Stuart Kaminsky - A Whisper to the Living

Iosef was instantly happy and Elena’s look conveyed that she was too. They embraced, kissed. Iosef took in the distinct scent of Elena mixed with an unfamiliar perfume while Elena was aware of his smell of bath soap and the familiar touch of perspiration.

Porfiry Petrovich handed his son two plain gold marriage bands. Iosef placed one ring on the ring finger of his right hand. He then placed the other band on the same finger of Elena’s right hand.

Then on to the party, which began with a toast from Porfiry Petrovich, who raised his glass and said, “ Za molodykh , to the newlyweds.”

A Russian wedding traditionally takes at least two days. Elena and Iosef had decided theirs would take one afternoon. Traditionally, the guests drank vodka and got drunk. Elena and Iosef had decided that vodka would be poured freely, but the length of the party would minimize drunkenness. Traditionally, the groom’s friends would block his way to the waiting bride. They would demand answers to embarrassing questions and, if not satisfied, would reject passage, forcing him to find another way into her room, possibly through a window. Elena and Iosef would skip that too, though they had both laughed one afternoon while at Petrovka imagining Karpo, Tkach, and Zelach blocking a stairwell. They added Paulinin, the Yak, and Pankov for more broken-up laughter.

The party, held in the small third-story corner apartment of Sara and Porfiry Petrovich, quickly spilled into the hallway, where several neighbors joined in. Elena and Iosef stood in the living room greeting guests who brought white envelopes containing traditional gifts of money. The envelopes were handed to Porfiry Petrovich, who handed them to his wife.

A twig of an old man from the second floor congratulated Iosef and Elena saying, “Your father fixed my toilet.”

“Good,” said Iosef.

“It was full of shit and wouldn’t flush. The man is a great plumber.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” said Elena with a straight face.

Iosef couldn’t hold back. He turned and pretended to cough.

On the stairwell, Galina’s granddaughters, Laura and Nina, had come upstairs tentatively but had soon met Pulcharia Tkach, who took them under her wing along with her four-year-old brother. The four of them played on the stairs with squeals and shouts.

In the crowded living room sat a table continually being restocked with glasses, knives, forks, and plates. New rounds of tableware and empty trays were constantly being gathered and washed in the small kitchen by Galina and Lydia, whose shrill voice could be heard chattering above the rumble of conversations around her. Having left her hearing aids in her apartment, she was barely aware that anyone was speaking.

In addition to vodka, bowls and platters piled high with food crowded together, some threatening to topple to the floor. The food included pelmeny , small balls of minced meat covered with pastry; vareniky , pastry filled with berries; soleniye ogurscy , cucumbers prepared for two weeks in salt water with spices; vinegret , pieces of herring, chopped beef, beets, cucumber, carrot, potato, and oil; and yazyk , slices of boiled beef tongue with horse radish.

On the sofa with a glass of Pepsi-Cola in hand sat Anna Timofeyeva, who was keeping a secret that weighed upon her; she had promised to keep it, and keep it she would. Next to her sat Maya Tkach, who looked no happier than Anna Timofeyeva or the other person on the couch of gloom, Sasha Tkach. Sasha held a plate that had been piled high with food and handed to him by his mother. With the plate in one hand and a fork in the other, he ate dutifully.

A man laughed, more the sound of a horse than a human. A man whom Porfiry Petrovich did not recognize called out, “Has anyone seen Victor?” A glass broke. The party went on.

In the middle of the room with Pankov dutifully at his side, Igor Yaklovev, in a perfectly fitted blue suit and red tie, checked the time on his gold pocket watch. The watch was rumored to be a gift from Vladimir Putin. The Yak and Pankov were given room by the guests, who either knew who they were or recognized the presence of persons of power. It did not hurt this aura that the Yak looked very much like Lenin.

Against the wall leaned Emil Karpo and Akardy Zelach. Hands folded in front of him, Karpo looked like a sentry before a secret conclave. An unbidden thought came to Emil Karpo, the flash of the face of Mathilde Verson, killed in the cross fire between a Chechen and a Russian gang. Mathilde, the only woman he had ever been involved with, had been a prostitute. That did not matter to either of them. She found him amusing and worried about him, but it was she who had been flung back against the window of a restaurant, her waves of red hair flowing as she flew.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Zelach.

The image was gone. Mathilde was gone.

“No, nothing.”

Zelach leaned back against the wall again and caught a glimpse of Sasha Tkach.

Zelach knew that Maya had agreed to come to the wedding reception, where she would decide whether or not to return to Moscow. Sasha had told him this. Zelach had given him sympathy but no advice.

Akardy Zelach slouched forward, face close to his plate of yazyk and vinegret , his eyes on his food, his thoughts with his mother at home too ill to come to the party. Zelach longed for a way to leave, and then Porfiry Petrovich appeared before him and said, “How is your mother?”

“Poorly.”

“You should be with her.”

“Yes.”

“Go. Bring her some food. Tell her I hope that she will get well soon. Go.”

Porfiry Petrovich smiled and touched Zelach’s arm and then repeated, “Go.”

“Thank you. I will just finish this quickly.”

“And you, Emil Karpo, are you well?” asked Rostnikov.

“Perfectly,” said Karpo.

Rostnikov decided not to press the issue, not at his son’s wedding reception, but knew that something was troubling the gaunt detective. Karpo’s emotionless façade had been showing subtle signs of distress, which Rostnikov was reasonably sure that no one but he would notice.

“Good,” said Rostnikov, turning to make his way back through the crowd.

Anna Timofeyeva left first. Escorted by Elena’s cousin. Porfiry Petrovich guided them through the crowd and down the stairs. At the curb stood an unmarked police car for which Rostnikov had arranged.

Just before Anna got into the car, she did something she had never done before. She touched and then kissed the cheek of her former chief investigator and said, “ Rad za tebya , I am happy for you.”

After two hours of pressing bodies, loud and shrill voices that created an unpleasant cacophony, Colonel Igor Yaklovev looked at his pocket watch. Time to leave. He had given the couple a suitable gift of cash and had wished them the best. Iosef sensed a slight tension in the Yak’s good-bye to him. Iosef had long shown signs of often-sullen disagreement with some of the work he had been assigned to do and some of the lies he was forced to tell. His father had kept him in line, and Iosef had performed with distinction.

The Yak had met with Porfiry Petrovich while he was in the hospital. They had agreed that when Iosef and Elena returned they would no longer be teamed on an investigation. Porfiry Petrovich, however, took issue with the Yak’s wish that Rostnikov not team with either his son or new daughter-in-law.

Colonel Yaklovev reconsidered. The decision that Porfiry Petrovich not work with Elena or Iosef had been a wish, not an order. Had it been an order, the Colonel was sure his Chief Inspector would have acquiesced.

Pankov left the party with Colonel Yaklovev. He felt that he may have given a greater cash gift than necessary. He had asked his highly unreliable neighbor Mrs. Olga Ferinova how much he should give. Olga Ferinova, a huge woman who supervised two street-cleaning crews, was certain about everything. She had told him what was proper, and he had done it.