On the first Monday in February, in a small, windowless back room of the Pripyat post office, PK agents Pavel and Nikolai went through the morning mail presorted for them and passed through a slot in the wall by legitimate postal workers. Pavel and Nikolai were trained in languages, one fluent in Hungarian, and the other in Ukrainian. But they always used their Russian mother tongue as they sat across from one another at a long table opening-reading-resealing, opening-reading-resealing. The room was warm and humid because of the small electric steamer on the table.
“No more letters to Saint Nick,” said Pavel.
“The season to be jolly is over,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal. Open-read-reseal.
“Several mentions of the American astronauts,” said Pavel.
“From the looks of the explosion on television it must have been in-stantaneous. Do you think they felt anything?”
“They must have felt something,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps like a blow to the head.”
“Americans advertise everything,” said Pavel. “Even failures.”
“An odd practice,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal.
“Ah,” said Pavel. “Here’s another letter to Mihaly Horvath.”
“He’s under observation,” said Nikolai. “You’ll have to copy it.”
Pavel glared at Nikolai. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were an idiot, Pavel.”
“Then why must you always remind me of the obvious?”
“I don’t know,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps I’m tired of reading the same things over and over. ‘How is everything there?’ ‘All is fine here.’ ‘How were your holidays?’ ‘Our holiday was joyful, and all are in good health.’ It’s enough to drive one mad! Don’t these people have any imagination?”
They both laughed, the outburst designed to relieve boredom.
“So,” said Nikolai, “what does Mihaly Horvath’s brother say today?”
“Again,” said Pavel, “he refers to a matter they spoke of last summer at the farm. Detective Horvath pressing his brother about some kind of decision, just as he has in previous letters. He implies everything will not be well if his brother does not act.”
Pavel turned to the second page of the letter. “Here’s something.” He raised the pitch of his voice slightly as he always did when translating a letter. “‘Mihaly, I’m sorry I was unable to visit during the holiday season. Things were busy in Kiev and I had to remain on duty. But I’ll make up for it and be able to see you and Nina and the girls the third Sunday in February. I’ll drive up in the morning and should be there by noon. Perhaps you can tell me of your decision in the matter we discussed. Tell Nina not to cook anything special…’ And it goes on.”
“What do you suppose this ‘matter’ is?” asked Nikolai.
“I don’t know,” said Pavel. “But since Mihaly Horvath is under operational observation, and his militia detective brother has been worried about something since summer, Captain Putna and Major Komarov will be interested.”
“By now,” said Nikolai, “Detective Horvath must also be under operational observation.”
“It could be related to the Gypsy Moth Captain Putna told us to watch for,” said Pavel.
“Why would it have anything to do with the Gypsy Moth? It’s nothing but a code word, and it wasn’t mentioned in the letter.”
Pavel touched his finger to his temple. “I was thinking. Horvath is a Hungarian name. Gypsies have connections to Hungarians.
And last summer, remember the letter in which they spoke of the visit of their cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American? Consider the gypsy moth insect, the one causing problems in America since its introduction last century. I read about it in Entomological Study of
…”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nikolai.
“I’m talking about the American cousin of the Horvaths,” said Pavel. “I’m talking about letters to Detective Horvath last year in which Andrew Zukor told of plans to visit the Horvaths during their summer holiday. This could be a Gypsy Moth connection.”
“A weak connection at best,” said Nikolai. “We could mention it in our report to Captain Putna. But I think it best if we wait and see if there is another letter from the American cousin. You know how the captain feels about unfounded speculation. In the meantime we’ll copy all letters to or from the Horvaths.”
“Challenging idea,” said Pavel, floating the letter like a giant flake of snow into the copy tray at the corner of the table.
The sky was overcast, snow covering the rolling farmland in virgin white. Although the drive to Pripyat was slow, it gave Lazlo time to think. As he passed through a village, he saw two boys heaving snowballs at one another. Even though he and Mihaly were eleven years apart and were never really young boys together, he was reminded of quiet winters on the farm. Quiet winters before he went into the army to fulfill his draft obligation, before the hazing in camp, before the assignment to arrest the deserter near the Romanian border. Boys killing boys.
The snow covering the hilly road forced Lazlo to continually shift up and down through the gears in order to maintain his speed. The Zhiguli’s transmission whined, its engine sputtered and coughed, and snow packed into the wheel wells rubbed against the tires. Because his tires were small and almost treadless, he could not maintain the speed of a Volga, which passed him, its fat tires lifting packed snow onto his windshield. If he had a Volga, or newer tires, he’d get to Pripyat sooner. But a mere detective in the Kiev militia was lucky to have any car to drive on his day off, even a three-year-old Zhiguli in need of tires and, from the new sound he was hearing, a muffler or exhaust pipe.
The use of the car provided some freedom, but also meant he was on call, day and night, for every type of crime, from the most mundane theft to murder. Lazlo recalled the day, several years earlier, when Chief Investigator Chkalov told him he was free to use a militia car for personal business instead of turning it in to the garage after each shift. He also recalled the day three years ago when Chkalov handed him the keys to the then-new Zhiguli.
As Lazlo shifted madly through the gears, most likely taking months of life from the transmission, he glanced at his keys swinging from the ignition and recalled the conversation with Chkalov on the day he received the keys to the new Zhiguli.
“You have been with the militia for many years, Detective Horvath. Your service has been loyal, and you have proven your detection skills. Although it is not a promotion, the receipt of a new car is an honor.”
“I realize this,” said Lazlo. “And I appreciate it.”
“Many other detectives do not respond as consistently as you.
Perhaps because you do not have family matters to attend to. The woman murdered near the post office in Kalinin Square, for example. If you had not arrived at the scene before dawn to have the area cordoned off, street cleaners would have flushed the shell casings down the sewer. Timing. It’s all a matter of efficient response.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And your translations of Hungarian material have also proved valuable,” said Chkalov. “When you joined the detectives, pessi-mists questioned whether an officer from the western frontier could be trusted. Despite your comrades still calling you by the pet name Gypsy, you have proven yourself worthy.”
“I appreciate your comments, sir.”
“By the way, Detective Horvath. Why do you think the name Gypsy has endured so many years?”
“It’s an affectionate name. I’ve not tried to discourage its use.”
“Well,” said Chkalov, his tone becoming heavier, “perhaps you should discourage it. Gypsy could imply you’d wander off. We wouldn’t want you making off with the militia’s shiny new Zhiguli.”