This knowledge was clear to Porfiry Rostnikov as he sat waiting on the wooden bench at K.G.B. headquarters. He had been in the building several times in the past and had noticed how quiet it was. People spoke in whispers as if in a place of worship. Even the typewriters and phones seemed to be muted. Dark wood dominated railings, benches, ceilings. Rostnikov thought it needed only religious icons, a few saints sprinkled here and there, but the K.G.B. was most careful not to elevate any secular political saints.
Rostnikov had arrived by metro at 6:30 after a few hours of non-sleep in his bed trying to rest, thinking and not thinking. A dream came in which he had to eat a sausage pudding with a heavy iron hammer. Comrade Timofeyeva urged him on with quotations from Lenin, but he made a mess of it, trying to keep from getting his coat dirty. To get a coat cleaned in Moscow was a major effort. Finally, in the dream he had grown angry, had lifted the hammer over his head, to establish a new U. S. S. R. record for a hammer lift, and brought it down heavily on the dish, sending pudding, sausage, and shards of plate in all directions. He had awakened with a grunt and said, “Carole Lombard.”
“What?” his wife had asked dreamily.
“Carole Lombard,” Rostnikov grunted straining to see the time on his clock. “An American movie actress whose hair kept falling in her face in some movie.”
“That was your dream?” asked his wife turning to him.
“No,” he had said, sitting up to find his trousers again. “I don’t know why it came to me. Perhaps to clear my mind.”
“Be sure to eat,” she had replied, turning over for another hour or two of sleep.
He had grunted again, slipped on his pants, washed, and shaved after boiling some water for the task and then spent fifteen minutes with the weights. Only with the weights could he step outside of himself and watch. Once he began, it was as if he had no real part of it, that he was just an observer. The exercise of will was not to do more or to conquer the pain of adding weight. Oh no, for Rostnikov the problem was to stop, to feel. It was too easy to simply sink into a state of forgetfulness and go on forever observing himself lift and add weights. The addition of weight had, indeed, proved a problem, but not a psychological one. It was simply hard to get weights in Moscow. He had tried improvising, but the balance was impossible. Finally, he had turned to the black market-a storekeeper he had once decided not to bring in for a minor infraction knew a man who knew a woman who knew an athlete who could get weights. There was an annual competition for men and women fifty and over in Sokolniki Recreation Park in June. Rostnikov had decided to enter and was, though he had told no one, not even himself, in training. He went over events, calculated weights, and worried about his leg.
“Inspector Rostnikov.”
Rostnikov looked up. He had been aware of the black suited man moving toward him, but he had been trying to decide whether to try to buy a new weight bar.
“Yes,” Rostnikov answered.
“Follow me,” said the man. Rostnikov rose and followed. His leg slowed him down, but he managed to keep up with the straight-backed man with curly brown hair down the corridor and up a short stairway. The man made it clear that they were not walking together, that he was a guide and not a new acquaintance. They stopped at a door without name or number, and the guide knocked once, firmly.
“In,” came a man’s raspy voice, and the guide opened the door, stepped back and let Rostnikov move past him. The guide left, closing the door behind him, and Rostnikov found himself in an office in sharp contrast to that of Comrade Timofeyeva. This office was carpeted, a dark brown carpet, not too thick, but carpet nonetheless. The posters on the wall were familiar ones from Rostnikov’s boyhood, colorfully urging productivity and solidarity, posters with bright reds and firm faces. Each was framed. The furniture was comfortable, chairs with arms and dark nylon padded seats, and the desk itself was well polished and old, probably an antique from before the Revolution. The man behind the desk was thin, his face dark with the memory of some labors in youth. His hair was white and well groomed. He wore a dark suit and blue tie.
“I am Colonel Drozhkin,” he said, extending an open calloused palm toward the chair on the other side of the desk. Colonel Drozhkin’s accent was that of a workingman, a holdover peasant. It had probably taken him some effort to retain it in what must have been years in Moscow. Rostnikov sat and Drozhkin did the same, a thin reed of anticipation behind the huge desk, which his fingers touched possessively and nervously.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Drozhkin said moving some papers on his desk and making it quite clear that he was not sorry at all. The waiting and the tone made it clear who was master and who servant in this situation of comrades.
“I understand,” said Rostnikov, and indeed he did.
“Good,” said Drozhkin, “yes, good. Now you are here in relation to the murder of Aleksander Granovsky. I assume you want some cooperation, ideas, eh?”
“That would be most appreciated,” Rostnikov replied.
“Yes, of course, we will do what we can, but it is you who must find this madman and find him quickly. It is best if we have no direct part in the investigation if at all possible. You understand?”
“Fully,” replied Rostnikov.
“Good, then what…?” said Drozhkin holding up his hands.
“You were watching Granovsky,” Rostnikov plunged in, looking directly at the K.G.B. Colonel. “You had a man on him last night, a man who may be able to tell me something if I could talk to him.”
Drozhkin’s wrinkled, worn face tightened, his jaw moved forward and Rostnikov knew that it would not be pleasant to be questioned by Colonel Drozhkin.
“We were not there to protect him,” the colonel said, returning Rostnikov’s gaze.
“Of course not,” Rostnikov said sincerely.
“And we were not there to harm him,” the little colonel went on emphatically. “Nothing could look worse, would be worse than…Perhaps you wouldn’t understand. It would not be good, is not good for us that this happened.”
“Then,” went on Rostnikov, “it would be best if I could talk to your man and get on with catching this murderer as quickly as possible. He has murdered a second time and may be about to do so again.”
“I know,” sighed Drozhkin with a wave of his hand. “That is not my concern or interest. I don’t know if I can let you talk to the man you wish to speak to.” Drozhkin eyed Rostnikov, who did not answer and went on. “Is there something you have to say further to change my mind?”
Rostnikov looked down at his hands and had the urge to ask this tense K.G.B. man to compare callouses and lives, but instead he said, “May I be frank?”
A tick of a smile touched the older man’s face and hid again.
“Is that ever wise?” he said, leaning back.
Rostnikov shrugged and shifted his weight before responding. He did not really mean to be frank, and both men knew it.
“I have a task, a murderer to catch and not much time to do it. Wisdom may have to be tempered with expediency. I think you planned to let me talk to your man from the moment I walked into this building or I would not be here.”
Drozhkin stood up quickly, held a comment, and turned to speak to the wall.
“It wasn’t wise, but I see your point,” he said.
“Thank you, colonel.”
The colonel turned, in control once more, looking down at the police officer.
Drozhkin moved to one of the posters on the wall, his back still to his visitor, and straightened it, though it needed no straightening. The poster was of a hefty woman with a shovel, looking over her shoulder to urge on her fellows, who had no space in the picture.