"A wise man," agreed Yuri, humoring Nikolai, who drank deeply without taking his eyes from the taller man.
"But a cruel one, soggy bear," said Nikolai. "It is cruel to force us to remain sober. What have we to turn to for our imaginations, to release our inhabitants"
"Inhibitions," Yuri corrected, moving to the table.
"Inhibitions," agreed Nikolai.
The two men sat facing each other silently across the table as if something profound had just been said.
"You don't drink," Nikolai suddenly accused. "You don't go to movies. You don't go to museums. You don't watch television. We don't have a television. We can't afford a television. And the news, the news is, is…"
"Zakusla," Yuri supplied.
"Zakuski, yes. Hors d'oeuvres. You don't even talk about women. I'll tell you," and with this he pointed a finger in Yuri's face, "you've never even been with a woman."
This time Yuri Pon did smile.
"What? Why are you smiling? I said something funny?" Nikolai asked in mock confusion. "The bear has a harem somewhere? Another luxury apartment, perhaps a little wooden izbas in the country where you bring women and have wild orgies? If I thought that were true and you didn't invite me, it could well be the end of our… You sure you don't want to join me?" With this, Nikolai held up his sloshing glass as an offering. "It is not as much fun to drink alone, you know. It's fun, but not as much."
"I can't drink tonight," Yuri said. "I've got to go out shopping."
Nikolai slouched back and laughed like a horse.
"Going to look for a woman, eh, Yuri?"
"Perhaps, yes."
"And what are you going to do with her, Yuri? You want to bring her back here?"
"No," said Pon. "No."
"You should be a comedian," said Nikolai, laughing. "A funny comedian. I don't think," he chuckled, leaning forward and whispering, "that you would know what to do with a woman."
"I know what to do with a woman," Pon said.
"You want me to come with you and help?" Nikolai said, unable to control his mirth.
"No," said Pon softly. "I won't need any help."
CHAPTER FOUR
Thegunshot came just as Rostnikov pushed open the door to the seventh floor of the high rise on Lenin Prospekt about four blocks from the New Circus. In spite of his leg, he had purposely taken a circuitous route to the address of Katya Rashkovskaya. It had been a year or more since he had roamed this neighborhood. So Rostnikov had wandered up Lenin Prospekt, watching the people shop, looking into the windows of the elegantly decorated shops, passing the Varna (which specialized in products from Bulgaria), the Vlasta (with goods from Czechoslovakia), and the Leipzig (with exports from the German Democratic Republic). Rostnikov bought nothing. He had limped along without putting words to his thoughts, paused to examine a window of shoes that would cost at least a month of his salary, ignored a quarrel between two men over a parking space near Lumumba Friendship University, and gradually made his way to the second of three white-concrete high rises.
He had trudged his way up the stairs in the elevatorless building, moving slowly to minimize perspiration. On the seventh floor he had paused for breath before opening the hallway door. That was when he heard the shot. It wasn't that Rostnikov didn't believe in coincidence. If one lived long enough, particularly in Moscow, one encountered all manner of coincidence. Cases were often closed through coincidence rather than hard work. An officer happened to see a car thief breaking into a car when it looked as if a particular ring of thieves would never be caught. The officer was not staking out the street, was not even on duty, but had taken a wrong turn looking for a movie theater that, as it turned out, was on the other side of Moscow.
In this case, however, when he heard the shot, Porfiry Petrovich did not assume that he had been fortunate or unfortunate enough to step onto the scene of a crime at the coincidental moment. He hobbled as quickly as he could in search of apartment 717. Here a door opened and a cautious eye peeped out. There a door opened quickly and closed. Beyond, a man in a robe, who looked as if he slept days and worked nights, stepped into the hall rubbing his eyes and almost running into Rostnikov, who barreled past him and found apartment 717.
There was a voice behind the door, a hysterical voice that might have been wailing wordlessly or might have been saying something. Rostnikov turned to the sleepy man in the robe, who looked puzzled, and said, "Call Petrovka thirty-eight. Tell them Inspector Rostnikov told you to call. Say it's a possible shooting."
The man nodded and hurried back into his apartment, where, Rostnikov hoped, he had a phone and was not simply going back to bed. Rostnikov pounded on the door once, hard. The door vibrated.
"Police. Open die door," he said, loud but calm.
Nothing happened inside, though he thought he heard the sound of something, an appliance, something, above the wailing voice.
"Open or I'll have to break the door," Rostnikov said, still calm.
Footsteps moved quickly inside and the door opened to reveal a thin young man in a blue T-shirt. His straight blond hair looked bleached and was combed back from his smooth and wide-eyed face.
"I told her not to," the young man said, stepping back to admit Rostnikov. "I told her it was stupid. That there were other things she could"
"Where?" said Rostnikov, grabbing the young man's arm. "Where is she?"
The young man groaned in pain, twisted his body, and pointed toward a closed door across the room. Rostnikov let him go and hurried to the door. Behind the door was the sound he had heard in the hall, the appliance sound. He pushed the door open and found himself facing a quite beautiful woman of about thirty with a pistol in her hand. Her straight black hair was long, and tied behind her head with a yellow ribbon. She was wearing a yellow skirt and blouse and white sneakers. The gun was aimed directly at Rostnikov and looked none too secure in her grip.
"Who?" she shrieked, backing up.
"Police," he said, keeping his voice down but still audible above the rushing mechanical sound in the small bathroom. "You'd better give me the gun."
Katya Rashkovskaya looked down at the gun in her hand as if she had not expected to see it there. She handed it instantly to Rostnikov, who dropped it into his pocket. Behind him, Rostnikov could hear the young blond man move to the open doorway of the small room.
"What did you try to do?" Rostnikov asked, gently reaching out to touch the young woman's arm. He had dealt with attempted suicides before, both those who succeeded and those who failed. His theories were different from the party line. His theories were based on experience. It was Rostnikov's belief that all but a very small, insignificant number meant to kill themselves, even the ones who later said and believed that they had only been acting out or pretending. It was, he guessed, like childbirth as Sarah had described it. When it is happening, it is terrible and real. When it is over, it is like a dream. A similarity between the bringing of life and the taking of it.
"She shot the toilet!" the young man cried behind him.
Rostnikov turned and looked at the nearly hysterical young man and then at the young woman, who looked as if she had been hypnotized. And then he looked at the toilet, and, indeed, there was a crack in the porcelain, starting with a hole the size of a blintz and zigzagging out into a series of tributaries. Behind the hole, the toilet gurgled loudly and angrily.
"It's true?" Rostnikov asked, moving closer to the young woman.
She nodded her head slowly, indicating that it was true. Rostnikov nodded back and led her out of the bathroom past the young man, who backed away.
"Close the door," Rostnikov ordered. The young man closed the bathroom door, which cut back on but did not end the noise. After leading the woman to a chair and being sure she sat, Rostnikov pulled a straight-backed chair over and sat facing her. He took her hand and said, "I understand."