“You’re not afraid.”
“Because I’m a redhead. Everyone knows that redheads are crazy.” In a sterner voice, she added, “Don’t become my grandfather. Don’t be a coward.”
“What should I become?”
“Somebody.”
“I get by.”
“Is that so?”
“I live freely, on my own.”
“Except when you’re in the cold.”
“Everyone should have to live out of a backpack. They’d find out what’s essential.”
“Like an outlaw? What are your essentials? Show me.”
He was backed into a corner and it dawned on Zhenya that arguing with Lotte was like chess, and, once again, he was losing.
“Okay.” He dug into his backpack and, one by one, placed on the table a folded chessboard, a velvet pouch of chess pieces, a chess clock, a notebook and pencil, a paperback of
“How many games of chess have you won? More than a thousand. And this is all you have to show for it? Some outlaw.”
“I can beat you.”
“But you didn’t.” She picked up the notebook and opened it to savor her victory a second time. “ ‘Bd5 to b3, Qe2 to d1.’ That was your blunder.”
He followed her around the table. “I’ll play you again, right now.”
“The match is over.”
“Then if I’m such a waste of time, why are you still here?”
“I never said you were a waste of time.” She turned and gave him a kiss full on the lips. “I never said that.”
• • •
Maxim’s apartment was essentially a tunnel bored through pizza crusts, half-empty bottles of beer, totally empty bottles of vodka, and books, newspapers and poetry reviews everywhere, spilling off shelves, stacked on the floor, sliding underfoot. A fine volcanic ash of cigarettes hung in the air.
“It’s more comfortable than it looks.” Maxim swept a pizza box and manuscripts off the couch. “What made you decide to stay in Kaliningrad?”
“Its charm. Maybe I should just go to a hotel,” Arkady said.
“And pay their prices? Nonsense.” Maxim batted cushions. “I know there’s a bottle here somewhere.”
They danced around each other to get from one side of the room to the other.
Arkady said, “I can’t help but feel I’m in the way.”
“Not a bit. Of course if I’d known I was going to have a guest, I would have. .”
Ordered up an earthmover, Arkady thought. “The life of a poet,” he said. “Where would you like me to hang my coat?”
“Anywhere will do. There’s only one rule.”
“Yes?” Arkady was eager to hear it.
“Don’t light a cigarette until you have located an ashtray.”
“Very wise.”
“We’ve had some trouble in the past.”
“With other poets, no doubt.”
“Now that you mention it. Sit, please.”
Arkady picked a sheaf of papers off the floor. “For Review Only” was written on the front page.
“The author is a talentless hack consigned to well-deserved obscurity,” Maxim said, and added an aside: “He’s after the same fellowship in the States that I’m after.”
“You know he just died.”
“He did? In that case, Russia has lost a singular voice. . struck down too early. . leaves a void. I mean, why not be generous?”
“You never told me.”
“Never told you what?”
“The name of the fellowship.”
“Didn’t I? I don’t think they have a name yet. They’re just starting. Hush-hush until they make their choice.”
“Amazing. You really would do anything to get out of Kaliningrad?”
“There is no Kaliningrad.” Starting at the front door, Maxim pantomimed a man entering the apartment, maneuvering to a coffee table, visiting the bedroom and returning with a pillow, from which he pulled a bottle of vodka as shiny as chrome. “It’s only a matter of reenacting what you last did.”
“Why the pillow?”
“That I don’t remember. Are you hungry?” In a cabinet Maxim scouted out glasses, blood sausage and a baguette as stiff as a cane. He had to shout over his sawing. “I’m not a Slav. No offense intended, but a Slav drinks to get drunk.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Whereas a civilized person in a normal country drinks with cordial company, hearty food and a decent interval between toasts.”
Which compared nicely with Victor’s weakness for eau de cologne, Arkady had to admit.
They started solemnly.
“To Tatiana.”
“To Tatiana.”
Followed by the first beads of sweat across the forehead.
Arkady asked, “What do you mean, there’s no Kaliningrad?”
“Just what I said. No past, no people, no name.”
Maxim explained that Kaliningrad had been Koenigsberg, the seat of German kings. But the British bombed it flat during the war, and after the war, Joseph Stalin forced the entire German population to leave. All the people, their homes and memories, were erased. In their place, Stalin trucked in a new population of Russians and gave it a new name, Kaliningrad, after his lickspittle president, Kalinin.
“Kalinin was a little shit, you know. There he was, the head of state, and Stalin sent his wife to a prison camp. Stalin had her brought from her cell to dance on the table. I suppose when you’ve broken a man that way, you’ve broken him for good. My God, my mouth is dry.” Maxim refilled the vodka. “And here’s the joke. No one admits to being a Kaliningrader. They call themselves Koenigs. But it has the worst crime rate in Europe. So you know it’s Russian.”
• • •
The visitor had a bruise under his eye the size of a fist. Otherwise, he looked to Zhenya like the sort of overdressed and overconfident New Russian who had already scored his first million dollars. Before Zhenya could steer him out the door, the man was into the apartment.
“Excuse me, my name is Alexi. I thought this was the home of Investigator Renko.”
“It is. I live here too,” Zhenya said.
“And. .” Alexi turned to Lotte, who sat at the chessboard and returned his stare.
“A friend,” Zhenya said.
“Is anyone else here?”
“No.”
“You’re having a private party.”
“We were in the middle of a game.”
“Look at this place. It’s like a museum.” Alexi took in the heavy Soviet drapes, parquet floor, mahogany table and wardrobe big enough to go to sea on. He fixed on Lotte.
“When the cat’s away the mice will play. Is that what you are? Two little mousies? I don’t mean to spoil the
