Polina Dashkova - Madness Treads Lightly

The door opened. The deaf-mute rolled a cart into the room. On it were two open-faced cheese sandwiches, an apple, a banana, and a large cup of strong tea.

“Thank you,” Lena said.

She had no appetite, but she needed her strength, so she forced herself to eat nearly all of it. The young woman stood there, leaning against the wall, observing her. But Lena didn’t mind her gaze, which seemed warm, sympathetic even. Before taking the cart away, the deaf-mute touched Lena’s arm and nodded at the tiny toilet nook. At first, Lena didn’t understand her, but the young woman took a contoured lipstick out of her pocket and nodded again.

They went into the cramped nook together, and the young woman closed the door and started writing quickly in lipstick on the white tile. Your daughter is all right , Lena had time to read.

The deaf-mute immediately wet her handkerchief and wiped off the letters. Lena wanted to take the lipstick out of her hands, but the young woman shook her head and moved her lips expressively. Lena understood her. In a slow whisper she said, “Thank you. What’s happened?”

Last night someone took her away. Searched all day. Didn’t find her. The letters disappeared again.

Lena’s heart beat fast and joyously. Of course! Seryozha was supposed to arrive last night. Misha Sichkin managed to tell him everything. Seryozha understood and acted.

Don’t let them see you know , the young woman wrote.

“Yes, of course,” Lena whispered, and all of a sudden she asked, “Who is Blindboy?”

Killer .

The letters immediately disappeared. Lena realized the conversation was over. Without looking at her, the young woman quickly took the cart out. The lock clicked. Lena took off her boots, sweater, and jeans. She sat down on the bed in her jersey and tights and lit a cigarette. She felt as if she’d just been let out into the open air from some dusty black sack where she couldn’t breathe. Now she felt like washing herself from head to toe, brushing her teeth, and getting some sleep.

She washed with soap and warm water, gargled, put her folded sweater under her head, and covered herself with her jacket. Did Vasya Slepak really become a killer? she thought, and then she fell asleep. The light of the bare lightbulb in the ceiling didn’t keep her from sleeping. When they woke her up, it was nearly morning.

“Get up and get dressed,” she heard the crude male voice of the thug Vadik and opened her eyes.

“I need to wash up and brush my teeth,” Lena said after pulling on her jeans and lacing her boots. “Please be so kind as to bring me a new toothbrush and toothpaste.”

For a few moments Vadik said nothing, just looked at her stupidly and blinked. Then he went and got her what she needed to get ready.

She took her time. She enjoyed brushing her teeth and carefully and slowly combed out her tangled hair with that idiotic comb meant for a close crew cut. Vadik stood there and waited patiently.

The bald man was back in the living room sitting in the same white leather armchair. Once again, the heavy dark drapes were drawn tight. Whatever was outside the windows—a town, a village, or a remote taiga—Lena couldn’t see.

“Good morning,” Lena said, and she sat across from him.

“Hello.” He nodded. “Well, have you come to your senses?”

“Before we begin, I would appreciate it if you would introduce yourself. If I’m going to talk to you, I have to know what to call you.” Lena looked him straight in his yellow, unblinking eyes.

“You can call me Vladimir Mikhailovich. Or Curly. Whichever you prefer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Vladimir Mikhailovich.” Lena tried to smile graciously. “I have to warn you that this conversation is going to be long. And confidential,” she added, and she nodded in the direction of Vadik.

The thug, standing in the doorway, snorted contemptuously.

“And because of that,” Lena continued, “you and I should first drink some coffee. And breakfast wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” Curly shook his bald head. “But, okay, we’ll do it your way. Hey, Vadik,” he said to the thug. “Get us coffee and something to eat.”

“Tell me, Vladimir Mikhailovich,” Lena asked when they were alone. “Did Regina Valentinovna Gradskaya tell you about my trip?”

Attack is the best form of defense. She would try to ask him the questions and not wait for him to ask his own. Watching his reactions was the only way she could survive this conversation.

His first reaction was a rather long and tense silence and a hard stare. But she withstood both the silence and the stare.

“That, little girl, is none of your business,” he rasped at last, quietly, and he coughed into his fist.

Excellent, Lena thought. He did get his information from Gradskaya. Let’s keep going.

“Regina Valentinovna, as an old friend, informed you that a mysterious American, most likely connected to the CIA, was coming here. And he would be accompanied by an interpreter. Not just any interpreter but one with her own connections to law enforcement. Am I right?”

Curly took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it while looking silently at Lena.

“Being a smart and cautious woman,” she continued. “Regina Valentinovna did not go into detail. She said the information was vague, possibly just a rumor. By doing that, on the one hand, she sparked your curiosity, and, on the other, she was insuring herself against the possibility of you finding out that Michael Barron wasn’t a CIA agent after all. Actually, it’s very hard to verify something like that. But you never know… Life is full of surprises. And Regina Valentinovna by no means wants you to think she is deliberately misleading you.”

Vadik appeared with a tray. The smell of eggs and bacon filled the room. While he was putting plates, cups, and the hot coffeepot on the table, Lena said nothing. Nor did Curly, though he continued to look hard at Lena. In another situation she might have curled up into a ball under that kind of icy, penetrating gaze. But right now she couldn’t allow herself the slightest hint of fear.

“Thank you, Vadik. It’s delicious,” she said as she sent a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“Go,” his boss growled at him. “And close the door.”

“I would like to note,” Lena continued once Vadik had left the room, “that in fact it’s not at all hard to verify this information. You don’t even have to do anything, just think about it.” Lena sipped her coffee and started buttering a piece of white toast. “A real CIA agent would be much younger. He would speak excellent Russian. He would work quietly and discreetly. And no one—not Regina Valentinovna or anyone else you know—would have informed you of his arrival. Even if she were in possession of such information, she’d hardly be telling you. You’re not her husband, right? Why would she take such a serious risk? For the sake of your friendship? My point is that this affects her personally. Well, her and her husband, Veniamin Borisovich Volkov. The CIA, FBI, and our Federal Security have absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Lena finished her buttered toast and her coffee, lit a cigarette, and told the crime boss everything she knew, starting with the events of fourteen years ago, and ending with her conversation the day before yesterday with Regina Gradskaya’s mother. She cautiously skirted any personal details and just set out the facts as she knew them. Curly listened silently and intently. When she finished, a dense, almost explosive silence reigned in the room.

It was an eternity before he said a word.

“What you’ve told me is very serious. I’ll have to verify it.”