'You saw the body in the freezer?'
'I see a lot of bodies. We have more deaths than live births. Why not ask about that?'
'You saw the body of Lev Timofeyev.'
'What if I did? I certainly didn't know who he was.'
'And you left a note that he hadn't died of a heart attack.'
Maria and the women on the bench looked to Eva, Arkady and back as if a tennis match had come to the village. Olga removed her glasses and wiped them. 'Details.'
Eva said, 'There was a body dressed in a suit and wrapped in plastic. I'd never seen him before. That's all.'
'People told you that he had had a heart attack?'
'I don't remember.'
Arkady said nothing. Sometimes it was better to wait, especially with such an eager audience as Maria and her friends.
'I suppose the kitchen staff said he had a heart attack,' Eva said.
'Who signed the death certificate?'
'Nobody. No one knew who he was or how he died or how long he had been dead.'
'But you're fairly expert in that. I hear you spent time in Chechnya. That's unusual for a Ukrainian doctor, to serve with the Russian army on the battlefront.'
Eva's eyes lit. 'You have it backward. I was with a group of doctors documenting Russian atrocities against the Chechen population.'
'Like slit throats?'
'Exactly. The body in the freezer had its throat cut with one stroke of a long sharp knife from behind. From the angle of the cut, his head was pulled back, and he was kneeling or seated, or the killer was at least two meters tall. Since his windpipe was cut, he couldn't have uttered a sound before dying, and if he was killed at the cemetery here, no one would have heard a thing.'
'The description said he had been 'disturbed by wolves.' Meaning his face?'
'It happens. It's the Zone. Anyway, I do not want to be involved in your investigation.'
'So he was lying on his back?'
'I don't know.'
'Wouldn't someone whose throat was cut from behind be more likely to fall forward?'
'I suppose so. All I saw was the body in the freezer. This is like talking to a monomaniac. All you can focus on in this enormous tragedy, where hundreds of thousands died and continue to suffer, is one dead Russian.'
The old man turned the cow in the direction of the card table. Despite the heat, Roman Romanovich was buttoned into not one but two sweaters. His pink, well-fed face and white bristles and the anxious smile he cast at Maria as he approached suggested a man who had long ago learned that a good wife was worth obeying.
Eva asked Arkady, 'Do you know how Russia resolved the crisis of radioactive milk after the accident? They mixed radioactive milk with clean milk. Then they raised the permissible level of radioactivity in milk to the norm of nuclear waste and in this way saved the state nearly two billion rubles. Wasn't that clever?'
Roman tugged on Arkady's sleeve. 'Milk?'
'He wants to know if you would like to buy some milk,' Eva said. She twisted her scarf with her fingers. 'Would you like some milk from Roman's cow?'
'This cow?'
'Yes. Absolutely fresh.'
'After you.'
Eva smiled. To Roman she said, 'Investigator Renko thanks you but must decline. He's allergic to milk.'
'Thank you,' Arkady said.
'Think nothing of it,' said Eva.
'He must come to dinner,' Maria said. 'We'll give him decent food, not like they serve at the cafeteria. He seems a nice man.'
'No, I'm afraid the investigator is going back to Moscow soon. Maybe they'll send medicine or money in his place, something useful. Maybe they'll surprise us.'
8
Each commuter on the six p.m. train from the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station began his trip by standing in the booth of a radiation detector and placing his feet and hands on metal plates until a green light signaled that he could continue to the platform. The train itself was an express that passed through Byelorussian territory without stopping, bypassing border checks. It was a cozy ride through pine forests on a summer evening.
Men rode at one end, women at the other. Men played cards, drank tea from thermoses or napped in rumpled clothes, whereas the women held conversations or knit sweaters and were painstakingly well dressed, with not a gray hair among them, not while henna grew on earth.
Halfway, the car became more subdued. Halfway, eyes wandered to the window, more and more a mirror. Halfway, thoughts turned to home, to coping with dinner, children, private lives.
Arkady, too, nodded from the rhythm of the train. One thought dissolved into another.
He gave Eva Kazka credit for bringing medical service, however minimal, to people in villages no one else dared visit. But she had played him like a thief before a jury in front of the old women. Eva had that knack of making a person draw too little air or speak too loud. In front of such an individual, a man could become so aware his weight was on his left foot that he might fall over on his right, and the village women had practically cackled while watching the show. She had called them survivors. What kind of appearance did he present, an intrepid investigator following clues to the end of the earth, or a man lost by the wayside? At a dead end, at least. A signal flashed by the window, and Arkady thought of Pasha Ivanov flying through the air. Arkady didn't approve or disapprove. The problem was that once people landed, other people had to clean up the mess. And what had he learned on his excursion with Alex? Not much. On the other hand, he'd seen at least three wolves behind the white trunks of the birches, eyes shining like pans of gold, weighing the deer, he and Alex and the deer much the same. He remembered how the hairs had stiffened down the back of his neck. The word 'predator' meant more when you were potential prey. He laughed at himself, imagining that he was on his motorcycle being chased by wolves.
Slavutych had been built for people evacuated from Pripyat. It was a successor city, with spacious squares and white municipal buildings that looked like a child's building blocks-arches, cubes, columns-on a giant scale. It was a city with modern amenities. A sunken football field was serviced by espresso bars. The Palace of Culture offered feng shui and origami. Even better, the apartment blocks themselves were designed with architectural themes like fanciful Lithuanian trim or the grace notes of Uzbeki brickwork.
Oleksander Katamay lived on the fifth floor of an 'Uzbeki' building. A young woman in a jogging suit and top- heavy blond hair let Arkady in and immediately left him in a living room arranged around a taxidermy worktable with lamps and a stand-up magnifying glass aimed at a badger skin rolled up with the head inside. Another badger, farther along, bathed in a bucket of degreaser. Shelves held plastic sacks of clay and papier-mache and a menagerie of stuffed and mounted animals: a lynx with bared fangs, an owl looking over its shoulder, a slinking fox. A pair of hunting rifles resided in a glass cabinet with a Soviet flag: small-bore, single-shot, bolt-action rifles polished as lovingly as a brace of violins. Hung on the walls had to be twenty framed photos of men in hard hats studying plans, setting pilings or working the levers of a crane, and in the middle or taking the lead in each was the same tall vigorous figure of Oleksander Katamay. Arkady was studying a photograph of workers in front of a power plant and realized that it was the first photo he had seen of the intact Chernobyl Reactor Four, a massive white wall next to its twin, Reactor Three. The men in the picture were as relaxed and confident as if they stood on the prow of a mighty ship.
A deep voice called, 'Is that the investigator? I'm coming.'
While Arkady waited, he noticed a framed plaque that displayed civilian medals, including Veteran of Labor,
