Kinotskin.”
“Soon,” said Rostnikov. “Preferably today.”
“We all want Vladovka found soon,” said Stoltz.
“Do you like Vladovka?” Rostnikov asked, his hand still in that of Stoltz. The hand he shook remained firm
