Pathétique
Barry Aitchison
Birchfield ran a finger over the Russian words. “No wonder he wanted it
hushed up. In 1885, punishment for homo***ual acts was a long hard
flogging
by a collection of birch sticks, followed by de****tation to Siberia and
the
loss of all civil rights. The guy must have been petrified his secret
would
come out.”
Kramer looked up briefly from his notes. “Oh, boo-hoo! So he married her
to
convince everyone he was a hot-blooded Russian? How cruel was that, mate?
He
left her nine days later-- a victim as much as he was.”
“Can we get a court order to exhume him?” Birchfield chewed the end of
the
pencil.
“On what grounds? The rumours were an open secret for a hundred years.
Everyone we’ve spoken to knows something about the story. Wouldn’t you
think
they’d have exposed the truth by now— if they’d wanted to? No,
perhaps they’d
rather believe he died of cholera because that doesn’t blacken his
international image.”
“It’s 1993, Kramer. The commies have lost power and boozy Boris is
leader.
Those who suppressed it, no longer rule. But, in all my years as an
officer
of the law and a detective in Grand Rapids, I learnt one thing. The
leopard
may change its name, but its spots remain. The old Slavic ways prevail. Do
not disturb the dead.”
“Well, without evidence – like a positive analysis from exhumation –
these
so-called honourable men will get away with it.”
Kramer rubbed his tired eyes. “Unless you’ve discovered time travel,
mate,
they already have got away with it. Feel like a spot of grave robbing?”
“You’re joking!”
Kramer shrugged.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“How else can we find out if he has arsenic in his remains? The
government
won’t talk to us or even let any department talk with us. We found that
out,
right?”
“Will arsenic last that long in the ground?”
Kramer laughed. “Ask someone who knows. I’m just a retired journo from
Sus***.”
Later, they stood outside the Archives in St. Petersburg. The air was
chill
with occasional flakes of snow at the mercy of the wind. Street lights
bloomed, dull first, gradually increasing in intensity.
“So, what now?” Kramer asked.
“Where did you say he was buried?”
Kramer squinted to read the notes in a fading light. “It’s a monastery
here
in St. Petersburg. Too late to do anything tonight.”
“OK,” said Birchfield. “Let’s have dinner, catch an early night,
and go see
Peter in the morning.”
*****
The Alexander Nevsky Monastery was only six blocks from the hotel, but in
morning traffic, it seemed longer. A fog from the river obscured the
monuments until searchers were close. It made for interesting discoveries.
“Hey, Kramer, there are some real famous dead folk in here. Glazunov?
Heard
of him?”
“Sure, mid 19th century composer.”
“Well, he’s a decomposer now.”
“Ugh! You and your bad jokes. Here’s Stravinsky! Not Igor, his dad,”
called
Kramer.
”Mussorgsky over here. Wasn’t he an—“
“Addict? So they say. Over there. Look, the fog is clear around him.”
“Ah, Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky himself,” said Birchfield.
The statue was of a reflective Tchaikovsky pointing to something outside
the
cemetery, as if signalling to a friend. Birchfield now saw the marble
monument for the first time. “Well, we would have had a great time
getting
old Pete out of there, Kramer. You have lousy ideas, bro.”
“Me? It was-- Oh, OK, the fish are biting, right.”
“Could be,” said Birchfield. “Hello. What do we have here? An
admirer
placing flowers on Peter’s grave? And a female, too? My, my! How’s
your
Russian?”
“Not as good as yours. I can ask for a meal and a root.”
“You Limeys, you know exactly what’s im****tant in life. Madam? Please
don’t
go.”
She paused reluctantly, bent and gnarled like an ancient tree.
“You are American? Sorry, I am urgent.” She looked around quickly.
Kramer bowed. “I agree, Americans are scary, Madam. I’m English. Can
we
speak about Peter?”
“You want speak of Pyotr? Why? Leave dead in peace. I must go.”
“We honour Peter’s name?” asked Kramer. “We believe he’s been
dishonoured
and seek only justice.”
She shook her head vigorously. She must have been into her eighties, bent
like a boomerang with hands like tree roots. “Nyet! No! It is all in
past.
He at peace now.”
“Is it true Peter died of cholera?” Birchfield, always direct, looked
sternly at her.
She returned the gaze with watery eyes. “It is on paper of death, no?”
Birchfield squinted. “His paper of… Oh, the Death Certificate? OK! But
didn’t
his doctor write something else? Did he not say he took poison?”
She looked around again.“Please, I go now. I want no trouble.”
“Why are you frightened?” asked Kramer. “The old regime has gone.
The school
has long closed.”
She laughed. “Names gone. People no gone. If you want who make Pyotr
die,
see school friends.”
Birchfield moved to block her. “Madam, those friends are long dead. The
school closed in 1917.”
“Yes,” she said, “but they make son who make the son and all
are—“ She
rubbed her upper arm.
“Strong?” suggested Birchfield.
“No,” said Kramer, “she means powerful. They are all im****tant men,
madam?”
She nodded. Then she bent over near the flowers she had laid on the
monument
and adjusted the blooms. Finished, off she went, bent over, every step an
effort.
“This is crazy,” said Kramer. “It seems everyone in Russia knows
Tchaikovsky
didn’t die of cholera. What the hell is going on? Who are these old sons
of
sons she’s on about? Why have they the power to squelch the story with a
cock and bull tale of cholera?”
Birchfield was thumbing through his notes. “Remember that archive we
found
in London, about when Tchaikovsky went there in 1893?”
“The year he died?”
“Yeah! Well, there was a reference to a secret meeting with an official
of
the Foreign Office. “
“So?”
“So, there was nothing in the file that said anything about what was
discussed. Except, up in the right hand corner was an official reference
which I looked up and guess what it told me.”
“Get on with it. My balls are about to freeze.”
“I reckon he wanted to migrate to England,” said Birchfield.
“That’s a big leap of a conclusion for an ex-copper. And with no
evidence at
all.”
“Yes, but think about it. What if these old school buddies were
threatening
him.”
“With what? Overly sentimental music?” asked Kramer.
“With his secret ***ual activities. The ones with the shameful
penalties.”
“Now we’re letting fantasy play havoc. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait, look at the flowers the woman left. There’s a card.”
Kramer took the card. “It’s an address and phone number. She must know
something.”
“Before we go,” said Birchfield, “I was told when I came here to
look at the
visitors’ book.”
“Oh, gawd!”
The book was in the monastery office locked away with other im****tant
records going back to Peter the Great, but they had scanned the older
records. After paying a fee, they were shown to a display in a tiny room.
It
took no time at all to find the date of the funeral. It was a long
reference, even with just the names of the official party. It was a
godsend.
The funeral had been one of the biggest in St. Petersburg.
After making notes of the names, Birchfield continued flipping through the
records around each anniversary. That produced something interesting.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Kramer?”
“Same guys every year. Who are they? Relations of Peter?”
“Look, they kept coming, year after year.,” said Birchfield. “And
here, just
a few years later, this guy has the same surname, but different given
name.
Same next year. Is he his son? And here, five years on and another
replacement. Ask the lady for the records for the last few years.”
Kramer returned a few minutes later. “Say that lass behind the counter
is a
friendly one. We got ourselves invited to a party tonight. That’s if
you’re
able to stay up past your ten curfew?”
“Great! Did you remember to ask for the records, you *** starved
maniac?”
Kramer took files from behind his back.
“That’s the ticket, Kramer. Trust no one. What’s that book?”
“That, my sad American cousin, is the Russian equivalent of “Who’s
Who?”--
in English. Now apologize for that vicious slander about my person.”
“OK, I’m sorry you’re a ***-starved maniac. Now, let’s look up
these Russian
dudes.”
****
“Hef more the vodka?”
“That’s the worst Russian accent I’ve ever heard, Kramer,” said
Birchfield,
a bottle of French wine under his arm. “Are you sure this is the right
address?”
“If you trust a one-eyed cabbie with a suspicious tattoo on his arm,”
said
Kramer, pressing the bell “Still, after what we found about those men
today,
I’d trust the cabbie every time.”
Birchfield snorted. “The more bizarre question is why! Why did
classmates
from the School go to his grave every year then have their sons continue
long after the fathers had died?”
“Maybe they loved him? These guys are not answering the bell,
Birchfield.”
Birchfield made a face. “I told you to bring vodka not wine. Does Pete
strike you as the loveable type? Withdrawn? Melancholic? Suspicious? I’d
rule out affection as the reason.”
“Maybe they felt loyalty, him being a classmate?”
The apartment building door opened as two alcohol affected girls staggered
out. One carried a leather satchel on her arm.
“Hi!” said Birchfield. “Do you lovely ladies speak English?”
The late twenties blonde showed perfect teeth. “I speak little bit. You
American?”
“Depends,” said Birchfield with a sly smile. “Do you like
Americans?’”
That evoked a giggle. “Some I like. Some I no like. I want go to
America.”
The second girl, a petite redhead turned to Kramer. “You all
American?”
Kramer felt himself all over. “No, I am all English. Much better than
American, no?”
“What name are you? Me are Valentina.”
“Call me Kramer,” he said. “Love the name Valentina. Are we going
back to
the party?”
“No!” she drawled, “you no like. Mafia, OK?”
“Keep quiet!” hissed the blonde. “No hear her. She like too much the
vodka.
My name is Lada. Maybe you like come our place for drink? Forget party.
Some
bad men no like Americans.”
“Is it far?” asked Kramer. “We don’t have a vehicle and it’s
goddamned
cold.”
“We live that building here,” said Lada, pointing to the next. “You
come, we
make warm. OK, yes?”
“OK, definitely yes,” said Birchfield, his eye on the satchel, “and
if my
Limey friend says nyet, you may be witnesses to a murder.”
****
They were on their second bottle of vodka when Valentina suggested
dancing.
By this time she was slurring her words making her poor English a
challenge
to understand. Nevertheless, she kicked off her shoes, sending them
cra****ng
into a cabinet which brought a sharp rebuke from Lada. Valentina waved the
complaint aside, seized Kramer then set about demonstrating a complete
lack
of grace in her dancing.
“I sorry,” Lada murmured over and over, shoulders drooping as if she
was
responsible for good conduct in all of St. Petersburg.
Birchfield sat beside her. “How did you meet?” he asked. “You seem
completely different.”
Lada screwed up her face. “Valentina good girl. Vodka make her do bad. I
meet Valentina in— how you say? — work house?”
“Workhouse? Do you mean place of work? Company? Office?”
“OK! Office,” she said. “We work same office.” Her burgundy hair
appeared
burnished in the flickering light from the gas fire.
“So, you said. Something like a court re****ter?”
“Mmm! She type what re****ter make. But, now Valentina go new office.”
“Yes, I saw the name on her satchel when we first met. What does she do
at
the archives—?”
He stopped as Valentina brushed his face with a soft palm. “I tired.
Heve
little sleep now. Krumer, he help me do the sleep. You make Lada heppy.
OK?”
As the two disappeared into the rear room, Lada shook her head. “Did I
tell
truth? Vodka make her bad. She take your friend to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Birchfield. “It is Kramer’s fault, entirely.
I’ll speak to
him.” He began to get up.
“No,” she said, “I say bad because we have only one bed and they
take. We
sleep here. I get blanket.”
“We really should be going,” said Birchfield. “We have a big day
tomorrow.”
“Big day? All day same size. You no find taxi this late. You stay.”
****
Birchfield lay on the floor, listening to squeals from Valentina in the
next
room. She had already orgasmed twice in a very vocal way and was now
demanding what Kramer seemed unable to produce. But, who was he to
criticise? Here he was, five years into living alone and without a
relation****p to his name in that time. He felt clumsy, inept, his
confidence
shattered after Mary-Jo had run him through the mill. He froze when Lada
began an approach. It resulted in her turning her back on him.
What was wrong with him? It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested. He knew
that
when he got home, he would punish himself for the stupidity, but right
now,
he knew he’d fail if he tried anything with Lada. How could he face that
humiliation?
It sounded like Kramer had recharged because Valentina’s voice was on
the
rise again. He felt something touch his cheek and reached up to catch a
wayward tear. How pathetic? How much more humiliating was a man afraid to
try?
Birchfield rolled on his side and moved into Lada. His hand went under her
arm to cup her breast.
“You feel better now?” she asked.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“You no like Lada. I am no pretty.”
“Oh, no, you’re beautiful. I once had a bad wife. I fear getting hurt
again.
Understand?”
She turned and her mouth was close to his. “Lada not hurt. Lada make
heppy.”
****
Kramer staggered from the bedroom before first light. “Christ, someone
get
the bloody heater going before my cock freezes. Maybe that wouldn’t be
so
bad, It feels on fire.”
Birchfield sat up and rubbed his eyes. Lada turned, dragging the blankets
over her leaving him colder.
“Jesus, it freezes here. Incidentally, I heard every disgusting thing
last
night, Kramer. I hope your cock falls off. Light the bloody heater, will
you.”
Kramer, in singlet and underpants, stooped to examine the heater. He
pushed
the ignition with no success before finding the gas valve. The flames
flared
as the gas ignited.
Birchfield was almost dressed. “You know who you were sleeping with,
don’t
you?”
“My guess is the number one carrier of venereal disease in St.
Petersburg.
Do I win?”
“No, Valentina recently started at the State Archives where she is
helping
prepare an exhibition of selected secret police files. Now what if she
could
search for anything she liked?”
“You knew this before, didn’t you?”
“It’s my training. It was on her bag.
“So, you can read Russian, but not speak it? How does that work?”
Birchfield shrugged. “I trained myself to read it, but I never actually
learned the sounds.”
Kramer yawned. “What should I be doing?”
Birchfield scratched his head. “Not sure. Go back to bed and get the
girl
talking. Who knows?”
****
The taxi dropped them at a well-heeled address.
“This can’t be it,” said Kramer. “She was a little old lady. She
looked so
poor.”
“Well she answered the telephone and said to come over. It has to be
right.”
A large mongrel gave them a noisy welcome from behind a wire fence. The
aggression continued until they’d walked the length of the path and up
the
steps to the front door. Kramer rang the bell and they heard it echo in
the
house.
“Two story mansion. Either she’s the cleaner or she’s robbing the
joint.”
Kramer put his ear to the door just as it opened and the elderly lady
stood
there scowling. They hardly recognised her. She had been transformed with
clothes that screamed simple, but expensive. A triple string of pearls
around her neck suggested serious money.
“Come!” she summoned with authority.
She led them down a tiled corridor and into a bright, sunlit room. A small
fire struggled to heat a room far too large for the meagre heat given off.
It was a sparsely furnished room, cold and dull, like most of the country
after Communist rule. The rich wallpaper revealed the sites of many large
pictures that once hung there, noticeable by the cleaner paper where they
once resided.
“Sit!” she ordered, with a wave of a hand. They sat on a couch that
failed
to match the room. “Sorry for house. I must sell family home of 170 year
because no money for tax. Now live in slum.”
Kramer laughed at her remark and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.
“Sorry to hear that, Madam, ah, what shall we call you?”
This made her scowl deeper. “No name. You say name and they come.”
“Who? Who comes?” Kramer moved closer.
She sat down in the scuffed club chair like a falling sack. “Once they
hide
face or police take away and see no more. Police all gone. Now, they stay
out. Same as rats.”
“Yes, but who?” said Birchfield, a little irritated.
She stood, swaying for a moment. “Come,” she said and they followed
into the
corridor and into a room opposite. Packing cases occupied most of the
floor.
She inspected four or five before she found a promising one, searching,
finally extracting a large, worn book. She opened it, flipped through a
few
pages, then laid it open on top of a tower of crates.
“This!” she began, punching a photo with a pudgy finger.
The two searchers moved to look at the photo. It showed a group of boys,
gathered around a piano and at the piano was— “Pyotr Il'yich
Tchaikovsky!”
she said, soaked in pride and spirits.
“And these other boys? His school friends?” asked Birchfield.
She began nodding then corrected it to a shake. “No friend. He no heff
friend.” She flipped back through the pages, her thumb remaining inside
her
last opening. When she spread it open again, the boys had grown into
mature
men. She began pointing to each of the men, then nominating their vehicle
of
power, The bureaucracy took three of the five, the other two were heads of
large state concerns; one in construction, the other in engineering. The
date was 1878. Peter Tchaikovsky was not one of them.
Again she flipped the pages, right to the back where a colour photo from a
magazine was held between the sheets. She laid it in front of the men.
Again, stabbing each image with her stubby finger, she named them.
“This was only five years ago,” said Birchfield to Kramer, as he
pointed to
the date at the bottom. “Who could they be?”
Kramer made signs as if he didn’t understand the significance of the
photo.
She began a pantomime of actions, pointing to one man in the older photo,
then rocking a baby in her arms as she said, “Bearbee, then bearbee,
then
he.”
“Sons of sons,” said Kramer. “Yeah, I get it.”
What followed was a revelation. She continued identifying each by pointing
to their position in the new world of capitalism. Three were heads of
large
state enterprises. Then she stabbed the last two.
“Gopniki!” she said, then spat on the floor.
“What?” said Birchfield, searching his electronic translator.
“Don’t be a total dickhead, Birchy,” said Kramer. “She means
Mafiosi.
Gangsters, you know.”
That began a long tirade from the aging Russian. She went on and on, her
Russian spat out as if from a machine pistol. The two men listened in
dismay
for not a single word was intelligible. When she began drinking morosely,
they turned to leave.
“Modeste!” she screamed, “предатель!”
Birchfield whirled. “Modeste? Peter’s brother? Of course, he was gay,
too.”
He began thumbing through his electronic translator. “Traitor? Modeste?
Well, tell us more, madam. Kramer, there was a shopping centre a street
from
here. Pop down and pick up another bottle of vodka for our poor thirsty
lady
here. Would you like that, Madam?”
Her mouth fell open as she nodded and she smiled and dribble poured over
her
lip.
****
Kramer was snoring. It was mid-afternoon and they were relaxing in their
shared room at the hotel. At least Kramer was relaxing. Birchfield was
listing every fact they’d collected from their research since combining
forces a year and a half ago.
He looked up from his work, to the back of Kramer, his shoulder rising and
falling with each breath and that annoying snore, penetrating and loud.
Kramer in many ways was the antithesis of himself, thought Birchfield, yet
he got along better with him than he had with either of his female
relation****ps.
What a sad total, two women, the sum total of all the women on the planet
that liked a fur-ball called Birchfield enough to live with him for a
time.
He’d certainly missed out on the *** appeal gene.
But if he was a sad case, what about Peter? Here was the creator of some
of
the world’s most hauntingly beautiful music and his life was a disaster.
If
he’d been born a hundred years later, would that have made him happier?
If
he’s been happier, would the music have been different?
And Kramer? He could charm the underwear off a statue. It was frustrating
for Birchfield to watch him. He picked up a book and hurled it at the
sleeper. It flapped across the room and fell on his face.
“Get off!” Kramer yelled, flaying his arms at an imaginary attacker.
“Welcome back,” said Birchfield. “While you’ve been snoring your
fool head
off, I’ve been listing all the things we discovered in order. It makes
interesting reading.”
“Good for you, boyo. Look at the time. I better hit the shower if
we’re
going to town tonight.”
“Oh!” said Birchfield, ominously enough to halt Kramer in his tracks.
“Ok,” said Kramer without turning, “what does that mean?”
Birchfield stood abruptly. “I sort of promised Lada we’d go back there
tonight.”
“Tell me you’re lying. Have I gotta go through that again. My dick is
red
raw. She’s an animal.”
“Consider me for a change. Lada and I got on quite well.”
Kramer made a chortle sound. “Not according to what Lada told Valentina.
She
said you were a bit loathe to do the business.”
Birchfield crumpled back into his seat. “Right. Well, I didn’t feel
like
going out anyway. You go.”
Kramer turned at last and his face was a picture of contrition. “I’m
sorry,
mate. Really. I didn’t know it was a sore point. What happened between
you
two?
“I thought it went well. I’m a fool. You’ll laugh, but it’s the
first time
for me since I broke up with Mary-Jo. Go on, make a joke of that.”
“But, that’s four years isn’t it?”
“Five,” said Birchfield. “Lada’s right. I almost let it go last
night, but
came to my senses just in time. Now, I can’t go back. Ever!”
“I understand. I’m sorry. What were you saying about events?”
After a few seconds, Birchfield raised his head. “Why don’t you go by
yourself tonight. I feel like an early night. I want to think more on this
list I’ve done. Something is yelling at me, but I don’t hear it.”
Kramer’s hands went to his hips. “Oh, great, one little emotional
hiccup and
you’re dead meat? You need to pull yourself together, mate.”
Off went Kramer into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turned
on
the water in the bath and took out his cell phone.
****
Birchfield was watching CNN when Kramer returned, clutching a familiar
brown paper bag. As the American consulted his watch, Kramer continued
setting out the food from McDonalds.
“I thought you were going out on the town?” asked Birchfield. “Is
this the
best meal you can do?”
“Oh, right,” scoffed Kramer, “and this while you’re watching CNN?
You
hypocrite.” He opened the second brown bag and took out two bottles of
vodka.
“More of that paint stripper? What’s going on, Kramer?”
“Eat, you fool. Nothing’s going on. What could be going on?”
They ate in silence, their attention fully taken by CNN.
The knock on the door was short and sharp. “I knew it,” said
Birchfield.
“This is your doing.”
Birchfield went to the door and opened it. The girls were unsmiling and
anxious-looking.
“I thought so,” said Birchfield. “Well, now you’re here, I suppose
you
better come in.”
He turned his back to walk away from the door. The girls followed,
propelled
by two Neanderthals who must have been hiding against the outside wall.
Each
had a gun, holding it parallel to the ground.
“You brought this on us,” Birchfield accused Kramer. “You can’t
help
yourself, can you?”
“I did it for—”
“Shuddup!” said the first thug. “No talk unless I say OK?”
“Look, “ said Kramer, “take what you want and leave us. My
wallet’s on the
table.”
“You want me shoot ****in’ leg?” snarled the second. His skull was
the only
place that seemed free of hair. On the rest of his body, it grew in
abundance. “No talk. We talk. Why you here Russia? What you want?”
“We’re just tourists, mate,” Kramer said.
“Two! Two!” He turned to Valentina to issue a command. She answered
meekly,
her head bowed.
“So,” he drawled, “you sight the see? This is good. My country very
brute-a-full.”
“We agree on that much, anyway,” said Birchfield.
Neanderthal One smiled a smile that made him more comical than fearsome.
“Now you stop see and go to home. OK?”
“We’re not ready to go,” said Birchfield.
Again N-1 turned to Valentina. Having got a translation, he turned back
slowly. He was chuckling.
Valentina seemed relaxed, but Lada was agitated. “Please!” she said,
again
and again at equal intervals, wringing her hands incessantly. When the big
goon began his chuckling, she erupted with a step forward.
“Please, let иностранец go. They know nothing. They good
people.”
Birchfield began tut-tutting, shaking his head slowly. That stopped the
amusement, bringing a frown.
“You like funny?” asked N1. “You think Mischa the funny?”
“No! No, no, no, no, no no,” said Birchfield. “I was simply thinking
how
brave you were. I mean holding that weapon that way. You’re a man who
won’t
let accidents interfere with company business.”
Mischa dragged Valentina closer and growled something in Russian. She
stumbled out an answer. That brought another exchange between the two.
Now,
Valentina, more polite than she had ever shown previously, began to
address
Birchfield with a complete lack of confidence.
“Um! Um! He wants to know how—why—how he hold gun wrong?”
Birchfield reached up and took the pistol out of Mischa’s hand. Mischa
seemed absolutely shocked, but held a hand up when the younger goon
brandished his weapon at the American.
“Now, look,” said Birchfield, holding the handgun in the palm of his
hand,
“I’m not familiar with this make, but this pretty much goes for all
pieces.
The way you were holding it was all Hollywood. Understand? I was a lawman
for 18 years and I never saw a lawman hold a gun that away.”
Valentina, more confident now, was translating on the fly, still
stumbling,
but Mischa was nodding as if he was following.
“I heard of a gangster who shot his finger off, holding the piece that
away,” Birchfield continued.
The Russian still retained a god-awful scowl. He spoke to Valentina
softly.
“He says please can he heff his gun beck?” relayed Valentina.
“Sure! Sure!” said Birchfield loudly, and held the gun out, flat on
his palm
for the Russian to take.
Mischa beamed his relief, which moved the map of his face to a rugged
land.
He reached out as if plucking a rare flower and retrieved the weapon. As
he
did so, Birchfield brought his other hand around, holding his own weapon,
pointing it directly at Mischa’s skull.
“And this is my piece,” said Birchfield. “Superior to yours, I
suggest,
particularly given it’s pointed at your brain. May I also suggest you
both
drop your weapons on the floor?”
“Jesus,” croaked Kramer, “that was ****ing fantastic.”
In no time at all, Birchfield had both goons on the couch, unrestrained,
held in place by the known presence of Birchfield’s weapon. The small
one
was berating his companion, throwing words at him from an unremitting
mouth.
Mischa, the big one, remained remarkably docile, helped by Birchfield’s
friendly manner, a practice probably unknown in their experience.
“We all dead,” wailed Valentina, to Birchfield in the kitchen. “You
can’t do
to gang and gang say, ‘It OK!”. They come and dead you. I no wait,
shoot me
now.”
“Kick the women out,” said Kramer, “show the heavies that the girls
are
innocent.”
Birchfield rubbed the beginnings of a beard. “Can’t do, Kramer. I need
Valentina to translate. No, I’ll hold a gun to the girls and pretend to
make
them translate. Make sure they both understand. Say, what’s the small
dude
saying to Mischa?”
Valentina was tearful as she stumbled on her reply. “Boris say to Mischa
he
dead man. He say he girl. He say he tell boss all.”
“Ask Mischa what they wanted with us?” asked Birchfield. “Unless you
can
tell me.”
Valentina found something on the carpet to interest her as she shook her
head. “Mischa says he love of Valentina. Valentina no want Mischa for
man.
He say I belong Mischa.”
“So, what is he doing here?” asked Kramer.
She looked up for the first time, her eyes red and glistening. “He think
you
make me the love.”
“As I recall, we did. And very nice it was, too,” said Kramer.
“Please, no say to Mischa. He like beby, soft, nice, but he hear we make
the
love and he get—” She began a pantomime of anger, hands clenched,
face
distorted.
Birchfield frowned. “This has gone way too far. Time to stop it.
Valentina,
I want you to translate as carefully as you can.”
“But, um!” But Birchfield was already stomping over to the couch.
“Gentlemen,” announced Birchfield, “I want to apologise to you for
trying to
keep our mission here secret.” By his side Valentina stumbled on her
translation, but Birchfield waited only a few seconds. “I should have
guessed we couldn’t keep secrets from guys as sharp as you.”
“What secret you secret?” asked Boris, suspiciously.
“Well, my Russian friends, Kramer and I are here because we love Russian
music. We heard a rumour that one composer, famous all around the world,
might have been treated so badly that I said to Kramer, let’s go to St.
Petersburg and find the truth.”
“Who, ah, who?” said Boris, thawing just a little. It looked like
Mischa
hadn’t understood a thing.
“Only the greatest of all,” said Birchfield, spreading his arms wide,
“Pyotr
Il'yich Tchaikovsky! The master himself.”
“Oh, Pyotr,” breathed Boris, as if it were a prayer.
“You know his work?” asked Birchfield.
Boris waited until Valentina mangled the translation then turned back.
Suddenly, he began humming, not quietly either. It was as if a hive of
bees
had burst into the hotel room.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm--”
“Ah, the magic Pathétique,” Kramer said, with a beatific smile.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Boris, now strangely able to speak so much
better in
English, “it his end music.”
“His end music,” mused Birchfield.
“He means his last, I’d say,” said Kramer.
“You like Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky!?” asked Birchfield, hand on
heart.
Boris dug deep for a smile. “I luff Pyotr. When Boris make the luff, he
make
the luff with Pyotr.”
“Oh gawd!” said Kramer. “He means he screws to his music, I hope.”
“Do you know how Pyotr died?” Birchfield cocked his head as Valentina
translated.
Mischa’s hand shot up like a Soviet rocket. “He drink no the vodka.”
Birchfield nodded slowly. “He drink no the vodka? Do you mean he drank
the
water? Gentlemen, I have a sad story to tell you. Lada, put the coffee on,
sweetheart.”
****
The icy wind cut across the city straight off the sea. The taxi skidded as
it braked and hit the curb. Kramer counted out the notes and nodded to the
driver. Birchfield was already out of the cab, surveying the ****mmering
lights across the water.
“I’ll never complain of England’s weather again,” said Kramer,
blowing out a
frosty breath.
“This place looks expensive,” said Birchfield. “I don’t know about
you, but
I can’t afford to drain the account on one meal.”
“I told you,” Kramer said, “the girls said we were guests. Do guests
in
Russia pay the bill?”
They mounted the steps and entered the Hotel Astoria, taking off their
gloves and coats as they walked to the cloak room. Boris and Mischa were
waiting by the counter.
“Um, welcome you to very nice hotel here in St. Petersburg,” said
Boris,
“Mister Nikolay and Mister Sasha Alexandrov already sit. You come
nicely.
Thank you. Now we go in.”
The two were not hard to spot, they occupied a large table on an elevated
section, flanked by lamps with yellow and red shades. They were also easy
to
spot because they were very, very loud.
“I am told by my people that you both are detectives?” began Nikolay,
with
but a trace of accent.
“I was a detective for 14 years,” said Birchfield, “and a policeman
for 18.
My friend here is a retired journalist. Your English is excellent,
Nikolay.”
“Thank you. my friend. I learnt my English in your country. For ten
years my
father worked for Soviets in United Nations. I had very good time.”
Sasha waved an order at Boris and Mischa who seemed deflated, but headed
out
of the restaurant. The conversation then meandered around what the two
foreigners thought of St. Petersburg. When the Zakouski arrived, the
subject
was introduced along with an explanation of the entrée.
“Sturgeon, lamprey, and here is smoked salmon,” said Sasha. “We
believe you
have been studying our Mister Tchaikovsky?”
“In all my years in journalism,” opined Kramer, “I never saw any
story so
universally known yet so utterly mysterious. No one will talk about it,
unless first taking several bottles of vodka.”
The brothers laughed. “That is so Russian,” said Nikolay. “But
tonight, you
will learn more of the truth for we have a shame, a secret we put in the
wardrobe. I think I got that wrong.”
“A skeleton in the closet?” Kramer suggested. “It’s hardly a
secret, is it?”
Sasha looked at Nicolay who leaned forward. “What do you mean? You know
of
my family?”
Birchfield picked up on the change in tone. “Perhaps we are not talking
about the same thing, Nicolay. We know nothing of your family. We made an
assumption that you were a member of an— an illegal organisation?”
“You think we are Mafiosi?” asked Sasha with a suppressed smile.
“You are
fantastic detective, no?”
“We are businessmen,” said Nikolay, quietly. “We come from a good
family.
Now I will tell you our story then you will do Sasha and myself a favour.
OK?”
****
The waiter opened the fourth bottle of wine. Nikolay waited until the
stone-faced attendant had left the table then resumed his monologue.
“So, my great grandfather brought everlasting shame down on my family. I
curse his name.”
Kramer blew his nose, then stuffed the handkerchief back into his pants.
“I
don’t get it, Nikolay. How can they feel shame for something they were
not
party to, and had no knowledge of?”
Sasha punched his chest several times with force. “It is like original
sin.
It curses everything that comes after. Since our great grandfather did
this
terrible thing, our family is no longer counted in great family list. We
have lost our fortune, our lands, our status. We are cursed.”
“And yet,” said Birchfield, “you show all the signs of much wealth
and
power. We are not silly.”
Sasha’s laugh was sharp and loud. “Nikolay and I have worked so hard
to
restore our rightful place. Not all we have done has been considered
kosher.— perhaps. But now we are moving towards more suitable
enterprises.”
“Steel! Oil wells. Manufacturing,” said Nikolay. “We have money now,
but
whispers still plague us.”
Kramer poured himself more wine. His words were beginning to blend with
each
other. “Now, let me get this straight in my head, guys. You say these
mates
of Peter’s, old school mates, felt that he was bringing down great shame
on
their old elitist school, right? So, you say they popped around to his
house
one night and handed him an ultimatum. From now on it get a bit hairy for
me.”
“Hairy?” asked Sasha, one eyebrow above the other.
“It translates as ‘hardly believable’,” Birchfield said.
“OK,” said Sasha, clapping his hands, “hardly believable? Hairy.
Very good.”
He pointed to his groin. “Down here I am hardly believable, no?”
“Everything I say is true,” said Nikolay, “they told Pyotr to drink
poison
or they would send a letter to the Tsar explaining of Pyotr’s affair
with
Konstantin Konstantinovich. He was bringing shame down on their old
school,
they said.”
“And who was this Kon… Kon…”
Birchfield moved the wine from Kramer. “Konstantin Konstantinovich was a
Grand Duke and close to the Tsar. My guess is the Tsar already knew what
was
going on. Hell, he must have. But to have it officially do***ented by
these
powerful men would have meant he’d have to enforce the law.”
“That is right,” said Sasha.
“And so he swallowed arsenic? Just like that?” Kramer was obviously
fighting
sleep.
“But surely,” said Birchfield, “it would be obvious that he was
poisoned,
wouldn’t it?”
Nikolay sniffed hard. “Poor Pyotr. Poor, poor Pyotr. I have a friend who
is
doctor and he say arsenic look like cholera death. I am sorry, we Russians
are emotional people.”
“But the government must have known, god-damn it.”
Nikolay Alexandrov blew his nose on a brilliant white handkerchief. “I
am
sorry, Birchfield, I am like girl, no? Say you will help make right for
Pyotr. Please do this for us?”
Sasha waved drunkenly to the waiter. “We all have famous Russian
ice-cream.
Bring now!”
“Not for me,” said Birchfield with emphasis.
“No, no, no, no,” breathed Kramer, his head resting on a folded arm.
“Cholera is shame for Pyotr,” mumbled Sasha, then commenced to snore
loudly.
“What— What did that mean?” asked Birchfield.
The Russian examined his palm. “At time he died, cholera was a poor man
disease. Only poor died of this. Quality folk had good water, they had
doctor, they had the clean. So man who die of cholera was low class, OK?
To
tell world he died of cholera is big insult. A pox on these bastards!”
“Ok,” Birchfield said, with a yawn, “I agree, Tchaikovsky was
wronged. Why
dig it up? Music lovers of today see nothing shameful, they just love the
music.”
Nikolay stood abruptly to thump the table, his almost perfect English
still
deteriorating as emotion flooded him. “We want for you to tell the world
about terrible things done to Pyotr Il'yich. Take story back to your
country
and make name of Pyotr Il'yich Tchaikovsky honourable again.”
****
The red ‘On Air’ sign flashed as the studio darkened in November that
same
year. Birchfield and Kramer sat in the back row, their task done. The
announcer spoke the opening words that would begin the process of
redemption.
“Nine days after the premiere of the Sixth Symphony, the Pathétique,
Pyotr
Ilyich Tchaikovsky died on 6 November, 1893. It was always believed he
died
of cholera. However, there is another story…”
Barry Aitchison
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