Yellow Blue Tibia (21 page)

‘I heard it distinctly. I like to keep my engine clean. It’s a clean machine. I may need to service it. The diesel available in Moscow is inferior quality.’

‘Your car,’ I repeated, ‘did not backfire.’

 

Saltykov’s flat was part of the Gorky Estate, an accumulation of tottery-looking towerblocks in a concrete park, from the very peak of the tallest of which, if you stood on tiptoe, you might be able to see some of the treetops from Gorky’s more famous park. The blocks all stood on fat concrete legs, and Saltykov drove his taxi in underneath the belly of the nearest. He parked beside the pillar. There was space, here, for a hundred cars; but only half a dozen were parked. The rest of the space was taken up with metallic rubbish bins, like huge oil-drums, overfilled and spilling their waste onto the floor. A black-faced tractor, blushing with rust, sat beside a large heap of mechanical bits and bobs.

Saltykov killed the engine, and for a while we two sat in silence. ‘You are certain he
is
dead?’

‘I fought in the war,’ I said. ‘I saw enough dead bodies then. I know a dead body when I see one.’ We sat for a further moment in silence. ‘Believe me,’ I said, shortly, ‘I’m sorry to say so.’

‘It is very regrettable that he has been killed,’ Saltykov replied. ‘I am sad. You must not think otherwise. You may think otherwise, because my syndrome interferes with my capacity to express emotion. ’

‘Your syndrome,’ I said, in an unfriendly tone, as I fiddled a cigarette out of its pack.

‘This death is regrettable in many different ways,’ said Saltykov, in a precise voice. ‘For one thing—’

But I interrupted him. ‘Please do not itemise the various ways in which it is regrettable. We can both agree it is regrettable. You are not a machine, after all.’ I lit my cigarette.

‘In many ways, there is something machine-like about the processes of consciousness that characterise my syndrome,’ said Saltykov, with, I thought, a hint of smugness. ‘Nevertheless, we have to decide what to do now.’

‘We have to get out of Moscow,’ I said. ‘It’s not a difficult deduction. The KGB are looking for us. Trofim may be an ox, but he’ll be able to remember the registration of this car. We need another car, or we need to find another mode of transport, but either way we need to remove ourselves from the city. We need to go a long way away.’

‘I do not possess another car,’ said Saltykov. ‘As to removing ourselves, that was precisely our plan. And do not forget Mademoiselle Norman.’

I had indeed forgotten her. ‘Where is she?’

‘In my apartment. But first we must do something with Lunacharsky, or to be precise, the deceased body of Lunacharsky.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, unable to stand it any more, and yanking open the door of my side to stumble out of the car. ‘Let us dispose of Lunacharsky.’

I stood in the shadow of the vast building’s underside whilst Saltykov fussed from rubbish bin to rubbish bin, each almost as tall as he. From one he retrieved a torn sheet covered with the chocolate brown patches of dried blood (from what, who knows) that he laid on the ground beside the passenger door. Onto this we pulled Lunacharsky and wrapped the cloth about him, and in this undignified and dirty toga we heaved him up and into a bin. It was a sordid business. Then I smoked another cigarette whilst Saltykov fussed, like an old maid, at the back seat of his car. ‘A little blood has pooled in the space between the back of the seat and the base of the back,’ he reported, in a quasi-scientific tone of voice.

‘
Why
did you not drive through the red light?’

‘I reasoned,’ said Saltykov, in what was indeed a reasonable tone of voice, ‘that were I to do so I would involve my taxi in a collision with a car coming through the junction from another direction.’

‘I still can’t believe,’ I pressed, ‘that you retraced
exactly your previous route
in order to find your way back to the correct road.’

‘What you need to understand about my syndrome,’ he said, indistinctly, his head inside the car, ‘is that . . .’

‘I have heard enough about syndromes,’ I reported. ‘Let us all agree the death is regrettable.’

‘Yes, we can agree that.’ He stood up, and ran, like a chicken, to the nearest bin to rid himself of whatever cloth he had been using to wipe away the blood. His knees came up almost to his chest when he ran. Then he went round to the boot of the car and drew out of it a perfectly clean, folded blanket. This he arranged fussily over the back seat. ‘Dora Norman,’ he said, ‘has been very distressed at the death of her American friend, Coyne.’

‘Understandably,’ I said.

‘Perhaps for her to learn of the death of Lunacharsky would only augment her distress?’

‘I don’t suppose she needs to know.’

‘Then let us go up. We must collect her, and we must leave Moscow.’

‘Collect her?’

‘We can hardly leave her here!’ said Saltykov. ‘I am a registered taxi driver. The authorities have my address and details. The KGB will come to this address and detain her. To leave her would be to condemn her to death.’

‘
Collect her
makes her sound like a piece of luggage.’

Saltykov locked his taxi. Then he turned the key again to unlock it. Then he locked it once more. Unlock, lock. Unlock, lock. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are ready to go up.’

 

We crossed to the main entrance. When we opened the main door we let a Moscow breeze inside, and litter rustled and moved over the entrance-hall floor like paper wildlife. We waited beside the pockmarked steel doors of the lift. There was nobody else around.

‘We must go straight away,’ I said. ‘Who knows how quickly the authorities will put two and two together, and raid this address?’

‘To be precise,’ he said, ‘it is a question of how easily the KGB can retrieve details from the Militia. It may not happen rapidly.’

‘That is not a reason to be dilatory.’

The lift door creaked open, and a fantastically shrunken and wrinkled old woman shuffled out, carrying a string bag bulging with provisions. Her head was located in the space directly in front of her torso, as if her neck fitted into the centre of her sternum rather than between her shoulders, and her black hump traced a curve of mathematical purity. We waited until she had gone by and stepped inside the lift. The inside was urinous.

‘Our deceased comrade and friend,’ I said, as the doors wheezed shut, ‘was about to tell me what on earth is going on.’

‘He was?’

‘He promised me a full explanation.’

‘He did?’

‘He did. But then he was shot dead. Perhaps you could provide the explanation instead?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot,’ said Saltykov. ‘I am not apprised of the complete picture. Comrade Lunacharsky was apprised of the full picture.’

The sinking sensation in my stomach was only partly a result of the lift’s motion. ‘You are making a joke?’

‘By no means. I knew James Coyne, a little, through professional contacts. I would have called him friend. It was Coyne who introduced me to the Pushkin Chess Club, and to Comrade Lunacharsky. I understand only a few indistinct elements of the larger picture. They, I believe, saw the whole thing.’

‘They saw the big picture. You never saw the big picture?’

‘I am a recent recruit to their commendable plan.’

‘I see.’

The lift doors wheezed open. Standing on the landing was, I would have been prepared to swear, exactly the same old lady as we had seen exiting downstairs: the same woody deep-wrinkled face, the same low-slung head and black hump, the same string bag. She shuffled into the lift as we stepped out onto the fifteenth floor.

 

Saltykov’s tiny apartment was as minimalist as I would have expected it to be: sparsely furnished and ferociously neat. The worst that could be said of it was that it was a little dusty, and that the windows could have done with a wipe; but everything inside was certainly carefully arranged. The books were arranged (by the colour of their spines) so tightly on the bookshelves they effectively formed laminated blocks. I did what any lover of books would do: I checked to see what volumes Saltykov had upon his shelves. Most of these books were novels by the English writer Agatha Christie - in Russian, of course - although there were several technical manuals relating to nuclear power. Apart from the books, the tiny apartment was undecorated. There were no photographs on the wall, no knickknacks, no distractions. A narrow settee was arranged exactly in the centre of the living room; and exactly in the centre of the settee was the ample frame of Dora Norman: as large as life. Larger, indeed, than most lives.

She looked exactly as I remembered her, although her face bore signs of grief, and those, rather surprisingly, suited her. Her ample features appeared dignified and, even, beautiful in their sombre repose.

She saw me, and smiled. ‘[Mr Koreshy!]’ she said. [‘Oh how pleased I am to see you again!]’

‘[I am delighted to meet you again, Ms Norman,]’ I said. ‘[And my name is still Skvorecky.]’

It looked for a moment as if she might cry. ‘[I am sorry,]’ she said, bleakly. ‘[I am struggling to get the hang of Russian surnames.]’

‘[There is no need to apologise.]’ Feeling awkward standing over her, I sat myself on the corner of the settee. ‘[I was sorry to hear of the death of your friend, Mr Coyne.]’

‘[He told me, you know,]’ she replied.

‘[He?]’

‘[Jim. He said it would be dangerous. He warned me he could die. I pooh-poohed him.]’

‘[You,]’ I asked, after a pause, ‘[did what?]’

‘[I dismissed what he said.]’

‘[Ah!]’

‘[But he was right! Oh, the poor foolish man.]’

‘[Please accept my commiserations.]’

She looked straight at me. ‘[I have been sitting here in wonderful Mr Saltykov’s flat, just thinking and thinking about it. Do you know, I barely knew Jim? I knew him a little from the Church, of course. But I was never very close to him. And now he is dead, I find myself more upset in principle than in actuality. Does that sound heartless?]’

‘[Of course not,]’ I said.

‘Remember,’ said Saltykov, coming into the room, ‘don’t tell her about the death of Lunacharsky. If she discovers that Lunacharsky is dead, she could go all to pieces.’

‘[What’s that?]’ she said, looking up. ‘[What was that about Mr Lunacharsky?]’

‘You idiot,’ I snapped. ‘If you didn’t want her to hear about Lunacharsky, why did you mention Lunacharsky.’

‘She does not speak Russian!’ Saltykov objected, in a surprised tone of voice.

‘You may be surprised to hear,’ I retorted, ‘that the English for Lunacharsky is Lunacharsky.’

‘[What are you saying about wonderful Mr Lunacharsky?]’

‘[Ms Norman,]’ I said. ‘[Mr Lunacharsky is unable to join us right now.]’

‘
You
mentioned his name!’ objected Saltykov. ‘What are you doing? Are you telling her that Lunacharsky is dead? I told you not to tell her that Lunacharsky is dead!’

‘[I have only picked up a few words in Russian, I regret to confess, in my time here,]’ said Dora, in a low voice, ‘[but doesn’t
smertz
mean
dead
?]’

‘[I’m afraid so, Ms Norman,]’ I told her, glowering at Saltykov. I essayed a mournful face, but my face is not a very flexible organ.

‘[How dreadful! Your friend!]’

‘[It is regrettable, yes,]’ I said. ‘[But he was hardly my friend. I met him for the first time yesterday.]’

‘[Oh.]’

‘[Our situation is precarious, here in Moscow, and I’m afraid we must get out. I do not seek to alarm you. But you ought to know that not only the police but also the KGB have become involved.]’

‘[Oh my,]’ she said.

‘What are you saying?’ said Saltykov, hovering awkwardly by the door. ‘What are you telling her?’

‘I’m saying we need to get out of Moscow.’

‘And so we must,’ he agreed. ‘Just as long as you’re not telling her that Lunacharsky is dead.’

‘[Kiev,]’ said Dora. ‘[It must be Kiev.]’

‘[I would prefer to take you to the American embassy here in Moscow, my dear Ms Norman,]’ I said.

‘[We entered the USSR via Ukraine. The terms of the visa are very clear. I won’t be allowed out from Russia - only from the Ukraine.]’

‘[Going to the Ukraine, Ms Norman, will not protect you from the KGB. Only last year President Shcherbytsky reaffirmed the close bonds between the Ukraine SSR and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The jurisdiction of the KGB is . . .]’

‘[Nevertheless, I must get to the US embassy in Kiev,]’ she insisted. ‘[Can you do that?]’

‘[You are quite sure that is what you want?]’

‘[I’m serious, Mr Koreshy. If you leave me in Moscow, the Russians will block my leaving the country on the grounds that my travel permit was for the Ukraine only. They will request I be handed over to their law enforcement officers.]’

‘[The American embassy here would never hand you over!]’

‘[Perhaps not. But I could spend
years
sitting around the embassy building. Get me to Kiev; I’ll be on a jet to New York in a day. Please!]’

‘What is she saying?’ Saltykov wanted to know.

‘She wants to go to Kiev.’

‘But of
course
we must go to Kiev! Where else would we go?’

‘What on earth do you mean? Why not Finland, or the Crimea?’

‘Kiev! Of course Kiev! Didn’t Coyne explain to you?’

‘[Is it far?]’ put in Dora. ‘[Is it too far to drive?]’

‘[It is about as far from here as Madrid is from Paris,]’ I told her. ‘[Which is to say, in American terms . . .]’ But my knowledge of American geography was too rudimentary for me to call to mind a comparison. ‘[Well as far as between any two American cities that are as far apart from one another as Madrid is from Paris,]’ I concluded lamely.

‘You and I
are
going to Kiev,’ said Saltykov emphatically. ‘Let us take her too.’