Hard Currency

There was no other furniture.

What struck Rostnikov was not only the emptiness of the room but the lowness of the ceiling. Anyone more than six feet tall, like the young man who stood guard outside the door, would have to stoop.

“There is a room above this one,” said Javier, seeing Rostnikov’s eyes. “Hector and his son built it. They all sleep up there. They have to crawl into their beds.”

Hector introduced his wife, who took Rostnikov’s hand with limp resignation. The child looked at him and without knowing why, Rostnikov reached for her. She came willingly and put her head against his shoulder.

Hector motioned to the wooden chair and Rostnikov sat awkwardly.

“Señor Consequo is not a Santería,” said Javier. “They, the police, the Carerras, they say he is but he is not one of us. We are there for him should he change his mind.”

Hector looked at his wife, who handed him a lit cigarette, which he took and put to his lips. He inhaled deeply before speaking again.

“He says Castro gave him an education, a knowledge of the world, and hope he cannot fulfill. Castro also took his faith. He says he cannot believe.”

Hector raised his hand again as if he were a schoolboy who needed permission.

On the television, at which Hector’s wife continued to look, Tony Perkins was growing hysterical. Hector Consequo spoke again, quickly, passionately, his eyes moist.

“He says he wants to tell you something, that he must tell you something that you should tell others. Then he will tell you what you want to know.”

Rostnikov nodded and felt the breath of the child against his neck. He could tell she was either sleeping or in the stage just before sleep.

Hector spoke again and Javier nodded his head.

“He says there is no opportunity here for Negro people. They cannot fish in the sea. They do not hold public office. They do not have enough to eat and they are not allowed to make a living.”

Still speaking rapidly, Hector rose, and opened his refrigerator. It was empty and he urged Javier to translate.

“We are allowed only a bit of chicken and barely enough milk for the children. And it was no better before you Russians abandoned us. Before Castro we were oppressed and knew nothing better existed. After Castro we were educated and given a dream which we know can never be achieved.”

Hector interrupted and pointed around the room as he spoke even more rapidly.

“He says, can you believe that we are considered the most successful family in the neighborhood?”

“No zapatos,” said Hector, holding up a finger of his right hand.

“No shoes,” Javier translated.

“No vestidos.”

“No clothes.”

Hector rattled on, holding up finger after finger, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his voice rising.

“He says that he is given nothing and allowed to earn nothing. He can fix anything, but if they catch him charging for repairs, he will be in trouble. The police come through here whenever they wish to be sure he does not have more food than his quota and that he is not doing work to which he has not been assigned.”

“Basta,” said Hector with a sigh.

“Enough,” Javier translated.

With Javier continuing to translate, Tony Perkins growing more calm on the thin screen, the child sleeping in his arms, and his leg throbbing painfully, Rostnikov listened to Hector Consequo’s statement about the night Maria Fernandez was murdered.

The possibility existed, though Rostnikov doubted Hector’s dramatic skills, that the man was lying. The possibility also existed that Javier was not translating accurately, but that was highly unlikely since Javier could not have been sure how much of the Spanish Rostnikov understood.

According to Hector Consequo, on the night of the murder he was in the basement trying to repair a wire when he heard screams above and people on the stairs. He stepped into the stairwell. There were voices above him but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. No one came down the stairs and went out. Then the police arrived and Hector went out through a door in the rear of the building. He returned the next morning when he was sure the police were gone. Among the things he did was go to the roof to reattach a wire. He had no idea there had been a murder. He thought it had been a family argument. To reattach the wire, he had strung it across to the next apartment building. Hector swore that there had been no painter’s plank, no ladder, nothing on the roof of either building.

“Yo estoy seguro,” Hector said emphatically.

“He is sure,” Javier translated. “You have any other questions?”

“No,” said Rostnikov. “Tell him that I know he has risked a great deal to talk to me and I am very grateful.”

Javier translated and Hector nodded and rose.

Rostnikov handed the father his limp, sleeping child. The little girl had left a warm, damp impression on Rostnikov’s shoulder. He watched the child being handed to the mother, who rose to take her, and he forced himself up out of the chair. Hector shook hands solemnly with both men.

“Is it proper for me to give him some money for his help?” asked Rostnikov.

“He is a proud man,” said Javier. “To offer him money would demean the chance he has taken in talking to you. You can give me money later and I’ll send him two packages of American cigarettes. It is enough.”

Javier led the way to the door and into the night where Hector’s son José waited.

“And now?” asked Rostnikov.

“And now,” said Javier, “we go to see the babalau.”

“Your father?”

“My father.”

Emil Karpo was fully awake and reaching for the lamp next to his bed before the phone actually rang. The initial surge of electricity had set off an almost silent click that had him awake and half seated as the first ring started. The phone was in his hand before the ring had ended.

“Yes,” said Karpo, looking at the clock and confirming his intuition that it was nearly three in the morning.

“Do you know who I am?” came the voice.

“You identified yourself earlier as Igor Polynetsin,” said Karpo.

“And?”

“And you are not Igor Polynetsin. There are three Igor Polynetsins in Moscow, or likely variations. You are none of them.”

“It is a cold night.” Yevgeny Odom shivered as he looked both ways down Sherikpskaya Street from the public phone. Half the streetlights were out and no one was in sight.

“This was anticipated by the meteorological service,” said Karpo.

He was seated on his narrow cot with his bare feet touching the cold concrete floor. Karpo slept two ways, in a clean black pullover cotton shirt, short-sleeved or long-sleeved depending on the weather, and a pair of washable black slacks; or he slept nude. Until the last two years, Emil Karpo had always slept clothed and under a blanket even in the musky heat of Moscow summer. Since meeting Mathilde Verson, he had become intolerant of any covering at night.

“Karpo.”

“Yes,” said Emil Karpo.

“Don’t you want to know how I got your home phone number?”

“No,” answered Karpo. “There are many ways. It is not difficult.”

Sudden panic filled Yevgeny Odom. The man was too calm. Was his phone monitored? Had he said something in his earlier call that made the detective suspicious? No, there was nothing, but he should hang up. He knew he should hang up. And yet …

“I know the one you call Tahpor,” said Yevgeny. He pulled the collar of his coat around his neck as a gust of chill wind came off the river and whistled down the street like a searching ghost.