Elena had not been home for three days. Anna knew why and had given her niece some ideas of how she might handle the undercover assignment. Elena had listened attentively, nodding her head, absorbing. Elena was smart, a good investigator.
Her niece’s relationship with Iosef Rostnikov was welcome to Anna, though she would not say so even if asked. She would not and could not exert any influence on Elena on such an issue. It would happen or it would not.
Anna petted Baku, who purred, a purr that was more a vibration than a sound. An elusive piece was found, a section of one of the chalet windows with a shutter. Without being aware of it, Anna smiled with pleasure.
Though she said and showed no reaction to her niece when Elena’s current assignment had come, Anna was worried. She told Lydia nothing about the nature of what Lydia’s son, Sasha, and Elena were doing. Lydia was already so obsessed with her son’s safety that such a revelation would have resulted in mock hysteria, if not the real thing.
Moscow was more dangerous now than it had ever been, and the most dangerous part for a police officer was probably the gangs.
Life was without value. Violence simply took place and was forgotten. Sasha and Elena were attempting to destroy the operation of one such gang, or Mafia, as they liked to call themselves now.
The Ministry of the Interior, which was supposed to be responsible for gang activity, was completely overcome by the size of the problem. What Elena and Sasha were doing was worth doing, but it would probably accomplish little.
Anna examined her work of the evening with satisfaction, satisfaction that it was coming along well, satisfaction that there was still more than half the puzzle to complete, two nights’ work. Anna seldom worked on the puzzle during the day. She watched the world in the concrete courtyard outside her window, took her pre-scribed walks, listened to music, read history books and occasional novels. Lately, she had been taking note of and notes on a young mother who was in the courtyard each day with her small child.
Anna found the young woman very interesting.
It was late.
Lydia Tkach had knocked insistently and Anna had admitted her, perhaps feeling a slight touch of loneliness that she did not want to admit to herself. Lydia had entered wearing a heavy blue man’s robe at least a size too large for her. Anna had returned to her chair and puzzle, and Lydia had closed the door and moved to sit across from her.
“Have you heard from Elena?” asked Lydia.
“No. I didn’t expect to.”
“She could be dead,” said Lydia.
“Thank you for coming late in the night to cheer up a woman with a heart condition,” said Anna, not looking up from her puzzle.
“Are you being sarcastic, Anna Timofeyeva?”
“Yes, Lydia Tkach.”
“I did not think such sarcasm was in you.”
“I have, since my retirement, nurtured and developed it with great care. Soon I will be able to reduce all but the most oblivious or determined-and that includes you-to frustration and departure.”
“More sarcasm. You play games with words and pieces of cardboard and I am sick, sick with fear about my only son,” said Lydia, pressing her fists into her frail chest.
“That is understandable,” said Anna, finding a place for a piece of the puzzle that had eluded her.
Bakunin, who did not like Lydia, had cautiously leapt back into Anna’s lap, eyes fixed on the loud intruder.
“My Sasha is a brooding, reckless young man. He has a family, children, a wife who is growing weary of his frequent absences, long hours, and. . his rare indiscretions caused by the pressures of his work.”
“And he has a mother,” said Anna, examining a small puzzle piece that may have been part of a human face.
“He has a mother,” Lydia said, reaching for a puzzle piece near her hand.
Anna considered taking the piece from the woman and remind-ing her that she was in violation of the agreement they had made when Lydia had moved into the building. Lydia was to come when invited, to keep her visits brief, and to engage in no complaints about her son, his family, or the simple dangers of being alive.
Lydia had begun violating the agreement within a week of moving in. Reminders had been of no use. Anna had even taken the extreme step at one point of informing Lydia that she could not visit under any circumstances until further notice. This had been successful for almost two days.
Lydia reached over and placed the piece of the puzzle snugly into the proper space.
It was not a question of the quality of Lydia’s work. The woman obviously had an almost eerie ability to do the puzzles without even thinking about them. But Anna’s goal was not to race through each and hurry to the next. Anna had a great deal of time. She wanted the satisfaction of completing each puzzle by herself.
Anna put down the piece in her hand and gently took the piece Lydia was now holding.
“I cannot talk to Porfiry Petrovich about this,” said Anna. “I do not wish to talk to him. It is not my business. I would not even talk to him about Elena.”
“Maybe I could talk to the new director, Yockvolvy?”
“Yaklovev,” Anna corrected. “I doubt, from what I know about him, that he would be sympathetic to your pleas.”
“Can it hurt?”
Anna shrugged. Actually, it could hurt, but there was something satisfying to the imagination to picture Lydia loudly insisting to the Yak that he find safe work for her son, even if Sasha didn’t want it. However, it could certainly do Sasha’s fragile career no good.
“So,” said Lydia. “You will do nothing?”
“Nothing,” said Anna, stroking her cat. “There is nothing I can do, nothing I wish to do.”
“Well, a mother can do a great deal,” said Lydia.
“I wish you luck, Lydia Tkach. Now, I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave me. I need to go to bed.”
Lydia stood up, pulled the robe tightly around her, and said,
“Sometimes I think you lack normal feelings, Anna Timofeyeva.”
“Sometimes I agree with you, Lydia Tkach, but that seems to be gradually changing and I am not sure I welcome the change. Please forgive me if I do not rise. I’ll lock the door behind you in a few minutes.”
Lydia walked to the door and opened it. “We’ll talk further tomorrow,” she said.
“I will try to contain my great enthusiasm for the moment of that conversation.”
“More sarcasm,” said Lydia. “You are a difficult person to have as a best friend.”
“Best friend? I did not apply for that distinguished position.”
“It evolved,” said Lydia, leaving the apartment and closing the door behind her.
Could it be, thought Anna, that if I were under oath I would have to admit that Lydia is my best friend? The thought was depressing. “Chiyigh, tea and bed,” she said. “Sound good to you, cat?”
Baku did not respond. Anna rose from her chair, careful not to jar the table. After the first time Anna had risen in the morning and found that Baku had destroyed her puzzle, Anna had chastised the cat whenever he approached the fragile table. He had learned quickly. But the mind of a cat is unpredictable in its workings.
Anna took Baku into the bedroom with her every night and closed the door. Baku had no problem with this and slept comfortably by Anna’s side.
Anna Timofeyeva had always been honest with herself and, when possible, with others. Now, as she prepared water for tea after locking the apartment door, she admitted that she was keeping Baku next to her at night because she wanted, needed, the company of a living creature.
In one sense, Anna, who had suffered three heart attacks, was waiting for the fatal one, waiting to die. But in another sense, Anna had come to terms with her life. She missed the satisfaction of power and mission she had when she had been a procurator, but she had grown quite comfortable with her present life. In fact, even if she were suddenly cured, she doubted if she would be interested in returning to work, though she was only fifty-five years old. She had been a loyal, hopeful Communist, well aware of the abuses of the system and the principles of the revolution, but she had doggedly pursued her duties.