A Whisper to the Living

There had been nothing in the diatribe that Ivan had not heard before. He barely listened to the man, who spoke without expression or enthusiasm.

“We have eight girls and eleven boys here,” he went on. The visitors were led into an office so small that there was barely room for a simple wooden desk and three chairs.

Gorodeyov took his time settling himself in behind his desk.

“No one is forced to remain here,” he said. “If they want to go, even the boys and girls, they simply say so. We call parents or relatives to pick them up. Adults can just pack up and leave after telling someone else that they no longer wish to stay. Very few, I tell you, leave us.”

“I must get back to Moscow,” Klaus said, rising. “How much. .?”

“There is no charge for staying here. If you wish to make a donation because you believe in our cause, you may do so. Please take some of our literature from the table in the front hall. You are sure you do not wish to stay for dinner? We live off of food we grow and produce ourselves. Nothing in all of Russia is fresher.”

“I must go,” said Klaus, holding out his hand.

Artyom Gorodeyov took it and Ivan said, “I am going back with you.”

“Why? So that you can be arrested for murder?” asked Klaus. “You will be recognized the moment you step out in public.”

“Everyone here is happy,” said Artyom, whose face conveyed no sense of happiness. “You are free to talk to anyone here about what they think and what they are doing. There is only one rule: obey. If you stay, obey.”

“All right,” said Ivan. “For a few days.”

Then Klaus was gone and Ivan was alone with Gorodeyov.

“Hungry?”

“Yes,” said Ivan.

“Good. We will have some soup made from our own vegetables and you will talk to me about the murder of your wife and. .”

“Fedot Babinski,” said Ivan. “His name was Fedot Babinski.”

The Volga Supermarket II was busy. It was early evening and people on their way home from work added to the people who did not go to work but prepared the evening meal for their families.

The aisles of the supermarket were wide, the shelves no more than shoulder high, so that all items could be reasonably in reach, the lights high above were brightly fluorescent, and constant chatter was indistinguishable.

Aleksandr Chenko, in a clean apron in spite of the lateness of the day and the frequent contact with meats, fruits, and vegetables, was rearranging a freestanding display of canned soups. The number of cans had slowly dwindled and the display had to be restocked and restacked.

He was lost in his work, a can in his hand, when he had a feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head and saw the policeman from the park standing in the canned fruit and vegetable aisle. There was a small package under the policeman’s arm and a look of sadness on his face.

Aleksandr went back to doing his work, stacking, building, perfecting. When he had taken all of the cans of chicken soup from the cart and was satisfied with the display he had created, he turned to Rostnikov with a smile.

“What do you think?” asked Chenko as a short, fat woman with a scarf tied tightly around her red face reached up and took down a soup can to take a critical look.

“About what?” asked Rostnikov.

“The display.”

“Very neat,” said Rostnikov. “Are you always so neat?”

“I try to be,” Chenko said as the short, fat woman reached up to place the can she examined back on the stack.

Chenko took the can down and carefully replaced it.

“You cannot do that every time someone looks at a can or buys one.”

“No, but I can try to stay one step ahead of them.”

“Them?” asked Rostnikov.

“The customers. You do not usually shop here.”

“I do not.”

Rostnikov shifted his packet to underneath his other arm.

“Is there something with which I can assist you?” asked Chenko.

“Yes, you can tell me why you do it.”

“It?” asked Chenko.

“Why you take the path through the park when it is neither on the way to or from this store from your apartment. It would be far more direct and much faster to walk along the outside walk.”

Emil Karpo had supplied Rostnikov with the address of Aleksandr Chenko.

A man with thick glasses squinted painfully at a shopping list as he pushed his cart between Chenko and the policeman. The man wore a heavy blue denim jacket with an insulated lining.

“I like to walk different ways. You have taken an interest in me,” Chenko said.

“You are a person of interest.”

Aleksandr Chenko began pushing his now-empty cart toward the back of the store.

“Why?”

“You are an interesting person,” said Rostnikov, keeping up with him.

“Me, interesting? No one ever thought I was before.”

“Do you like guava juice?”

“What? You ask some very odd questions for a policeman.”

“I have been told I am a very odd policeman.”

“I drink all kinds of juice.”

“Including guava?”

“Including guava. Has it become a crime to drink guava juice?” Chenko asked.

Rostnikov shrugged his shoulders and stopped trying to keep up with him. The policeman stopped and watched Chenko hurry away.

He told himself to resist, not to turn and look at the policeman. There would be nothing guilty in his doing so, but nonetheless. . This policeman was playing a role. He probably dealt with the guilty and the innocent in the same way, trying to make them think that he knew something when, in fact, he knew nothing. He had probably harassed several other “persons of interest” today before coming to the Volga.

Chenko turned his head and almost ran the cart into a stylishly dressed young woman pushing a small cart. The policeman was no longer behind him.

“Watch where you are going,” shouted the woman he had almost hit.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“You could have killed me,” she said loudly.

“I am sorry,” he repeated, moving on.

This policeman, this Chief Inspector Rostnikov, would be back. He probably had a checklist of people he went to trying to intimidate. The list must constantly expand. What did he expect? A mistake? A confession? That would not happen. It would not.

Guava juice? he thought. What was this business about guava juice?

It then struck Aleksandr Chenko that the policeman might be a little bit crazy.

Rostnikov sat on a bench at the edge of Bitsevsky Park looking across the street at a trio of six-story concrete apartment buildings of no distinction.

A wind was whispering through the trees behind him, and the clouds were gray and listless, moving quickly to the east.

The boy put down his school book bag and sat next to him without speaking. “What are you looking at?” asked Yuri Platkov.