The Master Of Rain

“Are you all right?” Caprisi asked again.

“You’ve asked me that already.”

“You keep staring at me like I just fucked your sister or something.”

Once inside the car, Field offered to pay half of Chen’s medical costs, but Caprisi just shook his head curtly and continued to stare out of the window.

His mood seemed suddenly as somber as Field’s.

“Do you know Lu?” Field asked.

“In what way?”

“Was our interview the other day the first time you’ve had any direct dealings with him?”

“More or less.” Caprisi thought about it. “Yes it was. Why?”

“No reason,” Field said.

They stepped through the gate of the Russian church a few minutes later and walked down a stone path, past the dark gravestones, with their extravagant gold lettering.

Inside, the church was dark, the air heavy with the smell of incense. Their footsteps on the flagstone floor echoed around the dome above them. The altar was covered in a white satin cloth, upon which a gold cross stood between two oil paintings. The first was of the Virgin Mary with her infant son; the second showed Christ on the cross. The atmosphere of the place was both opulent and forbidding, in stark contrast, Field thought, to the deprivation of a significant proportion of its congregation.

It made him think of his father. At least he had practiced what he preached. Generosity to others—outside the family—was, Field supposed, one of his few redeeming features.

A priest in a long black robe and beard appeared from behind a pillar and walked toward them. He wore square glasses.

“Good morning,” Caprisi said.

The man nodded.

“You speak English?”

He shook his head.

“Vous parlez francais?” Field asked.

“Bien sur.”

Field glanced at his colleague. “Nous sommes policiers, et nous enquetons sur les morts . . . non, les meurtres des femmes Russes. Deux femmes. Irina Ignatiev et Natalya Simonov.” Field enunciated the names with exaggerated care. “Nous pensons . . . nous croyons qu’elles sont . . . enterrees ici, les deux. Vraiment, oui?”

The priest shrugged.

“Si elles habitaient ici, il suit, je crois qu’elles seraient enterrees ici—oui?”

“Exactement—ou d’ailleurs?”

“Natalya etait mouri le premier mai; Irina un mois avant. Nous avons besoin de leurs addresses—vous avez les papiers, je crois?”

“Bien sur.”

The priest studied them for a moment and then quietly turned away. Field felt unreasonably tense and thought that Caprisi was, too.

“You explained?” the American asked.

“He has the papers. He seems cooperative—he’s just gone to look them up.”

Field wanted to smoke but thought it would be inappropriate here.

After about ten minutes the priest returned, walking with his head down, as if deep in thought.

“Mais non—Irina, elle, je me souviens, je me souviens faire les papiers, mais ils n’existent plus. Pardon.”

“Les papiers sont . . . disparus?”

“Il m’apparait que oui.”

“Translate, please,” Caprisi said.

“He remembers Irina, but her papers have gone.”

“Mais, vous vous souvenez de l’ecrire?”

“Oui.”