people, fifty milled about. The doors closed and the train pulled away. Shorter people on the platform were tiptoe with excitement. Arkady saw no one carrying anything big enough to manufacture special effects, like a strobe light and battery. He also did not see any platform conductors, although they generally allowed no lingering from the last train. Every Metro station had a militia post at street level, but Arkady didn’t feel he had time to go up the escalator, wake the officer on duty and tell him…what?
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Arkady asked Platonov.
“I…don’t know.”
Arkady turned to a babushka who looked as sweet as the Virgin’s mother and asked if she saw anything.
“I saw Stalin as plain as day. He asked me to get him a bowl of hot soup.”
Two men in fur hats and parkas hung back on the platform. They hadn’t been on the train or boarded it. They weren’t Russian. In winter Russians in general just added another layer of clothing, Arkady thought. It was Americans who wore parkas as round and bright as hot-air balloons.
“Friends, fellow Russians, brothers and sisters,” Zelensky said. “Please give us room.” He indicated how much platform space he needed and where his cameraman should stand, acting the role of a director very much in charge, moving slowly to intensify the moment. From his duffel bag he took a framed photograph of Stalin that he set against the base of a platform pillar. Bora relieved the children of parkas to show off their embroidered peasant shirts. Zelensky dug into his bag again and came out with a spindly votive candle and a candleholder he placed in the boy’s hands. While Bora lit the candle, Zelensky looked toward the men in parkas. The shorter one pantomimed holding something. Zelensky arranged the flowers in the girl’s hands. The cameraman went on taping. From the flesh trade to Stalin’s ghost, it was all the same to Zelensky, Arkady thought, but Zelensky was not even directing, he was taking his cues from the American. The children made a short procession and placed the candle and flowers before the photo. Stalin wore a white uniform in the picture. His vigorous mustache and hair were unmistakable, and the shifting flames of the candles brought his eyes to life.
In singsong, the children chirped, “Dear Comrade Stalin, thank you for making the Soviet Union a mighty nation respected by the world. Thank you for defeating the Fascist invaders and imperialist aggression. Thank you for making the world safe for its children. We will never forget.”
The American pointed and Zelensky beckoned Mrs. Astrakhan Cap closer to the photo. She daubed her tears with her shawl.
“What did you see, Grandmother?” he asked.
“A miracle. When my husband and I came into the station we saw our beloved Stalin surrounded by radiant light.”
Other voices answered that they, too, had seen Stalin. It was contagious, despite their different versions.
“He was writing at a desk!”
“He was studying war plans!”
“He was reading Tolstoy!”
“Pushkin!” claimed another.
“Marx!”
The American drew circles with his finger. Speed it up.
Zelensky addressed the camera. “We Patriots declare this Metro station sacred ground. We demand a memorial to the military genius who, from this very site, victoriously defended the motherland. How can any Russian government deny us that? Where is Russian pride?”
The American lifted both hands.
Zelensky held up a red-on-white T-shirt that said, “I am a Russian Patriot.” Bora began to circulate through the crowd to distribute similar shirts. An interesting group, Arkady thought: the elderly joined by the mildly curious, the seriously drunk, four cold prostitutes and American puppet masters.
“‘I am a Russian Patriot,’” Zelensky read the shirt aloud. “If you are not a Russian Patriot, what are you?”
The pensioners Mendeleyev and Antipenko each took a shirt. The American waved, and the camera found the photogenic Marfa Bourdenova. Until now the schoolgirl had hidden in the crowd like a dove on a bough. She looked likely, by the way she hung on Zelensky’s every word, to miss her curfew once again. Arkady felt a rush of anger at the filmmaker, at the willing believers and the make-believe shrine, because in Moscow this was enough to summon the past. The videotape might be even more effective for being clumsily staged and poorly lit, the sort of documentary that was the stuff of rumors. And all of it stage-managed by Americans. Arkady asked himself, what would Stalin do?
Zelensky caught Arkady’s approach and began to rush his delivery.
“Russian Patriots honor the past. We will return to the visionary and humanitarian-”
Arkady walked behind Zelensky and kicked the candle and holder across the track. He took a step back and did the same with the flowers.
“Are you crazy?” Zelensky said.
Arkady held up his ID for all to see and announced, “Filming in the Metro is prohibited. Also this gathering is delaying the scheduled cleaning and maintenance of the Metro, putting the public safety at risk. It’s now over. Go home.”
Zelensky said, “I don’t see any cleaning women or maintenance men.”
“A schedule is a schedule.” Arkady picked up the Stalin photograph.
“No!” A dozen voices protested.
“Then we’ll trade.” Arkady shoved the photo into the cameraman’s free hand and relieved his other of the camera. Arkady popped out a mini cassette and slipped it into his coat.
“That’s my property,” Zelensky said.
“It’s evidence now,” Arkady announced and gave back the camera. He went into the crowd to grab Marfa Bourdenova by the wrist and started for the escalator. She screamed. Platonov padded alongside. Uncertainty froze everyone else except the two Americans. They had disappeared.
Ahead, Bora set down the duffel bag. No longer on the rolling deck of a subway car, he seemed more sure- footed. Arkady headed straight at him.
Zelensky shouted after, “We’ll just shoot a new tape tomorrow. We don’t even need to do it in Chistye Prudy Station. We’ll just say it’s Chistye Prudy.”
“Each station is individual,” Platonov shouted back. “People will know.”
“Please, don’t help,” Arkady said.
Bora waited for a signal from Zelensky.
“Let me go, you bastard!” Marfa Bourdenova tried hitting Arkady but he dragged her too fast for her to connect solidly.
Bora reluctantly gave way. Once on the escalator, Arkady kept moving.
Marfa shrieked for help.
Arkady said, “I’ll let you go at the top. I know you’ll run back to him, only notice, he’s not going to wait for you at the bottom. He only wants the tape.”
At the top of the escalator Arkady released her wrist and, as predicted, the girl bolted for the down escalator. Bora and the cameraman were already on their way up, two steps at a time.
The night sparkled. Platonov wanted to search for a taxi, but Arkady struck out for the park behind the station.
“Renko, we won’t find a taxi this way, that’s obvious.”
“Then it’s also obvious to Zelensky. He’ll look here last.”
“Shouldn’t we discuss this?” Platonov said.
“No.”
“I thought you were supposed to protect my life, not endanger it.”
“If no one sees us, we’ll be fine.”
The park was open space the length of a football field, slightly dished, a white sheet of snow edged by a blur of plane trees and wrought iron fences. The snow reflected the light of boulevards on either side, but there were no paths or lamps within the park and even side by side the two men looked to each other like shadows.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” Platonov asked.
“Yes.”
