William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

Kolya said something in response that sounded like it might be a threat, or perhaps a curse. Korolev wasn’t sure which and didn’t much care—it was true what he’d said. There was nothing Korolev could do. Nothing at all.

“Someone you know?” Valentina looked at him inquiringly as he rejoined the others.

“Unfortunately,” Korolev said, deciding to forget about the conversation, even as another part of his brain couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been that Kolya had gone to such lengths to try to tell him.

“You’re worried about something.” Valentina slipped her hand inside his elbow again, as naturally as if they’d been together for a lifetime. He felt his whole being fizz at her touch and he was sure he was blushing. He must be.

“I was worried the elephant would lose his tusks the way that idiot kept tugging on them,” he said, coming out with the first thing that came to mind.

Valentina’s peal of laughter made everyone turn to look at her.

“Korolev, you make me laugh sometimes.”

“I make myself laugh sometimes as well,” he said, his voice gruff with embarrassment. How was it that here he was, well past forty and a hardened cop of long standing, and this woman could make him feel like a schoolboy once again?

He turned to find his son examining him carefully, and he wasn’t the only one—Natasha wasn’t hiding her interest either. He summoned all his courage and returned their gaze with what he hoped was a calm demeanor.

He had the impression neither of them was fooled.

Korolev sat in companionable silence with Valentina, a bottle of Georgian wine on the table between them. The good news was it lacked its cork and some of its contents. The bad news was they only had the one bottle—and it had a spicy, pleasing taste to it that made Korolev wish for more than just a couple of glasses.

The last of the sun colored the room orange as it dipped below the house on the other side of the street, and what sounded like a church bell was ringing somewhere close. But that must be his imagination. They’d banned the ringing of church bells years ago. He sighed—thinking another bottle would be a good thing. It had been a long day with the children, but he felt he’d done well—they were both still alive and, when Valentina had left them to go to her workplace, he’d marched them around Moscow for most of the day with no more moaning than was to be expected. In fact, they’d seemed to enjoy themselves. In the morning he’d take Yuri out to Babel’s dacha for a few days and, with luck, the weather would stay as pleasant as it had been today.

“Korolev,” Valentina said, and it sounded as if she was checking that he was still there. She had a point, his mind had wandered.

“Valentina Nikolayevna.”

She smiled at him.

“Isn’t it time for Valentina?”

“Valentina.” He tried it out and it sounded comfortable to him. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

There was another pause in the conversation but Korolev knew he didn’t have to say anything—Valentina’s calm smile told him as much. And the truth was, he was tired—it had been a long time since he’d had sole charge of his son for an entire day. Even when he’d visited him earlier in the year, Zhenia had been around—which reminded him he must call her. She’d enjoy how Yuri’s elbow had dug into Korolev’s side during a talk at the planetarium—outraged that his father had snorted at the speaker’s suggestion that men would be walking on the moon within twenty years.

But, then again, maybe Yuri was right—maybe they would be growing wheat beside the Sea of Tranquility by the time Korolev was drawing his pension. Maybe it was possible after all.

Korolev found his glass had made its way to his mouth. He looked over and was concerned to find that Valentina was frowning.

“Is there something the matter?”

“Yuri,” she began, and she seemed to be thinking how to approach what she wanted to say. Korolev, his feeling of contentment slipping away as her frown deepened, wondered what the boy had done.

Valentina toyed with her glass, swirling the wine, before she continued.

“He was upset yesterday—it seems his mother has some troubles at the moment.”

“Troubles?” Korolev asked.

“He wasn’t clear about them, I’m not sure he knows all of it. But it seems their apartment was searched last week.”

“Searched?” Korolev said, and everything slotted into place—Yuri’s last-minute visit to Moscow, his strange behavior since he’d arrived—even the fact he hadn’t been able to get hold of Zhenia when he’d called her the night before. He found he’d stood up, his hand to his head as he tried to work out what to do. But, of course, there was nothing he could do. Not for the first time in the last few days he found that he was powerless.

“I’d no idea, Valentina. None at all.”

“I know that,” she reassured him. “I know you would have said if you’d known.”

“Perhaps it’s nothing—a boy’s imagination.” His words sounded optimistic, even to himself.

“And if it isn’t? What will you do about Yuri if something happens to her?”

“Yuri?” Korolev asked, and slowly but surely it became clear to him that Zhenia’s troubles could have ramifications.

“He can stay here, of course.” She spoke firmly, as if there was no question in the matter. “We can manage between us. The four of us.”

“I…” Korolev began to put his thoughts in some kind of order but it seemed Valentina had done enough thinking for both of them. She stood and faced him, putting a hand against his chest.

“Of course,” she said, “we’ll pray his mother will come through this safely—but you should know that Yuri can come and live here and that we’ll manage. Together.”

They left for Babel’s dacha first thing, before Yuri was even properly awake. Babel was in the south for a month and had told Korolev to use it in his absence, and now Korolev intended to. He needed to spend some time with his son and he couldn’t think of a better place than his good friend’s summer house. And he also needed some time to think. He was still struggling to come to grips with Valentina’s news about Zhenia. And his worry wasn’t helped by the fact that, yet again, he hadn’t been able to get through to her the night before.

Korolev had to use his bulk to make a space on the tram for Yuri and their suitcase. Even though it was still early in the morning, the city was full of citizens making their way to work. But the boy didn’t seem to mind that they were jammed in so close—all he was interested in was the view outside and discovering which building this might be and whose statue that was. It seemed he didn’t remember Moscow at all from when he’d lived here—although, he supposed, it was three or four years ago now.

“Where are we now?”

“Dzerzhinsky Square.”

“And that building?”

Yuri pointed to the Lubyanka, the headquarters of State Security and Korolev felt his mind go blank for a moment, then he pointed at the corner the tram was just about to turn.

“And this takes us down toward Teatralnaya Square, where the Bolshoi is. And the Metropol as well—now that’s a place. Luxury like you could hardly imagine.”

Yuri looked up at him, a question in his eyes, and Korolev returned his gaze with what he hoped was a completely neutral expression—so neutral it might even work as a warning. It did.

“The Metropol?” Yuri asked. “What’s that?”

Korolev could see him looking back at the Lubyanka, his curiosity no doubt peaked. Perhaps he’d tell him about the place when they were safely out in Peredelkino where they wouldn’t be overheard by a tram full of who knew who.