The Red Coffin (5 page)

‘And the third?’ asked Pekkala, his mouth full of stew.

‘The third,’ said Kirov, ‘is what the mystics call
Barakka
. It is a waking dream, a vision, when you glimpse the workings of the universe.’

‘Like Saint Paul,’ said Pekkala, ‘on the road to Damascus.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ Pekkala waved his spoon. ‘Keep going. What does this have to do with food?’

‘There is the meal you eat simply to fill your stomach.’

‘Like a can of meat,’ suggested Pekkala.

Kirov shuddered. ‘Yes, like those cans of meat you put away. And then there are the meals you buy at the café where you eat your lunch, which are not much better except that you don’t have to clean up after yourself.’

‘And then?’

‘And then there are meals which elevate food to an art.’

Pekkala, who had been eating all this time, dropped his spoon into the empty bowl.

Hearing this, Kirov shook his head in amazement. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Inspector?’

‘No,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but I’ve had some excellent dreams. I don’t know why you didn’t become a professional chef.’

‘I cook because I want to,’ replied Kirov, ‘not because I have to.’

‘Is there a difference?’ asked Pekkala.

‘All the difference in the world,’ said Kirov. ‘If I had to cook all day for men like Nagorski, it would take all the pleasure out of cooking. Do you know what he was eating when I went into that restaurant? Blinis. With Caspian Sevruga, each morsel like a perfect black pearl. He was just stuffing it into his face. The art of food was lost on him completely.’

Self-consciously, Pekkala glanced into his already empty bowl. He had done his best to eat at a dignified pace, but the truth was that if Kirov hadn’t been there, he would have set aside the bowl and would be eating right out of the pot by now.

‘Any luck with Nagorski?’ asked Kirov.

‘Depends,’ sighed Pekkala, ‘on what you call luck.’

‘That machine he built,’ said Kirov. ‘I hear it weighs more than ten tons.’

‘Thirty, to be precise,’ replied Pekkala. ‘To hear him speak of it, you’d think that tank was a member of his family.’

‘You think he’s guilty?’

Pekkala shook his head. ‘Unpleasant maybe, but not guilty, as far as I can tell. I released him. He is now back at the facility where his tank is being designed.’ It was then he noticed a large box placed just inside the door. ‘What is that?’

‘Ah,’ Kirov began.

‘Whenever you say “Ah”, I know it’s something I’m not going to like.’

‘Not at all!’ Kirov laughed nervously. ‘It’s a present for you.’

‘It’s not my birthday.’

‘Well, it’s
sort
of a present. Actually it’s more of a …’

‘So it’s not really a present.’

‘No,’ admitted Kirov. ‘It’s really more of a suggestion.’

‘A suggestion,’ repeated Pekkala.

‘Open it!’ said Kirov, brandishing his spoon.

Pekkala got out of his chair and fetched the box. He placed it on his desk and lifted the lid. Inside was a neatly folded coat. Several other garments lay underneath.

‘I thought it was time you had a new outfit,’ said Kirov.

‘New?’ Pekkala looked down at the clothes he was wearing. ‘But these are new. Almost, anyway. I bought them just last year.’

Kirov made a sound in his throat. ‘Well, when I say new, what I mean is up to date.’

‘I am up to date!’ Pekkala protested. ‘I bought these clothes right here in Moscow. They were very expensive.’ And he was just about to go on about the prices he’d been forced to pay when Kirov cut him off.

‘All right,’ Kirov said patiently, trying another angle. ‘Where did you buy your clothes?’

‘Linsky’s, over by the Bolshoi Theatre. Linsky makes durable stuff!’ said Pekkala, patting the chest of his coat. ‘He told me himself that when you buy a coat from him, it’s the last one you will ever need to wear. That’s his personal motto, you know.’

‘Yes,’ Kirov brought his hands together in a silent clap, ‘but do you know what people call his shop? Clothes for Dead Men.’

‘Well, that seems a little dramatic.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Inspector, Linsky sells clothes to funeral homes!’

‘So what if he does?’ Pekkala protested. ‘Funeral directors need something to wear, you know. They can’t all walk around naked. My father was a funeral director …’

Kirov was finally losing his patience. ‘Linsky doesn’t sell clothes to the directors! Linsky makes the clothes that go on bodies when they are laid out for a viewing. That’s why his clothes are the last ones you’ll ever wear. Because you’ll be buried in them!’

Pekkala frowned. He inspected his lapels. ‘But I’ve always worn this style of coat.’

‘That’s the problem, Inspector,’ Kirov reasoned with him. ‘There is such a thing as fashion, even for people like you. Now look.’ Kirov walked across the room and removed the coat from the box. Carefully, he unfolded it. Then, holding it by the shoulders, he lifted it up for Pekkala to see. ‘Look at this. This is the latest style. Try it on. That’s all I’m asking.’

Reluctantly, Pekkala put on the jacket.

Kirov helped him into it. ‘There!’ he announced. ‘How does it feel?’

Pekkala raised his arms and lowered them again. ‘All right, I suppose.’

‘You see! I told you! And there’s a shirt there and a new pair of trousers as well. No one will be able to call you a fossil now.’

Pekkala frowned. ‘I didn’t realise anyone called me a fossil.’

Kirov patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s just an expression. And now I have something else for you. A real present this time.’ He held his arm out towards the windowsill, where a small plant sagged under the weight of bright orange fruits.

‘Tangerines?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Kumquats,’ Kirov corrected him. ‘It took me months to find one of these plants and more than a year to get it to bear fruit. Are you ready?’

‘Kumquats,’ said Pekkala, still trying out the word.

Kirov reached out and took hold of a fruit between his thumb and first two fingers. Gently he twisted until the ball came away from its stem, then held it out to Pekkala.

Pekkala plucked the kumquat from Kirov’s fingers and sniffed at it.

‘Eat!’ said Kirov, his cheeks flushing red. ‘That’s an order!’

Pekkala raised his eyebrows. ‘An order, Kirov?’

‘I do outrank you.’

‘But I don’t have a rank!’

‘Exactly.’ Kirov flapped his hand at Pekkala as if he were shooing a fly. ‘Don’t make me ask you again!’

Pekkala took a small bite, tearing through the thin glowing skin of the kumquat and into the yellowy segments beneath. His eyes closed tightly as the sour taste flooded his mouth. ‘It’s inedible!’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Kirov. Then he went back to the window-sill and traced one finger lovingly over the deep green, shiny leaves.

‘You need a girlfriend, Kirov. Or a wife. You’re spending too much time with these kumquats. Now please go down and bring the car around front.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘We have a rendezvous with thirty tons of Russian steel. Nagorski has offered to give us a tour of the place where the tank is being designed. He is anxious to prove to us that the facility is secure.’

‘Yes, Inspector.’ Kirov picked up his keys and headed out the door.

‘Did you remember your gun?’ Pekkala called to him.

Kirov groaned. His footsteps came to a halt.

‘You forgot again, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t need it this time,’ Kirov protested.

‘You never know when you will need it. That’s why there are regulations, Kirov!’

Kirov trudged back up the stairs and into the office. Then he began rifling through the drawers of his desk.

‘Have you lost it?’ asked Pekkala.

‘It’s in here somewhere,’ muttered Kirov.

Pekkala shook his head and sighed.

‘Ah!’ shouted Kirov. ‘Here it is!’ He held up a Tokarev automatic; standard issue for army officers and members of state security.

‘Now go and get the car,’ Pekkala told him.

‘On my way!’ Kirov swept past and clattered down the stairs.

Before Pekkala left the office, he removed the new jacket, replaced it in the box, and put his old coat on again. As he fastened the buttons, he went over to the window and looked out over the rooftops of Moscow. Late-afternoon sunlight
shone weak and silvery upon the slates. Crows and pigeons shared the chimney pots. His gaze returned to the plants on the windowsill. Glancing back to see if Kirov had returned, Pekkala reached out and plucked another kumquat. He put the whole thing in his mouth and bit down. The bitter juice exploded in his mouth. He swallowed and let out a gasp. Then he made his way down to the street.

A gentle rain was falling.

Kirov stood beside the car. It was a model 1935 Emka, with a squared-off roof, a large front grille and headlights mounted on the wide and sweeping cowlings, giving it a haughty look.

Kirov held open the passenger door, waiting for Pekkala. The engine was running. The Emka’s wipers twitched jerkily back and forth, like the antennae of an insect.

As Pekkala shut the battered yellow door behind him, he turned and almost barged into two women who were walking past.

The women were bundled in scarves and bulky coats. They chattered happily, breath condensing into halos about their heads.

‘Excuse me,’ said Pekkala, rocking back on his heels so as not to collide with the women.

The women did not break their stride. They merely glanced at him, then returned to their conversation.

Pekkala watched them go, staring at the woman on the left. He had only caught a glimpse of her – pale eyes and a wisp of blonde hair trailing across her cheek – but now the blood drained out of his face.

Kirov noticed. ‘Pekkala,’ he said quietly.

Pekkala did not seem to hear. He walked quickly after the women. Just before they turned the corner, reaching out, he touched the shoulder of the pale-eyed woman.

She wheeled about. ‘What is it?’ she asked, suddenly afraid. ‘What do you want?’

Pekkala jerked his hand away as if he’d just been shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I thought you were somebody else.’

Kirov was walking towards them.

Pekkala swallowed, barely able to speak. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he told her.

‘Who did you think I was?’ she asked.

Kirov came to a stop beside them. ‘Excuse us, ladies,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We were just going in the opposite direction.’

‘Well, I hope you find who you are looking for,’ the woman told Pekkala.

Then she and her friend walked on down the street, while Kirov and Pekkala returned to the car.

‘You didn’t have to come after me like that,’ said Pekkala. ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out of embarrassing situations.’

‘Not as capable as you are of getting into them,’ replied Kirov. ‘How many times are you going to go galloping after strange women?’

‘I thought it was …’

‘I know who you thought it was, and I also know as well as you do that she’s not in Moscow. She’s not even in the country! And even if she was here, right in front of you, it wouldn’t matter because she has another life now. Or have you forgotten all that?’

‘No,’ sighed Pekkala, ‘I have not forgotten.’

‘Come on, Inspector, let’s go have a look at this tank. Maybe they will let us take one home.’

‘We wouldn’t have to worry about someone taking our parking spot,’ said Pekkala, as he climbed into the rear seat of the Emka. ‘We’d just park on top of them.’

As Kirov pulled out into the stream of cars, he did not see Pekkala look back at the empty road where he had stood with the women, as if to see some ghost of his old self among the shadows.

Her name was Ilya Simonova. She had been a teacher at the Tsarskoye Primary school, just outside the grounds of the Tsar’s estate. Most of the Palace staff sent their children to the Tsarskoye school, and Ilya often led groups of students on walks across the Catherine and Alexander Parks. That was how Pekkala had met her; at a garden party to mark the beginning of the new school year. He had not actually gone to the party, but saw it on his way home from the station. He stopped at the wall of the school and looked in.

Of that moment in time, Pekkala had no recollection of anything else except the sight of her, standing just outside a white marquee set up for the occasion. Ilya was wearing a pale green dress. She did not have a hat, so he could see her face clearly – high cheekbones and eyes a dusty blue.

At first, he thought he must know her from somewhere before. Something in his mind made her seem familiar to him. But that wasn’t it. And whatever it was, this sudden lurching of his senses towards something it couldn’t explain, stopped him in his tracks and kept him there. The next thing he knew, a woman on the other side of the wall had come up
and asked him if he was looking for somebody. She was tall and dignified, her grey hair knotted at the back.

‘Who is that?’ asked Pekkala, nodding towards the woman in the green dress.

‘That’s the new teacher, Ilya Simonova. I am the headmistress, Rada Obolenskaya. And you are the Tsar’s new detective.’

‘Inspector Pekkala.’ He bowed his head in greeting.

‘Would you like me to introduce you?’

‘Yes!’ Pekkala blurted out. ‘I just … she looks like someone I know. At least, I think she does.’

‘I see,’ said Madame Obolenskaya.

‘I might be wrong,’ explained Pekkala.

‘I don’t suppose you are,’ she replied.

He proposed to Ilya Simonova exactly one year later.

A date was set, but they were never married. They never got the chance. Instead, on the eve of the Revolution, Ilya boarded the last train heading west. It was bound for Paris, where Pekkala promised to meet her as soon as the Tsar had granted him permission to get out of the country. But Pekkala never did get out. Some months later, he was arrested by Bolshevik militia men while attempting to cross into Finland. From there, his journey to Siberia began, and it would be many years before he had another chance to leave the country.

‘You are free to go now if you wish,’ said Stalin, ‘but before
you make your decision, there is something you should
know.’

‘What?’ asked Pekkala nervously. ‘What do I need to know?’

Stalin was watching him closely, as if the two men were
playing cards. Now he opened a drawer on his side of the desk,
the dry wood squeaking as he pulled. He withdrew a photo
graph. For a moment, he studied it. He laid the picture down,
placed one finger on top of it and slid the photograph towards
Pekkala.

It was Ilya. He recognised her instantly. She was sitting at
a small café table. Behind her, printed on the awning of the
café, Pekkala saw the words Les Deux Magots. She was smiling
as she watched something to the left of where the camera had
been placed. He could see her strong, white teeth. Now, reluc
tantly, Pekkala’s gaze shifted to the man who was sitting beside
her. He was thin, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore
a jacket and tie and the stub of a cigarette was pinched between
his thumb and second finger. He held the cigarette in the Rus
sian manner, with the burning end balanced over his palm as if
to catch the falling ash. Like Ilya, the man was smiling. Both of
them were watching something just to the left of the camera. On
the other side of the table was an object which at first Pekkala
almost failed to recognise, since it had been so long since he had
seen one. It was a baby carriage, its hood pulled up to shelter the
infant from the sun.

Pekkala realised he wasn’t breathing. He had to force himself
to fill his lungs.

Quietly, Stalin cleared his throat. ‘You must not hold it against
her. She waited, Pekkala. She waited a very long time. Over ten
years. But a person cannot wait forever, can they?’

Pekkala stared at the baby carriage. He wondered if the child
had her eyes.

‘As you see,’ Stalin gestured towards the picture, ‘Ilya is happy
now. She has a family. She is a teacher, of Russian of course,
at the prestigious École Stanislas. She has tried to put the past
behind her. That is something all of us must do at some point in
our lives.’

Slowly, Pekkala raised his head, until he was looking Stalin in
the eye. ‘Why did you show this to me?’

Stalin’s lips twitched. ‘Would you rather have arrived in Paris,
ready to start a new life, only to find that it was once more out
of reach?’

‘Out of reach?’ Pekkala felt dizzy. His mind seemed to rush
from one end of his skull to the other, like fish trapped in a net.

‘You could still go to her, of course.’ Stalin shrugged. ‘But
whatever peace of mind she might have won for herself in
these past years would be gone in an instant. And let us say,
for the sake of argument, that you might persuade her to leave
the man she married. Let us say that she even leaves behind her
child …’

‘Stop,’ said Pekkala.

‘You are not that kind of man,’ continued Stalin. ‘You are
not the monster that your enemies once believed you to be. If you
were, you would never have been such a formidable opponent for
people like myself. Monsters are easy to defeat. With such people,
it is merely a question of blood and time, since their only weapon
is fear. But you, Pekkala, you won the hearts of the people and
the respect of your enemies. I do not believe you understand how
rare a thing that is. Those whom you once served are out there
still.’ Stalin brushed his hand towards the window of his study,
and out across the pale blue autumn sky. ‘They have not forgotten
you, Pekkala, and I don’t believe you have forgotten them.’

‘No,’ whispered Pekkala, ‘I have not forgotten.’

‘What I am trying to tell you, Pekkala, is that you can leave
this country if you want to. I’ll put you on the next train to Paris
if that’s really what you want. Or you can stay here, where you
are truly needed and where you still have a place if you want it.’

Until that moment, the thought of staying on in Russia had
not occurred to him. But now Pekkala realised that his last
gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his
wife must be to let her believe he was dead.