The Stylist

She was coming tomorrow. Did that make him happy or would he prefer that she not come again? Solovyov tried to understand his own feelings, but as usual, he did not have the persistence. It was so nice just going with the flow, let Anastasia come, let her love him again. It wouldn’t be a burden this time, for his status as an invalid freed Solovyov of any obligations toward women. He was lonely, and a woman in love with him would not be amiss. Especially since he lived so far away that she couldn’t come visit every day. Plus she was married. Well then,     he thought, it was all for the best.

Chapter 3

Nastya patiently waited for a moment when Solovyov would be out. It was two days after her last visit, and as soon as she saw Andrei take the wheelchair outside and go off on a walk with Vladimir, she rang the doorbell of cottage number 12. Children’s voices responded instantly, the door was flung open, and a girl of about eight, covered with paints, appeared at the door.

“Here to see us?” the child demanded.

“Yes, if you’ll let me in,” Nastya replied with a smile.

Zhenya Yakimov appeared behind the young artist.

“Is that you?” he said in amazement. “To see me?” “Actually, to see Solovyov, but he’s not in and I thought you might give me shelter until he returns.”

“They’re probably out for a walk,” the long-mustached neighbor volunteered.

Nastya realized that he was about to suggest she go find them, even give her directions, since such walks couldn’t be far-ranging.

“Probably,” she agreed. “But my foot is killing me. I wore new shoes, and they hurt. May I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Zhenya said. “Come on in.”

This cottage was laid out in a completely different way. The kitchen was much larger and the rest of the first floor was taken up by a huge living room, where all three offspring were located – twelve-year-old Mitya, who didn’t resemble Zhenya in the least; the young art lover Lera; and a tiny creature with long reddish curls who upon closer examination turned out to be a boy named Fedya. Mitya was engrossed in a fascinating game with a computer opponent, while Lera, lying on the floor was trying to depict a Crocosaurus under the sensitive supervision of Fedya, serious beyond his years. This creature was the fruit of the boy’s boundless imagination, and he was explaining to his sister how it looked, using mimicry, gestures, and a wealth of noises from bellowing to squeaking. The computer was making a lot of noise, too, and Mitya played with a running commentary and exclamations. The living room was a bedlam. Zhenya introduced the children to Nastya and led her away to the kitchen, which thanks to its size and European design could easily function as a dining room.

“You don’t mind if I start cooking?” Yakimov asked shyly. “I have to feed the kids in an hour, and I haven’t even started.” They chatted peaceably about nothing, seemingly. What kind of people lived in the cottages? What did they do? Who did you have to be to be able to afford it? It wasn’t very convenient without municipal transport, of course, but everyone here had a car, and sometimes more than one. The Yakimovs, for example, had two, one for the wife, the other for Zhenya – you never knew what could happen during the day, say, if he had to take one of the children to the doctor or make a quick trip to the store.

Nastya smoothly switched the conversation to Neighborhood Watch, which was used widely in many countries to prevent crime.

“Yes,” Zhenya agreed, “in apartment houses that would hardly work, but in districts of individual houses there’s a point to it. You can see the neighbors’ houses well. And then, if you know the residents, a stranger stands out. Especially during the day when you know no one is home.”

Five minutes later he told her that he rarely saw strangers in Daydream Estates, at least in the daytime. He couldn’t say about the nights because it was dark and because even though they lived far from midtown Moscow, there were plenty of visitors, sometimes whole groups. No, he had never seen a stranger lurking with no apparent reason. Nastya explained her interest by saying she worked for an insurance company that planned to offer coverage to individual homes, including theft and robbery.

Suddenly Zhenya started listening warily. The sound coming from the living room had changed. There were no computer game noises anymore.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and quickly left the kitchen.

He was back soon enough, but the reproach had not left his mobile features.

“Is something wrong?” Nastya inquired.

“Nothing special. Mitya was playing computer chess again.”

“And that upset you? Is that bad?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s too early for him to play chess,” Yakimov announced firmly. “He must play games that develop and instruct, building his attention span, reflexes, and small motor movements and coordination.”

Nastya was going to point out that if the boy played computer chess, that was proof that he was developed and instructed, but she held her tongue. After all, it was no business of hers. He was the father and he knew how to bring up his child. She should stay out of it with her views on intellectual development.

“Zhenya, what was your profession?” she asked.

“Engineer. I graduated from the Construction Engineering Institute.”

“And what do you plan for your children?”

“Whatever they want,” he replied, somehow reluctantly. “They haven’t demonstrated any special talents. You know, the apples don’t fall far from the oak.”

“What did you say?” She laughed. “I never heard that expression. Is that a proverb?”

He smiled, as he went on mixing the meatloaf ingredients.

“At college we used to transform traditional sayings and proverbs. We even had competitions. For instance, ‘Don’t spit in the well, it won’t learn new tricks.’”

“Cute. Any others?”

“Wednesday’s child fell on its face.”

It took Nastya a second to remember the verse: “Wednesday’s child is full of grace.”

“I like it!”

She could see Andrei pushing the wheelchair with Vladimir on the other side of the road. Yakimov had his back to the window, and didn’t see them, so if she needed to, she could pretend not to have noticed and go on asking the father of the three sweet children about the residents of the cottages. But Nastya decided not to push it. All in good time.

“There they are,” she said, getting up. “Thanks for taking me in, Zhenya.”

* * *

She could not tell whether or not Solovyov was pleased by her arrival. But it was quite clear that his assistant Andrei definitely did not like it. Naturally, the young man did not say or do anything hostile, but Nastya could feel his displeasure the way young brides feel the dislike of even very polite and friendly mothers-in-law.

After the first visit to her former lover, Nastya tried to learn what disaster had befallen him, but she could not find out in two days. It was not the result of criminal violence: all information on murders and serious bodily harm in the Moscow region ended up on her desk and from there into various reports, tables, files, and eventually her home computer. She would not have missed the name Solovyov, even if she had wanted to. Her memory was always good, and she would certainly remember Volodya Solovyov as long as she lived. He had left too painful a mark to forget. Well then, his legs must have lost their mobility as the result of some illness. Could the illness be related to the death of his wife, Svetlana? What did she die of? As far as Nastya knew, Vladimir and his wife were the same age, and therefore, she had died quite young, still in her thirties.

“You promised to come on Saturday,” Solovyov noted. “Have you become irresponsible?”

“I warned you that I had changed. I guess in some ways, for the worse. Did you wait for me?”

“I did.”

He smiled so warmly and tenderly that for a second she forgot all about everything else.

“Your boy doesn’t seem to share your feelings,” she said evasively. “Do you think he’s jealous?”

“What does he have to be jealous about?” Solovyov said in amazement. “He’s not a son who gets upset when his widowed father brings home a new woman.”

“He’s not a son,” Nastya thought. “But he could be homosexual. Just as you could be, my once passionately beloved Solovyov.” But out loud she said something completely different.

“You know, when a man does woman’s work, he develops a woman’s psychology. Your Andrei feels like the lady of the house, he cooks and cleans and takes care of you, and suddenly some female shows up. She tracks in dirt, keeps you from your work, and he has to serve her coffee, yet.”

“Don’t be silly,” Solovyov shrugged off the idea. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead. How have you lived all these years, what have you been doing.”

“That’s not interesting. I had a boring life, did the same old things, and in breaks moonlighted as a translator. How about you?”

“I…” He laughed strangely. “I led a frustrated life.”

“What do you mean?”

“My life could have been completely different, but as a result became what it is.”

“As a result of what?”

“Various events. I planned to move abroad twice, and twice I couldn’t do it. There’s a bad sign hanging over me. As a result I became an invalid and now I most certainly will never leave Moscow, much less Russia.”

“And how did it happen? Did something stop you?” “Something?” he repeated sarcastically. “Fate. Fate stopped me. I wanted to get a divorce, marry another woman, and leave with her. Just then Svetlana died, and I could not leave my son here alone. The woman left as she had planned, and I remained.”

“And the second time?”

“The second… My legs let me down. Where could I go in this condition?”

Nastya saw that he did not want to get into detail. All right, she could find out what she needed without him. But it was strange that he didn’t want to share with her. As far as she knew Solovyov, he had always enjoyed whining and complaining, telling how miserable he was in great detail and how he had been hurt. He had always needed sympathy. Of course, that was twelve years ago. He was different now. As was she.

“What did you tell your husband when you came here?” Solovyov abruptly changed the subject.

“Some lie. It doesn’t matter. He knows that I’m busy for days at a time with work and he docs not try to control my time.”

“You mean he’s not the jealous type?”

“Absolutely not,” Nastya lied without blinking an eye.

Poor Lyoshka! He was going crazy with jealousy, despite all her assurances and explanations. She was being forced to make him suffer so that she could solve the mystery of the missing teenagers. Was the answer worth his pain? Was there anything at all in the world worth hurting the person she loved most? Of course, Lyoshka would never say another word to her about it, and he would be angry and upset in silence. But did that make it any easier?

Nastya spent almost two hours with Solovyov. They talked, dined, reminisced about old friends, studiously avoiding topics that touched on their old relationship and possible relations today. Nastya noticed the assistant’s wary looks, but tried to pay no attention. They parted amicably.

She got home late and rushed to call her mother.

“Mama, do you remember your graduate student Volodya Solovyov?”

Nadezhda’s voice grew cold and tense. She knew all about their affair.

“I remember. But not as well as you do,” she replied coolly.

“All right, all right, mother,” Nastya said with a laugh. “It’s not my fault that I have such a good memory, I don’t forget anything.”

“In what connection has he come up?” her mother persisted.

“I ran into him in connection with work. It turns out his wife recently died and he is an invalid now, unable to walk. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No.”

“Could you find out? He’s in your field, a linguist. Surely one of your colleagues must know the story. ”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I tried, but he’s avoiding an answer. I don’t want to push him. Come on, Mother.”

“All right,” Nadezhda said. “I’ll try to find out. Has he been up to something?”

“No, not at all! What could Solovyov be up to? Before taking a step, he thinks for a century or so, and then doesn’t do anything. It’s just that I need the details so that I act accordingly. Otherwise I might say something that will upset him, and we won’t make contact.”

“Strange that you need additional terms for contact with him,” her mother noted dryly. “It seems to me you used to have excellent contact.”

“Mama!”

“All right, all right, don’t be mad. I’ll do what I can. Does Alexei know?”

“Of course.”

“God, what a child I brought into this world!” Her mother sighed. “You never had any tact. Why are you tormenting him?”

“I’m working, Mother. I’m not enjoying myself with a former lover,” Nastya said wearily.

She loved her mother. But in recent years, Nadezhda had stopped understanding her completely. Especially after the several years abroad. Nastya felt much more comfortable with her stepfather, who had been on the force all his life and understood her problems right off the bat.

* * *

Her mother called her at work late the next evening, just as Nastya was getting ready to leave.

“Do you know, it’s a horrible story,” Nadezhda announced in agitation. “It turns out, Volodya’s wife went to a resort and vanished. They searched for almost a month and then found her body in the woods. Some creep wanted her camera. To be killed over some stupid camera! I can’t accept that.”

“Where did it happen?”

“I don’t know, somewhere in Central Russia. On the Volga, that’s for sure.”

“What happened to his legs?”

“That’s not clear. No one knows what’s ailing him. He hasn’t told anyone. One man said that Volodya had been beaten viciously.”

“Who’s the man?”

“You don’t know him.”

“That means I’ll get to know him,” Nastya insisted. “Who is he?”

“Malyshev. Artur Malyshev. He’s a docent at the Institute of Foreign Languages. Arc you going to get in touch with him?” “Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Because. It has to be done, Mother. If he was beaten, I want to know why the police have no record of it. And if he wasn’t, I need to know why your Malyshev thinks he was.” “What difference does it make why he thinks so if it’s not true?”

“A big difference,” Nastya explained patiently. “Even the wildest rumor starts somewhere. Someone made it up for some reason and told it to someone else. Even if there is no truth in it, somebody’s idea was behind it. And if there is some truth, then it is always necessary to find out just what truth it is.” “Well I hope that there won’t be any problems for Malyshev if it turns out that the mugging was just a lie,” her mother asked in concern.

“Relax, nothing will happen to him, to your precious Malyshev. Unless of course, he made it up himself. Are you going to give me his phone number or do I have to find it?’

Nadezhda sighed and dictated the address and telephone number. After she hung up, Nastya began getting ready to leave and was putting on her jacket when Yura Korotkov rushed into her office.

“Nastya, I think we’ve got a lead!” he burst out. “Oh, man, I’m exhausted, I’ve been running around all day. Make some coffee, be a pal.”

He plopped down on a chair and stretched out his legs blissfully. Nastya hung her jacket back in the closet and turned on the teapot. That meant her trip home was put off by at least an hour.

“Let me tell you,” Korotkov began triumphantly. “A week ago someone wiped out a video kiosk. Lots of fingerprints, but no match. The thief is new to us. The kiosk owner went through the inventory and said that what was stolen came from various sections. The tapes were selected. He made a list of the stolen tapes, but the principle of selection is not clear. Not all mysteries, or thrillers, or adventure, or science fiction, or erotica. A little bit of everything. Fourteen in all. And there was a clever cop on the team who said that naturally there wasn’t enough time to watch all fourteen films to find out what they had in common, but it was possible to look through the opening credits. They found a smart computer that can print stills from video, they looked and found that there was one actor in all the films. Not a star, of course, a bit player, unknown, and he’s on screen only five or seven minutes in each film. But his looks!” “You’re kidding,” Nastya said softly. “Docs he really look like them?”

“Peas in a pod,” Korotkov said, sipping the steaming coffee. “I compared it to the photographs of the dead boys. He and Oleg Butenko have the same face.”

Oleg Butenko was the first of the missing boys. September 1995. Found dead in December. That meant it was a homosexual maniac. Nothing worse than a serial killer. Catching serial killers is hard, relentless work. There’s usually nothing to connect the maniac with the victims, often they did not know each other and there was no personal motive. How do you catch them? How do you prove it, if he doesn’t confess?

Of course, there were a few things in this case. First of all, the prints that the perpetrator left at the scene of the videotape theft. Second, he had to have a place where he kept the wretched boys until they died. And third, the thin, wavering track leading to the Daydream Estates.

Jostling in the empty metro car, Nastya mentally drew a chart of next steps. First: clear up the question of the kiosk’s security. Why was it so vulnerable that night? Did none of the kiosks there have an alarm system or just that one? Who could have known that the kiosk would be unprotected that night?

Second: why was that particular kiosk robbed? Not another in another part of town on another street? Because no one was guarding it or because the thief lived nearby?

Third: how did the thief know that the kiosk had the tapes he wanted? Did he come by and check it out? Or did he break in here knowing that the selection was pretty much the same all over town?

Fourth: did this kiosk rent tapes? If so, perhaps the thief had rented from them, more than once, and that’s why he knew their inventory. And if he frequented the place, he might have overheard information on the night-time security. All the video rental places had to be checked, they had to get their log books and copy down the names of people who rented those films. It was an ocean of work, but it had to be done. It was a real clue.

Fifth: why did he steal the tapes instead of simply buying them without any hassles? Too expensive? And keeping boys on drugs for weeks and weeks wasn’t expensive? Or he could have rented them, which was much cheaper, and made copies. Of course, he needed a second VCR for that. Didn’t he know anyone who could lend him one?

The man who robbed the kiosk didn’t fit Nastya’s idea of the man who abducted the boys and kept them for long periods in his home prison and stuffed them full of drugs. Of course, she shouldn’t be trying to tie them together. The logic of madmen did not resemble the logic of normal people. Perhaps it was essential for him to steal the tapes. Maybe he got high on it.

When Nastya got out at the Shchelkovskaya station, it was dark. The workload and the many cigarettes of the day had given her a headache and she wanted a little walk. She started past the bus stop, but remembered that it was late and that Lyoshka would certainly be worried. Better take the bus. She had not borrowed her husband’s car, so Alexei could be sure that she had not gone to see Solovyov. She wouldn’t have gone all that way without a car. But he would be worried anyway. Especially since last year she was almost killed right in front of the house when she was coming home late from work. That time she was saved by a miracle, a man who then died a few days afterward. There wouldn’t be a second miracle, no point in counting on that.

The bus ride was four stops. Nastya got out and into the wake of a couple headed in her direction. The road from the stop to the house was unpleasant in every way – unlit, deserted, full of potholes, so that a late evening walk brought no joy. The self-engrossed couple “walked” Nastya to her entrance and moved on, probably in search of happiness or at least some privacy.

It was dark in the entryway, too, but not as scary since it was home base. As she got out of the elevator on her floor, she suddenly flashed on Solovyov’s house. The spacious hallway, the wide porch.

Her keys were hiding in the depths of her enormous bag, and Nastya couldn’t get her hands on them. She gave up the fruitless search and rang the bell. To her surprise, it was quiet on the other side of the door. Maybe Lyoshka was watching TV and did not hear the bell? She rang again. No reaction. She had to find her keys.

Alexei was not home. Nastya remembered that their car had not been parked downstairs. That was strange and somehow unpleasant. She undressed quickly, wrapped up in a warm robe, and sat down in the kitchen in front of a large bowl of cut-up tomatoes and cucumbers with parsley and dill.

She liked her apartment, where she was always happy, cozy, and peaceful. Of course, it was tiny, a studio, where two people couldn’t fit in the hallway, with a small bathroom, but Nastya didn’t feel crowded. Even together with Lyoshka she felt comfortable. It was only after seeing Daydream Estates that her own apartment started seeming wrong. And not because Nastya had never seen good housing before. Not at all. Just take her half-brother’s apartment – a palace, it took an hour to walk through it. She visited Alexander once or twice a month, but that never made her think the apartment on Shchelkovskaya was alien, dark, and ridiculous. Maybe because her brother was not like her in any way. He had a different education, a different worldview, a different profession. Alexander Kamensky was a businessman, a banker, a wealthy energetic man with a good head for commerce. So the fact that he lived in a different way seemed perfectly natural to her.

But Volodya Solovyov was of the same breed as Nastya. A man with a talent for foreign languages who made his living that way. An ordinary liberal arts person. Not an MBA. A translator. Nastya could work just like that in a publishing house, translating books, if she had not chosen the police, rotting corpses, weeping victims, and the dubious pleasures of exposing criminals. The fact that she could be living like Solovyov made her eye more critical as she looked around her apartment.

“Why do I live in a hovel?” she thought, chewing her salad without tasting it. “Why? I’m not poor, by general standards. Doctors and teachers make much less, not to mention pensioners. Where does the money go? I have just enough to last from paycheck to paycheck. I guess I just don’t handle it right. And here’s another problem: I don’t have any free time. That means that I have to buy expensive food. When I was in college, I used to buy kidneys at the butcher store, which were very cheap but took a half day to prepare. First you had to soak them for four hours, then boil them, and then roast them. I don’t have time for that now. I’m lucky to get home by ten and I leave at eight in the morning.”

She didn’t have time to shop during the day and she had to shop in the convenience stalls near the metro, which were very expensive. In the olden days you could buy sausage that was mostly filler, disgusting stuff, but if you worked on it for a half hour you ended up with something edible. First you had to cook it in water with spices, then slice it and place on a thick piece of bread, add ketchup, sprinkle on chopped herbs and garlic, cover with a slice of cheese and then pop into the oven or a covered skillet over low heat. After those manipulations the starchy sausage could be used for food with some pleasure, but it all took time. Who had time when you got home at ten fainting with hunger? That’s why you buy prosciutto, which costs three times as much, but is delicious and does not require cooking. You slice and eat.

Anyway, even if Nastya started economizing on food, she would never save enough for a house like Solovyov’s. It was a different level of income. She could not understand why a person knowing three languages could live in such a comfortable and beautiful house while another person knowing five languages and also of use to society by doing hard, dirty but very necessary work, why this second person was forced to live in a cramped tiny apartment. She did not doubt for a minute that her former lover was an honest man. He wasn’t a crook or a cheat. And his money was clean, honestly earned. There was an injustice, an incorrectness, in our life today, that’s all. And the result of that incorrectness was the difference between Nastya and Solovyov, which, really, should not have existed at all.