“Witnesses,” said Rostnikov, looking down at the folder on the table between them.
“Lies,” said Shemenkov, putting his hands, palms down, on the wicker table and looking at both of them.
“Why would they lie, Igor Shemenkov?” asked Rostnikov.
“Jealousy,” the man said.
“Jealousy? What were they jealous of?”
“I had Maria,” he said. “Victoria says I killed her. I know she says this. But I did not. Victoria hates me.”
“Why does she hate you?” asked Rostnikov.
“Victoria is … was in love with Maria,” he said.
“So?”
“In love,” Shemenkov repeated, leaning toward Rostnikov and speaking slowly. “Like lust, sex.”
“I am familiar with the passion,” said Rostnikov.
“Maria was in love with me and I with her,” Igor said.
“You have a wife and two children in Minsk,” said Rostnikov. “That is not meant as criticism, only as a possible reason why you might not want the continued attention of-”
“I planned to divorce my wife and marry Maria,” he said. “I loved Maria. I would not kill her. I would not pinch a hair on her head, though I know the hairs of the head have no feeling. It was enough for me that the hair was Maria’s.”
The sound that Sanchez made at the window reminded Rostnikov of the groaning of the toilet pipes in his apartment in Moscow.
“I would not harm Maria,” Shemenkov insisted, looking at Sanchez, who turned around and shook his head. “I swear to you on the memory of my mother, the honor of my father, the virginity of my sister.”
“When did you last see your sister?” asked Sanchez as he moved away from the window, folded his arms, and stood with his feet slightly apart.
“My sister?”
“Tell them what happened,” said Sanchez. “Your words.”
Shemenkov shook his head, bit his lips, and looked at Elena.
“Believe me,” he pleaded. “I didn’t kill Maria.”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe you,” she said.
“It matters to me,” Shemenkov said. He hit himself in the chest with an open right hand. “There is no justice in this country. Not for Russians. Not anymore. They laugh at us. Look at him.” He pointed to Sanchez. “He laughs at me.”
Rostnikov looked at Sanchez. The major did not appear to be amused.
“I don’t mean he is laughing openly, like a Russian,” Shemenkov explained earnestly. “It is inside. They’ve learned to laugh inside. Castro laughs at us to this day. They took our money, our technology, sent fools like me to help them, and they gave us nothing. We thought we were in charge, but they used us.”
Shemenkov started to rise, but Sanchez motioned for him to sit. Shemenkov looked to Rostnikov and Elena for support, saw none, and sat.
“What has this to do with the murder of Maria Fernandez?” asked Rostnikov.
“Background,” explained Shemenkov. “For forty years they took everything and now they want to let us know that we were the fools. They want to … The witnesses against me. All Cubans. All Cubans. Deny that.”
Sanchez shook his head and looked at Rostnikov.
“Tell us what happened, Igor Shemenkov. The night of the death of Maria Fernandez.”
“A Minint conspiracy,” said Shemenkov.
“Minint?” asked Elena.
“Ministry of the Interior,” explained Sanchez, looking at his watch and folding his arms.
Rostnikov shifted his weight, thought for an instant of his wife. This morning in Moscow she had sent the girls to school and gone off to work. He forced himself to look at the creature across from him. Shemenkov sighed and then went on.
“Or maybe the
Shemenkov stopped abruptly and sat back.
“I didn’t do it,” Shemenkov repeated. He pressed the palm of his right hand against his forehead.
“Then don’t tell us what you didn’t do. Tell us what you did,” said Rostnikov.
“I dressed,” said Shemenkov, looking at Elena. “I put on my blue shirt with the buttons and …”
“How many buttons?” asked Sanchez.
“How many …? Why do you need to know how many buttons on my shirt?” asked the confused Shemenkov.
“I need to know it as much as Inspector Rostnikov needs to know what color your shirt was or that you got dressed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Shemenkov. “Maria and I had dinner at the Maracas Club. Is that all right?”
Rostnikov nodded, and Sanchez went to sit in the leather chair behind the desk.
“Does he have to be here?” asked Shemenkov, nodding at Sanchez.
“The room is wired for sound,” said Rostnikov. “There is a microphone in the telephone.”
“And one in the table in front of you,” Elena added.
“It is more convenient,” Rostnikov continued, “if Major Sanchez is here so that we can avoid the embarrassment later of pretending that we do not know that he knows what we are saying.”
“I do not understand the police,” said Shemenkov.
“And that is one of the few advantages we have,” said Rostnikov. “You went to dinner at the Maracas. Please do not tell us what you ate.”
“All right,” cried Shemenkov, running both hands through his wispy hair. “All right. We ate, went to the apartment of Carlos Carerra, had some rum, oranges, crackers. Victoria came, drank too much, said stupid things. Carerra’s wife, Angelica, told her to leave. They screamed. Hair pulling. Maria and Carlos got them apart.”
“And you sat watching?” Rostnikov prompted.
“I do not hold rum well,” said Shemenkov. “It is a weakness. They had no vodka.”
“Go on.”
“I … I said some things about Victoria. Perhaps they were a bit …”
“A bit?”
“I called her a drooling lesbian freak.”
“Ah,” said Rostnikov.
“Carlos and Angelica got Victoria into the hall. Maria and I could hear them screaming down the stairs. Then, Maria started in on me. She accused me of being without sensitivity. Remember what I said about her hair? Were those the words of an insensitive man?”
“She scratched my face,” Shemenkov said. “She had a temper. But I loved her. She loved me. She had life. She made me feel alive. Are you married?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Well, see. You know. Hasn’t your wife scratched your face? Screamed? Thrown things?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“My wife has scratched, thrown things, kicked holes in the wall,” said Sanchez with a deep sigh. “You have a point here?”
“Don’t you see? I had been dead for years before Maria, no life, nothing to look forward to. And she was right. I was insensitive.”
“You just said …” Elena began, but Rostnikov held up a hand to stop her as he nodded to Shemenkov.
“Go on,” said Rostnikov.
“Go on? There is no ‘on’ to go to,” said Shemenkov. “I went into the bathroom to clean my scratches. Maria said she wasn’t through with me. I could hear her mumbling in the living room till I closed the door and turned the
