what they want. I will not, however, change my policy toward Putin. For now, he is relatively safe from attack by me. I have no illusions. Our president has donned a yarmulke for political reasons. He bears ho great love for Russia’s Jews. There is a price I will not pay to free my son, but the price I am willing to pay is quite high to insure that he is safe.”
“Safe except for a finger,” said Karpo.
“He will have to be a singer without a guitar perhaps,” said Lovski with a shrug. “I know little of such music.”
“There is a guitarist with Dead Zombies with two fingers missing,” Zelach said.
“That is comforting,” said Lovski. “Now, if you have no more questions …”
Karpo rose. Zelach did the same. Lovski picked up the phone and was talking to someone before the detectives reached the door, which was opened for them by the elevator operator.
Five minutes later they were on the street.
“Thoughts?” asked Karpo.
Zelach shrugged.
“He hates his son,” said Karpo.
“No,” said Zelach. “He loves his son. He loves him very much.”
Karpo nodded. Karpo trusted his own sense of reason, but he had learned to trust Zelach’s feelings if not his intellect.
Chapter Six
'Do you think the sun will eventually burn out?” asked Rostnikov.
He was sitting in the Paris Café a few hundred yards from his apartment on Krasikov Street. The Paris Café bore no resemblance to anything Parisian, nor was it a café. It was a small shop that was sometimes open and sometimes not, depending on the whims and health of the old couple who ran it. There were six plastic tables with four chairs at each. The decor was simple. A painting of a dark jungle that looked decidedly un-Russian, with its huge palm trees and high waterfall in the distance, was the only decoration. The menu choices were almost as limited. In fact, there was no menu. The old woman or old man simply told you what was available at that moment in time besides coffee, tea,
Like most Moscow cafés, this one smelled of pungent, acrid Russian tobacco. The man and woman across from him were contributing to the smell. The four of them were the Paris Cafés only customers at the moment.
“The sun?” asked the man, looking at Rostnikov without understanding.
The man was large, perhaps forty, clean-shaven and rather resembling an ox. He wore a flannel shirt and solid-blue tie over his navy-blue coat. The woman at his side was a bit younger than the man. Her face was plain though her skin was smooth, unblemished. She was thin, nervous, dark, and wore a look showing that she was prepared for battle.
The man had been introduced by the woman as Dmitri. No last name had been given. The woman was Miriana. She had given no last name. Rostnikov needed none. Miriana was the daughter of Galina Panishkoya who sat heavily to Porfiry Petrovich’s right, her hands in her lap, looking at her daughter who did not meet her eyes.
Both Miriana and Dmitri were smoking cheap Russian cigarettes.
“Time is perhaps infinite, but our solar system, our galaxy, and certainly our lives are not,” said Rostnikov.
“I want my children,” Miriana said, looking defiantly at Rostnikov.
“You abandoned them, Mirya,” Galina said flatly. “You left them with me and …”
“Things have changed,” said Miriana, cutting off her mother, not looking at her. “Dmitri and I are getting married. The girls are mine.”
“But Mirya …” the older woman tried.
“No,” her daughter cut her off. “They are mine. The law is on my side.”
Galina looked at Rostnikov, who pursed his lips. He considered touching the grandmother’s shoulder to reassure her, but reassurance would come from action not gesture.
“Then you shall have the children,” Rostnikov said. “They are packed, ready. We anticipated this. My wife and I are looking forward to having the apartment to ourselves. Your mother can join you.
“My mother …” Miriana began.
“Or perhaps she can get a small room,” said Rostnikov. “I know someone who might help.”
Galina sobbed.
“Perhaps …” Dmitri began but stopped when Miriana raised her hand.
“You are bluffing,” the younger woman said.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“You do not want the children to go with me,” Miriana continued.
“I do not want the sun to burn out,” said Rostnikov, “but I believe it is as inevitable as the fact that all of us who sit at this table will die and eventually be forgotten.”
“Dmitri and I have a great deal of traveling to do in our business,” Miriana said, stubbing out her cigarette and holding out her hand for Dmitri to give her another. He did so and lit it.
“I see,” said Rostnikov.
“I might consider leaving my children with you if I can be compensated for being away from them.”
“You have been away for two years and seem to have survived,” said Rostnikov.
“But a mother’s heart has been full of concern,” she said, with no sign of concern in her voice that Rostnikov could discern.
“Understandable,” said Rostnikov. “What would you consider a fair compensation for our continuing to keep these children and your mother?”
“Two hundred rubles a month,” she said.
“Two hundred,” Rostnikov repeated as the old man placed a plate of cake and muffins on the table and retreated. “That is acceptable. Cake?”
Dmitri reached for a muffin.
“You can begin payment immediately, tonight,” said the woman.
“Begin payment?” Rostnikov said, carefully slicing the small cake with a knife the old man had placed next to it. “Yes, the payments can begin tonight. That would be nice. Very generous.”
Rostnikov tried the cake. It was slightly stale but he could still detect the flavor of almonds. He dunked the hard slice in his coffee.
“Well?” asked Miriana. “The first payment.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, putting the cake down on a small plate before him and wiping his hands on the napkin next to it. He put out his hand.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
“Waiting for my first payment,” said Rostnikov. “Time is passing. I’ve encountered no one in my experience who is getting younger.”
Miriana looked at her mother, who had been looking down and now was staring at Rostnikov.
“You expect me to pay you?” she said.
“For keeping your mother and children, yes. The cake is not at all bad. You should try a small piece. I’ll cut it for you.”
He reached forward with the knife to cut the cake. Miriana stood. Her green cloth coat was draped over the back of her chair. The chair looked as if it were going to fall backward. Dmitri, half-finished muffin in his left hand, reached over with his right to steady the chair.
“We’ll pick up the children,” the standing woman spat.
