He remembered voices, music, loud music even for him, smells, sweet for a moment and then as acrid as vomit the next. And he vaguely remembered someone handing him a telephone and telling him he was going to be caged and killed. Was that at Loni’s? He had panicked, said something into the phone, called for help. And that was it. Or perhaps there had been no call. Perhaps he had dreamed or imagined it.
He had awakened in this cage. No watch. No windows.
He was not self-conscious about his nakedness, though he knew whoever had caged him might well be looking at him through some hole at this very moment. The Naked Cossack had torn off his clothes on stage more than once, more than a dozen times, maybe more than a hundred times. He had torn off, his clothes in the beginning when the music and the smell of girls in the flashing lights in front and the deep darkness farther back had given him an erection. The audience had always gone wild as he shouted his signature line, “Kher s nim, I don’t give a damn. Does anybody give a fucking damn?”
To which the audience always responded with a loud, cacophonous “Nobody.”
“That’s right,” the Naked Cossack would answer and launch into a new song filled with anger and attack, love for those who hated, and hatred for those who loved. He sang of strength and sex and the rights of those who were strong. The stompers. The raised fists. The heavy polished boots.
Misha moved to the bars of his cage and shouted with a driving angry voice that was all performance, “I’m the Naked Cossack, you dumb shits. What the hell do you want?”
For most of the first day Misha had maintained an angry scowl, had muttered curses, had been afraid that he was going to be killed. He had a dream the first night that he was a ritual sacrifice. There was an altar. He was tied down with ropes. The altar was outdoors, an uneven rock that scratched his back. A huge man with a bald head approached with an ax. On the blade of the ax was a swastika.
The man who looked familiar had clearly said, “We know you are Jew.
Misha had awakened, cold, sweating. The dream was the enactment of “Sacrifice the Son of God,” in which a Jew is killed on such an altar. It was one of Misha’s own songs. He had shivered. Not knowing if it was night or day, he looked at the ceiling light outside his cage, thinking for an instant that he was looking into the sun.
At that moment, Misha had lost some of his fear. If they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead. No, they wanted money, ransom. They were not rappery or rapists. They were not fans kidnapping their idol so they could have him for their own. They were simple kidnappers. They would keep him alive. If they had discovered who he was, they would go to his father for money. His father would pay. He hoped they would bleed him dry. If they did not know about his father, they would go to Acid, Anarchista, and Pure Knuckles. They would pay as long as it was not too much money. They needed the Naked Cossack. He was the band. He was the attraction.
All Misha had to do was to remain the Naked Cossack, the singer, guitarist, poet who didn’t give a shit.
But he was hungry. He was thirsty. And he had to use a toilet. He couldn’t imagine squatting in a corner and existing in the same space with his own feces. He had written about such things, sung of them, suggested that the weak enemies of all who heeded his word deserved the fate he was now enduring. But he didn’t deserve it.
Misha shouted again.
“I need a toilet. I need food. I need something to wear.”
He let out the yowl of a wolf. He laughed. His throat went dry. The lights went out. He was in total darkness, sudden total darkness. He stepped back. He could hear the door to the room outside the bars open, but no light came in.
There was a sound of footsteps on concrete.
Misha staggered back. Something clanked to the floor beyond the bars. The footsteps retreated. The door opened and closed. The lights came on again.
Outside the bars were a cracked metal pot, a roll of toilet paper, a metal platter with a half loaf of bread and a piece of sausage, and a metal cup of water.
Misha had trouble getting the pot through the bars. He had to force it. It was the single item he needed most.
Chapter Four
“It was a meaningless comment,” Iosef Rostnikov said to Elena Timofeyeva as they headed slowly down the corridor two levels below Petrovka.
“It was not meaningless,” Elena said, eyes forward, stride steady.
“So, I said what? That there is a resemblance between you and your aunt? That is meaningful? An insult?”
“My Aunt Anna and I are alike in only one way physically. We both have a tendency, as does my mother, to be overweight. You were suggesting that I am growing fat.”
Iosef stopped walking. “I … your aunt is a shrewd, intelligent, highly capable person. See, I said person, not woman. That was the comparison I was making.”
A pair of uniformed policemen walked past them, talking softly and emphatically, taking a quick step to the side to avoid collision with the couple who now stood facing each other.
“I am watching my weight,” she said. “I eat carefully. I exercise. I am fit. I am also genetically disposed toward a certain plumpness which, I thought, pleased you.”
“This is not the place …”
“I’m well aware of that,” Elena said. “But where is a good place and when will we next be there? You said I am like my aunt. I am. She taught me to face situations when they arise, to accept confrontation rather than allow incidents to become infected.”
“I didn’t-,” Iosef said, holding out his hands.
“You did,” she said. “And you are smart enough to know that you did. I would not love you if I thought you were a self-deluded generic man.”
“You are being too sensitive,” he tried.
“That is what generic men say when they wish to avoid responsibility. The woman is being too sensitive. Perhaps the man is being too insensitive. Do you wish to marry me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Definitely. Without question. As soon as possible.”
“Good,” Elena said.
A door opened behind her. She could hear the tapping of shoes behind her.
“Let’s talk to Paulinin,” Iosef said as a slight older woman in a dark suit walked past them quickly, a pile of files cradled in her arms like a baby.
“Iosef, I am what I am destined to be.”
“And that is what I want,” he said. “I-”
“Later,” she said as he advanced and stood in front of her. She touched his right hand with her left and his cheek, with her right hand and then turned to continue down the corridor.
A few dozen steps farther and they were before a heavy metal door. The door was unnumbered and there was no plate on it indicating what lay behind. Elena knocked.
Paulinin did not look pleased when he answered the door to his laboratory. Elena and Iosef were no happier to be here.
“The dead man on the subway,” Elena said.
“Your case?” asked Paulinin, adjusting his glasses with the back of his hand.
The scientist was of average height, a bit on the thin side, with wild white hair that was beginning to show definite signs of thinning. He wore a less-than-clean lab coat that had once been white but was now tinged with hues whose source neither of the detectives wished to consider.
“Our case,” said Elena. “May we? …”
“Come in,” Paulinin said, throwing open the heavy metal door and turning his back on his guests.
They stepped in, and Paulinin pushed the door shut behind them. A fluorescent bulb dying slowly tinkled deep inside the vast room which had once been used for file storage. It had been a haven for Paulinin for at least two decades.