Trans-Siberian Express (37 page)

“But you have destroyed his instrument.”

Zeldovich looked sharply at Anna Petrovna. Damn, Alex thought. This time I am the betrayer.

“So now we are all in it together,” Zeldovich said, turning to Anna Petrovna. “You might have spared him the knowledge. It could be bad for his health.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Anna Petrovna said indignantly.

Pulling out his gun, Zeldovich put the barrel against Alex’s chest.

“So pull the trigger, you son of a bitch,” Alex said, surprised at his own show of courage.

“It would be simple,” Zeldovich said with obvious bravado. “Puff, and I will throw your carcass to the Siberian wolves.”

“Then you will have to kill me as well,” Anna Petrovna said. “Then who will save your ass?”

Zeldovich smiled and put the gun away.

“In due time,” he said, chuckling. “Do you really believe that Grivetsky’s death will stop Dimitrov? I know him well. He controls the Politburo, although if he had to, he would act without them.”

“If he lives,” Anna Petrovna said.

“Which is highly unlikely,” Alex interjected.

“Then why are you so anxious to go to him?”

“I am a doctor.”

“Even if it meant that he would live long enough to release his missiles?” Anna Petrovna asked.

“Even if that.”

He knew he was trying her patience.

“I don’t understand,” Anna Petrovna pleaded. “This man has it in his mind to murder millions and can conceivably find the power to do so. By prolonging his life you will be a party to it.”

“I am not God,” Alex said, but the context seemed all wrong.

Zeldovich watched the exchange, looking from face to face as one might watch a tennis match. Was his desire to return to Dimitrov just a sop to his own ego, an academic vindication of a self-righteous moral position? Whatever happened, this experience had marked him.

“Do you really think there is the remotest possibility of your ever returning to Dimitrov’s bedside?” Zeldovich said slowly, his lips pressed tightly, as he looked at his watch.

So it was out of his hands, Alex thought with relief.

FROM
the moment when the two men burst into the compartment Godorov sensed that this might, indeed, be the beginning of the end of his life. Not that it mattered. He felt no pain now. He was stretched out in the lower bunk, floating, it seemed, on the bounce of the train. He wondered whether he was feeling joy, since he could barely remember what it was like.

Perhaps he had been sleeping, was still sleeping, or had been transported back in time to his old home and he was lying in his own warm, soft, quilted bed, his head on the oversized feather pillow. He could not summon the barest personal memory of the past thirty years of his life. It was as if all that misery had happened to someone else, a man for whom he could feel only some vague pity, like a blind beggar who had sat perpetually on the wooden steps of his little village’s only store. Occasionally his father would fling a kopek into the man’s lap. Godorov was always envious of the gift, but he had been ashamed of his greed. It was that sense of shame, of wanting to do good, that he could recall in himself now, which tranquilized him and made that other Godorov, that hateful, miserable, murdering Godorov, seem a figure beyond reality.

The other man in the compartment, the Jew Ginzburg, had jumped to the floor, obviously startled by the two men’s sudden entrance. They stood in the center of the compartment, feet planted firmly as they hesitated momentarily, their eyes darting from one man to the other.

“Krasnoyarsk,” the man with the white hair said. “Which one of you got off at Krasnoyarsk?” Oh that, Godorov thought, remembering the old Godorov, that limping wretch who had paid a little visit to Shmiot. That one. What does he have to do with me? he thought. He rolled his eyes away from the two men and looked into the Jew’s face. It was twisted into a defiant grin.

“I had better get the boy,” the man with the quivering chins said. He started to move toward the door. The white-haired man put a hand on his chest, postponing his exit.

“Make it easy on yourself,” he said to both men at once. “The boy will identify you in any event.”

Godorov remembered the small face of the boy watching the other Godorov, mimicking the silly walk of the other Godorov. He smiled. It was a good likeness, a perfect replica. In his mind he could see the boy, staring as the other Godorov sweated over the body of Shmiot, cracking the bones as if they belonged to a doll.

“Well,” the white-haired man said.

Godorov felt the eyes of the Jew on him.

“Yes, Krasnoyarsk,” the Jew whispered.

“You admit it then,” the white-haired man said gently, looking at Ginzburg.

“The boy will know,” the man with the quivering chins said.

“That’s why it would be better to admit it,” the white-haired man said, looking at the Jew. Godorov felt himself merging with the other Godorov again, but only in body, since he was certain that his spirit had moved elsewhere. He could not muster any pity or compassion for Shmiot. It all seemed to have occurred quite outside of himself.

“You might as well tell him,” Godorov said.

It hardly mattered. It was of absolutely no importance. He was trying to remember what hate had been like, what pain was.

“That is good advice,” the white-haired man said to the Jew.

His manner seemed vaguely familiar, Godorov thought, recalling other interrogations. At the beginning of these affairs there was always politeness, he remembered. He knew he had returned to the essence of himself again, and he was almost giddy with delight. Tell them what I did, he told the Jew silently.

“Tell them,” he said aloud.

“Your passports, please,” the white-haired man said. He was polite, soft-spoken. Ginzburg reached into the suitcase that lay under Godorov’s bunk. Their eyes met. The Jew’s eyes flickered briefly. It is all right, they seemed to say. I am used to such matters.

“Mine is in the inner pocket of my coat on the hook.” Godorov pointed.

“Well, then, stand up and get it.”

Godorov chuckled. “I can’t walk.”

The officials looked at his legs.

“He is crippled,” the man with the white hair said.

“That is the long and short of it,” Godorov said.

The heavier man dipped fat fingers into the pocket. He removed the passport and looked into Godorov’s face, confirming his identity.

“Godorov, Ivan Vasilyevich,” he read.

But the white-haired man was obviously more interested in Ginzburg, who rummaged through his suitcase and withdrew a packet containing two passports. He handed them over.

“Mikhail Moiseyevich Ginzburg.” The white-haired man intoned the name, looking sharply into Ginzburg’s face.

Ginzburg nodded. The white-haired man held out the opened passport for the man with the quivering chins to see. Godorov watched him nod conspiratorially. Now that the pain was gone, he felt more lucid, almost clairvoyant. Ginzburg looked at him again, the hooded eyes transmitting information clearly. I know them, Godorov imagined the eyes said. He blinked in affirmation.

“And this other passport?” the white-haired man said, looking around the compartment.

“My wife.”

“Where is she?”

“In the baggage car.”

The two officials looked at each other. Godorov smiled. I am being deliberately obtuse, Ginzburg’s eyes said. His silence seemed a deliberate affront.

“What is she doing in the baggage car?” the man with the quivering chins asked. “There is no heat or light in there.”

“I am taking her to Birobidjan,” Ginzburg said, not even bothering to explain.

“What does he mean?” the white-haired man said to Godorov.

Godorov shrugged. Could they possibly understand? He could feel their politeness ending, their exasperation and cruelty starting.

“You can stop all this Jewish cleverness,” the white-haired man said. Ginzburg was standing up, his bare feet cold on the icy floor. The white-haired man grabbed a handful of his flannel undershirt and, lifting, forced Ginzburg to rise up on his toes.

“I am talking about you, you little Hebe.”

Godorov watched as Ginzburg took the abuse without resistance. The man with the quivering chins had joined the attack, grabbing a handful of hair and roughly tilting Ginzburg’s head back.

“We have a witness,” the white-haired man said. “It is useless to claim your innocence. It will go better with you if you confess.”

“Confess?” Ginzburg whispered. “I killed no one,” he said with mild indifference.

“He is so clever,” the white-haired man said. “These Jews are so damned clever.”

Ginzburg watched them, expressionless.

“He knows damned well he didn’t kill him,” the white-haired man said to his companion. “He didn’t try to kill him. He wanted to maim him beyond hope of recovery.” He turned again to Ginzburg. “Isn’t that right, you little Jew bastard?”

Ginzburg refused to respond. I’ll handle them, he seemed to say, looking briefly at Godorov.

“What did he do to you, this Shmiot?” the white-haired man probed. They still held Ginzburg by the shirt and head. “Try to rape your precious Hebe wife? Something like that, Ginzburg?”

“She wasn’t Jewish,” Ginzburg said in a tone of indifference. The white-haired man released Ginzburg’s shirt and opened the passport of Ginzburg’s wife.

“Russian,” he said with disgust.

“And in the baggage car?” said the other man, with heavy sarcasm. “If she was in there since Moscow, she’d be dead by now.”

“She is,” Ginzburg said calmly.

“Killed her too?” the white-haired man said.

“Perhaps.”

“The man’s a psychopath,” the white-haired man said.

“You are all absurd,” Godorov said calmly. “It was me.”

The two officials looked at each other and smiled.

“They are both crazy,” the man with the White hair said. “A man who can’t walk could hardly be a suspect.”

“I’m telling you. It was me,” Godorov persisted, but the officials ignored him.

“I’ll get the boy for a formal identification,” the man with the quivering chins said.

“That will close the matter,” the white-haired man agreed.

Ginzburg settled into the only chair. Clasping his hands in front of him, he seemed like a small child showing his good behavior. The man with the quivering chins let himself out, leaving the white-haired man scowling at Ginzburg.

“They are very clever, these people,” the white-haired man said, speaking to Godorov. “You cannot imagine how brutal the attack on Shmiot was. The man is literally a basket case. You can never tell about motive. Jealousy. Greed. A fit of temper. Could have, stemmed from a simple argument over some trifling subject. You never know about these people.” He seemed to warm up as he continued. “They have these hidden aggressive tendencies, all disguised under a bland humble exterior. Look at him sitting there.” He tapped his own head. “You’ll never know what goes on in their heads, some plotting and deviousness, no doubt.” He opened Godorov’s passport and studied it again. “You Georgians know what I mean.” He winked at Godorov. “Although I’ll never understand why you wanted to take the rap for him.”

It was a game they were all playing, Godorov thought. Very soon the boy would arrive and the little charade would be over. He wished it could be prolonged. The idea of humiliating these officials was titillating, especially to him, who had been deprived of such amusement for so long. He felt younger, stronger, clearer in mind than he had felt since his youth, as if the balloon of his anger had burst and all the horror had sputtered out in one continuous exhalation.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” the white-haired man asked Ginzburg, who looked up at him blankly.

Godorov turned his head quickly when he heard the latch of the compartment click. In the doorway, filling it up, the man with the quivering chins held little Vladimir by his upper arm. The little boy’s face was a mass of black and brown smears, from the charcoal and the chocolate, and he was squirming in the man’s grip.

“It will only take a moment, you little brat,” the man with the quivering chins said. Godorov watched as the little eyes darted from face to face, coming to rest on Godorov. He is a stupid little fellow, Godorov thought, wondering how he could have harbored such hatred for him. He is just another ridiculous little boy. Godorov prepared to rise from the bunk and submit to the two officials. But although he pictured the movement in his mind—the actual act of rising, then sitting, finally standing—he could not move. He touched and squeezed his thighs, but the flesh was unresponsive. Summoning all of his will, he again made an effort to move, only to find that it was impossible. He traced downward with his fingers from his neck to his hips. That far he had feeling. Beyond that point was only soft flesh without feeling and without pain. He saw the eyes of the boy meet his own, the little mouth twisted in a sticky smile. He raised himself on one elbow, conscious that he was grimacing with effort. Only the little boy noticed.

“Well?” the man with the white hair said impatiently. The boy looked at Ginzburg, who smiled back at him, his face glowing with contentment.

“Well?” the man with the white hair said again, trying to be more patient.

The old Godorov might have felt despair in this predicament. But the new Godorov continued to be calm, savoring the joy of painlessness, the absence of any anxiety whatsoever. The old Godorov might have felt the biting desperation of a wasted life, while the new Godorov felt only tranquility and fulfillment. He lay back again on the bunk and waited for the boy to accuse him.

“Dammit,” the man with the quivering chins said, shaking the boy like an oversized rag doll.

“Just point out the man you saw in Krasnoyarsk,” the white-haired man said.

“Tell him, you little brat,” the man with the quivering chins said.

“Let me.” The white-haired man knelt beside the boy.

Vladimir stared imperiously down at him. For a moment Vladimir looked away, glanced at Godorov. Then he looked down again.

“Would you like some more chocolate?” the white-haired man said. The boy’s eyes opened wide. He nodded his head.