don’t know anything about the harbor. The
“We’ll find another,” Tatiana said.
Maxim said, “I doubt it. Kaliningrad harbor is closed to personal craft. Soon it will be evening and you’ll be searching in the dark in an active harbor of ships moving back and forth. Not to mention, it’s the port of the Baltic Fleet. They’ll shoot us dead and our bodies will be swept out to sea.”
“Then I’m going too,” Tatiana said.
“You’re staying here,” Maxim said. “That’s the deal.”
“Do you know what to look for?” Arkady asked.
Maxim had the smile of a poet whose words had finally fallen into place. “Of course: the most beautiful boat in the harbor. A true Natalya Goncharova.”
• • •
There were two boats at the dock of the Fishing Village, only one with an outboard engine. While Maxim drew it alongside the dock, Tatiana pressed her face against Arkady’s and whispered, “As soon as I have everything on tape, I’ll catch up.”
“Don’t. It will be confusing enough.”
“Maxim is acting very strange.”
“What is he going to do? He’s not a killer even if he thinks he is.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
Maxim pulled a cord and jerked the engine to life. “Are you coming or not?”
“Coming.” Arkady kissed Tatiana lightly on the cheek as if he were going on an evening cruise.
The dinghy was a tin tub with an outboard engine that rattled and spewed fumes. Before leaving, Maxim leaned into the other boat and slipped its oars into the water. Arkady watched their outlines float away.
“Why did you do that?” Arkady asked.
“So nobody gets any ideas. I’m the captain now.”
There was nothing Arkady could do about it. It was done. He kept his eyes on Tatiana until she faded into the evening’s haze.
The harbor was a different world. A mirror of itself. A black avenue that reverberated with the passage of larger boats. The far-off lights of harbor cranes. Plan A was that Arkady and Maxim would search for no more than two hours and go nowhere near the naval yard. It was a feather in the air, the sort of promise that absolved everyone of responsibility.
Maxim tooled along like a man in command, one hand on the tiller. A chill clung to the air. Arkady bailed a week’s accumulation of rain from the bottom of the boat and the water that remained shivered from the vibration of the engine.
They were running dark, no green light for starboard or red for port. No conversation; voices carried on open water. Engine noise was, at least, mechanical, though there was little river traffic, mainly the rising sounds and lights of the surrounding city and reflections that cupped the surface of the water.
Arkady thought of Pushkin as he set out to defend the honor of his coquettish wife. How tired the poet must have been. With her taste for costume balls and life at court, Natalya Goncharova had spent him nearly into penury. Forced him to borrow. To spin out inferior poems for dubious occasions. To let the tsar himself cuckold the poet and pretend to be his patron. Finally, to lower himself to a duel with pistols with a soldier of fortune. When Pushkin saw his adversary’s vest of silver buttons, why didn’t he object? Was complaint beneath him, or was he simply tired of beauty and its demands?
Maxim said that watchmen were not required on the harbor and that police preferred to stay inside on damp nights, but Arkady wasn’t sure that his plans and Maxim’s were the same.
The
However, the interior stayed dark. Nobody showed at the bridge. There was no sound of a crew rushing to their stations. Maxim went four times around the
Maxim opened the throttle and swung the boat toward deeper water. From east to west the city gave way to the river and the red warning lights of giant cranes stood against the sky. When the banks receded enough, Maxim killed the engine and let the dinghy drift. It was a restful moment, the water lapping against the sides of the boat as it rolled slowly in the wake of a ship they couldn’t even see.
“Just as I thought,” Maxim said.
“What did you think?” Arkady asked.
“There is no meeting.”
“I’m a little disappointed myself.”
“That’s not why we came.”
“There’s another reason?”
“To kill me.”
Arkady wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Kill you?”
“Lure me out here with some fantastic story, shoot me and dump me in the water.”
In some spots oil lay on the water like marbled paper. Arkady tasted it on his lips.
“You insisted on coming,” Arkady said.
“I was manipulated. Tatiana manipulated both of us. That’s what martyrs do.”
“Why would she?”
“Martyrs don’t share the glory.”
“Even if they die?”
“It’s win-win for them.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Fortunately, I do. Face me.”
When Arkady turned he found that Maxim had brought an undersized pistol, probably Spanish or Brazilian, common as coins. All he needed do was shoot Arkady, strip him of any ID and push him overboard. Granted, Maxim should have brought along some cinder blocks to weigh Arkady down, but a man couldn’t think of everything.
“Did you bring any vodka?” Arkady asked.
“Ran out.”
“Too bad. For this sort of work, vodka is usually essential.”
Maxim looked miserable but determined. “I wrote a poem for Tatiana years ago,” he said. “My best poem, people say. I was a professor and she was the student. There wasn’t that much difference in age, but everyone described me as the seducer and her as the innocent. Lately I’ve come to think it was the other way around.”
“How does the poem go?” Arkady asked.
“What poem?”
“The poem about Tatiana.”
“You don’t deserve to hear it.”
“
“I’m warning you.”
“This is the third time you’ve tried to kill me. A warning seems superfluous.”
“I could shake your head until I hear a bullet rattle.”
“Tell me about your poem.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’ve got all night. Do you mind?” Arkady took out a cigarette and lit it. “You? No? Well, you only have so many hands. Did you forget your poem? Recite anything.
