Polar Star (12 page)

Under his muff of hair Anton Hess’s face was half forehead, the other features squeezed into a southern hemisphere of rounded brows, sharp nose, broad upper lip and dimpled chin, all lit by two amiable blue eyes. He looked like a German choirmaster, someone who had collaborated with Brahms.

Still using the measured tones of Soviet authority, of facts reluctantly stated, the first mate decided to take the offensive.

“Seaman Renko, for our information, is it true you were dismissed from the Moscow prosecutor’s office?”

“Yes.”

“Is it also true that you were expelled from the Party?”

“Yes.”

There was a somber pause suitable for a man who had confessed to two incurable diseases.

“May I be blunt?” Volovoi begged Marchuk.

“Please.”

“From the start I was against the involvement of this worker in any inquiry, especially one involving our American colleagues. I already had a dossier of negative information on Seaman Renko. Today I radioed the KGB in Vladivostok for more information, not wanting to judge this seaman unfairly. Comrades, we have a man with a shady past. Exactly what happened in Moscow no one will say, except that he was involved in the death of the prosecutor and in the defection of a former citizen. Murder and treason, that is the history of the man before you. That’s why he runs from job to job across Siberia. Take a look: he has not thrived.”

True, Arkady admitted. His boots, crusted with scales and laced with dried slime, were not the footwear of a thriving man.

“In fact,” Volovoi went on, as if only the greatest pressure could bring the words to his lips, “they were looking for him in Sakhalin when he signed on the
Polar Star
. For what, they don’t say. With his kind, it could be any of a million things. May I be candid?”

“Absolutely,” said Marchuk.

“Comrades, Vladivostok will examine not what happened to a silly girl named Zina Patiashvili but whether we as a ship have maintained political discipline. Vladivostok will not understand why we involve in such a sensitive inquiry anyone like Renko, a man politically so unreliable that we don’t let him ashore in an American port.”

“An excellent point,” Marchuk agreed.

“In fact,” Volovoi said, “it might be wise not to let any of the crew ashore. We reach Dutch Harbor in two days. It might be best not to give them port call.”

At this suggestion, Marchuk’s face darkened. He poured more water for himself, studying the silvery string of liquid. “After four months’ sailing?” he asked. “That’s
what they’ve been sailing for, that one day in port. Besides, our crew is not the problem; we can’t stop the Americans from going ashore.”

Volovoi shrugged. “The representatives will report to the company, yes, but the company is half Soviet-owned. The company will do nothing.”

Marchuk screwed out his cigarette and produced a smile that had more irony than humor. Etiquette seemed to be wearing thin. “The observers will report to the government, which is American, and the fishermen will spread tales to everyone. The tale will be that I hid a murder on my ship.”

“A death is a tragedy,” Volovoi said, “but an investigation is a political decision. Any further investigation on board would be a mistake. On this I must speak for the Party.”

In a thousand communes, factories, universities and courtrooms, the same words could have been spoken at that same instant because no serious meeting of manager or prosecutors was ever complete without someone finally speaking for the Party, at which point the niceties of debate would come to an end and the cigarette smoke would be cleared by that decisive, ineluctable phrase.

But this time Marchuk turned to the man on his right. “Comrade Hess, do you have anything to say?”

“Well,” the fleet electrical engineer said, as if he had just thought of something. His voice had a timbre like a woodwind with a cracked reed, and he talked directly to Volovoi. “In the past, comrade, everything you say would have been correct. It seems to me, however, that the situation has changed. We have a new leadership that has called for more initiative and a more candid examination of our mistakes. Captain Marchuk is symbolic of this young, forthright leadership. I think he should be supported. As for Seaman Renko, I also radioed for information. He was not charged with either murder or treason. In fact, there is a record of his being vouched
for by a Colonel Pribluda of the KGB. Renko may be politically reckless, but there has never been a question of his professional abilities. Also, there is an overriding consideration. This is a unique joint program we have undertaken with the Americans. Not everyone is happy that Soviets and Americans are working together. What will happen to our mission? What will happen to international cooperation if a story spreads that any Soviets who fraternize with Americans will have their bellies slit and be thrown overboard? We should show a sincere and genuine effort now, not only in Vladivostok. Third Mate Bukovsky has great energy, but he has no expertise in this area. None of us does except for Seaman Renko. Let us proceed with more confidence; let’s find out what happened.”

For Arkady this was curious, like watching the dead rise. For once the Invalid hadn’t ended the debate.

Volovoi said, “Sometimes the ugly rumor of the moment has to be overlooked. This is a situation to be contained, not stirred up or publicized. Consider: if the Patiashvili girl was murdered, as Seaman Renko insists, then we have a murderer on board our ship. If we do encourage an investigation on board, whether run intelligently or ineptly, what will be this person’s natural reaction? Anxiety and fear—in fact, a desire to escape. Once in Vladivostok that will do him no good at all; a proper investigation in our own port will find him already in our hands. Here, however, the situation is different. The open sea, American boats and, most dangerous of all, an American port. Premature zeal here will prompt desperate acts. Wouldn’t it be possible, even logical, that a criminal fearing exposure would abandon his group during its turn in Dutch Harbor and try to escape Soviet justice with the claim that he was seeking political asylum? Isn’t this what prompts many so-called defectors? Americans are unpredictable. As soon as a situation becomes political it gets out of hand, a circus, the truth
vying with lies. Of course in time we would get the man back, but is this the right light for a Soviet ship? Murder? Scandal? Comrades, no one would argue that this crew does not, under normal circumstances, deserve a port call after four months’ hard work at sea. However, I would not want to be the captain who risked the prestige and mission of an entire fleet so that his crew could buy foreign running shoes and watches.”

After such immaculate spade work by the Invalid, Arkady thought the issue was buried again. Hess, however, answered immediately.

“Let’s separate your concerns. An investigation on board creates an abnormal situation, and an abnormal situation prevents a port call. It seems to me that one concern can resolve the other. We’re a day and a half from Dutch Harbor, which is time enough for us to reach more definite conclusions about this poor girl’s death. If it still seems suspicious in thirty-six hours, we can then decide not to allow the crew a port call. If not, let them have their well-earned day on shore. Either way, no one escapes and there will still be a full investigation waiting when we return to Vladivostok.”

“What about suicide?” Slava asked. “What if she threw herself overboard, down the well, or wherever?”

“What about that?” Hess asked Arkady.

“Suicide is always a borderline issue,” Arkady said. “There’s the suicide who names fellow criminals before locking the garage door and starting the car. Or the suicide who paints ‘Fuck the Soviet Writers Union’ on the kitchen wall before putting his head in the oven. Or the soldier who says ‘Consider me a good Communist’ before he charges a machine gun.”

“You are saying that the political element is always different,” Hess said.

“
I
will determine the political element,” Volovoi said. “I am still the political officer.”

“Yes,” Marchuk said coolly. “But not the captain.”

“On such a delicate mission—”

Hess cut Volovoi off. “There’s more than one mission.”

There was a pause, as if the entire ship had veered in a new direction.

When Marchuk offered Volovoi a cigarette, the lighter’s flame lit a fan of capillaries spreading in the first mate’s eyes. Exhaling, Volovoi said, “Bukovsky can do another report.”

“Bukovsky and Renko strike a good balance, don’t you think?” Hess asked. To Arkady he said, “I’ve taken over the second mate’s cabin. My door will be open to you.”

Volovoi hunched forward as consensus, the goal of Soviet decision-making, rolled over him.

Marchuk changed the subject. “I keep thinking about that girl being on the bottom, about the eels. Renko, what were the odds a net would find her? A million to one?”

Arkady’s participation in the meeting had been an order, but also an honor, as if a toe had been invited to the deliberations of the brain. Marchuk’s question was a gesture of that inclusion.

“A million to one is about the odds that Comrade Bukovsky and I will find anything,” Arkady said. “Vladivostok has real investigators and real laboratories, and they know what to find.”

“The inquiry here and now is what matters,” Marchuk said. “Report the facts as you find them.”

“No,” Arkady said. “I agree with Comrade Volovoi; leave this for Vladivostok.”

“You’re reluctant, I understand,” Marchuk sympathized. “The important thing is you can redeem yourself—”

“I don’t need to redeem myself. I agreed to spend a day asking questions. The day is over.” Arkady started for the door. “Comrades, good night.”

Marchuk got to his feet, stunned. Stupefaction turned
into the rage of a powerful man whose good intentions had been betrayed. Meanwhile Volovoi sat back, scarcely believing this turn of fortune.

“Renko, you say someone killed this girl and you won’t find out who?” Hess asked.

“I don’t think I could—and I’m not interested.”

Marchuk said, “I’m ordering you.”

“I’m refusing.”

“You forget you’re speaking to your captain.”

“You forget you’re speaking to a man who has spent a year on your slime line.” Arkady opened the door. “What can you do to me? What could be worse?”

9
Wind had rolled the fog back into one dense bank. Arkady was crossing the deck intent on bed when he saw his cabin mate Kolya at the rail. A clear night always brought Kolya on deck, as if the moon were lit only for him. His hair curled up around a wool cap while his long nose pointed toward phenomena.

“Arkasha, I saw a whale. Just its tail, but it went straight down, so it was a humpback.”

What Arkady admired about Kolya was that even
though the botanist had been chased off land he went on collecting scientific data. He had the courage of a monk, willing, in spite of his meekness, to be tortured for his beliefs. Shining in his hands like a little French horn was his prize, a highly polished old-fashioned brass sextant.

“Are you done with the captain?” Kolya asked.

“Yes.”

Kolya had the delicacy not to ask any more questions, such as, Why didn’t you tell your friends you were an investigator? Why aren’t you an investigator now? What did you find out about the dead girl? Cheerfully he said, “Good. Then you can help me.” He gave Arkady a watch. It was plastic, digital, Japanese. “The top button lights the readout.”

“Why are you doing this?” Arkady asked.

“It keeps the mind alive. Ready?”

“Okay.”

Kolya put his eye to the sextant telescope and sighted on the moon, swinging the index arm along the arc. As he had once explained to Arkady, sextants had the charm of being archaic, simple and complicated all at the same time. In essence, a pair of mirrors mounted on the arc brought an image of the moon down to the horizon, and the arc marked how many degrees off a right angle with the horizon the moon was at a precise instant.

“Mark.”

“10:15.31.”

“22:15.31.” Kolya corrected to nautical hours.

As a Young Pioneer, Arkady had once performed celestial navigation. He remembered being surrounded by nautical almanacs, sight-reduction tables, scratch paper, charts and parallel rules. Kolya did it all in his head.

“How many almanacs have you memorized?” Arkady asked.

“Sun, moon and Ursa Major.”

Arkady looked up. The stars seemed immensely bright and faraway, with colors and depth, like a blazing night.

“There’s the Little Bear.” Arkady looked straight up.

“You’ll always see the Little Bear here,” Kolya said. “At this latitude we’re always under the Little Bear.”

When Kolya did calculations his eyes took on a fixed, inward look, a kind of bliss. Arkady could tell he was subtracting the moon’s refraction, adding the parallax, moving on to the moon’s declination.

“You’ve been under the Little Bear too long. You’re round the bend,” Arkady said.

“It’s no harder than blindfold chess.” Kolya even smiled to prove he could talk while he thought.

“Does it ever bother you that the sextant is based on the idea that the sun goes around the earth?”