“You are going to South America,” his father repeated.
“And if I do not choose to go?”
“You will do what? Go in the streets? Hide from your former friends? A new life is better.”
“And I have no choice?”
“None,” Nikoli said.
“The law …”
“… will not interfere with our family. I am not your enemy, Misha. Give yourself a new name. It will not change who you are. I am not trying to hurt you.”
“Just control me.”
“There is nothing more to say,” Nikoli said, wiping his face with a napkin and dropping the napkin on the table. “You will be treated well. You will work. I see no point in our talking again before you leave. I am sure our conversation would get no further than it is at this moment.”
“And …”
“I will come to Chile in six or seven months,” Nikoli said. “We will see what changes have taken place in you. I will have someone there to teach you Spanish.”
“Everything is planned,” the young man said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
“Everything is never fully planned,” his father said. “But plans are necessary if we are not to be completely surprised by life.”
“I will remember that,” the young man said.
“Then we are already making progress.”
In the morning the sun was shining and the snow had stopped falling. It was not spring that held out the hope of a new beginning to Moscovites. It was winter. The cold wrapped them in a protective embrace. The snow provided a fortress of respite. From what? From crime which prowled under the sun and struck under the moon. From madness in the streets born of despair. From the restless and the overworked and those who did not work and took to the streets to escape the bleakness of small apartments with restless cats and dogs and television screens that had long since failed to provide more than a temporary narcotic.
Crime went down in the winter. Tempers cooled in the cold. Bodies moved more slowly and were less likely to collide or, if they did, were less likely to take umbrage at the crash. Automobile accidents, which in other cold countries went up in the winter, fell in Russia with the coming of snow and cold. Yes, there were exceptions, usually caused by vodka, but drivers moved more slowly, coaxing their vehicles, talking gently to them, urging them to live through one more winter under the promise of pampering.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov and Emil Karpo sat in a café, drinking coffee. They could not talk outside walking in the cold. Lenin would rebel. They could not talk in the offices in Petrovka. The Yak would listen. And so the moment Emil Karpo had entered his cubicle in the morning he had been greeted by the chief inspector.
Karpo was generally the first one in the office. This morning had been no different. He had simply followed Rostnikov back onto Petrovka Street and walked at his side silently till they reached the café where people were packed in at the counter or the small tables along the wall, drinking hurriedly, checking their watches.
Karpo, as always, was dressed in black. His leather coat was black. Even his scarf and fur hat were black. Rostnikov thought that clothes reflected the people who wore them. Rostnikov himself dressed neatly, conservatively, in old comfortable suits and ties Sarah had bought for him at market stalls. As for Karpo’s choice of black, Rostnikov was not given to simple judgment. He himself was rather fond of black, which was either the absence of color or the totality of color. There was a statement in black, he thought. Black said, You cannot penetrate my being by looking at my exterior. I am a dark cipher.
“The report on the Lovski case is on your desk,” Karpo said.
“Good,” replied Rostnikov, who was munching on a brown flat piece of cake that tasted too little of chocolate and was too hard. It dipped well in his coffee.
“We will, I think, want to change the report before presenting it to the director,” he said.
“And why is that?” asked Karpo, who had not touched his coffee.
“Because it contains the truth. Misha Lovski was kidnapped by his own father. Two mercenaries hired by Nikoli Lovski took two witnesses, conspirators in the kidnapping. Both witnesses, a boy, and a girl, may well be dead now. Misha Lovski is now in his father’s hands. The mercenary Zelach shot has been released from custody.”
“And? What is in error?”
“Nothing. The report is, lam certain, complete and accurate.”
“But it must be changed?”
The chocolate brick softened only minimally with its, dipping into the now-warm coffee, but it was edible. At first Rostnikov did not answer. He sat upright. A portly little man with large glasses carrying a cup of coffee almost collided with Karpo. The little man began an apology but cut it short when he looked into Karpo’s eyes.
“I believe Director Yaklovev has taken advantage of the situation to fortify himself with political currency to further his own ambition,” said Karpo. “I believe the concept of justice has not been served. We exist to serve the goals of a man in a system which is no longer interested in justice.”
“And this is something new?” asked Rostnikov.
“No, but it has become something petty and without meaning. It has no foundation.”
“We still do our work, take criminals off the street, neutralize them,” said the chief inspector. “Elena and Iosef did that. We do it every day.”
“Except when there is a prize to be won by the director. Before …”
“During the Soviet Socialist Union,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes, during,” said Karpo. “One could hold on to the precepts, the hope of Communism. The people who were in power were corrupt, but there always existed a hope.”
“And now you see no hope?” said Rostnikov.
“The only justice that will prevail is justice taken by those who are willing to take responsibility for their convictions,” said Karpo.
“You mean bypass the law?”
Karpo looked directly at his superior and did not answer.
“I admit it is tempting to know one is right, face a thief, a murderer, a rapist, a corruptor of children, and simply shoot him,” said Rostnikov. “But what of those who are not able to discern who the thief, murderer, rapist, and child corruptor is, those who are not certain?”
“I know when I am facing evil,” said Karpo. “You know. I cannot speak for others. If we do not act, then too often there will be no action. Those with money and means will/prevail.”
“As it has always been,” Rostnikov agreed. “Do you realize, Emil Karpo, this is the longest conversation we have ever had?”
Karpo said nothing.
“And so you want to start shooting criminals?”
“Yes,” said Karpo. “But I will not do so.”
“No,” said Rostnikov, “you will do the opposite. You will justify your ethics by martyring yourself”
“I do not believe in martyrs,” said Karpo.
“You believe in? …
“The small evil. The larger ones are beyond us.”
“I see,” said Rostnikov. “Do you think much about Mathilde?”
“She is dead,” said Karpo. “Killed without meaning. Her killers, if they have not yet been gunned down by rival Mafias, still swagger in clubs and drive in expensive cars.”
“Emil Karpo, you are bitter.”
Karpo did not answer.
“I think that is a good start,” said Rostnikov. “Bitter is a sharp edge of emotion. It cuts deeply. You are going to have a new assignment for the indefinite future.”
Karpo registered nothing, asked no questions.
“You have your files of dead cases,” Rostnikov said. “Your black books filled with crimes which have never been solved, which you work on when you have time. And there are more pages and more books all the time.”
“The point of this, Chief Inspector?”
“You are to work on your dead cases,” said Rostnikov. “Choose whichever ones you wish, go back as far as suits you. Take the time you need on each one. No pressure for success. Simply keep me informed. No written reports unless you successfully conclude a dead case. You understand?”