week. You would make love to Leonora Vukolonya. Do you know how many men would cut off their right testicle to make love to Leonora Vukolonya?”
“Six,” said Sasha to the director, who seemed to have a penchant for cutting off appendages. “And they would all be lunatics.”
Levich laughed. “A sense of humor. Think about it.”
Yuri introduced Sasha to the other people in the small room, an older man and woman who stood before a dark machine. Behind them was a movie screen. Before them was a glass panel with a projector behind it.
Yuri introduced them and then moved out of the room with Sasha in tow.
“Think about it, Honoré,” said Levich as they left.
“Levich is a Jew,” said Yuri. “Very talented. Would he be talking about making another movie if he were about to destroy the entire company? He is not that good of an actor … we can’t smoke in here. Too many things here, film, burn too easily. Too volatile.”
Sasha had no intention of smoking then, there, or anywhere.
The tour moved quickly. The editor, who sat working in a narrow room with a wall-to-wall table filled with machines, looked up when they entered. She was a bit dumpy, with dirty-blond hair a bit unkempt, probably nearing fifty. Two young men were in the room with her. All three were hovered over machines with cranks on which reels of film hung. Strips of film hung from clips all over the room, like black decorations to fit the clearly somber mood.
“We can’t work, Yuri,” the woman said. “We can’t pretend. We have nothing to work with here. Bits, pieces. I hold you responsible.”
Yuri put a finger to his lips behind Sasha’s back and said, “This is Sasha Honoré-Baptiste from Gaumont in France. They are thinking of investing in us. Monsieur Honoré-Baptiste, this is Svetlana Gorchinova, the deservedly honored editor, the greatest editor in all of Russia.”
Yuri beamed. Svetlana did not.
“We are busy,” she said after shaking Sasha’s hand with a quick jerk. “We are busily engaged in the task of putting together enough pieces of film to make a trailer for a movie that doesn’t exist.”
“Perhaps you could just introduce Monsieur Honoré-Baptiste to your assistants and we can leave you.”
She turned in her high swivel chair and looked at the two young men behind her. The taller and younger of the two had long hair, a large nose, and very crooked teeth.
“Nikita Kolodny,” she said.
The young man tried to grin but the mood of the room was too funereal.
“And this,” she said, pointing to the very short, stocky young man in the back of the room, “is Valery Grachev.”
Grachev nodded.
“Any news?” Svetlana Gorchinova said.
“I think we should not talk business before our guest,” said Yuri.
The woman shrugged. She made no effort to hide her depression. “No news,” she said.
“We must go now,” Yuri said, touching Sasha’s arm.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Sasha said.
The two young men nodded. Svetlana turned back to whatever she was editing or pretending to edit and said and did nothing to acknowledge the departure of a possible investor.
Back in the hall with the door closed, Yuri whispered, “She did it. I can tell. You could see. She is not just eccentric. Everyone says she is eccentric because she is a great editor. But she is really just a crazy woman. Crazy women do anything. Believe me. I have known women as crazy as that one. She will do anything.”
“She plans to destroy her own work?” asked Sasha.
“For two million dollars,” Yuri said, fishing out his cigarettes and lighting one in spite of his earlier warning about not smoking in the building.
“She is well paid? She is in demand?”
“Very much so.”
“Then why? …”
“She hates me. Can’t you see? She hates me. And two million American dollars. Maybe she’ll just pretend to destroy the film and then she’ll keep it to herself, treasure it like those Japanese who buy Renoir originals and then hide them in vaults.”
“Where do we go next?” asked Sasha.
“Deeper into the hell over which I have lost all control,” said Yuri Kriskov.
Rostnikov stood, hands behind his back, feet apart, twenty feet away from Paulinin, who leaned over the body of Vladimir Kinotskin, which still lay in front of Lermontov’s home. Uniformed guards were at work keeping the inevitable crowd away. It wasn’t a large crowd but it was large enough to require half-a-dozen officers. Iosef directed the crowd control while Paulinin, his fishing-tackle box open, his hair wild, looked at the body, ignored the stench, and grumbled.
Paulinin took the dead man’s temperature, touched his ankles, took samples of blood and liquid feces, and examined the body as best he could. Finally, he closed the tackle box, picked it up, and moved toward Rostnikov.
“You know what Kaminskov or Pashinski or one of the other dolts who call themselves pathologists would say?”
“No.”
“They would say your young man had a stroke and a seizure,” said Paulinin. “It would all be over. They wouldn’t have looked for the small puncture in his lower back, even though the hole, grant you it is very small, went right through his shirt. All the symptoms of a massive stroke and seizure, and in one sense they would be right, but the cause of the stroke and seizure they would miss. I will need to talk to the young man in my laboratory.”
“Murdered,” said Rostnikov, who had fully expected this finding.
“Just as clearly as the other one I looked at this morning with his head crushed by a hammer,” said Paulinin. “And I could tell you more, much more about the killer, if the ground were not so trampled by the usual idiots. The ground is perfect, perfect for prints, but … look at it. It looks as if a World Cup game has been played here.”
“Thank you for coming, Paulinin,” said Rostnikov.
“Uhh,” said Paulinin, looking back at the body. “You can bring him to Petrovka now, down to my laboratory. Don’t let the idiots clean him. I don’t care how he smells. He comes as he is. I will clean him when it is right. I will apologize to him for the indignities he is suffering and will have to suffer further. I have, as you know, learned to talk gently to the dead.”
“I have observed,” said Rostnikov. “I’ll have you driven back to Petrovka.”
“Good. My lunch is waiting.”
When Paulinin was gone, Rostnikov waved to his son and Iosef walked over to him.
“What do we conclude from this?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.
“That three cosmonauts were on that mission,” said Iosef. “Two are dead and one is missing.”
“And?”
“Three cosmonauts relieved them,” said Iosef. “Perhaps we should talk to them about what they saw and heard, since Mikhail Stoltz appears unwilling or unable to provide answers.”
“So you are convinced that Tsimion Vladovka’s disappearance and the murder of Vladimir Kinotskin are connected to the
“Yes.”
“I am inclined to agree. Then perhaps we should move quickly before someone tells us that this murder belongs to MVD and not to our office.”
“Or before the Yak tells us to mind our business.”
Rostnikov touched his son’s arm and nodded his head. “Come, let us break the bad news to Stoltz, though I feel it will not come as a great surprise. Are you hungry?”
Iosef looked at the body. “No. We had cheeseburgers only an hour or so ago, remember?”
“Then later, perhaps. Your mother made me sandwiches. I wonder what it must be like to be weightless in
