Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

Valery was playing two games at the same time, one with the fat man, the other with Yuri Kriskov. He was not certain that he would beat the fat man, but Kriskov was a fool, a clever fool but a fool nonetheless.

The game had begun. The bulky rolls of negative were well hidden along with the gun, which he fully intended to use if Kriskov did not pay. Tomorrow he would call, make the next move. He had already anticipated that Kriskov would turn to the police, that a simple exchange would not be possible. He would change the direction of the game, make moves Kriskov could not follow. Check was close by and checkmate not far behind. Valery had an advantage his opponent did not anticipate, an advantage that would make the next move and even the entire defensive game of Yuri Kriskov known to him.

The fat man grunted. His left hand hovered over the board for an instant and then he moved his king’s knight over the pawn to the left.

Valery didn’t hesitate. Before the fat man’s hand was back across the chest of his red blazer, Valery moved his queen’s bishop across the board to a square at the left side of the board.

The fat man had made exactly the move Valery had hoped for. The game would not be quick, but the advantage definitely belonged to Valery Grachev.

Mikhail Stoltz was a very big, bulky man with close-cropped white hair, a bit younger than Rostnikov. He wore a blue tailored suit, a light blue button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue diagonally striped tie. His black patent-leather shoes were well polished. Stoltz, Porfiry Petrovich, and Iosef were seated on a bench in Pushkin Square outside of the McDonald’s. The meeting place was Stoltz’s idea. The rain had long stopped and the park looked as if the storm had not touched it.

Stoltz smoked a cigarette and looked at the father-and-son detectives.

“You recognize me?” Stoltz said.

“Three years ago. The Sokolniki Recreation Park,” said Rostnikov. “Senior weight-lifting competition.”

Stoltz nodded, looked at his cigarette, and said, “You easily won the bench press, but, as I recall, you couldn’t compete in some of the other events because of …”

Stoltz looked down at “legs. The day was warm and humid. Rostnikov was sweating under his lightest suit. He would prefer to be in the air-conditioned noise of McDonald’s, eating a Big Mac.

“My leg is gone,” said Rostnikov. “It is in a large bottle two floors below ground-level in Petrovka. We have an eccentric technician who collects such trophies.”

“Paulinin,” said Stoltz.

“Paulinin,” Rostnikov confirmed.

“His eccentricity and skill are known to many of us,” said Stoltz. “Your leg?”

“It has been replaced by a leg of metal and plastic,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps I can persuade it to cooperate so that I can compete in other events this year. As I recall, you won both the dead lift and the clean and jerk.”

Stoltz nodded.

Iosef tried to keep his mind on this foreplay, but his thoughts were of Elena Timofeyeva. She had agreed to marry him. He was sure she did not think it a particularly good idea, at least not a good idea for either of their careers. The Office of Special Investigation would have three Rostnikovs. That might be one too many for Yaklovev, who, Iosef knew, was not particularly fond of him.

Iosef was a bit taller and certainly leaner than his father. His father’s hair was dark. Iosef’s was light. His father had the face of hundreds, no, thousands of Russians one sees on the street. Iosef had the look of Scandinavia. His looks were certainly the gift of his mother.

“… why he would disappear,” Stoltz was saying when Iosef managed to rejoin the conversation.

A man in a ragged coat far too warm for the weather staggered to the bench and paused, hands in his pockets. The man was bearded. His hair was a bush of dirty darkness and his eyes were red with alcohol.

Stoltz paused and looked up at the man. “What?”

“This is my bench,” the ragged man said. “I need to sleep.”

“You need to go away,” said Stoltz with irritation. “These men are the police.”

“Then,” said the man, “they should take responsibility for vacating this bench. This bench is mine. Ask anyone. This bench is mine by virtue of the law of primogeniture.”

“Do you know what that means?” asked Rostnikov, looking up.

“Of course,” the ragged man said, swaying. “Property of the father goes to the firstborn male. This bench belonged to my father. Many was the time when my mother sent me here to drag him home, if you call the hallway we lived in home.”

“We’re touched by your troubles,” said Stoltz, rising to face him. “Now go away and come back in an hour.”

The ragged man swayed, but he did not move.

“You have a name?” asked Rostnikov.

“Everyone has a name,” the ragged man said, hands still in his pockets, eyes meeting those of Stoltz, who could have lifted the filthy creature above his head and thrown him for a new park record.

“And yours is? …”

“Dovnikovich, Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich. I used to be a teacher of Russian to people who spoke only Spanish. I had Cubans, Mexicans. I made a living. Now the Cubans don’t come anymore and the Mexicans are learning English.”

“Would you be willing to tell your obviously interesting story to my son here over a cheeseburger?”

“I have my pride,” said the ragged man. “Does he want to hear my tale?”

“I can think of nothing I would prefer,” said Iosef, standing and looking at his father with a sigh.

“Two cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coca-Cola. No, a milkshake, strawberry,” said the ragged man, finally moving his eyes from those of Stoltz to those of Rostnikov, who was the only one still seated.

“That sounds reasonable,” said Rostnikov. “Iosef, break bread with Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich and hear his story. Then later you can tell it to me. I’m sorry we cannot join you, but with your permission we would like to conclude some business on your bench.”

“You have my permission,” said the ragged man, closing his eyes and bringing his head down with a bow.

Iosef and the man moved away, across the grass, toward the short line waiting to get into the McDonald’s.

Stoltz looked down. “His life story,” he said, shaking his head.

“I look forward to hearing it,” said Rostnikov, turning his head to watch his son and the ragged man move toward the line. “My son will tell it well. Iosef used to be a playwright.”

“And now he is a policeman,” said Stoltz.

“He was not a good playwright,” said Rostnikov. “He may become a good policeman. Vladovka.”

“Vladovka, Tsimion Vladovka,” Stoltz repeated, sitting again on the Dovnikovich bench. “You have the information you need in the file we gave to Director Yaklovev, but I understand you have questions …”

“Many. Where can I find the other cosmonaut? Kinotskin? His location is not indicated in the file.”

“Why talk to him?” asked Stoltz, throwing his cigarette stub in the general direction of a metal trash basket.

“I want to know what he knows about Vladovka, the last flight, perhaps why he mentioned my name. Do you know why he mentioned my name? Did he ever tell you when he was back on earth?”

“No,” said Stoltz. “Perhaps you can ask him if you find him.”

“When I find him,” Rostnikov corrected, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “Director Yaklovev has given me no option.”

Rostnikov could not imagine the ragged man sleeping here. It would take a decidedly unhealthy intake of vodka.

“I suppose I can give you Kinotskin’s address,” said Stoltz. “He would be easy to find in any case. He works for the space program, for me, in fact, in security at Star City. I’ll set up a meeting, but I warn you, there is nothing he can tell you that will lead you to Vladovka.”