She sat very still, then said, Youre taking a hell of a risk, you know that?
His face lit up with a kind of delight.
Yes. I know that.
Suppose I cant love you?
I could persecute you.
I could blackmail you.
Yes, he said.
She leaned forward and kissed him again. He tried to take her in his arms but she drew back.
Youre not related to the Chislenko who used to play for Dynamo, are you? she asked.
No, Im not, he said.
Good. I hate football, she said leaning towards him once more.
The wireless was still blaring when he woke up in the middle of the night. It was dark and Natasha was warm beside him under the coarse linen sheet. She was awake.
Lev, she said.
Yes.
I was thinking.
Yes.
All that stuff about there being no one for that man to be a ghost of. Because no one had died in the Gorodok Building since it was erected.
Yes.
Well, its not true now, is it? I mean, if the lift was made as far back as 1914, anything could have happened in it, couldnt it? And those old-fashioned clothes he was wearing, they would make sense now. Have you thought of that?
He didnt tell her, yes, of course Ive thought of all that, because no one loves a know-it-all policeman, and he desperately wanted this girl to love him. Instead he turned towards her and began kissing her breasts and after a while had the satisfaction of knowing hed put all thoughts of the strange events in the south lift of the Gorodok Building out of her mind.
Putting it out of his own mind in any permanent sense proved much more difficult.
Lev, she said.
Yes.
I was thinking.
Yes.
All that stuff about there being no one for that man to be a ghost of. Because no one had died in the Gorodok Building since it was erected.
Yes.
Well, its not true now, is it? I mean, if the lift was made as far back as 1914, anything could have happened in it, couldnt it? And those old-fashioned clothes he was wearing, they would make sense now. Have you thought of that?
He didnt tell her, yes, of course Ive thought of all that, because no one loves a know-it-all policeman, and he desperately wanted this girl to love him. Instead he turned towards her and began kissing her breasts and after a while had the satisfaction of knowing hed put all thoughts of the strange events in the south lift of the Gorodok Building out of her mind.
Putting it out of his own mind in any permanent sense proved much more difficult.
Every instinct told him that his wisest policy was now to shun the whole affair completely. If Serebrianikov and Bunin decided that nothing should be done about Osjanin, then it would be very silly to let himself be discovered apparently still paddling in these muddied waters. Particularly as his only excuse could be that he was still hunting for a ghost!
What he wanted to do was contact Leningrad again, or better still to go there, but there was no way he could hope to conceal even a simple telephone call, let alone a journey. So he compromised by paying yet another visit to the Records Office.
Hello, Comrade Inspector, said Karamzin, the clerk, with a simpering smile of welcome. Do we want to rifle my records again?
Good Lord! thought Chislenko. Can it be that the vain little bastards beginning to imagine my frequent visits have got something to do with him!
He said, Is this really a Central records office? I mean, do you have records of other buildings in Leningrad, say?
Oh yes, said the clerk confidently, then modified his certainty to, At least, some of them. As long as its post-war, that is.
This would be pre-war, said Chislenko.
A public building?
A hotel that was taken over by the State, more or less, said Chislenko. So in a sense it was a public building.
What year?
Ive no idea, said Chislenko. Its the Hotel Imperial, to start with. Then it becomes the L.D. Trotsky Building, and it ends up as the May Day Centre.
The clerk left the room rolling his eyes as if to say, if all he wants is my conversation, why does he have to invent such bloody inconvenient excuses? He was away for thirty dusty minutes, but his face was triumphant beneath the smudges when he returned.
Heres something, he said. Its not much, but at least it shows were willing.
He simpered again.
Chislenko ignored him and studied the musty file. Basically it was a record of maintenance expenses. Once the Imperial became the property of the State, it was State money that was required to replace broken windows, make good storm damage, renovate the heating system. Once again, he blessed the bureaucrats. His practised eye quickly scanned the sheets. There was nothing of interest till he reached 1934.
And there it was, July 1934, a sum of money, and typed alongside it, repair to lift.
Thanks, he said to the clerk. Thanks a lot.
My pleasure, said the clerk to the policemans rapidly retreating back. Entirely, it seems.
Now one thing remained to do. Again, a telephone call to his MVD colleagues in Leningrad would probably have been the quickest way, but the same objection remained as before. So instead he took a calculated risk and drove down Leningradsky Prospekt till he reached Pravda Street, where the offices of the great newspaper of the same name were situated.
His application to examine copies of the paper for July 1934 was greeted with the bored resentment which is the Muscovites conditioned response to almost any request for help or information, but at least he was not required to produce any authorization other than his MVD card.
Seated at a rough wooden table, he began his search.
His first discovery was that in 1934 the thirteenth of July had also fallen on a Friday.
He found the report he was looking for printed three days later. Probably in the impatient West it would have been in the very next edition, but wise Mother Russia always takes time to weigh carefully what her children may safely be told, what is best kept from them.
This was a small report, easily missed. It merely stated a man had been killed in an unfortunate accident at the May Day Centre on July 13th. For some reason the lift had jammed between the ninth and tenth floors, but the indicator had continued to function. Thinking the lift had arrived, the accident victim had opened the outer door on the seventh floor and stepped into the shaft before he realized his error. The lift had then started to function again and medical evidence was not clear whether the fall had killed him or whether the descending lift had crushed him to death in the basement.
Chislenko swallowed hard. But it was not just the ghastliness of the story which twisted his stomach. It was the mans name.
He was a rising light in the Leningrad Party, a valued friend and associate of the famous Sergei Kirov.
His name was Fyodor Bunin.
Chislenko called for the man in charge of the archives.
Do you have a copy of the Encyclopædia of Historical Biography? he asked.
The man looked as if hed have liked to deny this, or at least to say that it was nothing to do with him if theyd got one or not. But something in Chislenkos expression made him reply with only token surliness, I expect so, and go and fetch it.
It was the latest edition, though there was nothing to show that there had been previous editions. Anyone who had a full set would be able to chart all the ebbs and flows of the great power struggles which had shaken the State since its inception nearly seventy years before. But as private ownership of the work was forbidden by edict, private owners were few and far between.
Chislenko thumbed through the bulky tome till he found Bunin. It was a sign of something, he didnt know what, that Bunin the novelist and Nobel Prize Winner, who chose to live in Paris after the Revolution, actually merited a few lines. This contrasted with a page and a half on Boris Bunin, Head of the MVD, the Ministry of the Interior. His star was clearly in the ascendant, so much so that its light had spilled over to illuminate the brief life and minor eminence of his elder brother, Fyodor, whose promising career had been nipped off by a tragic accident.
According to the Encyclopædia, in the atmosphere of growing distrust in the early thirties between Stalin and his powerful henchmen, Sergei Kirov, Party Leader in Leningrad, Fyodor Bunins voice had been one of the few influences towards conciliation and compromise. Young though he was (only 25 at his death) he had the ear of both leaders and was widely regarded as one of tomorrows men. With his death any vague possibility of reconciliation between the opposing forces had disappeared, and a few months later Kirovs assassination had signalled the beginning of the Great Terror.
Chislenko finished reading and closed the volume with a snap that made the archivist purse his lips in irritation. On his desk a telephone rang and the man glowered at Chislenko as if that too was his fault, but the Inspector did not notice.
Everything in this case seemed to lure him into greater peril. To be found pursuing a ghost as if he believed in it would do his career no good at all, but to offend the sensibility, as well as the sense, of his own MVD Minister by suggesting that this was the ghost of his own dearly beloved brother might well destroy it.
The best, the only thing to do was to tiptoe quietly away and never again mention the Leningrad accident.
Inspector!
He realized the archivist was digging his finger into his shoulder as if hed been trying to attract his attention for some while.
Yes?
It is for you, said the archivist triumphantly.
He evidently meant the telephone.
Chislenko rose and went to it.
Chislenko, he said.
Kedin here. Look, youd better get back, quick as you can. Serebrianikovs in the Procurators office and he wants to see you.
Im on my way, said Chislenko. Hold on though, Kedin
Yes?
How did you know where to contact me?
Serebrianikov said we would get you at the Pravda building. Why do you ask?
Chislenko didnt reply but gently replaced the receiver.
So much for all his precautions! He should have known from the start that men like Serebrianikov didnt let their watchers go unwatched. What was perhaps more frightening was the arrogant casualness with which the man tweaked the thread to bring him back to hand.
He returned the papers and the Encyclopædia to the archivists desk and watched the man cross out his name. It felt like a symbolic act.