Martin Smith - Three Stations

Arkady asked the general how long he had been awake.

"You woke me up."

Victor asked, "Were you here all night?"

"With my wife."

"Who besides your wife?"

"No one."

A bad lie poorly told unless Kassel slept half dressed. And the array of dirty glasses and full ashtrays were the remains of a larger party than two. Also Kassel's weight was forward on the balls of his feet, waiting for something, anticipating something.

But if Kassel was hiding something, who wasn't? As Victor liked to say, "That's the problem with interrogations, so many lies, so little time."

Apartment 3C. Anna Furtseva at eighty-eight was a living legend. Arkady and Victor didn't know she was that Anna Furtseva until the door was opened by a small, imperious woman in a rich caftan, lips mainly lipstick and eyes outlined in kohl. Behind her stood life-size photographs of black men with penis sheaths and hair adorned with feathers of birds of paradise. Of Masai warriors mixing a drink of milk and blood. Of Russian convicts covered in tattoos.

"You'll have some tea," Furtseva said. It was a statement, not a question.

While she bustled to the kitchen Arkady took in the rest of the apartment, a magpie's nest of the exotic and almost junk: a Persian carpet, ottomans with split leather, Mexican serapes, Balinese puppets, stuffed monkeys and photographs on every surface. Across the room an ancient wolfhound sighed.

Victor saluted photographs of a young Furtseva with Hemingway, Kennedy, Yevtushenko and Fidel.

"The major cocksmen of our time."

"Pardon?" Furtseva returned with a tray of tea, sugar and jam.

"Your photographs are a major comment on our time," Arkady said.

"Ahead of its time," Victor maintained.

Furtseva poured. "Yes. We called the show of the three men Evolution. It was 1972. The KGB tore it down the same day we put it up. We resisted but we were goldfish against sharks. I am surprised you even heard of it."

"But it was historic," Victor said.

"With history goes age. Age is overrated. Do notice the portraits of dancers on the piano. From Nijinsky to Baryshnikov." They were all male and captured in midair, except for an older man in a white suit hanging back in the shadow of a doorway. "I'm afraid Nijinsky was a little gaga by the time I caught up with him."

He and Victor sank into ottomans while Furtseva settled in a chair, her legs tucked up in a girlish fashion. It struck Arkady that if Cleopatra had lived to eighty-eight she would have looked a little like Furtseva. Everything was done with a flourish. When the wolfhound farted Furtseva lit a match and burned off the methane in the air with a royal wave. "Now tell me what this is all about. I'm on pins and needles. I saw an ambulance take someone from the trailer. Did somebody die?"

"A girl," Victor said. "Probably from an overdose, but we have to consider every possibility. Were you awake at midnight?"

"Of course."

"Do you suffer from insomnia?"

"I benefit from insomnia. However, I have developed a problem with sunlight. I can't let any into the apartment. I have to draw these ridiculous blue shades during the day and I can only go out at night. The joke is on me since I'm a photographer."

Victor said, "So you do still take photographs."

"Oh, yes. Such interesting characters to see at Three Stations. Like creatures at a watering hole."

Victor politely dunked his sugar cube. "Did you see the trailer being taken away?"

"Of course."

"Did you notice anyone go in or out of the trailer before it was taken away?"

"No. Was the girl a prostitute?"

"That's all we know for sure."

"I suppose the trailer was taken away for more analysis?"

Near the Arctic Circle, Arkady thought.

The dog hiccuped and Furtseva opened a fresh box of matches.

Victor asked, "You saw nothing unusual tonight?"

"Apart from the removal of the trailer, no. I'm sorry, gentlemen."

Victor stood and almost bowed. "Thank you, Madame Furtseva, for the excellent tea. If you remember something else, anything at all, please call me. I'm leaving you my card." He laid it by his cup.

She hesitated. "There is one thing. I suppose it's totally unrelated."

"Please. You never know."

"Well, my downstairs neighbors, the two Siberians…"

"Volchek and Primakov. We've met them."

"Not tonight but the night before they snuck into the building with body bags. Full bags. Yesterday I got off on the wrong floor-they all look the same, you know-and before I put my key in the door, I heard them talk about dismembering a body."

Furtseva's eyes shined.

Arkady joined the conversation. "You were snooping."

"Not intentionally."

"Did you try your key in the lock?"

"No."

"How long were you at the door?"

"A few seconds. Ten at the most."

"Did they open the door?"

"Yes, but I sent the elevator to the top while I took the stairs holding my shoes."

"A close call."

"Yes."

"You're very pleased with yourself."

"You don't have to whisper. My hearing is excellent."

"Do you wear eyeglasses?"

"For reading."

"For reading but not for distance? Do you understand what I mean by distance?"

"I was a filmmaker in the war. I learned how to calculate distance at Stalingrad."

This was dangerous, Arkady thought. He and Victor were walking on their knees from lack of sleep. Thanks for the tea, but the last thing they needed was a legend aching for adventure. From the alarm on Victor's face he finally grasped the peril they were in.

Arkady said, "Very well, Madame Furtseva, please tell me carefully what Volchek and Primakov said. Their exact words."

"Exactly?"

"Exactly."

"In that Siberian drawl of theirs one said, 'Where do I bury her fucking head?' The other said, 'Up your ass, where your head is.' The first one said, 'She's going to leave a real mess in the fucking van.' The second one said, 'Stop shitting your pants. She's been dead long enough; she's not going to bleed.' Then they suddenly stopped talking and that's when I left the door."

She lit a match as if for punctuation.

Arkady said, "These are not men to fool around with. Have you seen them since then?"

"No, but I certainly heard them."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Could you put a time to that?"

"Since dinner. I heard them swearing and drinking beer and watching football."

Victor asked, "You're absolutely sure, Madame Furtseva? All night? Here?"

"Every minute."

"Did they seem to show any interest when the trailer was removed?"

"No."

"Did they ever show any interest in the trailer anytime?"

"No."

Victor spread his arms in relief. The Siberians could slaughter victims left and right, but as long as they had no connection to the trailer, this was somebody else's mess.

Watching Maya was agony. Zhenya watched her futile attempts to accost passengers as they stepped off the morning train from Yaroslavl. Now the isolation she had maintained during the trip worked against her. No one remembered her red hair or her baby. No one had ever heard of Auntie Lena. She mentioned the card game and arguments. Like every other ride in hard class, people said. They were going to work. No time to talk. She ran after a priest she remembered by the crumbs on his beard. This time he wore a faint dusting of confectioners' sugar. He had no recollection of her.

Zhenya saw Maya wilt under the maddening interrogation of babushkas. Darling, how could you lose a baby? Did you pray to Saint Christopher, dear? Was it your little brother? This never would have happened in the old days. Are you on drugs? At least when a Gypsy begs you see the baby.

Including platforms, cafes, waiting rooms, tunnels, anterooms, nursery, ticket booths, there was too much ground to cover. Pedestrian underpasses were bottlenecked by shops and salesladies who wasted her time with scissors and clippers and hose until Maya wanted to scream. Finally she found herself in the main hall of the train station like a chess piece with every move exhausted.