Woman Chased by Crows (49 page)

Orwell, convinced that he could be unobtrusive if he wanted, slipped into the back row of the Globe Theatre and slumped as low in the seat as his dimensions would allow. Onstage, the Dockerty Players were having a technical run-through of
Our Town
. Leda Brennan was bathed in a pool of blue light and looking ethereal, which was entirely appropriate since at this point in the story she was the ghostly presence at her own funeral. Orwell wasn't entirely comfortable with the thought of his daughter as deceased, but since the play was being repeatedly stopped for adjustments to the lights and the position of other actors, he wasn't forced to dwell on the implications. Besides, his daughter sounded extremely healthy, so lively in fact that at one point the director was moved to remind her of her otherworldly condition and ask her to tone it down a peg.

She did look lovely. All in white, with flowers in her hair, moving about the stage in a dreamlike state, saying goodbye to her butternut tree, among other things.

As Orwell was unobtrusively dipping his hand into his jacket pocket hoping to locate a stray hard candy, he noticed another figure sitting in the back of the theatre. Unobtrusiveness was probably a bit easier for Mikhael Tomashevsky, whose head was barely visible. Orwell moved down a row. “Mind if I join you?” he whispered.

“Could we keep it quiet back there?” the director yelled.

Mikhael motioned Orwell to slide in beside him. “The tall girl in white is very good,” he said. It wasn't audible to the director.

Orwell made a conscious effort to lower his voice. “My daughter,” he said.

“We can still hear you,” the director bellowed. “We're working here!”

“Quite lovely,” Mikhael said. “Perhaps we should step outside.”

As Orwell was squishing himself sideways into the aisle he saw his daughter shade her eyes to see who was there and then look heavenward directly into the blue light. She had recognized her father's distinctive shape. He hoped she wasn't too embarrassed.

“And Ms. Brennan,” the director yelled, “please try to remember that you are a dead person. Dead people don't declaim.”

The Globe Theatre was on Lock Road, dead centre in the cross of a T intersection that marked the eastern terminus of Vankleek Street. To the right and slightly downhill were the locks alongside the Little Snipe, to the left, the road curved past St. Barnabus and joined a meandering series of tree-lined avenues climbing to the Knoll. The two men stood under the portico looking down Vankleek.

“My daughter too is an actor,” said Mikhael. “In Moscow. She was in
Uncle Vanya
just last month.”

“Really. You must be quite proud.”

“I didn't get to see it. I was far away.”

“That's too bad.”

“We all give up things for our jobs, do we not?”

Orwell, who had to admit that currently his life was rather full, was at a loss for adequate words of commiseration. “This front door has been smashed at least six times since place was built. In 1923,” he said, “someone comes speeding down Vankleek, can't make the turn, kaboom.”

“Are we safe, standing here?” Mikhael wondered.

“Usually happens late at night.” He hesitated, not sure if the man was up to strolling. “We can walk down to the locks . . . if you'd care to.”

“Lovely,” Mikhael said. He smiled to put the big man at ease, “I walk all the time. It is therapeutic.”

“I feel the same way,” Orwell said. He patted his torso. “Move it or lose it, they say. Although in my case, losing it is the point of the exercise.” The two men started down the sloping sidewalk and onto the first bridge. Tomashevsky's rolling gait was surprisingly nimble and Orwell didn't have to slow his usual pace very much at all. “How'd you wind up here?” he asked.

“A Captain Rosebart in Toronto pointed me . . .”

“I mean at the theatre, this afternoon.”

“Oh. Ha. Curiosity. I ran out of things to do. I couldn't find Zubrovskaya, your detective is out of town and the only other person on my list could be almost anywhere.”

“You'll be staying in town another night then?”

“Yes. More if necessary.” The little man smiled. “What I would like is a month in one place; the same bed, the same view, the same newspaper every morning.”

“I could never do it,” Orwell said. “Travel all the time.”

“I don't mind. Most of the time. But I've been away for eight months now and I miss my wife. On this trip I have been in a dozen cities, interviewing hundreds of people about a thousand missing artworks, artifacts and relics. These are approximate numbers, Chief Brennan, it could be more.”

“Well, any help I can give. Who else is on your list?”

“It was always a long shot. Have you had a visit from any other representative of my ministry?”

“You mean recently?”

“It could have been any time in the past few years I suppose.”

“You're the first.”

“In the years before me there were three perhaps four other people assigned to this case. Two of them have since retired and are home.” He sighed. “Well, they did their duty, they earned their rest. As some day so will I.”

“And the others?”

“One married and is living in Saskatchewan, I believe. And the other, well, we are not certain.”

They stopped in the middle of the bridge and watched the water moving by underneath. Mikhael took a deep breath. “It is good to see another spring, is it not?”

Orwell nodded with enthusiasm. “Oh yes.”

“It is the same in all northern countries, I'm sure. The winters are long. To see green things returning gives hope to people who have been cold for so many months.”

The two men enjoyed the fresh air for a few moments, their eyes scanning the open land of the far side of the bridge for signs of green things emerging. At the same instant both men looked up at the sounds of honking and watched a ragged V of Canada Geese heading northwest.

“That must be one of the signs,” said Mikhael. “We have them too, in Russia. Perhaps a different kind, but high-flying geese. It always cheers me.”

Orwell gave a delighted laugh. “Me too,” he said. “Brightens my whole day to hear those honkers heading north.”

They shared the moment of connection with eyes lifted to the sky and simple smiles on their faces. After a while, Orwell broke the silence. “I haven't been chief here all that long. I could check our records. About who you're looking for.”

“That won't be necessary, Chief. It would have been in the last three years or so. She wouldn't have come by until after Ms. Zubrovskaya arrived.”

“She?”

There was a time when Anya would have attended an event such as this in the company of a suitable escort, someone who would perhaps have given her a flower, opened a door, taken her arm as she climbed the steps, held her chair, leaned close to tell her how lovely she was, how brilliant she had been. Tonight was a
pas seul
, a solo turn. Not that there was dancing, or a dance floor. The music was recorded chamberbabble, schmaltzy fiddlepop, the room was too bright, the flowers inappropriate, the conversation was gossip about bureaucrats she was unlikely to meet. She had attended anarchist gatherings in basement flats boasting more hospitality. And better wine.

She reminded herself that this was about Ludi. And Vassili. Yes, and even Viktor. Our little gypsy band paid a big price. Someone must be held accountable. It falls to me. I am the lucky one. I am alive. I survived. Three of my friends did not. Someone must collect what is owed.

And there he was, entering the room with the texting woman and the vigilant man. He looked refreshed, showered, shaved, fresh shirt, power tie, moving through the gathering, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, very smooth, every inch the rising political star. But no matter how tough he is, or was once, no matter how ruthless, surely he knew this day must come, that someday, someone would call on him for a reckoning.

“I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave.” It was the watchful man with the jug ears, her dance partner of the afternoon. His nametag read, “Cam Gidrick.” He took her arm. “Please don't make a scene,” he said.

“I am registered,” Anya said. “I paid seventy-five dollars for my ticket.”

“I'll get you a refund,” he said.

“But why must I leave?”

“The candidate believes that you are here to disrupt the reception.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I have been most supportive, all afternoon. This is quite outrageous. When exactly did this become a fascist state?”

“Just leave quietly and I won't have to call for a police escort.”

That made her laugh. “Oh, I do not think you want that just now, do you?” This last comment caused the man to sneeze violently for some reason.

Odd how things work out. Here she was getting thrown out of the reception mere moments after walking in, when who should be entering but her new best friend, Mrs. Andrew Lytton, in the company of none other than the candidate's wife, Keasha Asange-O'Grady, looking tall and lovely in a silk dress the same shade of blue as the ring on her finger. Where are you going? asked Mrs. Lytton. Why, I have been denied admission, Anya answered. Whatever for? No reason was given. Who asked you to leave? Mrs. O'Grady wanted to know. This man. Nonsense, said the candidate's wife. I've been looking forward to hearing all about the Bolshoi. It was the Kirov, actually, said Mrs. Lytton. Oh, of course, said Mrs. O'Grady, that's even better, isn't it? Many would agree, Anya said. And the three of them walked inside together, much to the discomfiture of the candidate's assistant, who was forced to stand aside and endure Anya's entirely smug smile as she passed.

“I swear,” said the candidate's wife, “these campaigns get more paranoid every year. Last week Cam evicted someone who was wearing a ‘Save the Whales' button. Come on, I'll introduce you to my husband. He's not as fierce as he likes to think.” She led the way straight toward the man himself, who watched their approach with a wary grin. “We have a celebrity with us tonight,” she told her husband.

“Really? I hope you vote in this riding,” said the candidate.

“No, I will not be able to vote for you, but I am sure you will do well. They tell me this is a safe seat.”

“That's what they told me, too. I should have got it in writing.”

“Yes. Nothing is certain, is it? Except perhaps Judgement Day.”

His laugh was hollow. “Ha ha, yes, oh, and taxes, of course.”

“Still, it is brave of you to seek such a public verdict. I myself have kept a low profile for many years.”

“But that's soon to change,” offered Mrs. Lytton.

He was already looking for a way to disengage. “It is?”

“Your lovely wife and I are determined to involve Anya in the arts centre.” Mrs. Lytton had decided this would be a good moment to press her case. “She is, after all, one of the ballet world's great artists.”