Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

They stood watching as Primazon took three photographs, zooming in for one head shot. Iosef, for the first time, looked at the dead man. His hands were folded. He was the pale white of death and wore a suit and tie. His hair was brushed back. The dead man looked like a ghastly version of the cosmonaut in the photograph in Porfiry Petrovich’s file. The quest for Tsimion Vladovka was over.

“Enough,” said Primazon, pocketing the camera. “I am sorry, but …”

“Let us leave so that-” Rostnikov began.

“Of course,” said Primazon with a sad smile, looking at the bearded brother of the dead man and at the man with the shovel. “It’s time to leave.”

When they got back, Podgorny’s shop was open and the shopkeeper was reaching up to take something from a shelf. “You’ll be leaving now?” he asked.

“Shortly,” said Rostnikov. “You knew about-”

“We all knew,” said Podgorny, carefully lifting a carton with a slight grunt. “The whole village. We did as Boris asked us.”

“I am leaving, Inspector Rostnikov,” said Primazon with a sigh, as the three headed up the stairs.

“No point in remaining,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we will encounter each other in Moscow.”

“It is possible,” said Primazon. “It is possible.”

Porfiry Petrovich was moving slowly, more slowly than usual. Primazon went into his room and closed the door. Iosef was about to do the same but his father motioned to him and Iosef followed Porfiry Petrovich into his room, where Rostnikov closed the door behind them.

“Pack quickly and then meet me in the hall when you hear our umbrella man coming out of his room,” Rostnikov whispered. “I will be waiting. I am already packed. In his presence, you will ask me if we have time to visit a farm before we leave. You have never seen a real farm.”

“I haven’t?” Iosef whispered back.

“You have not. I will say that it is all right to visit a farm, but we should do so quickly because we must get back to Moscow. You understand?”

“Not in the least,” said Iosef, “but I will certainly do it.”

“You were an actor.”

“I was a mediocre actor.”

“Mediocrity is all that is necessary in this situation.”

“May I ask why?” said Iosef.

“Because while I do know who killed the cosmonauts, I do not yet know why.”

“Primazon killed Vladovka?”

“No, I am convinced that Vladovka died of liver disease.”

“And you think you will find in this village the reason why the others were killed?”

“I am certain of it,” said Rostnikov.

In the morning Sasha Tkach sat up suddenly.

“I know who it is,” he said aloud.

“American cereal,” said Lydia, who was fully dressed and standing next to the kitchen table across the room with a box of Froot Loops in her hand.

“I’ve got to go,” said Sasha, getting up quickly and reaching for his pants. “No, maybe I should phone Elena.”

“You should eat your American cereal,” Lydia said. “There are all kinds of things about how healthy it is for you on the side of the box. That’s what the man I got it from said. All I can see are numbers. Take a look.”

“I can’t read English,” he said, looking for his socks.

“Then just eat them. I opened the box. Very pretty colors. Look. A red one.”

“Mother, I am thirty-four years old,” Sasha said, finding his socks. “You can talk to me like an adult.”

“You are thirty-four years old, which is why you need a shave before you go anywhere.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And some American cereal. I have milk. It’s sweet like candy. How can something sweet like candy be good for you?”

“A miracle of American technology and artificial ingredients,” said Sasha.

“Do not be sarcastic, Sasha.”

“I apologize. I must go.”

“What is the hurry?” she asked, looking at the picture of a big-billed bird on the front of the box.

“I have to prevent a murder,” he said.

“Then go,” she said. “Why is there a bird on the box? Do they put chicken or something in the cereal? I prefer kasha.”

“Then why did you get American cereal?” he asked, regretting it even before the question was finished.

“I thought you would like it,” she said. “I know our little Pulcharia would like it.”

Sasha nodded and looked again at the drawing lying on the table. Yes, it was him. Sasha scooped his papers into the briefcase, reached over and took a handful of Froot Loops from the box his mother was holding, and began putting them into his mouth as he moved to the door.

“Very good,” he said.

“Shave,” she said.

“When I get where I’m going. I have one of those disposable razors in my briefcase.”

He had the door open.

“Sasha,” she commanded. “I want to see the rest of that movie, the one where the men were taking off their clothes.”

“Mother …”

“You made me leave. You are an adult. I am an adult.”

“Yes, all right. We will see it again. Under one condition. You may not talk during the movie.”

“I will be quiet as death,” she said, arms folded. “As quiet as I will soon be when I am dead.”

He didn’t believe it for a moment. “You are only sixty years old. You are, with the exception of your hearing, in perfect health.”

“All I want to do is live long enough to see my grandchildren again, just one more time.”

“I am confident that you will see them again. I have an idea. You go to Kiev.”

“Maybe I will. And I’ll bring with me boxes of sweet American cereal.”

He closed the door. If he moved quickly, they might still be able to recover the negative and keep Yuri Kriskov from being murdered. At least that is what he thought.

Sasha Tkach was wrong.

In the morning, very early in the morning, after little sleep, Valery Grachev awoke covered in sweat. There was no doubt. He was feverish, some virus or flu. He should spend the day in bed.

Maybe tomorrow if everything went well. He dressed, was out of the apartment before he had to talk to his uncle. The sun was battling the cloud cover as he walked past a street-cleaning truck that was noisily brushing away the filth of the night before.

The apartment of Valery’s uncle was on the fifth floor, a block of concrete with thin walls, rusted radiators, peopled by pensioners with nothing to do but complain about the landlady, who made excuses and no repairs.

In less than an hour, the men with caps, cigarettes, and the weary faces of resignation would congregate in the doorway of the building. The doorway reeked of years of tobacco smoke. Valery’s uncle would trudge off to work, nodding to Yakov, Panushkin, and the others, trudge off to a day of scrubbing subway stations and counting himself lucky to have a job.

When Valery had money, he would give his uncle a job. Valery did not particularly like his uncle, who spoke little, provided meager food in the apartment, and played such awful chess that his nephew had long given up wasting his time in front of the board with the grizzled, grunting man who had no passion for the game. Where was the satisfaction of defeating an opponent who did not care?

The key in Valery’s pocket was small. He checked again to be sure it hadn’t fallen through a forgotten hole or been flung onto the street when Valery had taken out his other keys or change for the bus. Since he’d gotten the key, he had checked to be sure it was there at least a hundred times a day. He had considered taking his scooter, but he decided to come back for it later, to leave as much of the morning as he could to concentrating on what he had to do, and not on traffic.

The walk was long, the summer morning hot. Valery felt dizzy with anticipation and possibly with fever. He wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve. Others walking with and past him were not yet affected by the heat. They walked as they always walked unless they were with someone. They walked, heads down, clutching the bag, briefcase, book, or whatever they were carrying.