Martin Smith: Stalin’s Ghost

“Cheers.”

They touched glasses and downed the vodka in one go.

“Perhaps I am your curse,” Eva said.

“Probably.”

“Zhenya and I complicate your life.”

“I hope so. What kind of life do you think I had?”

“No, you’re a saint. I don’t deny it.”

Arkady sensed a slide in Eva’s mood and changed the subject. “Zhenya said, ‘He’s here.’ That’s all?”

“He said it as he went out the door.”

“He didn’t say where he’d been or where he was headed?”

“No.”

“He could have seen anyone. A famous chess player, his favorite soccer star. Maybe Stalin. Can we talk about us?” Eva leaned forward and laid her head on Arkady’s shoulder. “Arkasha, I can’t compete with a wife who died young and beautiful and totally normal. Who could compete with that?”

“She’s not here.”

“But you wish she were, is what I mean. You know, you never showed me a picture of Irina; I had to find one on my own. Irina was lovely. If you could, wouldn’t you want her back?”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Oh, it is.”

He set the tray aside and pulled her close. Her breasts were tender from making love but they stiffened again. Her mouth sought out his even though their lips were sore and slightly bruised. This time the rhythm was slow. With each stroke a soft expulsion of air escaped her lips, so much easier than words. They could go on forever, Arkady thought, as long as they never left the bed.

But they were going someplace. The bed was a magical carpet that took an unfortunate plunge into an abyss when he said, “Don’t act as if this is about Irina. It’s a lie to pretend it’s just Irina. A highly skilled investigator notices such things as strange phone calls and mysterious absences.” Well, this is exciting, he thought. They had touched down in the abyss, where the air was thin and the heart bounced around the rib cage.

“It’s not what you think,” Eva said.

“I’m fascinated. What is it?”

“It’s unfinished business.”

“You can’t finish it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“What does that mean?”

“When I was in Chechnya Nikolai Isakov saved me.”

“Tell me again why you were there. You’re not Chechen or in the Russian Army.”

“Someone had to be there. Doctors had to be there. There were international medical organizations.”

“But you were on your own.”

“I don’t like organizations. Besides, on my trusty motorcycle I was a moving target.”

“Were you trying to be killed?”

“You forget that I’m a survivor. Besides, Nikolai let it be known that he would slit the throat of anyone who touched me.”

“I’m grateful.”

She watched him for a flinch. “And I expressed my gratitude in the traditional manner.”

“Well earned, I’m sure. So Isakov is a hero in bed and out.”

“Everyone had a scheme. Tank commanders sold fuel, quartermasters sold food, soldiers traded the ammunition for vodka and they went home in coffins stuffed with drugs. Nikolai was different.”

“Then why are you wasting your time with me?”

“I wanted to be with you.”

“It’s getting a bit crowded, don’t you think? Two is company and all that. But I appreciate the farewell salute.” It was the meanest thing he could think of to say and he had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes sting.

The phone rang again and a voice-not Zurin’s-said to the answering machine, “Eva, pick up, it’s Nikolai.”

It was Arkady’s turn to burn.

“Eva,” the man said, “can you talk? Did you tell him?”

“Is it Isakov?” Arkady asked.

“I have to take this,” Eva said.

She wrapped a sheet around herself before picking up the phone. The cord only stretched so far and she turned away to whisper. Suddenly nakedness seemed ridiculous to Arkady and the scent of sex cloyed.

What was the etiquette of cuckoldry? Should he leave them to their privacy, allow himself to be chased from his own bivouac? It wasn’t as if he and Eva were married. It was clear that she could still physically act as if they were lovers and, from time to time, banter cheerfully enough to raise his hopes, at least until tonight, but the performances took more effort all the time. It was rare that their work shifts coincided because she scheduled her hours more to avoid Arkady than to see him. Betrayal was exhausting, weighting every word with double meaning. Even when they made love he would spend the rest of the night examining everything Eva had said or done, watching her as if she were going to slip away and watching every word he said so as not to jar the mutually constructed house of cards. It had collapsed now, of course.

The funny thing was that Arkady had brought them back together by bringing Eva to Moscow, strolling with her around Patriarch’s Pond on an autumn day and not understanding her shock when Isakov called her name.

“Keep walking,” Eva had said.

Arkady said, “If it’s a friend, I can wait.”

“Not yet,” Eva whispered to the phone, while her eyes stayed on Arkady. “I will, I will, I promise… I do, too,” she said and set the receiver down.

Everything but a kiss, Arkady thought.

It wasn’t by chance that Isakov called when Arkady was likely to be home. Isakov was rubbing his face in it.

The phone rang again, jarring him. Arkady felt his breathing build. Eva backed away.

“I know you’re there, Renko. Turn on your television. Congratulations, you’re on the news,” Zurin said and hung up.

Arkady turned on the set. There were only six channels. The first showed the president laying a wreath, his eyes twisted one way, mouth another. Soccer. Patriotic films. Chechen atrocities. Finally, Prosecutor Leonid Zurin himself on a snowy street corner with a female reporter. Zurin’s white hair whipped back and forth and his cheeks were apple red. He smiled indulgently, a natural actor. After his desperate phone calls to Arkady, Zurin seemed to have regained himself.

“…a long winter, and sometimes winter is like the doldrums of summer, when all sorts of strange stories seem to be news, only to be forgotten a week later.”

“So the rumors of Moscow citizens encountering Stalin in the Metro are fabrications?”

Zurin spent a moment in consideration. “I wouldn’t say ‘fabrications.’ There was a report of a disturbance at a station last night. I sent a senior investigator who was particularly familiar with Stalin issues to the scene and he determined, after interviewing all the so-called witnesses, that no such event had, in fact, taken place. What had happened, according to Investigator Renko, was that some of the older riders got off the train earlier than they had intended and, as a result, found themselves stranded with a blizzard above and no more trains below.”

The reporter would not be shaken off.

“Which Metro station?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Are you investigating further, Prosecutor Zurin?”

“Not to chase phantoms. Not while there are real criminals on the street.”

“One last question, how did this rumor about Stalin get started? Do you or your investigator think it’s a hoax? A political statement?”

Zurin composed himself. “We think no conclusions need be drawn. Stalin is a figure of undeniable historical significance, who continues to draw positive and negative reactions, but there is no reason to make him responsible for every mistake we make.”

“Even getting off the train at the wrong stop?”

“Just so.”

Arkady sat, stunned, dimly aware that the next news item was on the trial of a war veteran who had shot and killed a pizza deliveryman who resembled a Chechen. Other vets were lending moral support to their brother in arms.