Polar Star (21 page)

“Of the unexplained sort,” Arkady granted.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with the right explanation. They wouldn’t have picked you unless they knew you would.”

“Thank you for your confidence.” He felt his knees sag treacherously. If she disdained him so much, why didn’t she leave?

“I wondered,” she said.

“Now you’re wondering?”

“Well, you questioned the fishermen on the catcher boats. Weren’t they all off the
Polar Star
before anything happened to Zina?”

“It appears so.” She wants to know, he thought.

“You’re almost for real, aren’t you? I hear Slava is running everywhere looking for a suicide note, but you stagger around as if you actually want to know what happened. Why?”

“That’s a mystery to us all.” Although his mouth tasted like a gas tank, he felt the urge for a smoke. He patted his pockets.

“Here.” Susan put her cigarette between his lips and then pulled back from the rail. At first he thought that it was from him; then he saw that the
Eagle
had come alongside out of the fog. As the trawler edged nearer, he could make out the form of George Morgan on the darkened bridge. In the lights of the deck, two fishermen in slickers were tying torn mesh and garbage to dump at sea. Arkady recognized Coletti’s sullen glare and Mike’s open grin. The Aleut’s picture was the same as in Zina’s photo: innocent and without shading.

The deck around the men was wet and littered with flatfish and crabs, and though the trawler was pitching more than the
Polar Star
, the Americans seemed rooted where they stood in forward-leaning, lock-kneed stances. Between the two boats was a shifting screen of birds that materialized out of habit. Perhaps a hundred birds hovered on outstretched wings: black-capped terns with swallowtails, masked petrels and milk-white gulls seesawing
overhead. They looked as if someone had emptied a basket of papers off the ship and the pages had flown and kept pace. The slightest dip of one bird created a ripple of adjustments, so that the flock shimmered and squawked.

Mike waved again, and it took Arkady a moment to realize that a third person had joined him and Susan at the rail. Natasha spoke into Arkady’s ear. “I found someone who wants to talk to you. I went to your cabin and you were gone. Why did you get out of bed?”

As he started to describe the benefits of fresh air Arkady began to cough, which set off a chill that doubled him over. There seemed to be frozen bits inside him, which, as they melted, spread currents of debilitating cold.

With one eye on Susan, Natasha went on talking as if they were taking tea at the rail. “Now it’s time for my lecture. Afterwards, we’ll go meet my friend.”

“Your lecture?” Susan made it clear she was trying not to smile.

“I am the ship’s representative of the All-Union Knowledge Society.”

“How could I have forgotten?” Susan asked.

It would have been less cruel for her to laugh out loud, because Natasha only had the sense that she was being mocked, the way a woman whose slip shows only at the rear is vaguely aware that she is the subject of humor without knowing why. Out of sheer nervousness she took the cigarette from Arkady’s mouth. “In your condition the last thing you need is this.” She turned to Susan. “This is the most disgusting habit of Soviet men. Smoking is man’s most unnatural act.”

She snapped the cigarette at the birds. A gull tipped its wings, caught it, then dropped it. A petrel slid forward, caught the tumbling cigarette, ate half and rejected the rest. The filter landed in the water, where it was studied by a tern.

“They must be Russian birds,” Susan said.

An idea struck Arkady while he coughed. Susan was wearing a fishing jacket and Natasha was wearing a fishing jacket; it was about all that the two of them had in common. Where was Zina’s fishing jacket? He hadn’t thought about it before because no one took a jacket to a dance, and during intermissions when people went on deck they could stand a few minutes of sub-Arctic air. Soviet women especially wouldn’t bother with any jacket that might encumber an embrace. In their stolid frames were souls so romantic that they lifted like doves on the slightest breeze.

As Arkady finished his last rasp and straightened up, Susan lit another cigarette and kept it for herself.

“Renko, are you the investigator or the victim?”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Natasha said.

“That’s why he looks like the shark’s lunch?”

“He has a system.”

What is it? Arkady wondered.

Morgan’s voice came from the radio in Susan’s pocket: “Ask Renko what happened to Zina. We all want to know.”

On the deck of the
Eagle
, Mike waved again and gestured to Natasha as if inviting her down for a visit. Her cheeks reddened, but she gave the fisherman her shoulder to indicate that fraternization was an item strictly in her past. “We have to go to the lecture,” she said firmly.

“They want to know what happened to Zina,” Susan said.

Unsure of his legs, Arkady tested them with a casual shuffle.

“What do you want me to tell them?” Susan asked.

“Tell them …” Arkady stalled. “Tell them they still know more than I do.”

15
The inspirational lecture on scientific atheism given in the cafeteria by Natasha Chaikovskaya, corresponding member of the All-Union Knowledge Society, was well attended by the off-duty crew because Volovoi stood at the back, his raw face scanning not only the presence but the enthusiasm of the audience. Skiba and Slezko were in the last row of benches, giving the Invalid an extra four eyes. The day before a port call was always the most anxious, when it could be canceled for any number of reasons: time did not permit; money transfers had not been completed; the political climate wasn’t right.

The anticipation of Dutch Harbor had gripped everyone. It was not only the first land in more than four months; it was the point of the entire voyage, those blessed few hours with foreign currency in an American store. If a man wanted to catch fish or a woman wanted simply to clean them, they could trawl the Soviet coast rather than spend half a year in the Bering Sea. The women were wearing freshly laundered blouses with flower prints coming into bloom, their hair spiked with
pins. The men were more divided. The ship had gathered speed for the long run to the Aleutians, incidentally firing its boilers for showers, and half the men were scraped clean and sporting the knit shirts of men at ease. The other half, skeptics, still wore a crust of beard and dirt.

“Religion,” Natasha read from a pamphlet, “teaches that labor is not a freely given contribution to the state, but an obligation imposed by God. A citizen who holds this view is unlikely to economize on materials.”

Obidin spoke up from the middle row of tables. “Did God economize when He made heaven and earth? When He made the elephant? Maybe God doesn’t care about economizing on materials.”

“Materials of the state?” Natasha was outraged.

“Why are you trying to subvert her?” Volovoi had sidled up to Arkady. “She’s a simple worker. Why drag her into this dirty work of yours?”

Natasha had dragged Arkady to the lecture. Not that he could have resisted; he was standing because he was afraid if he sat he wouldn’t be able to rise. His arms were crossed over feverish tremors.

People shouted at Obidin, “Shut up! Listen and learn!”

“Two days ago half the ship didn’t know who you were,” Volovoi went on. “Now you’re the most hated man on board. You’ve outsmarted yourself. First you say Zina Patiashvili was murdered. Now you can’t let these people, your own shipmates, have their port call without saying she wasn’t.”

“Someone’s been spreading the story that it’s up to me,” Arkady said.

“Rumor always has a thousand tongues,” Volovoi observed. He looked at his watch. “Well, you have eleven hours before your great decision: Dutch Harbor or no Dutch Harbor? Will you admit to error or put yourself above your entire ship? Others might say you will compromise. I don’t know you in particular, but I know your type. I think you’d keep this whole crew anchored off
Dutch Harbor and not let a single man on shore rather than confess that you’re wrong.”

“Science has shown,” Natasha was saying, “that the flame of a church candle induces a hypnotic effect. In comparison, science is the electrification of the mind.”

“After all,” Volovoi asked, “what do you have to lose? You have no Party card, no family.”

“You have a family?” Arkady was interested. He saw the Invalid’s apartment in a Vladivostok high rise: a spiritless wife, a litter of little Volovois in red Pioneer scarves gathered at the glow of a television set.

“My wife is second secretary of the City Soviet.”

Erase the spiritless wife, Arkady thought. Enter a match for Volovoi, the hammer and anvil from whom the next generation of Communists would be pounded out.

“And a boy,” Volovoi added. “We have a stake in the future. You don’t. You’re the bad apple, and I don’t want you infecting Comrade Chaikovskaya.”

Natasha progressed from the electrification of the mind to the evolution of the flesh, from
Homo erectus
to Socialist Man. Her refresher course in atheism had been ordered up because of the old Orthodox church in Dutch Harbor, pitting science against ghosts.

“What makes you think I can infect her?”

“You’re glib,” Volovoi said. “You had an important father, went to special schools in Moscow, had everything the rest of us didn’t. You may impress her—you may even impress the captain—but I see you for what you are. You’re anti-Soviet. I can smell it on you.”

“There’s no difference,” Natasha was saying, “between belief in a ‘supreme intelligence’ and the faddish interest in aliens from other galaxies.”

Someone protested. “Statistically there has to be life in other galaxies.”

“But they’re not visiting us,” Natasha said.

“How would we know?” It was Kolya; who else? “If
they have achieved intergalactic flight, then they certainly have the ability to disguise themselves.”

No one annoyed Natasha more than Kolya Mer. It didn’t matter that they worked side by side on the factory line. Even the fact that she’d come to his aid when he sawed off his finger seemed to have made her more his enemy than his friend.

“Why would they come to visit us?” she demanded.

“To see scientific socialism in action,” Kolya said, and drew some approving murmurs around the cafeteria, though to Arkady the idea was the equivalent of walking around the world to see an anthill.

“I notice you haven’t visited me yet,” Volovoi said. “You haven’t cared to inform me of your progress.”

“I think you’re sufficiently informed,” Arkady said, thinking of Slava. “Anyway, I’d only ask to see your file on Zina Patiashvili, and you wouldn’t show it to me.”

“That’s right.”

“But I can guess what it says: ‘Reliable toiler, politically mature, cooperative.’ She didn’t do her work, she was a giddy girl who slept with everyone, and you must have known all this, which means she was an informer—not a Skiba or a Slezko, but an informer. Either that or she was sleeping with you.”

“Have you read the Bible?” Obidin asked.

“It is not necessary to read the Bible. That’s like saying you have to have a disease to be a doctor,” Natasha said. “I know the structure of the Bible, the books, the authors.”

“The miracles?” Obidin asked.

“Shame! Shame!” The audience around Obidin rose to denounce him. “She’s the expert! There are no miracles!”

Obidin shouted in return, “A woman is murdered, lies on the ocean floor and returns to the very ship where she was killed and you say there are no miracles!”

More people stood, infuriated, shaking their fists.
“Liar! Fanatic! That’s the kind of talk that will keep us out of Dutch Harbor!”

Slezko rose and pointed at Arkady; it was like looking into the barrel of a sniper. “There’s the provocateur who’s keeping us out of Dutch Harbor!”

“Miracles are real!” Obidin shouted.

“It will be a miracle if you get off this ship alive,” Volovoi told Arkady. “I hope you do. I look forward to your return to Vladivostok and your walk down the ladder to the Border Guard.”

Lidia Taratuta poured Arkady a glass of fortified wine. A
bufetchitsa
, the woman in charge of the officers’ mess, rated a two-berth cabin, but she seemed to have this one all to herself. Red was clearly her favorite color. A maroon Oriental rug of intricate design was pinned like a huge butterfly to the bulkhead. Red candles sat in brass holders. Red felt boots stood by the bunk. The cabin had the aura of an actress who had become a touch too voluptuous with age. There was an overfullness to Lidia’s hennaed hair and to her lips. An amber pendant hung in the warmth of a blouse that was half unbuttoned. The blouse expressed recklessness and generosity, as if it had unbuttoned itself. In the Soviet fishing fleet a captain did not choose—he was given his ship, his officers, his crew—with one exception: his
bufetchitsa
. Marchuk had used his option well.

“You want to know what officers Zina was sleeping with? You think she was a slut? Who are you to judge? It’s good you have Natasha to work with because I see that you don’t understand women. Maybe in Moscow you dealt with nothing but whores. I don’t know what Moscow is like. I only went once as a union representative. On the other hand, you don’t know what life on a ship is like. So which is worse, that you don’t understand women or that you don’t know this ship? Well, you may never want to be on another ship. More wine?”