“I am a Russian,” Karpo said.
“Then you are a traitor,” she said.
Chenko’s daughter stepped away and the two young men followed her back toward the grave site, where the last of the dirt was being shoveled.
“What am I to do with this?” asked Raisa.
“Keep it,” said Rostnikov.
“It is evil money,” Raisa said.
“It is money,” said Rostnikov. “It can now be used to ease your life a bit. If you wish, give it to a worthy cause or someone more in need of it than you, if you can find such a person.”
“She said it was because my son is dead,” Raisa said.
“Consider it a mistake on their part which can benefit a woman who has to hold on to many jobs to live,” said Rostnikov. “These people do not do good things unless they have made a mistake.”
Raisa clutched the envelope as both policemen looked away from her toward the grave upon which the two Chechins with the massive floral wreath were advancing. From the other side of the grave three Tatars stepped forward and stood in a line.
The Chechins laid the wreath on the mound and stepped back.
Immediately, the three Tatars picked up the wreath and threw it in the direction of the gathered Chechins. The wreath did not sail because of its weight, but skidded on the grass and halted in front of Shatalov, who stepped forward and said loudly with a tone of mock disappointment, “Bad manners, One Eye.”
“Bad manners indeed, Irving,” said Chenko.
The mask of disappointment left Shatalov’s face and was replaced by a cold, threatening stare. Shatalov smiled, raised his right hand, and motioned as if to an army he wished to follow him into battle. One young man with something in his hand moved forward to the flower-covered grave and in the plot next to it plunged a stake bearing a small, neatly printed sign reading, VACANCY.
Even before they could read the sign, the Tatars, led by Casmir Chenko, had begun to advance. Shatalov’s men also stepped forward behind their leader.
The policemen with automatic weapons moved quickly between the two groups.
“Halt,” called the officer in charge, glancing at Rostnikov and Karpo for some direction.
The policeman had not really expected any disruption or confrontation. He had been told by his captain that rival gangs attend each others’ funerals all the time. The important thing was to dis-arm both sides before the burial and, if necessary, to fire between them.
The two sides did not halt. One of the policemen fired directly into the grave, sending up a flurry of flower petals. Rostnikov thought the fluttering colorful flowers dancing in the air looked quite beautiful. The gangs halted now and the Tatars looked angrily at the policeman who had fired into the grave of their just-buried comrade.
The situation was about to turn ugly, and the policeman in charge, who was no more than thirty, thought that he might be about to kill his first man and possibly to be killed or beaten.
“Take her away,” said Rostnikov to Emil Karpo.
Karpo took Raisa’s arm and led her, clutching her brown envelope, toward the entrance to the cemetery.
“Disperse,” the policeman said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The two gangs hesitated. Could they back off and retain their honor? Who was the primary enemy here? The gang on the other side of the grave or the armed policemen?
Rostnikov strode forward, allowing himself a bit more of a limp than was really necessary. It was not sympathy he sought, but time.
“I was up before dawn,” he said aloud, stepping alongside of the policemen. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much to think about, too many problems, and the intricacies of a particularly puzzling plumbing system haunted my dreams. I couldn’t make the system go away.
My dream eye followed rusting pipes moving ever faster in a maze I knew had no end.”
“You have a point to make, Rostnikov?” called Shatalov.
“I was up very early. I believe I said that. I put on my leg and my clothes and took the rare step of calling for a police car. It is a benefit of my position which I rarely use. But this time I wanted to get to this cemetery to watch the sun rise over the tombstones.”
Chenko, with his single eye, and Shatalov, with his two alcohol red eyes, glared at each other in anticipation of what was coming next.
“I did some cleaning up of weeds that had been planted here last night,” said Rostnikov. “I wish I had been here to witness this gardening, and I must say I’m surprised that the two sets of garden-ers did not run into each other. Perhaps the night was long for them as well as for me. In short, gentlemen, the weapons you hid under thin layers of dirt and leaves and in the low limbs of trees nearby are no longer there. I have had then taken away to be dis-tributed to the needy. There are petty thieves and armed robbers who can afford little more than small knives and ancient pistols.”
Rostnikov paused and stepped out of the way of the policemen’s guns.
“That was an attempt at mild humor,” said Rostnikov. “An attempt to diffuse a situation that will bring nothing good to any of you, should it go further.”
“You’ll give the order if we are to fire?” asked the policeman.
“If necessary,” said Rostnikov.
There was a full ten seconds of silence and then laughter. Shatalov was laughing. “You amuse me, Rostnikov,” he said, chuckling.
“I would like to be your friend. We could have good times.”
Rostnikov looked at Chenko, who was not smiling and who had nothing to say. He nodded his head and the young man who had met Rostnikov at the Pushkin statue stepped forward and kicked the “Vacancy” sign, which sailed a few yards and came to rest.
Chenko turned his back to the grave and with his daughter at his side strode away with the funeral contingent behind him.
Shatalov made a gesture with his hand and his group moved directly toward the gate beyond a line of trees. Then Shatalov, the big man with the bad skin at his side, broke away from the group and moved to Rostnikov, who was saying to the policeman in charge, “I suggest you hurry to the entrance to prevent any possible further encounter.”
“There will be no encounter,” said Shatalov. “I gave you my word that I would hold off killing the Tatar.”
“Hold off killing anyone,” said Rostnikov.
“I have other enemies. And we must defend ourselves.”
“And that is why you had weapons planted here?”
Shatalov shrugged. “Caution,” he said. “I live a life that requires constant caution.”
“Yet you eat at public pizza bars.”
Shatalov shook his head. “I am inconsistent, I know,” he said.
“Knowing one should do a thing and actually doing it requires a battle between logic and emotion.”
“You are a philosopher,” said Rostnikov.
“And an actor,” Shatalov added. “It is necessary in my work.
Chenko plays the wise old man of dignity. He is more cautious than I, but he has no dignity. People in our profession deserve no dignity and I don’t pretend to have it.”
“And,” said Rostnikov, “what part do you play?”
“The explosive, good-humored man who enjoys his ill-gotten gains,” said Shatalov. “Did you like that little gesture of mine?
Where I raised my hand just a little and waved my finger slightly to dismiss my people? Very understated. Very dramatic. I think I saw Anthony Quinn do it once.”
“Very dramatic,” said Rostnikov. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Shatalov?”
“No.”
“Let me tell you a story,” said Rostnikov. “An old Hindu tale I read not long ago.”
“I have time,” said Shatalov with a smile.
“Good,” said Rostnikov, ignoring the entourage that now stood back, waiting for their leader. “It seems an emperor, a very powerful emperor, decided to have built for himself the biggest monument in the history of the world. The plans were laid out for him, and he was about to order that the monument be made even larger.
Suddenly at his side there appeared a very small boy who told the emperor that he was the earthly manifestation of a humble god.”