Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

“Or collect several hundred rubles a month,” Rostnikov added.

“If that would be better for my children,” she said, sitting.

Rostnikov wiped his hands and wrapped the remainder of the cake in his paper napkin. Dmitri had already finished the second muffin.

“Miriana Panishkoya,” said Rostnikov. “Father of children unknown.”

“His name was Anatoli Ivanov,” she said. “He died in an oil-tanker explosion.”

“He died in prison,” said Rostnikov.

Miriana looked at her mother.

“Your mother did not tell me,” Rostnikov said. “Nor did she tell me that you have been arrested eight times that I am certain of, in several cities including Moscow, Tiraspol, Minsk, and Yalta. Five of those arrests were for attempts to rob men you had picked up as a prostitute, twice for selling drugs, and once for petty theft of clothing from an Italian-owned shop. You have not spent the last two years recuperating from accident or illness. Shortly after you abandoned your children, you were sent to a women’s prison in Lithuania.”

Miriana sat glaring at Rostnikov, who calmly placed the covered piece of cake in his jacket pocket. Her right hand shot out suddenly, fingernails aimed at his face. Rostnikov caught her hand with his own.

Dmitri moved, grabbing Rostnikov’s arm. Still holding Miriana’s wrist, Rostnikov reached over with his right hand, palm open, into the face of the man across the table. A sudden powerful push and Dmitri tumbled back, his chair falling with a clatter to the floor.

“Sit,” said Rostnikov, calmly releasing the woman’s wrist.

This time he did touch Galina’s shoulder to reassure her that everything was under control. Galina was not at all sure. Dmitri had clambered from the floor and was moving quickly toward Rostnikov, who reached under the table to plant his false leg on the floor before rising to meet the ox who moved toward him.

“No,” Rostnikov commanded firmly.

Dmitri did not obey. He pushed the table aside and went for the older man. Rostnikov took a step forward and rammed the charging man in the chest with his head. Dmitri halted. Rostnikov reached out and grabbed the man around his waist, lifting him from the ground. Dmitri punched frantically at the head of the smaller man, who had begun squeezing. The blows fell on the side of Rostnikov’s head. He squeezed harder. Dmitri groaned and stopped punching. Rostnikov turned and placed the man on the chair in which the policeman had been sitting.

“Ribs,” Dmitri groaned. “Broken.”

The old man who owned the Paris Café appeared, looked at the table, chair, and groaning man and asked, “Will there be anything else?”

“No, Ivan,” said Rostnikov.

“I’m going to be sick,” Dmitri said.

“The muffins,” Rostnikov said. “Ivan?”

“This way,” said the old man, helping Dmitri out of the chair and leading him toward the rest room. “Do not throw up on the floor.”

Rostnikov faced the stunned Miriana, who stood, mouth slightly open, watching Dmitri being led away.

“This is not right,” she said, and then to her mother: “You know this is not right. You do not do this to a daughter. You don’t know how hard it has been for me. I am entitled to something.”

“Perhaps,” Galina began, looking at Rostnikov. “We could get a small apartment. You, me, and the girls, Maryushka. I could get you a job at the bakery. We could …”

Miriana laughed. She wept and she laughed.

“You, me, and two little girls in a room? Me working in a bakery? Have you no ears, Mother? Have you no eyes? Can’t you see what is real?”

Rostnikov considered speaking but decided to let the scene play out.

“You are my daughter,” Galina said.

“No,” Miriana said. “I am a woman you gave birth to thirty-six years ago. And then we became strangers. My father must have been very smart. I must have gotten everything from him. I see nothing of me in you.”

“I see nothing of you in my grandchildren,” Galina said softly.

“Mother, I live in pain,” Miriana said. “Can you understand that? In pain?”

“We all live in pain,” Galina said, stepping toward her daughter. “We are blessed if we have someone to share the pain and the small good things.”

The younger woman fell into her mother’s arms. Galina wrapped her big hands around her daughter and let her cry. Rostnikov watched silently. And then Miriana stepped back.

“I need money,” she said, wiping her red eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

“I have a little,” Galina said. “In the apartment.”

Rostnikov took out his wallet. There was not much in it except for two bills, one of which he handed to the weeping woman.

“That is all,” he said. “There will be no more.”

“You don’t understand,” Miriana said, taking the bills. “I have nothing. What little looks I have are almost gone. I …”

Rostnikov stood silently. Ivan and Dmitri emerged from the small rest room.

“He did not throw up,” the old man announced. “Not yet.”

“Thank you, Ivan,” said Rostnikov, handing the old man his last remaining bill. “I am sorry about …”

“Something to tell Kolya and Anasta when we get home tonight. Nothing is broken.”

Dmitri reached out to put his arm around Miriana. She shrugged it off and headed for the door. He was a step behind her, moving slowly, in obvious pain.

At the door, Miriana turned, looked at her mother, and said, “I’m sorry, Mother.”

With that, the man and woman left the café. Galina took a few steps toward the door. Rostnikov put out a hand, not touching her but making clear that he thought it best if she stopped.

“My only child,” Galina said, turning to him.

“I know,” said Rostnikov. “Come. Let’s bring the cake home to the girls and Sarah. You really should try a piece.”

“I work in a bakery,” Galina reminded him. “I am surrounded by cake.”

“Take advantage of the pleasures of cake and children together and don’t worry about the sun. We have millions of years.”

“I wasn’t worried about the sun,” Galina said.

Inna Dalipovna sliced the sausage while her father drank his soup and read a report. Though the knife was sharp the sausage was very difficult to cut, especially using only her left hand. Her right wrist would bear almost no pressure. She had taped it tightly, which helped, but not enough.

“What is wrong with you?” Viktor said, looking over the top of his glasses at her.

“I think I sprained my wrist,” she said.

He put down the report and exhaled at the annoyance of having to deal with the problem. “How?” he asked:

“I fell on the street.” She went on painfully slicing.

“Tomorrow go to the clinic,” he said. “If it is broken, they can fix it. If not, they can tape it better.”

“Yes,” she said, biting her lower lip to keep from wincing with the pain of holding down the sausage.

“I have broken more bones than you have fingers,” he said. “Take a few pain pills. Go to the clinic in the morning.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling the tears in the corners of her eyes as she finished the final slice. She put the plate next to his bowl. He went back to his report, tearing a thick slice of bread and dipping it into what remained of his soup.

Inna sat and ate carefully, letting her right hand rest in her lap.

“No television tonight,” he said. “I have to work. I need silence.”

Inna nodded. She wanted to know what was being said about the man on the subway platform, but she could wait. She could read a little. She might even take one of the pills she was supposed to take three times a day. It might help the pain though it wasn’t for pain. It was to keep her sedate and calm. She did not want to be sedate and calm.