Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [28]
“You’re working room by room?” Arkady asked.
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t you be out with your friends playing volleyball or something?”
“It’s a little late for volleyball.”
“Did you lift prints from the videotapes?”
“Yes.” She bounced a glare off the mirror.
“I got you more morgue time,” Arkady said to mollify her. Isn’t that the way to soothe a woman, he thought, by offering her more time in a morgue? “Why do you want to go back inside Rudy?”
“There was too much blood. I did get laboratory results on the blood from the car. It was his type, at least.”
“Good.” If she was happy, he was happy. He turned on the television and VCR, inserted one of Rudy’s tapes, pushed Play and Fast Forward. Accompanied by high-speed gibberish, images rushed across the screen: the golden city of Jerusalem, Wailing Wall, Mediterranean beach, synagogue, orange grove, high-rise hotels, casinos, El Al. He slowed the tape to catch the narration, which was more glottal than Russian. “Do you speak Hebrew?” he asked Polina.
“Why in the world would I speak Hebrew?”
The second tape showed in rapid succession the white city of Cairo, pyramids and camels, Mediterranean beach, sailboats on the Nile, muezzin on a minaret, date grove, high-rise hotels, Egyptair. “Arabic?” Arkady asked.
“No.”
The third travelogue opened in a beer garden and raced through etchings of medieval Munich, aerial views of rebuilt Munich, shoppers on the Marienplatz, beer cellar, polka bands in lederhosen, Olympic stadium, Oktoberfest, rococo theater, gilded angel of peace, autobahn, another beer garden, nearby Alps, vapor trail of Lufthansa. He rewound to the Alps to listen to a narration that was both ponderous and exuberant.
“You speak German?” Polina asked. The dusted mirror was starting to look like a collection of moth wings, each one an oval of whorls.
“A little.” Arkady had spent his army years in Berlin listening to Americans and had picked up some German in the truculent fashion that Russians approach the language of Bismarck, Marx and Hitler. It wasn’t only that Germans were a traditional foe; it was because for centuries the czars had imported Germans as taskmasters, not to mention that the Nazis had regarded all Slavs as subhuman. There was a certain accretion of national ill will.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” said the television.
“Auf Wiedersehen.” Arkady turned the set off. “Polina, auf Wiedersehen. Go home, see your boyfriend, go to a movie.”
“I’m almost done.”
So far Polina seemed to have sensed more about the apartment than Arkady had. He knew he was missing not so much clues as essence. Rudy’s phobia about physical contact had created an apartment that was solitary and sterile. No ashtrays, not even butts. He craved a cigarette, but didn’t dare upset the apartment’s hygienic balance.
Rudy’s single weakness of the flesh appeared to be food. Arkady opened the refrigerator. Ham, fish and Dutch cheese were still cool, in place and overwhelming even to a man who had just eaten an appetizer of Makhmud’s grapes. The food was probably from Stockmann’s, the Helsinki department store that delivered complete smorgasbords, office furniture and Japanese cars for hard currency to Moscow’s foreign community; God forbid they should live like Russians. In its rind of wax, the cheese shone like a mushroom cap.
Polina stepped into the bedroom doorway, one arm already thrust into her raincoat. “Are you examining the evidence or consuming it?”
“Admiring it, actually. Here is cheese from cows who graze on grass that grows on dikes a thousand miles away, and it’s not as rare as Russian cheese. Wax is a good medium of prints, isn’t it?”
“Humidity is not the best atmosphere.”
“It’s too humid for you?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it, I just didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Do I look like a man with high hopes?”
“I don’t know; you’re different today.” It was not characteristic of Polina to be uncertain about anything. “You—”
Arkady put a finger to his lips. He heard a barely audible noise,