Aliide said she hadn’t and complained of the uneventfulness of the countryside. The man sniffed and narrowed his eyes to force the water out of them. Horseradish burned in the air. Aliide answered his gaze; she didn’t look away, didn’t look away. His lower eyelids reddened, mucus accumulated in the corners of Aliide’s eyes, and the staring continued until the man went to the door and opened it. The wind blew inside. Aliide’s shoulder twitched. The man stood in the doorway for a moment facing the yard, his leather coat puffed up in the breeze; then he turned his cold, soothed eyes, took a stack of photos out of his pocket, and spread them on the table.
“Have you seen this woman? We’re looking for her.”
Zara didn’t dare to move. The voices carried poorly to the room where she was, but they did carry. She heard Aliide speak Russian when she opened the front door, greeting them, being polite. Pasha said that they had driven a long way and they were thirsty, and kept chatting about one thing and another. The voices approached and receded, and then Aliide asked if his friend liked gardening. Pasha didn’t understand. Aliide said she could see his friend through the window walking around her garden. Lavrenti was, of course, checking out the house. It must be Lavrenti. Or maybe Pasha had come with someone else. Not likely. Pasha was used to Lavrenti’s behavior; he was a little simple, but you shouldn’t take any notice of it. Aliide hoped he wouldn’t trample her flower beds.
“Don’t worry, he likes gardens.”
Pasha’s voice suddenly sounded very near. Zara froze. “So have you seen any strange girl around here?” Zara held her breath. The dust caught in her dry throat.
She couldn’t cough, couldn’t cough. Aliide answered that the area had been calm-an outsider would have been noticed immediately. Pasha repeated his question. Aliide was startled by his stubborn persistence. A young girl? A strange young girl? Why in the world would she have seen her? Pasha’s words were unclear. He said something about light hair. Aliide’s voice could be heard clearly. No, she hadn’t seen any light-haired girl here. Pasha had a photo of the girl with him. Which photo? Was he going all around the country showing people a picture of her? What kind of picture? Pasha’s voice came near again and Zara was afraid her pulse would be audible through the wall. Pasha had such sharp ears.
“Do you have some reason to assume that the girl would be here?”
Pasha moved farther away, it seemed. The voice coming through the wall was fragmented.
“Look…”
Pasha wasn’t showing her those photos, was he? But what other photos would he have of her? And when Aliide saw them…
Suddenly Zara belched. The taste of sperm spread through her mouth. She quickly closed her lips. Could they hear her in the kitchen? No, she could hear the even murmur of Pasha and Aliide’s continuing conversation through the wallpaper. Zara was waiting for Aliide’s shocked exclamation, because there was no other way she could react when she saw the photos. Had Pasha already spread them on the table, slowly, one at a time, or was he just going to hand them to Aliide all at once? No, she was sure he would put them on the table like a game of patience, make Aliide look at them. Aliide would stare at them and see the expression Pasha had taught Zara, mouth open, tongue stretched out, and all the pricks. And then Aliide would tell him about her-of course she would tell him, she would have to tell him, because once she saw the photos she would hate Zara. She would see that filth and want it out of her house. It was going to happen now, it had to happen-soon Pasha would open the door and laugh, standing against the light, and it would all be over.
Zara withdrew to the back of the tiny room, right up against the wall, and waited. The darkness was burning, the stubble on her head was standing on end. Aliide had seen the pictures. The humiliation tickled and swarmed tightly under Zara’s skin, as if she were covered with tense, halfhealed wounds. Soon the door would fly open. She had to close her eyes, deep within the room, to think herself to someplace else, she was a star, an ear on Lenin’s head, the hairs of Lenin’s whiskers, pasteboard whiskers on a pasteboard poster, she was a corner of the frame of the picture, a chipped plaster frame, bent, in a corner of the room. She was chalk dust on the surface of a chalkboard, in the safety of the schoolroom, she was the wooden tip of a pointer…
The photographs were printed on Western photo paper; they had a Western sheen. Zara’s bright red lips shone dim against the oilcloth. Her stiff eyelashes spread like petals against the pale blue pearlescence smeared on the skin around her eyes. She had pink, swollen pimples, although her skin looked otherwise dry and thin. Her knitted collar was flopped over like someone had been tugging on it. “I’ve never seen her,” Aliide said.
The man didn’t let that bother him. He continued, his words thudding like a large man’s boots.
“The whole world’s looking for her right now.” “Oh? I haven’t heard anything about it, and I always have the radio on.”
“It’s being kept quiet on purpose. To draw her out.
The less she imagines we’re looking for her the less careful she’ll be.”
“Ah.”
“Ma’am, this woman is a dangerous criminal.” “Dangerous?”
“She has committed multiple offenses.”
“What kind of offenses?”
“This woman killed her lover in his own bed. And in a very cold-blooded manner.”
KGB came back from the garden, stood standing behind the younger man, and dug some more photos out of the pocket of his leather coat. They laid them on the table on top of the photos of Zara.
“Here is his body. Please look at these pictures and think again. Have you seen this woman?”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
“Please look at the photos.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve seen bodies before.”
“The girl seems very innocent, but after what she did to her lover… He was very attached to her, and the girl smothered him for no reason, put a pillow over his face while he was sleeping. You live alone here, don’t you, ma’am? You’ll be sleeping peacefully, having a sweet dream, and you’ll never wake from it. It could happen any night. When you least expect it, when you’re completely defenseless.”
Aliide’s hand fumbled under the hem of the oilcloth on the table. Her fingers crooked around the drawer handle ready to ease it open. She should have had the pistol ready on the chair. The horseradish burned white on the grater in front of her and covered up the smell of the Russian’s sweat. The man who called himself Popov leaned against the table and stared at her.
“All right. I’ll call you if she comes here.”
“We have reason to believe she will.”
“Why would she come here of all places?” “She’s a relative of yours, ma’am.”
“What stories you have!” Aliide laughed, and her laugh rippled across the rim of her coffee cup.
“The girl’s grandmother lives in Vladivostok. Her name is Ingel Pekk. Your sister. Most important, you should know that the girl speaks Estonian. She learned it from your sister.”
Ingel? Why was he talking about Ingel?
“I don’t have a sister.”
“According to our records you do.”
“I don’t know why you’ve come here making up stories, but I…”
“This woman, Zara Pekk, happens to have committed murder in this country, and she has no other contacts here as far as we know. Of course she’ll come here, to meet her long-lost relative. She’ll imagine you don’t know about the murder-there won’t be anything about it on the radio or in the papers-and she’ll come here.”
Pekk? The girl’s last name was Pekk?
“I don’t have a sister,” Aliide repeated. Her fingers relaxed, her hand flopped back into her lap. Ingel was alive. Pasha kicked over a chair. “Where is the girl?” “I haven’t seen any girl!”
The wind rustled the drying mint over the stove and stirred the marigolds lying on newspapers. The curtains fluttered. The man stroked his bald head and lowered his voice. “I’m sure you understand the seriousness of the crime this woman, Zara Pekk, has committed. Call us-for your own sake-when she comes here. Have a good day.” He paused at the door.
“Zara Pekk lived with her grandmother until she left to work in the West. She left her passport, wallet, and money at the murder scene. She needs someone to help her. You are her only option.” The powerlessness had knocked Zara to the floor.
The walls were panting, the floor gasped, the floorboards bulged with moisture. The wallpaper crackled. She felt the footsteps of a fly walking across her cheek. How could they see to fly in the dark?
