Odessa, Vera saw to it that she was with them most nights, read to them, bought them clothes and ice cream, took them to the circus and movies.
Yuri, on the other hand, spent no time with their children and was usually thinking of something else when Ivan tried to talk to him or Alla climbed into his lap.
Vera was ready now. She examined herself one last time in the mirror. Her mouth could, possibly, stand a bit more moisture, a bit more sympathetic red, but there was no time.
This was to be the first sequence in a dramatic unfilmed movie called
When Yuri was dead, his widow would inherit. The negative would be returned. The film would go to Cannes and make money. With luck Vera would be wealthy.
Valery was a very different lover from Yuri, but in his way almost as bad. Four inches shorter than she, homely and hairy as a bear, he would make wild sounds, cling to her till welts formed, lick her body in a way that both excited and repulsed her. He had tremendous staying power and was still many minutes away when she had long finished. And when it was over, he did not want her to leave whatever hotel room they were in. He usually wanted to talk about chess, about how life was a game of chess, a Russian game.
Yuri was a weakling. Valery was a bore.
Vera would gently get rid of Valery when all was over. She would see to it that he became an editor on a small picture and then she would set him up as a producer with his own very small independent company. She would invest heavily in the company and live up to her agreement to share in the profit and estate. She would guide Valery to other women, girls, and she would wait for him to break off their relationship. Before that, however, she could keep him at a distance, claiming that they could not do anything to draw suspicion. And then she would produce a movie of her own, a big movie, in which she would star.
Yes, she was ready for Yuri. She could stand her husband for another day.
The Yak was seated at the conference table when Porfiry Petrovich entered the office. Yaklovev waited while the chief inspector sat, opened his pad, and took out a pencil.
“Porfiry Petrovich, you are trying to find a missing cosmonaut.”
Rostnikov nodded, head down, examining the blank page before him, a bit curious about what images his pencil might find on the pale whiteness.
“You are not to pursue the unfortunate death of another cosmonaut this afternoon.”
“Murder. The two are connected,” said Rostnikov, drawing a straight line. “We began our investigation, requested a meeting with Vladimir Kinotskin, and hours later he is murdered.” Rostnikov began to draw something, a straight line.
“The murder is not ours, Porfiry Petrovich.”
There were many things Rostnikov wanted to say, but the director would know all of them. Something else was going on, and Rostnikov had no choice but to say yes.
“Then your pursuit of this death will not continue?”
“It will not,” said Rostnikov, seeing something come to meaning in the drawing.
“The newspapers, as you may know, and the television are being told that Vladimir Kinotskin appears to have suffered a stroke while standing before the boyhood home of his favorite poet and artist. The media has been told that his body will be handled with dignity and that there is no connection with his time in space and the tragedy. It seems there is a history of stroke in his family. It has been noted in his records.”
“The inescapability of revised genetic history,” said Rostnikov.
The Yak looked at him for a sign of sarcasm. There was none. Perhaps resignation, but not sarcasm.
“What is your next step?” asked Yaklovev.
The drawing was now clearly that of a man walking a tightrope, pole in hand to maintain his balance. The man had no face and was wearing a bathing suit. The task of the imaginary man was rendered impossible by the fact that he had only one leg.
“We would like to interview the three cosmonauts who brought Vladovka, Kinotskin, and Baklunov back from
“You think they confided in each other on a brief shuttle to the earth?” asked Yaklovev.
“No, perhaps, but something took place on
“You think Vladovka is dead?”
Rostnikov shrugged. The drawing lacked something, something essential. “Iosef has made inquiries,” said Rostnikov, drawing wings on the one-legged man, large wings, the fingerlike black wings of a predatory bird. “Two of the cosmonauts on the rescue mission are in America learning English, preparing for a flight to the new space station when it is built and some shuttle missions in the meantime. They will not be back in Russia for at least a year.”
“You will interview the third cosmonaut,” said the Yak.
“I cannot,” said Rostnikov. “He is dead. An accident. He was visiting the small farm he had purchased for his father. While out alone in the nearby city of Vologda, he had a heart attack. He was thirty-two years old.”
“The Russian death rate is among the highest in the world,” said the Yak.
“Primarily resulting from smoking, drinking, poor diet, and family rage,” answered Rostnikov. “It seems the mortality rate for this group of cosmonauts exceeds the national average and that their demise came not in space but on the earth. But, I will cease to follow leads in the space program.”
“And so?”
“And so,” said Rostnikov. “I have read through our missing hero’s file and come to the conclusion that Iosef and I should go to Kiro-Stovitsk.”
“Kiro-Stovitsk?”
“The town near Pikolovo not far from St. Petersburg where our missing cosmonaut was raised, where his parents, brother, cousins still live, farm, work.”
“You think he is there?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. It is probably where I would go if I wanted to be with people I trusted, if only for a little while before continuing to run, continuing to find a place to hide.”
The drawing was complete. The one-legged man would surely fall, but his wings were strong. Rostnikov wondered if the winged man were Vladovka, Porfiry Petrovich, or a combination of both. He closed the notebook.
“Then,” said Yaklovev, “go to Kiro-Stovitsk, find him and find him quickly. And remember, no interrogation. You simply and quietly bring him to me. You will probably be followed by State Security, Military Intelligence, and others.”
“Strangers will stand out in Kiro-Stovitsk. The town, I understand, is very small and there are no hotels.”
“Good, go quickly and succeed,” said the Yak, rising. “Pankov will see to an advance for your expenses. Take what you need. I know I need not worry about your spending more than is necessary.”
“There is a flight to St. Petersburg early in the morning,” said Rostnikov, getting up. What remained of his left leg had fallen asleep. He could feel nothing but tingling. He almost fell. He steadied himself on the table and the Yak moved away, pretending not to have seen.
When Rostnikov was out the door, Yaklovev went over the reports on the other two cases now underway by the Office of Special Investigation. The missing film negative had not yet been found. It was of great importance to the government. Yaklovev had the power, with a phone call, to obtain the two million American dollars for the return of the negatives. The problem, however, was that if he did so, he would be obligated to the powerful advisor to the president. As it stood now, the powerful advisor was deeply obligated to Igor Yaklovev. A time would come when the Yak would pick up the phone and arrange a meeting with the powerful advisor, a member of the duma. That time would have to come soon and the favor asked would have to justify itself. Timing was everything. The powerful advisor might become president in the not-distant future, but then again, Russia being as dourly manic as it was, the advisor might be just another citizen within the historical change of a single day. And what if Yaklovev did ask for a two-million-dollar favor and the negative was not returned or was destroyed? No, in that
