Zugzwang (22 page)

The man at her feet tried to speak but only gurgled and choked. The last thing Anna remembered was asking him what he had done with her father.

We sat at the breakfast table. I made tea for Anna. She sipped it periodically, but I could not persuade her to eat anything.

‘Is there anything else you can remember?' I said.

She looked past me for some moments, then shook her head.

‘When did you see your father again?'

‘I remember a hospital. He was lying in bed. But I don't know if it was St Petersburg or Kazan or Moscow.'

I poured tea for myself and drank it.

‘Why did you tell me that your father killed your grandmother?'

‘I was angry,' she said. She looked worn down and contrite. ‘I think I have always blamed him for what happened to my grandmother.' She reached for my hand. ‘You don't believe me,' she said. ‘I can tell from your face.'

Thirteen-year-old Anna had tried to wipe the trauma from her memory, and she had succeeded. But only for a time. Trauma cannot be held at bay indefinitely or completely. Dreams may be disguised and censored but they cannot be banished. The body also responds, in Anna's case with head
aches and, especially, numbness: numbness in the same hand that opened the door to reveal the slaughter in her grandmother's kitchen in August 1889. This was one reading of the story she had told me. It was the reading I wanted to believe.

‘According to the police records in Kazan there were five murders in August 1889. None of them involved an elderly female victim.'

She leaned her head against my shoulder. We were both very tired. ‘I'm telling you the truth,' she whispered. ‘Why would I make it up?'

‘I believe you,' I said.

‘What are we going to do?' she said softly.

‘I don't know.'

‘Does Catherine know you have been seeing me?'

‘I think she has probably guessed,' I said.

‘She hasn't said anything?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Have you said anything?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘She wouldn't be interested,' I lied.

‘I think she would be very interested.'

‘I didn't say anything because after Elena died she was insecure and unhappy. She's much better now.'

‘Then you could tell her,' she said, raising her head from my shoulder. She took my hand and kissed it. ‘If she's better now, you could tell her.'

‘Why do you want me to tell her?'

‘It will make us closer. I want to be close to you. I want to be with you, always.'

‘Are you going to tell your husband?'

She let go of my hand.

‘Why are you being horrible?'

‘Let's talk about this later,' I said.

I got up and went to the telephone. I called Minna and said I would be in late, again, and asked her to shuffle the appointments as best she could.

‘Did you get hold of Rozental?' I said.

‘I telephoned him at the Astoria three times,' she said, ‘but he didn't answer.'

‘Try again,' I said. ‘I'm worried about him.'

I went back to Anna. ‘You're punishing me,' she said.

‘I'm not.'

‘It feels like it. You think I'm making up the whole story about my father and you're punishing me for it.'

‘I have to go,' I said. ‘Will you come to me tonight?'

‘I have to go to Saburov's house for the opening ceremony. Rozental will be there and I have to see him.'

‘Will you come when it's over?'

‘It will be late,' I said.

She gave me a key to the apartment and we kissed briefly. It was almost midday by the time I left.

I crossed to the left bank over Nicholas Bridge and stopped in at the Architects' Club to use the telephone. Lychev answered at the first ring.

‘I'm looking at young Leon Pikser as we speak,' he said. I heard a sound like a pencil tapping on glass and thought of the jar Lychev had brought to my office. ‘I don't think he was anything like as handsome as Catherine says, do you?'

‘He wasn't at his best when I saw him,' I said.

‘Was Catherine in love with him?' he said. ‘I mean, really in love?'

‘What does that mean?' I asked.

‘Good question,' he said with a thin laugh. He went on, ‘Pikser published some of his own poems in Moscow. They suggest he believed indulgence in vodka and sex was an act of political rebellion. His other theme appears to be that art's first duty is to reflect the great issues confronting society. There's a poem called
Manifesto for the Soul
– an aesthetic disaster, of course, but he takes his argument a step further: writers not only have a responsibility to speak out, they must participate. It's all very tedious and juvenile.'

‘Is this the sum of what you have learned about Pikser?'

‘Not at all,' he said, unperturbed. ‘Some very interesting people have been going in and out of the house on Kirochny Street.'

‘Anyone I know?'

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Your friend Kopelzon.'

I leaned back against the booth. ‘Kopelzon?'

‘Yes.'

‘What was he doing there?'

I turned around in the booth and looked out over the lobby, trying to gather my thoughts. A man dressed in a dark-blue suit and wearing an old-fashioned Russian collar took a seat in one of the armchairs. He unfolded a newspaper and began to read. I turned away again.

‘I'm not in a position to answer that yet,' Lychev said. ‘But it is intriguing, don't you think? It proves a link between Pikser and Kopelzon.'

‘Pikser never went to the house on Kirochny Street.'

‘The link is not negated. That they both knew of the house demonstrates the connection.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I have men watching the house from an apartment across the street. Kopelzon arrived this morning, stayed an hour, then left. Shortly afterwards a second man came out. I had him followed, but all he did was buy bread and cigarettes before returning to the house.'

‘Do you know who he is?'

‘No.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘Average height, rather sturdy, short dark hair, moustache, about thirty-five years. Average in just about every way. Why do you ask? Do you know him?'

I thought immediately of the anxious Pole who came to A l'Ours to find Kopelzon.

‘No,' I said.

‘I strongly advise you to stay away from Kopelzon, at least for the next few days. Goodbye.'

‘Wait!' I said before he ended the call. ‘Is it possible that the police records from Kazan are incomplete?'

‘Incomplete in what sense?'

‘Could they have missed out, for whatever reason, the murder of an elderly woman?'

‘Theoretically anything is possible. Policemen are human, after all. They make mistakes. Files are put away in the wrong place. Names are forgotten. Why?'

‘The fourth male victim, the intruder killed while breaking into the house.'

‘What about him?'

‘Is it possible an old woman was killed, or perhaps seriously injured, during the break-in?'

‘Do you have reason to think there is more to this incident than the report suggests?'

‘I have information about a very similar event which occurred in Kazan, also in August 1889. It seems too much of a coincidence.'

‘I'll look into it,' Lychev said.

Turning again to look out to the lobby, I saw the man in the blue suit still in the chair. He was making very little effort to pretend he was reading the newspaper.

‘I think I'm being followed,' I said.

‘Where are you?'

‘At the Architects' Club. There's a man in the lobby. I'm certain he's watching me.'

‘Do you have your alibi ready?'

‘I don't want anyone to have to lie for me.'

Lychev let out a grunt of irritation. ‘I advise you to come up with something fast. Keep it simple and stick as closely to the truth as you can,' he said, ending the call.

I stepped out of the booth and crossed the lobby to the main door. The man in the blue suit folded his newspaper, got up and followed me out. He rode the same tram to Sadovaya Street and got off at the same stop. Only when I turned left to go to my office did our paths diverge.

* * *

Opening the door, I saw Minna at her desk. She was wearing a new lilac-coloured blouse with a bow. I was about to say good morning when she indicated two men sitting on the bench to the side, where my patients sometimes waited.

‘These men wish to speak to you, Doctor,' Minna said, fidgeting with her collar.

I knew exactly who they were but had to go through with the performance. ‘Yes?' I said. ‘How can I help you?'

‘We have some questions for you, Dr Spethmann,' the taller of the two replied. ‘About the doorman – Semevsky.'

‘Semevsky? I don't understand,' I said.

The taller man's smile intended no warmth. He said, ‘Semevsky's body was pulled out of the canal yesterday.'

‘How terrible,' I said. ‘You must be police officers?'

‘Similar,' the taller man said, his smile fading.

I offered them tea, which they declined, and showed them into my office. As I went to my desk, the taller man said, ‘Do you have a certificate of political reliability, Dr Spethmann?'

‘My political reliability has never been in question,' I said.

‘It is now,' the taller man's colleague said, removing his overcoat and folding it over his lap.

I said nothing.

‘When did you last see Semevsky?' the taller man said.

‘I saw him' – I had to be careful not to overact – ‘let's see. It wasn't yesterday … The day before. Yes, that's right. My car suffered a minor accident as I was coming into work and he very kindly offered to have it mended.'

‘What time was that?'

‘In the morning – I can't remember exactly.'

‘You are certain that was the last time you saw Semevsky?'

‘Yes. He brought the keys up after the car was fixed and gave them to my secretary, but I was with a patient and didn't speak to him then.'

The two men exchanged a look. The slighter man took over. ‘What time did you leave the office?'

I went to my desk and made a show of checking my diary to refresh my memory. I saw Rozental's name entered for the seven o'clock appointment. ‘I had a patient at seven,' I said. ‘Usually I see patients for an hour but I remember this session being more difficult. It ran over by another thirty or forty minutes.'

‘What did you do then?'

Again, with carefully measured hesitation, as though trying to recollect the ordinary, I said, ‘I had a dinner appointment at ten o'clock. At A l'Ours, with a friend. There was no point in going home first. So I stayed here and made up my notes.'

‘What time did you leave to go to the restaurant?'

‘Around ten o'clock.'

‘Did anyone see you leave?'

‘I don't know what other people saw.'

‘Did you see Semevsky?'

I paused. ‘No,' I said, ‘now I come to think of it, he didn't let me out.'

The two men exchanged a glance.

‘How did you get to the Donon?'

‘It was A l'Ours.'

‘How did you get there?'

‘I walked.'

‘Why did you walk when your car had been repaired?'

‘I wanted the exercise.'

‘Is there anyone who can corroborate this?'

‘I can't think of anyone,' I said, ‘not at the moment.'

‘At what time did your secretary leave the office?'

‘Shortly after my last patient arrived.'

‘You're certain of that?'

‘Yes.'

They exchanged another glance. ‘Your secretary says she did not leave until you did, shortly before ten.'

I frowned, genuinely puzzled. ‘She's mistaken.'

I could not work out what was going on. What had Minna said? Were they trying to catch me out?

‘Who was the patient?'

I hesitated. ‘There is a matter of confidentiality –' I began.

‘This is a matter of murder,' the slighter man interrupted. ‘What's the patient's name?'

‘I cannot divulge that,' I said.

The slighter man stood up in a smooth, deliberate motion, put his overcoat on the seat and came over to the desk. ‘I am ordering you to hand over your diary,' he said.

I closed the book and put my hand protectively over it. I was completely unprepared for the rapidity and violence of his reaction. My head was suddenly on the desk, yanked violently down by the hair. Almost simultaneously I received a shuddering blow to the back of my neck.

He took the diary, opened it and ran a finger down the page.

‘Rozental,' he said to his colleague when he came to the entry.

He tossed the book contemptuously back onto the desk. I sat up slowly. The back of my head was numb. There was bile in my mouth.

‘Is there anything else you think you should tell us?' the taller man said. ‘Think very carefully.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.'

The taller man turned to his colleague. ‘Bring the woman in.'

I protested. ‘What do you want with Minna?'

My interrogator gave me a contemptuous look. ‘Sit down, Spethmann, and keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise.'

Minna was ushered in. She gave me a look and then guiltily hung her head.

The taller man addressed her. ‘What time did you leave the office?'

Minna replied in a small voice, ‘Shortly before ten o'clock.'

‘Dr Spethmann says you left just after seven. He's quite certain about that.'

I searched Minna's face for some kind of clue: why was she saying this?

‘No,' she said, returning my look. ‘We were here together until ten.'