Next to introduce himself was Misha Gonsk, who had been the local MVD directorate. He was an overweight man in his late forties who wore a brown uniform and struggled to hold in his ample stomach. Evidently unsure whether he should shake hands or salute, he settled for standing at attention, closing his eyes for an instant, and bowing his head almost imperceptibly to the two visitors.
As the other two men stepped forward to be introduced, Emil Karpo made notes in his black book. The mayor was disconcerted.
“Why … I know it is not my place to ask … but why are you taking our names? We are not … this is …”
When Karpo did not so much as pause in his note taking, the mayor shrugged, touched his hair to be sure that it was still symmetrical, and looked at the two remaining members of the delegation. One of them, a tall man of about fifty, had the strong arms and slouched shoulders of a farmer.
“My name is Petrov, Vadim Petrov. I was Communist party representative of the Arkush council. Now … who knows?” He faced both policemen squarely and shook hands with a firmness that impressed Rostnikov. “Our mayor is understandably nervous,” Petrov explained. “Crime is unknown in our community.”
“Not exactly unknown, Petrov,” the policeman, Gonsk, asserted. “In the twenty years I have had the responsibility of enforcing the law in Arkush, there have been many crimes, all of which have been immediately investigated and reported to Moscow. Only last week-and our mayor will confirm this-there was a theft in the marketplace-tomatoes. And last month the toilet seats were taken from the party hall. Two seats.”
“Grave offenses,” Petrov said dryly. “But now we have a murder. Let me finish the introductions and take you for some tea. This is Peotor Merhum, the son of Father Merhum.”
Peotor Merhum, solid and handsome with blond hair and a fair complexion, was a sullen young man who did not offer his hand. He barely nodded.
Petrov, who had clearly taken over leadership of the small band from the bewildered mayor, led the group past the brick ticket booth of the train station to a sidewalk. “There is no point in taking a car,” he said. “Arkush is too small. Tea is waiting for us at the party hall.”
“From which,” Peotor Merhum added bitterly, “the infamous and important toilet seats were taken. Perhaps in your spare time you can help our town protector”-he glanced at Misha Gonsk-“to find the culprit.”
“Peotor is our town cynic,” Petrov explained.
“He is distraught about his father’s-” the mayor began, but Peotor Merhum cut him off.
“I am not distraught. Father Vasili Merhum was father to everyone but his son. It is no secret that I was less than dutiful. Why should we present a lie which the police will recognize the moment they talk to any man, woman, or child in Arkush?”
They were moving slowly because of Rostnikov’s leg, but Peotor kept stepping out ahead. The ample-bellied Gonsk kept pace with Rostnikov. Karpo dropped back a bit to follow and observe. All of the passengers who had gotten off the train had moved ahead of them.
“They are going to the church,” the mayor explained. “Services for Father Merhum this afternoon. A bishop is in Arkush to conduct the service. A bishop.”
They passed small ancient houses of wood and stone along me cobbled street. It struck Rostnikov that he had gotten off me train and stepped into the past. The street curved to the right and into the town’s main square where the buildings were no more than two stories high. Behind the buildings to his right was a small forest of brown-and-gray treetops over which he could see the four golden towers of the church.
In the center of the square stood a pedestal. There was nothing on it.
“Lenin,” said Vadim Petrov, the party chairman. “Vandals knocked it over during the first days of madness.”
“A crime our protector of toilets failed to mention,” Peotor Merhum said derisively.
“I was going to; it was in my report,” Misha Gonsk said quickly, looking back at Karpo to see if he had noted this omission.
“He isn’t sure of your politics yet,” Peotor Merhum said. “Our Misha is a survivor. He puts both hands in his mouth and holds up all ten fingers to decide which way the wind is blowing.”
“We are a close-knit and supportive community,” said Petrov, “a big family, as you can see.”
Peotor shrugged.
“How old are you, Peotor Merhum?” Rostnikov asked.
Since these were the policeman’s first words, the four men of the village studied him carefully to determine the meaning of this question.
“That is of no …” Peotor began, looked at Petrov, shrugged, and continued, “thirty-one. Why? What difference does that make?”
“In the presence of their fathers or the ghosts of their fathers, many men are forever children,” Rostnikov said.
“Is that an insult?” Peotor said.
They had stopped in front of a three-story, gray wooden building, evidently the party hall.
“An observation,” said Rostnikov. “Would you like another one?”
“No,” said Peotor.
“Go ahead, Inspector,” said Petrov the farmer, his eyes on Peotor Merhum.
“I have frequently seen grief expressed as guilt and anger. It is my experience that it should be recognized, acknowledged, and tolerated to the extent that it does not interfere with the life that must go on.”
“He’s telling you to stop behaving like a child, Peotor,” Petrov explained.
“I understood, I’m not a fool,” Peotor Merhum shot back.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the mayor said nervously. “We are on the street. People can …Let’s go inside, inside.”
They made their way through the first door to an overly warm room furnished with a table and seven chairs. The room looked and smelled like Communist party meeting halls Rostnikov had been in from Yalta to Siberia.
Everyone but Emil Karpo hung his coat on a rack just inside the door. On the table, the kind that folds in the middle and has black painted legs, were cups and a plate of large pyeechyeh’yah, cookies. They all sat down, and an old woman and a boy who must have been watching from another room came hurrying in with boiling pots of tea.
The walk from the station had not been terribly long, but after the train ride in which Rostnikov had moved very little, the distance had taken a toll on his leg. He resisted the urge to massage it.
Rostnikov looked at the blond boy who served the tea. Normally children and adults found it difficult to keep from looking at Emil Karpo. This boy, however, was watching Peotor Merhum with a mixture of emotions that Rostnikov had difficulty reading-fear, concern, grief. Peotor Merhum did not look up.
“We have prepared rooms for you here in the hall,” Petrov said. “I’m certain you will find them comfortable. There is no hotel in town. It is said that Trotsky spent two nights here.”
“A comforting thought,” said Rostnikov, accepting a cookie from the plate offered to him by Misha Gonsk, who then took three for himself.
“Given the madness of our times,” said Petrov, “it may well be that Trotsky will soon be reinstated as a hero of the early revolution, his picture on walls. We are in need of new gods now that the old ones have been broken.”
“I’ve had nothing to eat all day,” Gonsk jumped in. “Much too busy with the … I’ll take you to the scene of the … whenever you like.”
“Inspector Karpo will be remaining here overnight. I must get back to Moscow. You will take him to the location of the crime and I will remain here and talk to each of you individually.”
The cookies were good, and Rostnikov had two more. The conversation ceased for a few minutes, except for requests to pass the teapot, until it was revived by Rostnikov.