Dead Meat

Perhaps the taking of the picture itself had been sufficient embarrassment.

These letters were forwarded by Krokodil and Ogonyok,' she was explaining to Grushko. They're mostly all like that one. Hate mail is the only kind of letter that never gets lost by the Post Office. He tried to keep those hidden from me, but there's not much a man can keep hidden from his wife in an apartment this size.'

When I stepped out of the wardrobe, bringing the Filofax with me, Grushko handed me the letter he had been reading and shook his head despairingly.

Comrade Milyukin,' it read. Your article in Krokodil on the Leningrad black market made us all laugh so much. Your suggestion, that it is only when people are able to resist this kind of consumerism that the country will be able to rebuild itself, is absurd. Why should they when there's nothing in the shops but empty shelves and excuses. It's bastards like you who try and spoil it for everyone. I hope that one of the prostitutes you are always writing about no doubt from your own personal experience gives you AIDS. I hope you pass it on to your wife and that she passes it on to the man she is probably screwing. Yours, a well-wisher.'

The thought of her screwing another man reminded me of the photograph in the wardrobe and I was tempted to go and take another look at it.

Are they all like this?' I asked.

There are plenty worse than that,' she said, extinguishing her cigarette and lighting another.

When we still discussed his work, Mikhail used to quote a poem by Pasternak, about how poetry is murderous. If I had known that this is what happens, when I at first stood up and read; that poetry is murderous, will strangle you and leave you dead I would

Grushko interrupted her, completing the quotation. I would have decided not to play games with reality, he said.

At first I was impressed that Grushko had been able to quote Pasternak with such ease; and then I found myself wondering about the pregnant pause he had brought to the line of poetry. I asked myself if he might have intended some criticism of Nina Milyukin, or indeed of Milyukin himself?

Mikhail said that the same had become true of journalism.' She spoke with uncertainty, as if she too had detected some sarcasm.

Yes,' said Grushko, looking over another of the letters, I heard him say that.'

You knew my husband?'

Oh, yes.'

He never mentioned you, Colonel Grushko.'

No, well, I dare say he had no wish to worry you. Mikhail Mikhailovich put a number of cases our way. Cases which involved the Mafia. You can be proud of him. He was a fine man.'

Nina Milyukin blinked sadly and nodded without enthusiasm, as if not much encouraged by what Grushko had said. She coloured visibly.

He was a fine man,' she repeated. A real hero.'

It was evident that she was on the edge of saying something that she might have come to regret.

These threats,' said Grushko. Were there any he took especially seriously?'

He took them all seriously. You understand, I'm guessinghe tried to avoid talking about this sort of thing '

So as not to worry you, yes, you said '

But in the last few months, I think some of it really got to him. He started to have nightmares. And he was drinking quite heavily.'

Grushko frowned and shook his head.

And he never explained what was troubling him? He never once tried to share his worries? I find that hard to believe. Oh, I'm not suggesting you're lying or anything, Mrs Milyukin. No, I'm just puzzled as to your relationship with him. You'll forgive me for asking I'm afraid I have to ask these questions sometimes but how were things between the two of you?'

Nina Milyukin reached for the handkerchief again.

We were quite happy, thank you,' she said. There were no problems. At least no problems that anyone else '

Those are the sort of problems I'm talking about,' Grushko persisted. The usual ones.'

She shook her head firmly.

We were quite happy, thank you,' she repeated coolly. For a moment she was silent, and then she added: You must understand, Mikhail was a very traditional kind of man. Perhaps you know how the poem goes on: When feeling dictates your lines, you step out like a slave, to pace the stage, and here art stops, and earth and fate breathe in your face.a__ Mikhail set great store by fate, Colonel.'

Fate comes to us all,' he murmured and then waved vaguely at the boxes of letters. I shall have to borrow these for a while,' he said. As well as any diaries, notebooks, address-books and videotapes he may have kept. I don't doubt that this death will be connected with something he had written or said.'

I suppose it can't harm him now,' said Nina Milyukin. Yes. Take anything you want.' She bent down to retrieve an Aeroflot bag from behind the sofa bed and handed it to Grushko.

Here,' she said. You can use this to carry it all in.'

We left her sitting in an armchair on the verge of some serious crying. Grushko closed the door carefully behind us as we made our way into the dilapidated hallway that led to the kitchen and bathroom that the Milyukins shared with the other people who lived in the apartment. A couple of bicycles and several pairs of skis rested against a damp-stained wall and beside these articles were standing an old gentleman, tall and silver-haired, with glasses and a Trotsky-style beard and moustache, and a woman wearing a blue silk headscarf, whom I took to be his wife. The old gentleman cleared his throat and addressed us respectfully.

We were very sorry to hear about Mr Milyukin, Comrade Colonel,' he said and, noticing the question that rose in Grushko's eyes, he shrugged apologetically. The walls in this place they're not much better than cardboard.'

Grushko nodded sternly. Tell me, Mr ?'

Poliakov. Rodion Romanovich Poliakov. And this is my wife, Avdotya Iosefovna.'

Have you noticed any strangers hanging round this building recently?'

We've lived in this apartment since Stalin's time,' replied the old gentleman. A long time ago we realised that life is a lot safer if one never sees anything. Oh, I know things are a lot different these days, Comrade Colonel '

Just Colonel,' said Grushko. You can forget the Comrade now.'

Poliakov nodded politely.

There was nothing unusual you noticed lately, Mr Poliakov?'

Before her husband could answer, Mrs Poliakov had spoken: Mikhail Milyukin was stealing food from our fridge,' she said bitterly. That's what we noticed, Colonel.

Grushko raised his eyebrows and sighed wearily. This was trivial stuff. There was hardly anyone living in a communal apartment who did not sometimes have an argument about food with whomever they were sharing. I remembered once coming to blows with a fellow tenant about the ownership of a bottle of pickles.

Avdotya, please,' scolded the old man. What does that matter now? The man is dead. Try to show a little respect.' His wife turned her head into his bony shoulder and began to weep. Poliakov took hold of his beard and, holding his chin close to his breast, he peered over the top of his glasses at Grushko.

I must apologise for my wife, Colonel,' he said. She's not been well. If there's anything I can do ?'

Grushko opened the heavily reinforced door.

Just keep an eye on Mrs Milyukin, will you?'

Yes, of course, Comrade Colonel.'

Grushko hesitated to correct him again.

If you do remember something,' he said after a moment or two, something important that is ' he glanced meaningfully at Mrs Poliakov call me at the Big House on Liteiny Prospekt. That's where you'll usually find me. At least, that's where my wife is sending my laundry these days.'

We went back down the evil-smelling stairs to the yard. Grushko tossed Milyukin's Aeroflot bag into the car boot and shook his head with frustration.

You can't teach these old dogs new tricks,' I offered.

No, it's not that,' he said. It's Mrs Milyukin. How can she know so little about her husband's affairs? Did she never hear him on the telephone? Did she never read something he left lying around their room?'