Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

His son was in the next room, the only other room of the tiny apartment, with Anna Timofeyeva.

“What?”

“We have decided to marry as soon as I am out of this bed,” she said. “He asked me to tell you.”

“You have told me and I am pleased,” Rostnikov said.

“I do not intend to leave my job,” she said.

“I would not wish you to,” said Rostnikov. “Recover. Sarah and I will plan a wedding.”

“Small,” she said. “Talk to Iosef. A small party. No religious wedding. A simple state wedding.”

“May I ask you a question?” Rostnikov said.

“Yes.”

“If it is an intrusion? …”

“You want to know if we plan on children.”

“Yes.”

“At some point. We have talked. At some point.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Shall I turn off the light?”

“No,” she said. “I prefer it on, at least for tonight.”

Rostnikov nodded and left the bedroom.

Anna Timofeyeva sat in her chair near the window with her cat, Baku, on her lap. Iosef stood, a cup in his hand.

“Coffee or tea, Porfiry Petrovich?” she asked.

“Coffee, perhaps.”

Iosef moved to the small stove near the door to the apartment to get the cup of coffee for his father.

“You look tired, Porfiry Petrovich,” Anna said.

“I am,” he replied, taking the cup from his son. He took a sip. The coffee was tepid but strong. “And you, Anna Timofeyeva? How are you?”

“Angry,” she said with resignation. “But I have been told it is bad for my heart to be angry, so I try to convince myself that the anger is something I can put into an imaginary box and hide in the cabinet with the soup cans.”

“And does it work?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I am trying. I read about it in a book Elena and Iosef gave me. Mysticism.”

Her reaction to the word mysticism was a nod of resignation. She was a pragmatist, always had been. She had been quite comfortable in the Communist Soviet Union, though she acknowledged its defects. Authority had been clear. The world had been solid and tangible. You worked. You died. Now her niece and the man she was going to marry gave her books about achieving tranquility. Anna was willing to exert her considerable will on being calm. She needed and wanted no books. One could rely on one’s mind if not one’s body.

“She will be all right?” Rostnikov asked.

“She will be fine,” said Iosef glumly.

“He thinks it is his fault,” said Anna, stroking the cat, whose eyes were shut in contentment.

“Of course it was my fault,” Iosef said, looking into his empty cup. “I should have seen, been more prepared. She could have been killed because I was not alert.”

“One cannot anticipate all contingencies,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “You deal with crime and criminals, sometimes lunatics. You are a policeman, not a bricklayer.”

“I know,” said Iosef. “But …”

“If you spend your life going over each act that you did not and could not anticipate,” said Anna, “you will fail to address the present.”

“Anna Timofeyeva does not believe in the past,” Rostnikov explained, gulping down the last of his coffee. “And she does not believe in God.”

“There is no past,” she said. “It is gone. There is now. There may be tomorrow. That is what you address. That is where you live, right where you stand.”

“You have turned to philosophy,” Rostnikov said.

“I have time for reflection and the reading of mystical books which, thankfully, tend to be very short, though obscure.”

“I must go home. I called Sarah from Petrovka. She wanted to come but I told her to stay, that I would be home soon. She is waiting up for me. Iosef?”

“Anna Timofeyeva has invited me to stay here tonight,” Iosef said.

“In Lydia Tkach’s apartment,” Anna said. “Lydia is thankfully away somewhere, looking at religious paintings with her artist. She left me the key. She will not mind.”

Rostnikov looked at his son and touched the younger man’s cheek. “Elena said you will be married when she is well,” he said. “We will have a party. Who shall we invite?”

“I … just a few friends,” said Iosef.

Rostnikov nodded and moved to the door. Perhaps he would include the Yak and Pankov on the guest list. It would be interesting to see them attempting to be sociable. He doubted if either would come but the possibility intrigued him.

“Perhaps a surprise or two,” said Rostnikov.

“I can do without surprises for a while,” said Iosef.

Rostnikov nodded to Anna, touched his son’s arm, and left the apartment.

Twenty minutes later, Rostnikov entered the apartment on Krasnikov Street as quietly as he could in the hope of not waking the two girls and their grandmother, who slept in the front room. One more week and grandmother and grandchildren would have their own apartment, only a single room, but a large one on the floor above. But for now they were here. Rostnikov moved slowly and as quietly as his mechanical leg would allow.

He made it to the bedroom without awakening the sleeping trio, opened the door, and found Sarah sitting up in the bed, a book in her lap, a pillow behind her back. The only light in the room came from a small reading lamp on the table next to the bed. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment looking at her.

She was pale, a paleness that contrasted with the darkening red of her hair, which had grown back since her operation. She wore the blue nightgown he had bought for her when she got out of the hospital. Sarah Rostnikov was still a lovely woman. She smiled and patted the right side of the bed next to her, his side.

He moved to her and sat.

“How is Elena?”

“She will be well. They want to marry soon. Perhaps next week.”

Sarah nodded.

“I told them we would have a party.”

“Of course,” she said.

“You can?…”

“Galina and the girls will help me. It will be fine, Porfiry Petrovich. Hungry?”

“No. Tired.”

“Take off your clothes and Lenin, shave, shower, and come to bed.”

“Lenin?”

“I have decided,” she said, “to call your alien leg Lenin. You should have something to call it.”

“Why Lenin?” he asked, starting to undress.

“You can engage in secret political discussion and seek cooperation to your mutual satisfaction,” she said. “And no one will know but the two of you.”

“Then Lenin it is,” he said, looking at her.

“The Korcescus on the second floor are having trouble with their toilet again,” she said.

“I will deal with that challenge tomorrow night.”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” she said. “How long has it been since we made love?”

He thought for a moment.