Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [33]
The bread was fresh and the cheese was sweet. A breeze drifted in the open window and the curtain stirred like a skirt.
“A Red Army spokesman admitted today that Afghan insurgents have penetrated the Soviet border. Since Soviet troops withdrew from Afghanistan, the border has become accessible to drug runners and to religious extremists who are urging Central Asian republics to begin a holy war against Moscow.”
The sun hung on the northern horizon, onion domes and chimney pots. Her voice was a shade huskier and her Siberian accent sounded more schooled and sophisticated. Arkady remembered her gestures, sometimes flamboyant, and the color of her eyes, like amber. Listening, he found himself leaning toward the radio. He felt ridiculous, as if he should be holding up his side of the conversation.
“Miners in Donetsk yesterday demanded the resignation of the government and the removal of the Party, and announced the start of a new strike. Work stoppages have also begun in all twenty-six mines in the Karaganda Basin and in twenty-nine mines in Rostov-on-Don. Mass rallies in support of the strikers were held by miners in Sverdlovsk, Chelyabinsk and Vladivostok.”
The news was not important; he hardly heard it. It was her voice and breath transmitted across a thousand miles.
“Last night in Moscow, the Democratic Front rallied outside Gorky Park to call for the ‘de-legalization’ of the Communist party. At the same time, members of the right-wing ‘Red Banner’ met to defend the Party. Both groups demanded the right to march in Red Square.”
She was Scheherazade, Arkady thought. Night after night she could tell tales of oppression, insurrection, strikes, and natural disaster, and he would listen as if she were spinning stories of exotic lands, magical spices, flashing scimitars and pearl-eyed dragons with scales of gold. As long as she would talk to him.
At midnight, Arkady waited across from the Lenin Library, admiring the statues of Russian writers and scholars that hovered along the roof line. He remembered what he had heard about the building being ready to collapse. True enough, the statues looked ready to jump. When a shadow emerged and locked the door, Arkady crossed the street and introduced himself.
“An investigator? I’m not surprised.” Feldman wore a fur hat, carried a briefcase and looked like Trotsky, down to a goat’s beard of snow white. He started a vigorous shuffle toward the river and Arkady fell in step beside him. “I have my own key. I didn’t steal anything. You want to search?”
Arkady ignored the invitation. “How do you know Rudy?”
“It’s the only time to work. I thank God I’m an insomniac. Are you?”
“No.”
“You look like one. See a doctor. Unless you don’t mind.”
“Rudy?” Arkady tried again.
“Rosen? I didn’t. We met once, a week ago. He wanted to talk about art.”
“Why art?”
“I’m a professor of art history. I told you I was a professor on the phone. You’re a hell of an investigator, I can tell already.”
“What did Rudy ask?”
“He wanted to know everything about Soviet art. Soviet avant-garde art was the most creative, most revolutionary period in history, but Soviet man is an ignoramus. I couldn’t educate Rosen in half an hour.”
“Did he ask about any paintings in particular?”
“No. But I catch your point and it is amusing. For years, the Party demanded Socialist Realism and people hung paintings of tractors on their walls and hid avant-garde masterpieces behind the toilet or under the bed. Now they’re dragging them out. Suddenly Moscow is full of art curators. You like Socialist Realism?”
“Socialist Realism is one of my weakest areas.”
“Are you talking about art?”
“No.”
Feldman regarded Arkady with a more wary, interested eye. They were in the park behind the library, where steps ran between trees down to the river near the southwest corner of the Kremlin. Spotlights made the lower branches into lattices of gold that turned to black.
“I told Rosen that what people