Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

“I haven’t done anything,” she said, trying to sound open, afraid her response might have a touch of defiance and a bit of telltale fear.

“And you’ll not, not again,” he said.

“Not that again,” she said. “I’m going to my room.”

“That again,” he said firmly. “You’ll never cause me embarrassment again. Never. That is understood. We do not discuss it. You know the consequences.”

She opened her eyes wide, the practiced innocence of seventeen years. Their eyes met, and Jalna was determined to hold out, to meet him, to prove her unprovable innocence, but he, as always, held firm, his eyes unblinking until she turned away. Once, only once had she been with a boy before she met Yuri, and that was the one time her father had caught her, caught her in bed on a night he was supposed to be in Tbilisi for a conference. She had told Yuri two days after she met him at the American Club on Gorky Street. He had understood, but her father had not, never would.

“Be in bed by eleven,” he said, moving to the door. “I don’t know if I will be back before tomorrow.”

Jalna was tempted to speak, to say something acrid, but she held her tongue. There was no need or would soon be none. In a world of winners and losers, she had always been a loser and her father a krepki khozyain, a strong master. But things would soon change.

A smile swept her face, and her father touched her cheek as he moved past her and allowed a slight upturning of the right side of his mouth, which hinted at a smile.

As he went through the front doorway of the dacha and closed the door behind him, Jalna continued to smile, to smile at the picture in her mind of her father lying quite still and dead.

To get to the director of security at the Lentaka Shoe Factory, Porfiry Petrovich had to telephone the assistant to the factory director. The assistant, Raya Corspoyva, was the Communist Party representative at the factory. Rostnikov explained to her that he was conducting a routine update of the case of Ivan Bulgarin, who was now in the September 1947 Hospital. Bulgarin, he explained, had been involved in a minor incident at the hospital that had to be incorporated in his file.

“Comrade Corspoyva said she understood and that it would not be necessary for the inspector to talk to the factory director. Instead, she told him what he already knew from the file.

“Comrade Bulgarin was an unfortunate victim of overwork,” she said, and then paused.

Rostnikov, who was seated at his desk, fingered the pages of the American paperback novel on his desk and repeated, “Overwork.”

“Yes,” she went on. “Comrade Bulgarin was section foreman in plastic and leather processing. The factory is undergoing reform. Production was far behind reasonable quotas. The entire management had to be replaced.” Another pause.

“I see,” said Rostnikov. He was getting more information than he asked for, but he had no intention of stopping her.

“Comrade Bulgarin worked night and day,” she continued. “He is a glowing example of a revolutionary zeal that has been all but lost. He is a party member, a dedicated citizen, one of the peredoviki, the model workers.”

The woman sounded to Rostnikov as if she were reading a tract written in the 1930s.

“Almost a hero,” Rostnikov said to break the latest pause. “How long did he work there?”

“Only a few months. He had been transferred from a wristwatch assembly plant in Kalinin. But he was magnificent. There was a slowdown in April. Comrade Bulgarin helped to break it. We need him back,” she said. “Production and processing in leather and plastics have been down. There has been petty pilfering and-”

“Theft?” asked Rostnikov.

“A few tools, odd pieces of material. Minor, yes, but indicative of the morale crisis that must be overcome,” she said emotionlessly. “You might wish to allude to that in your report, Comrade Inspector. Certain people might wish to consider further changes in the administration of this vital factory. Our nation cannot function without well-made shoes in which to work.”

Rostnikov put the book in his pocket and followed the progress of a pair of uniformed MVD officers ushering a handcuffed man past Rostnikov’s office. The man wore an open-collared shirt with a tie dangling from his neck. The man was thin, with a belly. The man was smiling as if he held a secret that would protect him.

“It would be awkward without shoes,” Rostnikov admitted.

“You’ll put all this in your report?”

“In detail,” Rostnikov said. “Bulgarin had no family? No wife? No mother?”

“Correct,” said Raya Corspoyva. “He was wedded to his work. Fifteen, sixteen hours of work each day. Six, seven days a week.”

“A saint?” Rostnikov tried.

“A hero,” she replied. “Saints are for the decadent.”

Ten minutes after hanging up the receiver, Rostnikov was walking alongside Colonel Snitkonoy, who was on his way to the massive black Zil limousine with dark-tinted windows that would take him to a reception for visiting American businessmen. Normally the colonel strode through Petrovka and life with long steps, never looking to right or left. He moved slowly now, allowing Rostnikov to keep up with him, adopting the manner of a highly attentive superior listening to a sensitive report.

“… a series of thefts at the Lentaka Shoe Factory,” a clerk heard as she passed and received a nod from the Gray Wolfhound.

“And you wish to investigate personally?” the Wolfhound said conspiratorially.

“My staff is occupied with pressing matters that are fully documented in my day report, which will be on your desk when you return,” said Rostnikov softly. “I believe I can deal with this quickly. Our nation cannot function without well-made shoes in which to work.”

They stopped in front of the elevator, where the thin, smiling, handcuffed man with a belly was being attended by one of the two MVD officers.

“Boots,” said the Wolfhound pensively. “Does the factory make boots?”

“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “But I’ll find out.”

“Good,” said the Wolfhound, stepping into the elevator and facing front.

The MVD men entered the elevator with their prisoner and also faced forward. The thin, handcuffed man’s eyes met Rostnikov’s and the knowing smile suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of panic. Rostnikov gave the man a small, wry smile and nodded almost imperceptibly. As the elevator doors closed, the man tried out a new smile, a slightly less mad smile of resignation.

Boris had driven the bus like a robot where he was told. The young man said turn, Boris turned. Right, left. It was hard to think of anything but the gun against his neck and the dead man who had been pushed down and out of sight by the man in the long coat. Boris was vaguely aware of passing the Yaroslavi Railway Station and heading away from the city on Rusakovskaya Street. A bus came toward him once and passed, and Boris thought the driver had a puzzled look on his face as he glanced at the out-of-route bus heading away from the city, but Boris had not looked closely. Perhaps it was only his imagination. Besides, did he really want to be discovered? What if the police did locate him, surround the bus? There would be shooting. What would the police care about the life of a loyal bus driver who had worked diligently for more than twenty-five years, who had never done anything to disgrace the company and had never missed a day of work for anything but illness and understandably bad reactions to vodka?

“Pay attention,” the young man said. “We turn here.”

Boris nodded. He couldn’t speak. His eyes went up to the mirror. The older man sat about halfway back in the bus, looking out the window as if he were on his way home from work.