provoke Isakov into a misstep. Or he could forget Isakov and justice and concentrate on Eva. She had slept with another man? At his age that meant less and less. People had histories.
He could keep either his dignity or her.
His choice.
18
Sofia Andreyeva said, “I don’t show nice apartments to just anyone. I always look at their shoes. If they don’t take care of their own shoes, how will they take care of an apartment?”
“Absolutely,” Arkady said, although he could take no credit for it; any son of an army general automatically kept his shoes polished.
She winked at Arkady as she drove and hummed to herself. Her car was the tidiest Lada that Arkady had ever been in. No cigarette wrappers, beer cans, wilted newspapers or rust in the floor. A bit like Sofia Andreyeva herself. What once was a distinguished nose had, with age, become a beak, but she had a fresh bloom of rouge on her cheeks and, wrapped in a black shawl, she looked cheerfully bereaved. She was a real estate agent, meaning she met each train as it arrived at Tver Station and studied the disembarking passengers before offering, “Apartments to let. Best choice guaranteed.” Other real estate agents wore sandwich boards, which she considered declasse. She liked Arkady at first sight. Clean shaven, no apparent hangover even early in the day. And she was pleased that, although he had his own car, he had gone to the train station instead of some stuffy, overpriced office.
Sofia Andreyeva showed him a studio apartment with Danish details and wireless connection and took him to a spacious flat on Sovietskaya Street, the city’s central boulevard. For Arkady’s purposes neither would do. As they walked down Sovietskaya, Sofia Andreyeva surprised Arkady by casually, deliberately, spitting at a gate. Before he could ask why, she said, “There’s one more apartment, a dear friend’s. He is taking a leave of absence from the university. He phoned me yesterday to say that with the euro being what it is, he could use some extra income. Anyway, the apartment is not ready to be shown, and his personal effects are everywhere, but with new sheets you could move in today. Do you speak French?”
“No. Is that a requirement?”
“Not at all, not at all.” She sighed. “It’s just, well, a shame.”
The apartment was on the second story of a housing block that flew laundry on the balconies. The lobby was filthy and mailboxes were ripped open. The apartment, however, harbored a fantasy. Posters of Piaf and Alain Delon hung on the walls. Michelin guides filled the shelves. A pack of Gitanes lay on the desk, and the smell of forgotten cheese overpowered all. She had Arkady change into slippers at the front door.
“The carpets.”
“I understand.” It was hardly unusual to change footwear if slippers were provided.
“The professor’s pride and joy.” She pointed to the most threadbare carpet on the floor. “A minor carpet to be sure, but it was on a professor’s salary.” She sniffed. “Such ambience. Perhaps an open window would be a good idea.”
Arkady looked at a photo of a middle-aged man striking a pose with a beret squashed on his head and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.
“Does he have a family?”
“The professor’s son is an anarchist. He travels the world protesting international conferences by setting cars on fire. Notice the television and videotape player. Two bedrooms, one bath. The carpets, of course. The shower and kitchen have been redone. Gas and electricity are connected. I’m sorry to say that the telephone has been turned off, but you no doubt have a cell phone. Everyone does.”
Moving into such a completely furnished apartment was like wearing someone else’s clothes, but on the plus side the building directly opposite was commercial, not the roost of curious babushkas. The ground floor offered two exits, a front door to the street and carport and a back door to a courtyard with a playground and bicycle stand. Across the courtyard was a row of small enterprises-an Internet cafe, a weight-lifting club and a beauty salon. A couple of men loitered in sweat suits outside the club’s back door. Sofia Andreyeva was willing to rent month to month at a fraction of what a hotel would cost.
Arkady said, “I like it. Is the son likely to pop in?”
“I doubt it. He’s in jail in Geneva. In case there is a problem…” She tore off a corner of the newspaper and wrote a phone number. “My business cards are still at the printer’s. Just call in the afternoons and ask for Doctor Andreyeva.”
“A medical doctor? Two occupations?”
“For the sake of eating.”
“I’ll see you if I catch a cold.”
“Let’s hope not, for your sake. Are you married?”
“No.”
“You may not know, but men from America, Australia, from all over the world come here to meet Russian brides. I don’t think we really need a written contract. Keys count more than paper. Will you be getting any mail here?”
“No, that will go to the office.”
“Much better.”
Sofia Andreyeva buttoned her coat, ready to fly.
Arkady said, “Before you go, I didn’t get the professor’s name.”
“Professor Golovanov. He likes to say that his liver is Russian and his stomach is French. I am, in a sense, midway between Russian and French myself.”
“Polish?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I saw something. A certain flair.”
“Yes, yes.” She was delighted but froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. A piece of paper slid under the door and the steps moved on. “What is it?”
“A flyer for a political rally.”
One side of the flyer promised music and clowns, while the other bore a photograph of Isakov in combat gear riding the fender of an armored personnel carrier.
“Politics.” Sofia Andreyeva treated the word like dirt. “Of course, we must register your new address with the militia. You being a prosecutor’s investigator, I’ll leave that to you.”
“Of course.”
Arkady understood perfectly. Sometimes it was better not to ask too many questions. Granted, there was a chance that a resuscitated Professor Golovanov might return from a holiday in the south of France, swilling wine and singing the Marseillaise. All the same, Arkady had rarely seen the law broken with such elan.
The day was comfortably crisp, more Easter weather than winter, the pastel walls of Lenin Square glowing in the sun. A balalaika ensemble entertained on a stage decorated with the white, blue and red of the Russian flag. Clowns swayed on stilts. Teenagers on in-line skates distributed “I am a Russian Patriot” T-shirts. Volunteers spun cotton candy, pink and blue. Technicians laid cable and every minute or so the sound system erupted with a shriek. A truck-mounted outdoor video screen rose on hydraulic lifts behind the stage while a camera crew worked on a platform facing the stage, Zelensky on the camera, Bora extending a microphone boom. Zelensky was as emaciated as ever. Bora appeared at the limit of his technical abilities. Arkady spotted Petya handling a mobile camera on the ground. Arkady took one of the Patriot shirts being handed out. The photo of Isakov printed on the back was similar to one on a T-shirt he had seen before, except that the hero carried a shovel instead of a rifle and the tiger’s head patch of OMON was replaced by the emblem of a red star, a rose and a third element Arkady could not identify.
More people than Arkady expected had come. Besides the usual steel-teeth pensioners, the rally had attracted coal miners and veterans of the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya. Miners and veterans were serious men. Some
