Krasnikov fixed Sokolov with what was probably his most withering military look, then he turned to Rostnikov, whose eyes and hands went up to indicate that he knew the question at that juncture of the conversation had been out of order but, perhaps, it might not be a bad idea for the general to answer it. At least that was what Krasnikov got from the look.
"Commissar Rutkin questioned me about the death of the Samsonov child," said Krasnikov, a touch of emotion suddenly coming into his voice. "He seemed to think that the child had been murdered."
"And?" Rostnikov prompted when the general stopped.
"The child fell from the rock by the river," he said. "She should not have been playing at the rock. She simply fell. Her father could not accept this fact, could not accept the responsibility and so he began to scream murder and Rutkin came running up here to hold his hand and humor him. Everyone is so concerned about the feelings of a dissident. Everyone is so afraid that he will take his accusations to the West."
"And," Sokolov interrupted, much to Rostnikov's annoyance which he did his best not to show, "you are confident that the child did not meet with foul play?"
"Foul play?" said Krasnikov, not trying to hide his annoyance. "Why would anyone want to kill the child? She was a quiet, gentle little thing. She couldn't even go out most days because of the cold and wind. She had no one to play with, no other children."
"And so you spent time with her?" Rostnikov asked, opening his coat a bit more.
"A bit," he admitted. "She was a smart child. Mostly she spent time with the priest Galich."
"And you got along well with her parents?" Rostnikov continued.
"He's a fool," Krasnikov said, striding across the room past Sokolov to his desk where he picked up an iron paperweight.
"And the mother, Ludmilla?"
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov who had turned awkwardly in his chair to face the general.
"She is no fool," Krasnikov said, shifting the paperweight from one hand to the other.
"She is quite beautiful too," Rostnikov observed.
Sokolov shifted in his chair and cleared his throat to indicate his irritation with these diversions from the issue.
"I've seen more beautiful women. I've not always been here," Krasnikov said, looking around the room and then over his shoulder out the window. "I've seen the women of Rome, Budapest, even Paris."
"Do you have some idea of why anyone might want to kill Commissar Rutkin?" asked Rostnikov.
"To rid the world of one more fool?" Krasnikov answered with his own question.
"Comrade General," Sokolov said with intensity. "This is a serious investigation of the death of a high-ranking Party member."
"High-ranking?" countered Krasnikov with yet another question.
"A Party member," Sokolov amended. "Do you have anything to tell us about his murder?"
Krasnikov smiled and, ignoring Sokolov, threw the piece of iron in his hand to Rostnikov who caught it and felt its cool power.
"Meteorite," the general said. "Dimitri Galich finds them all over the area. You might ask him for one as a souvenir."
Rostnikov rose and threw the piece of iron back to the general who caught it without removing his eyes from Rostnikov's face.
"We will talk again," said Rostnikov, buttoning his coat and heading toward the door. Behind him he could hear Sokolov getting up quickly.
"I have a few more questions, Comrade Inspector," Sokolov said.
"By all means," said Rostnikov pausing at the door to look back at the other two men. "I am going to go back to my room and then to Dimitri Galich's again."
"I'll meet you there," said Sokolov.
"He has some weights. I plan to use them. You may join me if you wish."
"All right then. I'll meet you at the house in which we are staying," said Sokolov.
Rostnikov agreed and moved to the door. "Don't forget to ask for a meteorite," said the general. "I won't," said Rostnikov who opened the door and stepped into the skin-freezing morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A dedusbka, a grandfather with a massive, old-fashioned white mustache, held his bundled-up grandchild by the hand and ordered an ice cream. Sasha, who was now growing accustomed to using the ice cream scoop, served them while Boris Manizer watched his new assistant critically. The child, no more than two, was wearing a snowsuit that made him or her look like a cosmonaut.
The grandfather paid and held out the ice cream for the child to lick. The child was wrapped too tightly to bend his arms.
"He likes it," said the grandfather revealing an almost toothless mouth.
"Good," said Boris pulling Sasha back behind the stand where two waiting customers, probably foreigners, stepped up to be served.
"Do you see them?" Sasha said looking around the shopping center.
"No," whispered Boris. "I just wanted to remind you to scoop like this. Like this. You leave a little hollow space in the ball. You use a little less ice cream. By the end of the day, you save gallons. You understand?"
"Yes," Sasha whispered back. "You cheat the people."
Boris stepped back and put his right hand to his heart.
"Cheat? Me? The people? Never," he said. "I keep innocent children from eating too much ice cream and getting terrible cramps. Children will do that. I have children. They do that. I'm doing them a service."
"You are a hero of the Revolution," Sasha said.
"Can we get ice cream?" a fat woman demanded. Next to her was an almost identical fat woman. They were either mother and daughter or sisters.
"See," whispered Boris. "You think they need a fat scoop of ice cream? No. They're never going to look like French women but we can help them a little."
"I recant," said Tkach looking down at Boris. "You are a saint, not a hero of the Revolution."
For the next few hours the two men worked in relative silence. Boris said no more about how to scoop. He served and watched the crowd for the possible return of the two criminals, an event that Tkach was certain would not take place.
"An ice cream, please," came the woman's voice above the noise of the afternoon crowd when Tkach was turned away. Before he could respond to Maya's voice, Boris was serving her.
Behind Boris's back, Sasha turned and showed his white uniform to his wife and to Pulcharia who looked blankly at her father from the carrying sling on her mother's back. Maya, wearing her insulated blue coat, smiled, almost laughed at her husband who shrugged as Boris reached down to gather a hollow scoop. Sasha moved forward, put his hand on Boris's shoulder and shook his head 'no' when the little man turned to him.
"I'll take this customer," Sasha said.
Boris considered reminding Tkach who was in charge of this ice cream stand but he stopped himself, remembering that this smiling youth was a policeman. It was difficult to remember that he was a policeman. He looked like… like a kid standing there with that smile, serving the pretty dark woman with the baby on her back. The woman smiled at this Sasha almost brazenly. The world, Boris thought, was falling into chaos. Muggers, thieves, young women with babies who throw themselves at young ice cream sellers. No young woman had ever thrown herself at Boris Manizer.
The young woman licked the ice cream and looking back held it over her shoulder for the baby to lick. The child, wearing a wool hat that revealed only its round face, leaned over to put its mouth on the ice cream and then, having tasted it, lean forward to plunge its whole face in the cold, sweet delicacy. The pretty young woman and Sasha shared a laugh. The child looked happy. Boris tried not to but he too smiled.
The woman said something to Sasha. Boris couldn't hear it over the noise of the crowd and the music that was now being piped throughout the pavilion. It sounded like something English or American. Boris didn't like it.