"Interesting," said Rostnikov getting into his coat. The noise of the plow outside suddenly stopped.
"You're mocking," said Galich.
"Not at all. I find it very interesting. Please have Famfanoff find me when he finally awakens but please do not wake him. From here I'll be going to the Samsonovs' and then to General Krasnikov's."
"You have much to do," said Galich. "Let me show you my modest collection of weights."
Rostnikov followed the big man to a door off the wooden stairway to the right. Galich opened the door and stood back to let Rostnikov in. The small room with a tiny frosted window contained a sizable collection of weights piled neatly on the floor. Bars were neatly hung on racks and four barbells were lined up evenly against the windowed wall.
"If this meets your needs, please feel free to come back at any time and use them," said Galich.
"It more than meets my needs," said Rostnikov.
"I find the weights very satisfying, very therapeutic and reassuring," said Galich stepping back to close the door.
Before he put on his gloves, Rostnikov shook Galich's hand.
"Then you'll return?" said the former priest. "Perhaps before you finish your work in Tumsk you'll even join me for dinner. I've visited Moscow many times and I'd like to hear about how it is now, if you wouldn't mind."
"I would not mind," said Rostnikov.
The square was plowed as were paths along the hills. Rostnikov slogged into the nearest furrow and made his way higher up the slope to a nearby house almost identical to that of the former priest.
Like the other houses the front faced down the hill toward the town square. Rostnikov moved off the plowed path and through the snow to the door. Before he could knock the door opened.
"Doctor Samsonov?" Rostnikov asked.
The man before him was lean, tall and somewhere in his forties. His hair was dark and thin and his face placid.
Beneath the placidness Rostnikov sensed a seething anger. The man wore a black turtleneck sweater. He pulled up the sleeves slightly as he examined the policeman at his door.
"You find it necessary to interrogate me in my home," Samsonov said, not backing away from the open door to let Rostnikov in.
"If you prefer, we can go to the People's Hall or to the house in which I am staying," said Rostnikov.
"Let him in," came a woman's voice from within the house.
Samsonov shuddered, played with his sleeves again, ignoring the cold that must be cutting through his body, and then stepped back to let Rostnikov in.
When the door was closed behind him the chill of the outside lingered.
"You may keep your coat on," said Samsonov. "I would like this visit to be as brief as possible."
"As you wish," said Rostnikov. "Though I would prefer to sit. I have a leg which gives me some trouble from time to time."
The house was identical in structure to Galich's but the atmosphere was a world away. The wooden floor was covered by two rugs, one very large and oriental. The furnishings were upholstered and modern, the kind Rostnikov had seen in the Moscow apartments of Party officials and successful criminals. On the walls were paintings, very modern paintings with no subject and no object.
"You are surprised?" Samsonov said leaning back against the wall and folding his arms.
"At your inhospitality or the furnishings?" Rostnikov asked.
"I owe you no hospitality," Samsonov said. "You have exiled me, taken me and my family away from my practice, my research, driven me out of my country. If you had not driven me to this corner of hell, my daughter would be alive. My daughter is dead and you people have done nothing. What hospitality do I owe you?"
"I did not exile you. I did not drive you out. I am not responsible for what happened to your daughter," said Rostnikov softly. "I am not the government. I am an inspector looking for the killer of a deputy Commissar and I am a man who has a son and feels deeply for a man who has lost his daughter. Do you have a picture of your little girl?"
"What has that to do with your investigation?" asked a woman who emerged from the darkness beyond the stairs.
Rostnikov turned to her. She was dark, slender, quite beautiful. Ludmilla Samsonov wore a red and black close-fitting knit dress that would have been stylish even on Kalinin Prospekt.
"It has nothing to do with the investigation," replied Rostnikov unable to take his eyes from the lovely pale woman. "My son is grown. He's a soldier stationed in Afghanistan. Each day my wife and I hold our breath in fear."
"You have a picture of your son?" Ludmilla Samsonov asked, stepping even closer.
Rostnikov had expected the illusion of beauty to drop away in the light, but the woman looked even better as she drew closer. He wondered what she would look like smiling and knew that he would never know. He reached under his coat, removed his battered wallet and took out a photograph of Josef and Sarah. The photo was three years old but Josef had not changed much. Sarah, however, looked quite different.
Ludmilla Samsonov reached out to take the picture and her cool fingers touched Rostnikov's.
She examined the photograph and held it out to her husband who turned away, gave Rostnikov a cold stare and then looked down at the picture. His face betrayed nothing. The woman handed back the photograph which Rostnikov put away carefully.
Samsonov shared a look with his wife and pointed to a desk by the front window. Rostnikov walked to the desk and picked up the framed picture which rested on it. The girl in the picture was smiling at him.
"Beautiful," said Rostnikov.
A single sob escaped the woman behind him and he put down the photograph and turned back slowly to give her time to recover. She was standing closer to her husband now but they were not touching. Rostnikov sensed a terrible tension between the two.
"You perform perfectly, Inspector…" Samsonov began.
"Rostnikov. May I sit?"
"Sit," said Samsonov tersely.
Rostnikov moved to the nearest straight-backed chair and sat with relief.
"An old injury?" Samsonov said referring to Rostnikov's leg.
"A very old injury," agreed Porfiry Petrovich.
"And it still causes you pain?" asked Samsonov, his tone changing to one of professional curiosity.
"From time to time, mostly discomfort."
Ludmilla Samsonov turned and left the room as quietly as she had entered it.
"Leg dysfunctions used to be my speciality before I began my research," said Samsonov not moving from the wall. "Especially war wounds. I treated quite a few soldiers who had been in Afghanistan."
"This is a war wound," said Rostnikov.
"May I look?" asked Samsonov.
"If you wish," said Rostnikov sitting back.
Samsonov moved from the wall with confidence and knelt on one knee before the policeman.
"I have had very little opportunity to practice here," said Samsonov, his fingers running the length of Rostnikov's left leg. "And no opportunity for research. Remarkable muscle tone. You must be a very determined man. In most people this leg would have atrophied."
"We endure," Rostnikov said as Samsonov stood.
"Whether we like it or not," agreed Samsonov. "Do you take any medication?"
"No," said Rostnikov.
"I can give you the name of an American muscle relaxant which should help you if you can get it. You take one a day for the rest of your life. I assume that since you are a policeman you have connections for such things."
"Perhaps," said Rostnikov.
"I may have a bottle of the medicine among my things. I'll see if I can find it. I can also give you a set of exercises that should ease the pain and make walking easier," said Samsonov moving to a chair. "Are you interested?"