been kind enough to also make some noodle soup.”
“From a can,” the umbrella man, who did not have his umbrella at the moment, said with a smile. “A bit too salty for me. High blood pressure. I take pills. Little round brown pills.”
Iosef nodded. “Then I better …” he began.
“Boris Vladovka has just told us something of great importance,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
Iosef looked at the large man and understood that the expression on his face was not simply somber but one of grief.
“Something about Tsimion Vladovka,” said Primazon, looking at the somber man.
“My son,” said Vladovka, holding back tears, “is dead.”
“Dead?” asked Iosef, glancing at his father and then at Primazon.
“Natural causes,” said the umbrella man.
“When?” asked Iosef.
“A week ago,” said Vladovka. “He had been ill for a long time. Liver disease. He had kept it a secret. He wanted to die at home. We buried him four days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Iosef, looking to his father for help and receiving none.
“Before he died, he asked us not to,” said Boris. “He was afraid someone would be coming from Moscow and want to dig him up.”
Iosef was confused. He felt suddenly naked. He draped the towel over his shoulder.
“Why would anyone want to dig him up?”
“Tsimion had been in outer space. He had heard that other cosmonauts had been cut open when they died, cut open to see what, if anything, flying around the earth had done to their bodies.”
“And so …” Iosef tried.
“And so,” Boris went on, “here you are, from Moscow.”
“I am afraid we will have to see the body,” said Primazon, chewing on a piece of bread. “It will take only a few moments. We need identification.”
“Identification?” asked Boris, looking at the umbrella man.
“Verification,” Primazon said. “That he is dead.”
“Doctor Verushkin from Yerkistanitza gave me this,” Boris said, reaching into his pocket. “I’m sure you can talk to him. He is new in the area. We don’t really know him, but the old doctor, Feydov, he died. Feydov delivered both my sons and …”
Boris Vladovka’s voice trailed off. He started to raise his hands as if in a prelude to a new thought, but none came.
Primazon wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap and looked at the death certificate witnessed by a nurse and a deputy mayor.
“Liver disease,” Primazon confirmed. “Still …”
“I anticipated someone like you. My remaining son and his friends have dug up the coffin. It is next to the grave. The sky is clear but it has been raining. The clouds rush in from the east and …”
“We’re coming,” said Primazon. “Inspector Rostnikov?”
Rostnikov nodded, put down his tea, and got up along with Boris Vladovka.
“I’ll hurry,” said Iosef. “I can wash and shave later.”
“You saw the cemetery when you came in?” asked Boris.
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“We will be there.”
Iosef ran up the stairs, listening to the three men below him heading through the shop toward the front door. There was no mistaking his father’s footsteps, the sound of the slight limp.
The young woman was still in his room, making up his bed. She looked up at him and smiled again as he pulled a fresh shirt from his bag, put it on quickly, slipped on his socks and shoes, and grabbed his blue zipper jacket.
He found the driver, Ivan Laminski, standing next to the Mustang, reading a St. Petersburg newspaper. Laminski was still wearing his blue uniform, but Iosef noticed that the shirt under his open jacket was definitely wrinkled. Laminski looked up and nodded soberly.
Iosef trotted toward the cemetery just outside of town. He could see a very small group: his father, Boris, Primazon, Konstantin Vladovka, and another man holding a shovel.
Iosef slowed down and walked up to the open coffin in time to hear Porfiry Petrovich say, “It is him.”
Primazon looked at the dead man and then at Boris and said, “Yes, but I have a request. I would rather not make it, but it is essential. I was supposed to protect your son from harm. Now I would like to protect myself from the censure of my superiors. I would like a copy of the death certificate and I would like to take a photograph of your son.”
Boris Vladovka took a step toward Primazon, who was now carrying his umbrella, but his son stepped between them.
“It can do no harm, Father.”
“Take your photograph,” said Boris, turning away and heading back to the village.
Primazon tucked the umbrella under his arm and awkwardly reached into his pocket to produce a very small camera.
“Important in my work,” he explained.
They stood watching as Primazon took three photographs, zooming in for one head shot. Iosef, for the first time, looked at the dead man. His hands were folded. He was the pale white of death and wore a suit and tie. His hair was brushed back. The dead man looked like a ghastly version of the cosmonaut in the photograph in Porfiry Petrovich’s file. The quest for Tsimion Vladovka was over.
“Enough,” said Primazon, pocketing the camera. “I am sorry, but …”
“Let us leave so that-” Rostnikov began.
“Of course,” said Primazon with a sad smile, looking at the bearded brother of the dead man and at the man with the shovel. “It’s time to leave.”
When they got back, Podgorny’s shop was open and the shopkeeper was reaching up to take something from a shelf. “You’ll be leaving now?” he asked.
“Shortly,” said Rostnikov. “You knew about-”
“We all knew,” said Podgorny, carefully lifting a carton with a slight grunt. “The whole village. We did as Boris asked us.”
“I am leaving, Inspector Rostnikov,” said Primazon with a sigh, as the three headed up the stairs.
“No point in remaining,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we will encounter each other in Moscow.”
“It is possible,” said Primazon. “It is possible.”
Porfiry Petrovich was moving slowly, more slowly than usual. Primazon went into his room and closed the door. Iosef was about to do the same but his father motioned to him and Iosef followed Porfiry Petrovich into his room, where Rostnikov closed the door behind them.
“Pack quickly and then meet me in the hall when you hear our umbrella man coming out of his room,” Rostnikov whispered. “I will be waiting. I am already packed. In his presence, you will ask me if we have time to visit a farm before we leave. You have never seen a real farm.”
“I haven’t?” Iosef whispered back.
“You have not. I will say that it is all right to visit a farm, but we should do so quickly because we must get back to Moscow. You understand?”
“Not in the least,” said Iosef, “but I will certainly do it.”
“You were an actor.”
“I was a mediocre actor.”
“Mediocrity is all that is necessary in this situation.”
“May I ask why?” said Iosef.
“Because while I do know who killed the cosmonauts, I do not yet know why.”
“Primazon killed Vladovka?”
“No, I am convinced that Vladovka died of liver disease.”
“And you think you will find in this village the reason why the others were killed?”
