Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

“Of course,” Lukov said expansively, opening his arms wide, showing that he had nothing to hide or fear, almost tripping over a mound of dark leather sheets the size of an open newspaper. Comrade Raya Corspoyva did not look pleased. She wrote herself a note on the paper attached to her clipboard. Lukov’s mouth opened and his eyes moved to the clipboard in fear.

Minutes later the three of them were seated in a small office with large dirty windows looking out into the factory. The noise was muffled by the room but not completely obliterated, and the smell of tanned leather was replaced by stale tobacco. Lukov sat behind his battered desk, which was covered with a mess of papers of various colors. Raya Corspoyva sat at Rostnikov’s side and straightened her already straight dark hair before placing the clipboard on her lap.

“Theft,” said Rostnikov.

“Very little,” said Lukov, looking at Raya Corspoyva for support. “Pilfering,” he went on as she took another note. “Pieces of leather, even finished shoes. But even that is better since that television show. You know the one with Victor Shinkaretsky on Good Evening, Moscow.”

“No,” said Rostnikov.

“He pretended to be a worker in a sausage factory,” the woman explained. “Walked past guards who paid no attention with a gigantic ham hidden under his coat. Hidden television cameras got the whole thing. Factories all over the Soviet Union began a crackdown on security.”

“But we had already begun. We had anticipated,” Lukov added, leaning forward. “Would you like some tea, Comrade Inspector?”

Lukov’s eyes were pleading with Rostnikov to refuse. Rostnikov said that he would not like tea.

“Ivan Bulgarin,” Rostnikov said. The name made Lukov’s mouth open and close like a fish.

“As I told you on the phone, Comrade,” Raya Corspoyva said, “he is a fine manager. Overworked, in need of rest.”

Lukov nodded in agreement.

“He said the devil was here,” Rostnikov said flatly. “That the devil was trying to get him.”

Lukov laughed, but when no one joined him, he stopped abruptly and reached into his pocket for a cigarette, which he lit nervously.

“The man is suffering from a temporary madness, Inspector,” Raya Corspoyva said with a shake of the head.

“Of course,” Rostnikov said with a nod. “But … when an accusation of theft is made, even by a madman, it should at least be investigated.”

“You would be remiss in your duty if you did not,” the woman agreed with a smile that conveyed an understanding of the breadth and difficulty of the policeman’s job.

“Then,” Rostnikov said, standing before the stiffness could begin, “I’ll not trouble you further except for one question: Do you make boots in this factory?”

“Yes,” said Lukov. “Fine boots.”

The relief on the factory manager’s face was childishly evident as he crushed out his cigarette and rose. The factory noise level rose suddenly behind them and Rostnikov looked out as a small dirty-yellow lift truck with a pallet full of boxes rambled into the center of the factory, seemed to hesitate about which direction to go, and moved right and tipped over, sending boxes crashing.

Rostnikov was fascinated but turned his eyes back to his two hosts in time to see Lukov with a spaniel apologetic look on his face in response to the woman with the clipboard, who made it clear with her tight lips and unblinking stare that she blamed him for what they had just seen.

“Pardon me, Inspector,” she said, hurrying to the door. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“Certainly,” Rostnikov said and stepped aside. “Comrade Lukov can show me to the door.”

The woman opened the door, letting in the remaining sounds of the factory. Most of the sewing machines had stopped so the workers could watch the effects of the accident, but those machines that needed no immediate human direction continued to clatter. Raya Corspoyva closed the door behind her and hurried, smock flying behind her, toward the overturned lift truck and the driver, who was being helped up by several co-workers.

“I’ll show you out,” Lukov said, trying to guide his visitor away from the scene beyond the windows.

Rostnikov turned and followed the man to the door. On the floor beyond the window, Raya Corspoyva looked up at them as she stood over the driver of the lift truck.

“Handsome woman,” Rostnikov said.

“I used to think so,” Lukov said, leading the way through the office door and into a dark corridor down which Rostnikov had entered the man’s office an hour earlier. “I mean, when you work with someone-”

“I understand,” Rostnikov said sympathetically. “It is a great responsibility to run a factory like this.”

“Great responsibility,” Lukov repeated, opening another door and ushering Rostnikov through it and into a musty reception area past two women who looked up at them as they moved to the front door of the factory office. “We’re told by people in the city what to pay the workers, what to charge for the shoes and boots, and they don’t even know what our costs are. And we’re supposed to keep the workers happy. How do you keep a worker happy? How do you produce a good product if it doesn’t matter to anyone whether it’s good or not?”

“It is difficult,” Rostnikov agreed as they moved through the door and onto the concrete expanse in front of the factory.

“Let me tell you,” Lukov whispered, though no one was in sight. “It’s not just here. The workers don’t care. Calls to produce out of patriotism don’t work anymore. I don’t think they ever did. Posters don’t get leatherbound. I shouldn’t be saying this, I know, but I trust you, Inspector. You have a kind face, an understanding face.”

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov, who was certain that Lukov, who was far from bright, probably took every opportunity to bare his soul to anyone when he was out of range of Raya Corspoyva.

“My father made shoes,” Lukov said, looking around as if for a cab or a dead father. “My grandfather made shoes. I know leather. I know quality. You know where quality is? It’s gone. I’m speaking treason here. My God. But we have a new openness, right? Gorbachev says so. Right? Factories are allowed to make their own decisions, make a profit, give incentives, improve what they do. You know what it’s like to spend a lifetime knowing you are creating an inferior product, knowing you can do better? What does that do to pride? I ask you.”

Rostnikov shrugged.

“And so we have corruption and people who watch,” he went on, nodding back at the factory to indicate that it held the woman who looked over his shoulder.

“Corruption?” asked Rostnikov. “You mean pilfering?”

“No,” said Lukov.

“Corruption cannot exist without protection,” said Rostnikov.

“Ha!” Lukov laughed until he coughed, which reminded him that he should fish into his pocket for a cigarette. “They get the best protection a ruble can buy. My God. I’m doing it again. I’m talking too much. It happens. I can’t stop. My wife warned me. She wonders how I survived so long when I can’t stop, but you understand, Inspector. I can see. This can’t go on. Look there. That man. The one in blue. His name is Dovrinin. He’s a colonel in the army. You know what he does? He sits there. All day. He sits there and he can reject any shoe, call it brak, junk, and he doesn’t need a reason. If we are not … nice to him, he can reject everything, end our operation.”

“That is no different than any factory,” Rostnikov said. “Bulgarin, did he protest about some corruption?”

“Who knows?” Lukov lit his cigarette. “He wasn’t here all that long, but maybe he found something, discovered something. A factory like this. Who knows where the money goes? If it loses enough, I get blamed and … I know what will happen. I know it. Someone will get caught and they’ll blame me. Millions of rubles. Do I see any of it? Does my family? No. I’ll see the inside of a prison or worse.”