“Exposure of your homosexuality,” said the Yak, looking at Oleg, “would end your career. You refused to give in to the German’s threat of such exposure. He attacked you. You fought. There was a box. You struck him in the head with it. It broke. You found yourself holding a small, sharp piece of the shattered box. The German attacked again. You struggled. Somehow the pointed end of the piece of wood went deeply into the German’s neck.
“You ran to the elevator. Yulia stood there impatiently. Yevgeny Pleshkov was in a stupor. You told Yulia to take him to a hotel.
Neither Yulia nor Yevgeny learned about the death of the German till the next day. When Yulia and Yevgeny were going down in the elevator, you returned to the apartment where, to protect Yulia, you took the German’s body to the roof and you burned it. You did not murder the German. His death was an unfortunate accident. Your motives in burning the body were honorable. Now, I will turn on the tape recorder and you will-of course providing it is true-tell this version of what happened. If you would like to discuss this with each other before I turn on the tape recorder. .”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov. “Will it, Oleg?”
“No, Yevgeny,” said Kisolev softly, his head down. “It will not be necessary.”
“Good,” said Yaklovev. “Then we will begin.”
The Yak turned on the tape recorder and nodded at Oleg, who began speaking very softly in a monotone. The tape recorder was a very good one. It picked up every word of Oleg’s confession and Yulia and Yevgeny’s confirmation, which established their innocence in the death of the German. The entire relation of this version of what had happened took about the same time as the version that was on tape in the Yak’s drawer.
When the three had finished, the Yak again asked no questions.
He turned off the tape.
“What I require now,” said the Yak, “is a complete list of Yulia Yalutshkin’s clients. One of them might be able to confirm the German’s violent tendencies.”
“No,” said Yulia.
“Yes,” said Yevgeny emphatically. “You will provide the list.
Don’t you see what the possible consequences of refusal might be?”
“Yes,” Yulia said, glaring at the Yak, who sat calmly looking at Pleshkov.
“Then,” said Yaklovev, “I can see no reason to hold any of you.
Yulia Yalutshkin, you can go into the outer office where Pankov, my assistant, will provide you with a pen and paper to write the list of your clients. If the list is not complete, I shall have to review your version of events very carefully.”
“It will be complete,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“In that case, Yulia Yalutshkin, you may go in the outer office and begin making the list. You may smoke there if you wish. Oleg Kisolev, you may leave. On your way out, tell Inspector Rostnikov that I would like to see him.”
Oleg Kisolev rose, clearly dazed by what had happened. He looked at Yulia, who led him to the office door and opened it. A few seconds later, Iosef entered the Yak’s office, closing the door behind him. Iosef approached the Yak’s desk, looking at Yevgeny Pleshkov, hiding his curiosity.
“Take this, Inspector Rostnikov,” the Yak said, handing him the second version of what had taken place. “Give it to Pankov. Tell him to transcribe it and give a copy to you, to me, and to Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
Iosef looked at Yevgeny Pleshkov, who appeared to be his well-known, often-seen old self, confident, alert, with what might be a knowing smile.
Iosef took the tape, waited for more information or some questions. There was no more. He left the office, again closing the door behind him.
There was silence in the Yak’s office for several minutes.
“It seems that I owe you a great deal,” said Pleshkov.
“Yes,” said the Yak. “I would say that you do.”
Maya was packing when Porfiry Petrovich arrived. Pulcharia was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get through a book about bears. The child had looked up when Rostnikov entered the small apartment. She squinted, smiled, and went back to her book. She would, he knew, soon need glasses, which was odd since neither of her parents nor her grandmother wore them.
The baby appeared to be sleeping.
Maya closed the door behind Rostnikov. She was wearing a very plain amber dress and her hair needed brushing.
“I know why you are here,” she said. “I will listen to you while I finish packing, not that I have much to pack, not that there is anything you can say.”
She turned and went into the bedroom. Rostnikov followed.
There were three suitcases on the bed. One was closed. Maya went to dresser drawers and continued to pack the children’s clothing and her own.
Maya was darkly beautiful and she looked no older, though quite a bit wiser, than she had before she had the children.
“He will be finished with this assignment tonight,” said Rostnikov. “Can you wait?”
“What is there to wait for?” she asked. “He would try to stop me. He would fail. The children would be upset. The baby would cry. No, it is best if I am gone when he comes home.”
“And Pulcharia?” he asked.
“I’ve told her we are going to visit her cousins in Kiev,” said Maya, folding a red sweater. “She is looking forward to it.”
Rostnikov looked around for someplace to sit. There were no chairs in the small bedroom, and the bed itself was cluttered. He would have to stand.
“There is something you are not telling me or yourself, Maya Tkach,” he said.
“You are wrong,” she said, putting the sweater neatly into the suitcase. “I can no longer take Sasha’s absences, absences in which I know he is sometimes with other women. Each time he confesses.
Each time I forgive. Each time he does it again. And if Lydia comes through my door one more time and I am here, I will go mad and order her out. Sasha has been depressed and brooding for more than a year. I am not a saint, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“Which means you have had your revenge,” said Rostnikov.
“And now you don’t want to face telling Sasha what you have done.”
“No,” she said, moving past him to the dresser and picking up a pile of underwear.
“You do not meet my eyes. You want to be out of here before Sasha sees you. You suddenly decide that this is the day you must leave. What is your secret, Maya? Why are you running away? What has your revenge been?”
“I told you why I am going,” she said, folding a child’s dress.
“And I am sure that what you told me is true,” he said. “But what have you not told me?”
Maya laughed and kept packing. “This is your method?” she said. “I have heard about it from Sasha, but now I am the victim of your sympathetic, insistent probing. I. .”
“Mama,” said Pulcharia, appearing in the doorway, book in hand. “What is a vahdahpahd? See, there is a picture here.”
“It is a waterfall,” Maya said, pausing to look at her daughter. “A place where the water comes down from a hill or a mountain and joins a river.”
“Are there really places like that?”
“Yes,” said Maya.
“Are there any near Kiev?”
“No.”
“Why are you crying?” asked Pulcharia.
“I am not,” Maya said.
“Is he making you cry?” Pulcharia asked, pointing at Rostnikov.
“No,” said Maya. “You go back in and read. I have to finish packing and talking to Porfiry Petrovich.”
The child ran out of the room.
Maya stopped packing and turned to look at Rostnikov. She was crying. Rostnikov had never seen her cry. She had always seemed so strong.
“Sasha has cheated, lied, driven me nearly to the level of depression in which he moves all the time. He is dissatisfied with me, the children, everything but his work, and I would guess that his at-titude is affecting even that, isn’t it?”