Iosef and Zelach, on the other hand, were a perfect pair of investigators. The hulking Zelach, who lived with his mother though he was forty-three years old, was devoid of imagination. He had the kind of slouching body on which no clothing ever looked right-no clothing except for the policeman’s uniform he no longer wore.
Iosef, who’d had a brief career as a playwright, had an abundance of imagination. And all clothing seemed to have been designed for his tall, solid body.
Iosef was given to irony. Zelach did not recognize it when he heard or encountered it. Zelach’s bland courage was recognized and appreciated, as were his occasional revelations, which delighted Iosef. Over the past three years, Iosef had discovered that Zelach’s eclectic talents included tested ESP abilities, a talent for kicking a soccer ball long distances, and an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Russian, Lithuanian, and German heavy metal bands.
“You will report daily to me or to Emil Karpo,” said Rostnikov. “We, in turn, will dutifully report to Director Yaklovev. Should you require funding for your investigation, I’m certain that the always-cooperative Pankov will supply it instantly.”
The last, as they all knew, had been said for the benefit of Pankov, who was or would be listening to their conversation.
“One more thing,” said Rostnikov. “There is an urgency about these cases. It is necessary that closure is achieved within nine days from today.”
Only Zelach considered asking why there was a nine-day deadline, but there was a great distance between considering and asking. Zelach knew enough not to ask.
“And,” said Rostnikov, “there is nothing more.”
That ended the meeting.
Chapter Three
The two little girls looked forward to the nightly ritual. Laura and Nina Ivanovna stood solemnly next to each other in the Rostnikov living room as Porfiry Petrovich moved the padded knee-high bench from the corner.
The girls’ grandmother, Galina, was in the little kitchen off of the living room talking to Rostnikov’s wife Sarah. Galina, the girls, Sarah, and Porfiry Petrovich all lived in the same one-bedroom apartment on Krasnikov Street where the Rostnikovs had lived for more than three decades.
Laura, nine, and Nina, seven, had been abandoned by their mother, Miriana. Galina had tried to take care of them on her pension and odd jobs. She had endured and then, while working at night at a bakery, she had asked the manager for a stale bread to take home to the girls. He had loudly refused. It had never been clear, but somehow Galina had shot the manager with his own gun during a struggle over the bread. Galina was sixty-four, accustomed to a life of hardship, and reasonably strong.
Rostnikov had accepted the case, though the Yak thought it not worthy of the attention of the Office of Special Investigations. Galina had gone to prison. Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich had taken in the girls. And when Galina got out of prison, she joined them.
It was tight, but Sarah and Galina were extremely good at making the space work with a minimum of claustrophobia. Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich had the bedroom. Galina and the girls slept in the living room, Galina on the couch, the girls on a soft mattress on the floor.
“Do you know why I do this each night?” Rostnikov said, moving the weights from the cabinet near the apartment door.
Laura shook her head no. She had no idea, but she knew it was a sight worth beholding.
“I do it to commune with my inner self, to lose Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov in a meditation that transcends my body.”
Both girls looked puzzled as Rostnikov put out the weights and set up the rack on which he could place the bar so he could do his presses. He wore a gray sweat suit with the letters “FSU” in red across the chest. Under the letters was the faded image of the head of an Indian with a colorful feather in his hair.
“Really?” asked Nina.
For months after they had first come, the girls had said little to nothing, held each other’s hands, sat on the sofa watching television, and gone to school quietly. For the past four or five months, they had begun to feel as if their world might not be ripped open. They trusted Sarah and Rostnikov, though they could never be sure when he was serious or just trying to be funny. They were still unable to allow themselves to laugh.
“No,” said Rostnikov, sitting on the bench and reaching down for a fifty-pound weight with which to do curls and arm lifts. “That was nonsense. You recognized nonsense. Good. I lift these weights because they are old friends who welcome me, test me, challenge me. When I’m not with them each night, I miss them. It is the same way I feel about you. Am I telling you the truth now?”
“Yes,” the girls said together.
Sarah and Galina looked across from the kitchen to see what the ‘yes’ might mean, but Rostnikov was silent under the strain of the weight in his right hand.
“Coffee?” asked Sarah.
Rostnikov grunted his assent and looked at his wife. He never stopped worrying about her. Two operations, both successful, for lesions on her brain. No guarantees that these invaders would not return. Her hair was still red, but it no longer flamed, and the strength in her face he so admired, while still present, was touched with a weary strain.
“Chocolate?”
Both girls said “Yes” without taking their eyes from Rostnikov. Soon he would be perspiring. Dark, uneven spots would appear against the gray sweat suit. Rostnikov put the weight down and lifted it with the other hand.
“Change mine to chocolate,” Rostnikov growled.
Galina moved to start the chocolate. She worked in a grocery and often came home with small tokens of gratitude. The Rostnikovs would not accept any of her meager supply of money. They urged her to set aside whatever she could for the girls, and that is what she had done and would continue to do.
“Mrs. Dudenya stopped before you got home,” said Laura.
“What did she want?” asked Rostnikov.
“Her toilet is backing up and making strange noises,” said Sarah from the other room.
Sarah did not understand her husband’s fascination with plumbing, though she tolerated it. He clearly enjoyed getting his tools out of the closet in the bedroom and heading cheerfully out the door to engage the rusting maze of pipes and the reluctant and fickle valves in the old building.
“It will have to wait till I return from Siberia.”
“Why are you going to Siberia?” asked Nina.
“To talk to a ghost.”
“You aren’t telling the truth again?”
“Yes, I am,” said Rostnikov, picking up the fresh towel he had placed on the bench and wiping his face and neck.
The television set was off. Rostnikov didn’t like it on when he was with his weights. Often he played music on the small CD player atop the table on which the weights rested. His musical taste was eclectic. Recently he had discovered a soothing, dreamlike group of young females called Destiny’s Child. But he never abandoned Credence Clearwater and Dinah Washington.
“Question,” said Rostnikov in the process of arm lifts, holding his hand at his side, gripping the weight, and then lifting it straight out from his side to shoulder level and holding it there till his arm trembled and he could hold it out no longer.
When he did this, his face turned red and his eyes closed. This was the most solemn moment of the evening display.
“Should I take the shoe off of my artificial leg at night when I put it next to the bed or leave the shoe on?”
“Leave it on, but change the socks every day,” said Laura.
“Why?” asked Nina. “A wooden leg doesn’t sweat and smell.”
“It isn’t wood,” said Laura.
“I’m inclined to take off the shoe,” said Rostnikov after setting the weight back down and lying on the bench.