many times that there was no real sense of what they had been originally.
The wind blew hard enough in winter to knock a man from a tractor or lift a child into the air. But this was summer. It was hot and humid and the heavy clouds brought rain. It was a good season.
Into this town drove Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov and Iosef Rostnikov in a ten-year-old tan Ford Mustang provided by the security staff by order of General Snitkonoy, head of Hermitage security and former director of the Office of Special Investigation. The general had not forgotten his debt to Inspector Rostnikov for helping to make his reputation. Not only had he provided a car but a driver too, a driver who had been born in the town to which they were going.
The driver, a very thin, talkative young man with a red face, named Ivan Laminski, wore a blue summer uniform and cap. The uniform was clean and the buttons polished. Ivan occasionally returned to Kiro-Stovitsk to show off his uniform and talk of his responsibilities in the city. Ivan was close to having saved enough money to buy his own car so he could return more often to his brothers, sisters, father and mother, and friends.
Ivan told the two detectives from Moscow about the town, its past and present.
“I don’t think Tsimion Vladovka has come back here more than once or twice,” said Ivan, looking at the two detectives in his rearview mirror. “Once, when his mother was sick with some problem, liver, gallbladder, he took her into town and used his influence to get her an operation. I think he came again but I don’t know if there was a reason. That was a few years back. I doubt if anyone in town knows where he is if he is missing.”
The road was not paved, but it was not particularly bumpy.
In his rearview mirror, Ivan watched the older policeman, the one built like a block of stone, listen and look out of the window. There was little to see but open fields of weeds and an occasional farm. The other policeman, the younger one, listened to Ivan, nodded at appropriate times, knowing he could be seen in the mirror, and occasionally asked a question.
“There it is,” said Ivan, pointing a little off to the right.
“Your great-grandfather came from a town like this one,” said the older policeman to the younger.
The younger policeman looked through the front window at the cluster of small buildings ahead of them.
“You are sure they are not expecting us?” Rostnikov asked the driver.
“They are not,” said Ivan.
“You are certain?” asked Rostnikov.
“I … well, who knows?” said Ivan. “But I don’t think so.”
Ivan was soon proved wrong.
When they drove down the street, a few dozen people stood in front of the stores and former church. There were five cars and two pickup trucks parked on the concrete street, which had no sidewalk. Ivan pulled the car to a stop next to the general store and beside the memorial obelisk.
The day was dark and damp as the Rostnikovs got out of the car. Ivan got out quickly and moved to a group of people, hugging first a narrow woman of about fifty and then some other men and women. Porfiry Petrovich and Iosef stood waiting while Ivan completed his greetings and basked briefly in the admiration of his family and friends. He was probably the second most successful of the sons who had left the town.
“Inspector Rostnikov, this is Alexander Podgorny.”
A heavy man took a step forward and extended his hand. The man had a large belly, a knowing smile, and a crop of white hair brushed straight back and whispered by the slight wind.
“And,” said Rostnikov, “this is my son, Inspector Iosef Rostnikov.”
Podgorny shook Iosef’s hand and stepped back.
The small crowd was silent, watching.
“Our meeting hall is inside,” said Podgorny. “We can go in and talk, or go to my home.”
“The meeting hall will be fine,” said Rostnikov, following Podgorny, trying to remain steady on his insensate leg.
Behind them the people who had stood on the street waiting for the arrival of the important visitors filed in after them. A table and chairs had been set up on the small platform where priests and party officials had once stood. Podgorny ushered the Moscow detectives to the table, where they sat.
An audience began filling the folding chairs facing the platform. Ivan the driver was not sure whether he should be on the platform at the table or in the audience. He opted for the audience and sat between the man and woman who Porfiry Petrovich assumed were his parents.
“You are looking for Tsimion,” said the fat man, whose eyes were very dark and moving from one to the other of the detectives.
“We are looking for information on where we might find him. We believe that he may be in great danger,” said Rostnikov, folding his hands. He had done his best to sit without looking awkward. He had done well but not perfectly.
Podgorny sat on one end of the table. Iosef and his father sat behind it, facing the audience. Iosef expected that when Podgorny was finished, the people before them would begin asking questions.
“You have made a long trip for nothing,” Podgorny said sadly. “We know nothing of Tsimion or where he might be. We wish that we did. If he is in danger, we would like to help him. But … we know nothing.”
“He has a father, a brother, and a mother,” said Rostnikov. “We would like to talk to them.”
Podgorny shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, they are working today,” he said. “And as I said, they have heard nothing from Tsimion. We would like to offer you a meal, show you what little there is to see of our town, and then have Ivan drive you back to St. Petersburg.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Rostnikov. “We will accept the meal and the tour, but since we have come this far, I would like to talk to Tsimion Vladovka’s family. I am sure Ivan Laminski knows the way to their farm.”
“That will not be necessary,” said a man about “age, rising from the back of the small hall. “I am Boris Vladovka.”
The man was wearing a dark-green shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His work pants were dark with stains of white potato dust. He was average in height, lean, with tightly muscled, veined arms. He was dark from years of the sun.
Next to Vladovka sat a younger man with a beard.
“This is my son Konstantin, Tsimion’s brother.”
His son, arms folded across his chest, was dressed like his father, though his face was not as dark. Konstantin nodded, his face serious. He did not rise. An older woman, who looked frightened, took Konstantin’s hand. The conclusion was simple. This was the wife of Boris and the mother of Vladimir and Konstantin.
“Shall we talk here or somewhere? …” Rostnikov began.
“Here,” interrupted Boris emphatically. “We are a family, all of us. The entire town. We have no secrets from each other.”
“I believe that,” said Rostnikov, “but do you have secrets from the rest of the world?”
Something touched the rugged face of Boris Vladovka, but just for an instant.
“All families have secrets,” said Boris. “They are no business of those outside. They are of no interest to those outside. If you have questions, ask. We will do our best to answer. And then we will ask you to leave.”
“Perhaps we will leave after we eat and have a tour of your town,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we will remain till tomorrow. We’ve had a long trip.”
“Yes,” said Boris, still standing.
“Do you know where your son Tsimion is?” asked Rostnikov.
“No,” said Boris.
“Do you know where he might be?” asked Rostnikov.
“No,” said Boris.
“I wish to ask the same question of your wife and son,” said Rostnikov.
“They will tell you the same thing,” said Boris.
“I expect so,” said Rostnikov with a smile. “It is not a matter of what they say, but how they say it. So …”
The bearded man seated next to Boris Vladovka gently removed the hand of the older woman from his and stood up. He was as tall as his father, a bit fuller of body.
