Stuart Kaminsky - Death Of A Russian Priest

“You have twenty minutes,” Sarah said. She was looking at the table, which was really the regular kitchen table and the metal folding table, covered with the white embossed linen cloth her mother had given her almost twenty years ago. With the help of Lydia Tkach, Sarah had set an appetizing table of zahkooskee, appetizers, including dishes of eggplant; caviar; blinis; cabbage mixed with onions, apples, and sugar; egg salad; and sprats. Four bottles of red wine and a bottle of cognac stood in the center of the table.

“It may be years before we eat this well again,” Sarah said.

“It looks very good,” said Rostnikov. He was still wearing his gray sweatsuit, and he held a large pipe wrench in his greasy hand.

Lydia, who was carrying out glasses and placing them next to each plate, made a disapproving sound. “Sasha may be late,” she said. “It is hard for him to walk.”

She looked accusingly at Rostnikov, who rubbed the back of his right hand against his already smudged nose. “It is also hard for him to see,” she added.

“I’ll go wash,” Rostnikov said.

“Did you fix the toilet?” asked Sarah.

“Ah,” said Rostnikov, looking at his wrench. “It was a challenge, an exercise in sympathetic imagination. Where was the first curve, the second? Where might the constriction be? I imagined myself as small as a mouse, crawling through this maze. Then it came to me. The problem was on the third floor, where the pipes come together and separate to serve the lower part of the building.”

“You fixed it,” said Sarah.

“I persuaded the Romanians to let me in,” he said with satisfaction.

“Toilets,” said Lydia. “He worries about toilets when people around him are being beaten to death.”

“Not toilets,” explained Rostnikov to Lydia’s back, unsure of whether she heard or was even trying to listen. “Plumbing. Plumbing is a hidden universe requiring concentration, expertise, ingenuity. The Chinese are magnificent plumbers. There is a great apartment building in Shanghai-”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” said Sarah. “They will be here soon.”

Rostnikov nodded. He imagined the grand design of arteries and veins within the walls of the apartment building in Shanghai, bringing in fresh water, taking away waste. The building was almost alive, a pulsing meditation in which he could lose himself.

The small shower stall in their bedroom was nearly perfect. Ideal circulation, even spray. The water was never really hot but it was often warm. He used his rough heavy-duty soap and sang a song in his head, a song from childhood whose words he could not remember, and when he emerged, he felt clean.

He dressed quickly and went back into the living room/kitchen. Iosef and a pretty young woman were talking to Mathilde Verson. Mathilde’s eyes wandered to Emil Karpo, who stood at the window looking down into the night.

Iosef was dressed in casual slacks and a heavy gray turtle-neck sweater. The pretty young woman had short dark hair and hardly any makeup. She wore a red long-sleeved wool sweater whose sleeves were pulled up to reveal bangly red bracelets. The young woman glanced at Rostnikov shyly, smiled, and touched Iosef s arm. Rostnikov’s son stopped his conversation and moved forward a step to introduce the girl. She could not have been more than twenty.

“Karen Vaino,” Iosef said.

Karen Vaino held out a pale hand to Rostnikov, who took it and found it surprisingly firm.

“ Zdrahstvocytyee, how do you do?” said Rostnikov.

“ Ochyeen’khahrhsho, very well,” she replied.

“Karen is an actress,” said Iosef. “My next play will be about women.”

“Women who work in shops and have little hope for a meaningful life,” Karen said.

“I can do it.” Iosef looked at the girl and smiled. “With Karen’s help.”

“I believe you will find a way to accomplish this creative challenge,” said Rostnikov with a smile. He looked at Mathilde, who was still watching Emil Karpo’s back.

Mathilde brushed hair from her face and looked at Rostnikov. He suggested to Karen and Iosef that they might help Sarah and Lydia.

“He is different,” said Mathilde quietly as Rostnikov approached her.

In the kitchen corner the others were talking, drinking, and laughing, even Lydia. Karpo’s back remained turned toward the room as he looked out of me window into the night.

“He is different,” Rostnikov agreed.

“He is losing his purpose,” she said.

“And searching for another, perhaps,” said the policeman.

“I almost wish there was no perestroika. Then the statues of Lenin would still be standing and the triumph of the revolution would still be plastered on the walls. Emil Karpo believed.”

She had raised her voice in frustration and Sarah looked in their direction. “I can see him as a monk,” Mathilde said with a wry laugh.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov quite seriously. “If there were such a thing as a secular monk. But there is not.”

“So?” asked Mathilde.

“So, he will work and seek,” said Rostnikov. “He will serve and, perhaps, service will become its own end.”

“Perhaps,” Mathilde said.

There was a knock at the door.

Sarah hurried over to open the door and let in the quite pregnant Maya, the battered Sasha, and a very tired-looking Pulcharia. The little girl held her father’s hand and blinked suspiciously at the crowd of adults.

“We are late,” said Maya. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Sarah, ushering them in. She motioned for Rostnikov to take their coats.

As Lydia hurried to help she looked up at her son’s eye and made a loud clucking sound to let Rostnikov know that this blight on her son’s beautiful face was his fault.

Rostnikov noted that Karpo, now standing alone across the room, had turned from the window and was impassively watching the round of greetings.

Since it was almost Pulcharia’s bedtime and her parents were certain that she would not sleep away from her own crib, the guests sat down to eat almost immediately. Everyone toasted Sasha frequently, and he responded with pained smiles.

Karpo stood at the window. He drank only a glass of water brought to him by Mathilde.

During the fourth round of drinks and toasts there was a knock. Rostnikov motioned for everyone to remain seated, but Iosef leaped to his feet and opened the door.

It was Anna Timofeyeva and Elena.

“We thought you couldn’t come,” said Sarah.

“A change of plans,” explained Anna.

Iosef took their coats and carried them into the bedroom.

Elena, her cheeks red and her hands still cold, was introduced to those she had not yet met: Lydia, Karen, Sarah, Maya, Pulcharia, and Iosef.

“This is the partner?” asked Lydia.

“Yes,” said Sasha, loud enough for his mother to hear.

“She is a child,” said Lydia.

“She is a very good policeman,” said Sasha.

“She had an excellent teacher,” said Rostnikov. He nodded at Anna Timofeyeva.

“She is too pretty,” said Lydia.

“She is quite pretty,” said Maya with a smile. “But it is more important that she is a good policeman.”

“Thank you,” said Elena.

“This looks like the end of a Chekhov second act,” said Iosef. “Now, all we need is a messenger with bad news so we can kill him between acts.”

“In Russia today,” said Karen, “it is the messengers with good news who are shot between the acts.”

The laughter was polite and glasses were held up for a toast.

Karen started off the obligatory round of glasnost jokes. Neither Anna Timofeyeva, who had given her life to the state, nor Karpo laughed, but neither did they show disapproval. Rostnikov watched, drank moderately, and in answer to a question from Lydia, said, “There will be no charges against the Arab girl. She is leaving tomorrow with her father for Syria.”