Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

Sasha had calmly, insistently told his mother of the decision, explained the difficulty of the situation, alluded to Maya’s discomfort while insisting that the decision, the painful decision, was his. He had painted it as brightly as it could be painted, telling her that they would be nearby, that Lydia would be with someone her own age and with her own interests. Sasha had talked, waiting, expecting to be interrupted, but Lydia had said nothing. He was afraid he was speaking too softly, that with her poor hearing she had absorbed none of it, but when he paused to ask her if she understood, she nodded. And he had gone on, talking subsidies, visits, relatives, love, understanding, the cultural revolution, the history of Russia, the history of their family as far back as his memory would allow him to recall. Sasha, sure he had begun to sweat, had refrained from reaching up to push the hair from in front of his eyes.

And still Lydia had said nothing.

“What do you think?” he had concluded.

His mother had smiled knowingly, as if she had just received confirmation of some irony she had long suspected, but she said nothing, got up, took her teacup, and moved into her room.

For five minutes after she left the room, Sasha Tkach, who in the course of his career had shot a young man and several times almost been killed himself, who had confronted rapists, murderers, drug users, and religious and political fanatics, sat trembling.

The explosion from Lydia would come later. That was it. Lydia needed time to plan, to construct a response, a scenario. She would spring it on him late at night, the next morning, sometime when he didn’t expect it. He would have to be prepared. But still he was grateful she had said nothing.

That was last night. Now it was morning, and the three of them sat at the table in silence, drinking tea, watching Pulcharia eat small pieces of boiled kasha with her fingers. Cups clinked, the baby babbled. Under the table, Maya touched Sasha’s hand reassuringly.

Minutes earlier Sasha had received a call from Petrovka, a call he should be thinking about but could not.

Lydia finished her tea, rose from the table, pulled her black dress down to remove the wrinkles, and looked at her son.

“I have three words to say,” Lydia said.

Pulcharia, startled, looked up at her grandmother and gurgled.

“Ingratitude,” Lydia said. “Irresponsibility. Disrespect.”

With that she strode across the room, grabbing her coat as she moved, and went through the door.

With the slam of the door, Pulcharia began to cry and Sasha Tkach realized that he had to rouse himself and go out in search of a missing bus and driver.

“I’m sorry,” Maya said.

“I’ve got to go,” Sasha answered, getting up.

“You did what had to be done,” Maya said, taking the crying baby from her wooden high chair and kissing her cheek.

“She was right,” Sasha said, moving to get his jacket from the closet. “I owe her a great deal.”

“We all owe our parents a great deal,” Maya said gently. “But we cannot spend our entire lives paying the debt. Parents should understand that. My parents understand that.”

“You are missing the point,” Sasha said with mounting irritation.

“And that is?” asked Maya, offering Pulcharia a bottle that the baby grabbed greedily.

“My mother should have time. She has no friends. She’s alone. Damn. There’s a stain on my jacket.”

“Take it off,” said Maya. “I’ll clean it.”

“No time,” he snapped. “I’m late.”

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, Sashaska,” Maya said.

Tkach hurried across the room and gave his wife and baby identical kisses on the cheek.

“You are blaming me, Sasha,” Maya said as he opened the front door.

“I am not blaming you, Maya,” he said with a sigh.

“And you are not kissing me,” she said.

“I’m late,” he answered.

“Then go.”

And he went out the door, closing it hard behind him.

Zelach was waiting for him in a Zhiguli with a defective heater and the tendency to pull to the left. Tkach opened the passenger door and slid in.

“I’ve been waiting,” Zelach said, pulling away from the curb.

Tkach grunted.

“I haven’t had anything to eat,” Zelach went on. “You know that stand at the Kiev Railway Station, the one where the Jews sell those meat pies?”

“Knishes,” Tkach said with a grunt.

“Do you mind if I stop for a few?”

Tkach grunted and Zelach took that for an affirmation.

“Where will we start after we eat?” Zelach asked.

“They found a body,” Tkach said, looking out the window. “Dumped on a road off the Outer Ring. Man named Tolvenavov. Shot.”

“So?” Zelach said.

“He was due home last night,” Tkach went on. “He takes route seventy-five; the missing bus was on that route. Computer put it together this morning after they fed in information from the dead man’s wife. Made a match with our request for cross-checking on what we had about bus and driver. Shevlov called me when it came through.”

Zelach nodded. Even copying machines were a source of confusion to him, a confusion he tried to hide with nods of understanding that sometimes got him in trouble.

“So, where do we go?”

“To the laboratory to see if the dead man can tell us something. Can I ask you something, Zelach?”

Zelach nodded uncertainly.

“Do you have a mother, Zelach?”

Zelach barely avoided hitting a grunting Volga that pulled ahead of him in a hurry as they moved off the Borodino Bridge.

“Everyone has a mother,” Zelach answered.

“She’s alive?” Tkach asked, glancing at a young woman hurrying with a small suitcase toward the entrance of the Kiev Railway Station. He could not see the woman’s face, but her legs were firm and long and he could imagine her heels clicking against the concrete. Zelach pulled over and parked the car, nodding at the uniformed policeman in front of the station who was about to order him on before recognizing the license plate and the driver.

“Yes,” he said. “I live with my mother. You know that.”

“I didn’t remember,” said Sasha.

“My mother has bad legs,” said Zelach, opening the car door. “Can’t walk much. You are lucky. Your mother is well, working, able to take care of herself.”

“I’m very lucky,” said Sasha.

“We’re both lucky,” Zelach amended. “You want a knish?”

“Why not?” said Sasha with a shrug.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov listened as the factory manager gave him a tour of the Lentaka Shoe Factory. Raya Corspoyva, the party representative to whom Rostnikov had spoken the day before, accompanied them, a clipboard in hand, taking notes. The manager, a thin, balding, and very nervous man named Lukov, kept adjusting his frayed blue tie, which did not match his rumpled brown suit, though it did correspond with the manager’s complexion. Lukov glanced constantly at Raya Corspoyva, a no-nonsense and rather good-looking heavy-set woman in a no-nonsense blue factory smock.

Lukov said something and pointed at a row of men and women at sewing machines. The machines were clacking so that the manager had to speak loudly to be heard. Rostnikov paid little attention. He was, in fact, enjoying the strong smell of leather faintly tinged with oil. He also enjoyed the row after row of partly finished shoes and boots of brown or black, shoes without soles, boots without heels.

“And up there, there in the assembly area,” Lukov shouted, “we have a new machine for processing the leather by color, size, material! Of course, most of the shoes are not made of one hundred percent leather!”

“Fascinating,” said Rostnikov, whose leg was beginning to warn him about prolonging the tour. “Can we go to your office and talk?”