corrected himself, “the police wanted someone who would not, in the company of educated people like you, sound . . .” He paused.
“Gauche,” she added.
“Yes.”
As they sipped their tea, she continued to study him carefully. He was younger than she, though not by much. His education was apparent, as was hers. Could he, she wondered, be trusted? It was the eternal question that every Soviet citizen pondered in the presence of a stranger.
“You knew my husband?”
“Caravan tea,” he said, hoping to sidestep her question. “You know why they call it that? The Chinese brought it by caravan, and their campfires infused it with a smoky flavor.”
She smelled the tea and looked over the head of her guest to some indefinite point.
“In the seventeenth century,” Sasha said, “a Mongolian ruler brought tea to Tsar Michael I, but he scoffed at what he called ‘dead leaves.’”
Galina’s eyes listlessly migrated to his face. Sasha, having come to the end of his digression about tea, weakly smiled hoping that Galina would resume the conversation, but take it in another direction.
“My husband’s belongings were never recovered, including a diary I gave him.” Clearly, she would not be deterred. “Perhaps the killer or killers thought that these possessions had no value and disposed of them. Have you any knowledge of their whereabouts?” Before Sasha could reply, she waved her hand dismissively and added, “But why should you know about such things, a mere emissary of the police.”
Although her statement seemed to suggest that her questions had come to an end, her fixed stare, which held his face like a skewed butterfly, said otherwise. Sasha turned to the child at play in the corner. Perhaps Alya could provide a chance for Sasha to elude any further mention of Petr Selivanov. He called to Alya and asked her which person in Pushkin’s story she liked best.
“The headless man who talks. I like him the best, the very best.”
“He doesn’t scare you?”
“No, I feel sorry for him. He knows the truth but can’t say it.”
“My favorite is the evil sorcerer Chernomor.”
“I hate him. He makes good people bad.”
With Galina’s eyes riveted on him, Sasha turned from the child to his teacup and chuckled. “Dead leaves, indeed. That’s a Tsar for you.” Wordlessly, she rose and went to her larder. Most people who shared flats also shared kitchens. Galina, having one of her own, was fortunate. She returned to the table with a loaf of black rye bread, a knife, a spoon, and a pot of honey. She put the items on the table, sat, and folded her hands. He worried that any further attempts to turn the discussion away from Petr Selivanov would only heighten her suspicions. So he tried to gain her confidence with sentimentality.
“You did receive his remains?”
She walked to a bookcase and from the top shelf removed a white ceramic urn. “This is what they sent me . . . his ashes.”
Sensible that the police, given Petr’s decapitation, had little choice but cremation. Sasha considered, for the first time, the possibility that Galina had never been told about the condition of the body. Did he dare tell her? No.
“I think it’s standard practice,” said Sasha, having no idea what rules governed the transport of the dead.
She glanced at her daughter and whispered, “Had he been put in a coffin, I could have at least raised the lid for a last look.”
Sasha began to perspire. Noticing his discomfort, Galina added, “When the ashes arrived, I felt the same way, in a sweat.”
Her comment intimated that she had no suspicions about him. His unease was being interpreted as sympathy. “If you wish to find a proper resting place for the ashes,” he said, “I’ll be glad to help in any way that I can.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Just your coming here has helped.”
Studying him she saw an intelligent, reasonable man, not a Bolshevik bully. Not a militant,
“Gauche,” she added.
“Yes.”
As they sipped their tea, she continued to study him carefully. He was younger than she, though not by much. His education was apparent, as was hers. Could he, she wondered, be trusted? It was the eternal question that every Soviet citizen pondered in the presence of a stranger.
“You knew my husband?”
“Caravan tea,” he said, hoping to sidestep her question. “You know why they call it that? The Chinese brought it by caravan, and their campfires infused it with a smoky flavor.”
She smelled the tea and looked over the head of her guest to some indefinite point.
“In the seventeenth century,” Sasha said, “a Mongolian ruler brought tea to Tsar Michael I, but he scoffed at what he called ‘dead leaves.’”
Galina’s eyes listlessly migrated to his face. Sasha, having come to the end of his digression about tea, weakly smiled hoping that Galina would resume the conversation, but take it in another direction.
“My husband’s belongings were never recovered, including a diary I gave him.” Clearly, she would not be deterred. “Perhaps the killer or killers thought that these possessions had no value and disposed of them. Have you any knowledge of their whereabouts?” Before Sasha could reply, she waved her hand dismissively and added, “But why should you know about such things, a mere emissary of the police.”
Although her statement seemed to suggest that her questions had come to an end, her fixed stare, which held his face like a skewed butterfly, said otherwise. Sasha turned to the child at play in the corner. Perhaps Alya could provide a chance for Sasha to elude any further mention of Petr Selivanov. He called to Alya and asked her which person in Pushkin’s story she liked best.
“The headless man who talks. I like him the best, the very best.”
“He doesn’t scare you?”
“No, I feel sorry for him. He knows the truth but can’t say it.”
“My favorite is the evil sorcerer Chernomor.”
“I hate him. He makes good people bad.”
With Galina’s eyes riveted on him, Sasha turned from the child to his teacup and chuckled. “Dead leaves, indeed. That’s a Tsar for you.” Wordlessly, she rose and went to her larder. Most people who shared flats also shared kitchens. Galina, having one of her own, was fortunate. She returned to the table with a loaf of black rye bread, a knife, a spoon, and a pot of honey. She put the items on the table, sat, and folded her hands. He worried that any further attempts to turn the discussion away from Petr Selivanov would only heighten her suspicions. So he tried to gain her confidence with sentimentality.
“You did receive his remains?”
She walked to a bookcase and from the top shelf removed a white ceramic urn. “This is what they sent me . . . his ashes.”
Sensible that the police, given Petr’s decapitation, had little choice but cremation. Sasha considered, for the first time, the possibility that Galina had never been told about the condition of the body. Did he dare tell her? No.
“I think it’s standard practice,” said Sasha, having no idea what rules governed the transport of the dead.
She glanced at her daughter and whispered, “Had he been put in a coffin, I could have at least raised the lid for a last look.”
Sasha began to perspire. Noticing his discomfort, Galina added, “When the ashes arrived, I felt the same way, in a sweat.”
Her comment intimated that she had no suspicions about him. His unease was being interpreted as sympathy. “If you wish to find a proper resting place for the ashes,” he said, “I’ll be glad to help in any way that I can.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Just your coming here has helped.”
Studying him she saw an intelligent, reasonable man, not a Bolshevik bully. Not a militant,
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