“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I’m really sorry I can’t help you out. The guy was a fruit.”
Now, what could make the lieutenant say that about a dead man he had never met? Arkady wondered.
“Did he shave his legs?”
“Weird, huh?”
“What kind of public transportation is there from the city of Kaliningrad to this place you call the spit?”
“During the off-season, none.”
“A person would have to drive or walk?”
“I suppose so.” The lieutenant was wary now.
“Were any cars reported stolen or abandoned near the beach?”
“No.”
“Bicycles?”
“No.”
“Helmets?”
“Shit, Renko, relax. I’ll let you know when we find something.”
“Tell me again exactly where the body was discovered?”
Lieutenant Stasov hung up, leaving Arkady staring out the kitchen window. The coffee was vile. It had been made the night before and warmed up at least twice. He had heard that in Japan restaurants were rated according to how many times the same cooking oil was used. Naturally, the first time was the best. The oil was then used by one restaurant after another, steadily degrading into brown sludge. He contemplated his cup and wondered what the record was. Always a thrill for the heart. He drank it in one go.
Professional cyclists shaved their legs for an infinitesimal edge in aerodynamics. An amateur might too if he was serious enough-serious enough to have a custom bike built just for him. What sort of personality would that demand? Athletic. Competitive. Older than twenty-five, younger than forty-five. Willing to invest much of his life in cycling. Well ordered, not Russian. Obsessive. Swiss? German? Comfortable traveling alone and on business; no one went to Kaliningrad for pleasure. For that matter, no one had reported him missing. An invisible man.
Arkady was startled to find Zhenya behind him.
“In a trance?” Zhenya asked.
“Just thinking.”
“Well, it looks strange.”
“No doubt,” Arkady said.
“I came to pick up some clothes. That’s all.”
It was clear now that Zhenya would never kick a winning goal at Dynamo Stadium or inspire supermodels to sigh in his direction. A camouflage jacket overwhelmed his shoulders; his hair was twisted and his features pinched, redeemed only by the vibrancy in his gray eyes.
What to Arkady was really odd was how Zhenya managed to enter the apartment and get to the kitchen without being heard. The parquet floor squeaked under anyone else.
“How are you?”
Zhenya reacted as if Arkady had uttered the stupidest question ever formed by the mouth of man. “What’s this?”
“A notebook of interpretation.”
“Whatever that is.” Zhenya flipped the cover back and forth.
“Code. A personal code written by a dead man.”
“Oh. What’s it about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this what got him killed?”
“Maybe. Are you hungry?”
“There’s nothing in the refrigerator. I checked it out. Hey, you never told me how famous your father was. The army guys were real excited.”
“They can stay excited until you’re eighteen.”
“This is such bullshit. Who gave you the authority to boss me around?”
“The court did, so you could register for school.”
“I quit school.”
“I noticed.”
“No, I mean I really quit school. I went to the registrar’s office and told them, so there’s nothing for me to do but enlist early.”
“Not without my signature. Seven months. You’ll just have to wait to be crazy.”
“You’re just putting it off.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know how old Alexander the Great was when he conquered the world? Nineteen.”
“A precocious lad.”
“Do you know who his teacher was?”
“Who?”
“Aristotle. Aristotle told him to go conquer the world.”
“Maybe he just meant travel.”
“You’re impossible.” This was the point when Zhenya usually turned around and went out the door. This time he slumped into a chair and let his backpack fall. He always carried a folded chessboard, pieces and a game clock, but he was becoming too well-known as a hustler. He no longer looked innocent. Maybe he never looked innocent, Arkady thought. Perhaps that was his fantasy.
“What do you know about bikes?”
“Bikes?” As if Arkady had asked him about Shetland ponies. “I know you’d have to be an idiot to ride one in Moscow traffic. Why, were you thinking of getting one?”
“Finding one.”
Zhenya reached out for the notebook and idly turned the pages. “So what’s the story on this code?”
“It’s a code, hieroglyphics, anagram, riddle and worse because it’s not meant to be solved. There’s no Rosetta stone, no context. It might be about the price of bananas but if we don’t know his symbol for ‘banana,’ we’re lost. In this case, the only context, maybe, is bicycles.”
“It doesn’t sound like you got very far.”
“You never know.”
“Profound. Is there any milk?” Zhenya launched himself in the direction of the refrigerator.
“See for yourself.” A psychologist had once told Arkady that Zhenya was finding it difficult to separate. Arkady was finding that harder and harder to buy. “So, what do you know about expensive, custom-made bikes?”
“About as much as you do.”
“That’s too bad, because I know nothing.”
“Then you’re fucked, aren’t you? Well. . I only came to pick up some clothes.”
That served Zhenya as hello and good-bye.
9
Whenever Arkady opened the laptop on his desk, he felt like a pianist who, as he sat at the keyboard, realized he had no idea which keys to hit. He felt the audience stir, caught the panicky eye of the conductor, heard whispers from the string section. Fraud!
Arkady searched for “Kaliningrad interpreter.” It turned out that Kaliningrad interpreters doubled as romantic escorts, which was a bit too general. He tried “Kaliningrad conference interpreter” and learned that various conferences would soon be held: “Immanuel Kant Today,” “Endangered Mollusks of the Baltic Sea,” “Friendship with North Korea,” “Amity with Poland,” “Welcome to BMW,” etc., all of which demanded interpreters but gave not
