Sarah found a bench near the statue of Gorky, just inside the entrance to the park.
The temperature had climbed to sixty, and robed bathers hurried past them through the park to the nearby beach.
Andy was breathing a bit less heavily. She pointed at the statue and opened her eyes wide.
"Maxim Gorky," Sarah said. "You know?"
"Gorky, writer. Yes," said Andy.
Andy's face was pale and her well-kept hair a bit disheveled.
"Gorky," Sarah said, searching for words in English, "live…"
She pointed toward Viokov Street, where Gorky had lived at the turn of the century, just doors away from where Anton Chekhov's school stood. Sarah's plan had been to walk down to the beach, but considering Andy's face, she changed her mind.
The women smiled at each other and watched the determined bathers of all ages head for the cold waters of the Black Sea. A young man with his hair cut quite short and a
pretty young woman with long dark hair laughed their way past them.
"He looks a little like my son James," Andy said.
"Gavaree't'e, pazhaha'lsta, me'dlenn'eye," Sarah answered, and then said in English, "Please speak more slow."
"I'm sorry," said Andy. "Wait."
She opened the knit purse resting in her lap, found a leather sheaf of snapshots, and opened it. She handed the photos to Sarah and pointed to the picture of a young man and woman.
"Jim," she said. "My son."
"Sin," said Sarah, reaching into her purse to pull out her wallet. She opened it to a photograph of Iosef, still in his army uniform.
"Handsome," said Andy.
Sarah pointed at the photograph of Jim and said, "Jim, too."
They both laughed, a laughter that would not stop, a laughter they both enjoyed and did not want to let go of, a laughter well beyond the humor of the situation. Tears came and people passed. People smiled and wondered.
The barrier of language had not been bridged. It had been abandoned. They could only sense the potential for warmth or wit in the other that existed beyond language. And their laughter was friendship, and then: laughter was frustration.
At the entrance to the park, a small man with one artificial eye listened to the women as he checked his watch and pretended to be waiting for someone. He had followed the women from the hotel and had done so with a dignity of which he was proud, a dignity that did not betray his belief that he had, as always, been given the least important task. Pato-he could not bring himself to think of him as partner-his colleague, had been given the task of following Rostnikov. So be it. There were times when he, Yuri, could demonstrate his determination, take advantage of opportunities to show his skills. It was he who had almost gotten Vasilievich to talk to them, to tell them, not that oaf of a Pato. He had not lost his temper, had not hit the old man, stepped on his fingers, had not killed him, not that he would have hesitated for an instant, not that he wasn't prepared to kill, not that he hadn't been properly- The women were laughing still.
He should get closer. He sighed deeply, looked at his watch again, and tried to give the impression that he was now convinced that the person he pretended to wait for was not coming. With his one good eye watching the two women and his glass eye focused straight ahead, he moved down the path, past the statue of Chekhov and in front of the statue of Gorky, under which the two women sat. He did not hesitate. He moved past them as if he had an appointment. His plan was to find shelter behind trees or a bush, to stay a discreet distance behind.
These women were ponderously slow.
"I'll never forget this moment," the skinny American woman said, still laughing as he moved past the bench. He had the distinct impression that they were laughing at him, laughing at his size, his clothes, his misaligned eye, the look on his face.
He could understand no English, had no idea what her words meant. It filled him with frustration, anger, as he headed for a turn in the path behind an outcrop of bushes and wondered if Pato was having a better time than he. He hoped he was not.
At the precise moment the one-eyed man named Yuri passed the two women in Gagarin Park as they sat under the statue of Maxim Gorky, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov bit into a sandwich of rough bread, tomatoes, and a rather lumpy butter. He found it quite tasty.
Anton had brought the sandwiches to him and Misha Ivanov on the little rise outside the hotel where Rostnikov and Sarah ate when the weather permitted.
Sarah had gone off with the American woman, while the woman's husband remained in their room, saying he welcomed the chance to sleep late for a change.
Rostnikov had gone to meet the pear shaped KGB man, who came out in a heavy denim coat with an artificial fur collar and was definitely overdressed for the rapidly changing weather.
Rostnikov's morning had begun early with two phone calls, one from him to Moscow, the other to him from Moscow.
The first call had come from Sasha Tkach, a rambling confession just before dawn that made little sense to Rostnikov, who had been summoned from his bed to the lobby phone.
"Sasha," Rostnikov had interrupted, "do you know Alice in Wonderland?"
"Alice in…? No," Tkach answered.
"You should read it," said Rostnikov. "It is about the Soviet Union. At one point a crazed hat maker says what I am about to say to you: Begin at the beginning and when you come to the end, stop."
Rostnikov had pulled up a nearby chair, tucked in the unbuttoned shirt he had thrown on over his pants, and sat while Sasha told his tale. When he had finished, Rostnikov said, "Well?"
"I am responsible for what happened to Zelach," he said, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. "I was supposed to be in that apartment, not betraying my wife with a woman I don't know, a woman whose smell I don't like, a woman who-"
"And what would you like to do?" asked Rostnikov, smelling something that might have been coffee brewing in the kitchen. It would probably be quite tasteless, but the odor triggered hope.
"Do? I'm telling you," said Sasha. "You must decide what to do with me."
"Ah, you wish to shift the responsibility to me," said Rostnikov.
"No," said Tkach with some confusion. "I am accepting responsibility. It is your responsibility to judge and punish."
"What would you like me to do?" asked Rostnikov.
"I don't know. That's not my-"
"Shall I tell Colonel Snitkonoy? Demand a review, ask for your dismissal? Shall we call your wife, your mother? Will that make everyone happy? Will you feel better knowing you have made them feel worse? Or will you be relieved of responsibility? No, Sasha, I'm afraid you are going to have to decide what to do. I see nothing to be gained by anyone but you by punishing you. Zelach will not suddenly be cured. The thieves will not suddenly be caught and punished. You want advice? Go sit with Zelach. Call me as soon as you know how he is doing."
"I'm at the hospital," said Sasha. "They say he will live, but he will probably lose the use of his eye."
"Which eye?" asked Rostnikov.
"Which… what difference…? The left," said Sasha.
' 'He will probably need glasses,'' said Rostnikov. ' 'I think he will look better in glasses, perhaps just a bit more intelligent."
"What shall I do?" asked Tkach.
"You shall suffer," said Rostnikov. "You're Russian. You will suffer. But you will also find the thieves while you suffer. You know where to start?"
"No," said Tkach. "Wait. There's an old woman coming down the hall. I think it must be Zelach's mother. She looks like him. I've got to go."
"Go, and call me back before midnight or after eight tomorrow morning," said Rostnikov. "I like to shave before I answer the phone. And Sasha…"
"Yes."
"Survive."
As soon as he hung up the phone, Anton the waiter appeared with a cup of tea and a roll. Rostnikov stood to keep his leg from locking. He took the tea in one hand and the roll in the other.