Definitely Maybe (5 page)

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his face suddenly looking older. “Where did you get it?”

“Just a—”

“Sit down!” Zykov shouted. His blue eyes ran over Malianov’s face. “How did this data get in your hands?”

“What data?” Malianov whispered. “What the hell data are you talking about?” he roared. “That’s my calculations.”

“That is not your calculations,” Zykov answered coldly, also raising his voice. “Where did this graph come from?”

He showed him the page from afar and pointed to a crooked line.

“From my head!” Malianov shouted. “Right from here!” He struck his temple with his fist. “That is the relation of the density to the distance from the star!”

“This is the graph of the growth of crime in our district for the last quarter!” Zykov announced.

Malianov was dumbfounded. And Zykov, flapping his lips wetly, went on.

“You didn’t even copy it right. It’s not really like that, it goes this way.” He picked up Malianov’s pencil, jumped up, put the paper on the table, and, pressing heavily with the pencil, drew another line over Malianov’s chart. “There. And over here it goes like this, not like that.” When he was finished, and the pencil point was broken, he threw away the pencil, sat down again, and looked at Malianov with pity. “Eh, Malianov, Malianov. You’re a highly educated man, an experienced criminal, but you behave like the lowliest punk.”

Malianov kept looking back and forth from his face to the graph. It didn’t make any sense at all. It was so ridiculous that it was pointless to say anything, or scream, or say nothing. Actually, the best thing to do in this case would be to wake up.

“And is your wife on good terms with Snegovoi?” Zykov asked, once again polite to the point of colorlessness.

“Good terms, yes.”

“Do they use the informal
you
?”

“Listen. You’ve ruined my graph. What’s going on?”

“What graph?” Zykov was surprised.

“This one, right here.”

“That’s of no consequence. Does Snegovoi drop over when you’re not home?”

“Of no consequence,” Malianov repeated. “It may be of no consequence to you,” he said rapidly, gathering his papers and stuffing them into the drawers. “You sit here and work and kill yourself like a damn fool and then anyone who wants to comes around and tells you it’s of no consequence,” he muttered, getting down on all fours and gathering the rough drafts scattered on the floor.

Igor Zykov watched him expressionlessly, neatly screwing his cigarette in the holder. When Malianov, huffing, sweaty, and angry, got back to his chair, Zykov asked politely:

“May I smoke?”

“Go ahead. There’s the ashtray. And get on with your questions. I have work to do.”

“It all depends on you,” Zykov maintained, delicately letting smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. “For example, here’s a question: What do you usually call Snegovoi—Colonel, Snegovoi, or Arnold?”

“Depends. What’s the difference what I call him?”

“You call him Colonel?”

“Well, yes. So?”

“That’s very strange,” Zykov said, carefully flicking his ash. “You see, Snegovoi was promoted to colonel only the day before yesterday.”

That was a shock. Malianov said nothing, feeling his face turn red.

“So how did you find out he was made colonel?”

Malianov waved his hand.

“All right. I was bragging. I didn’t know he was a colonel,
or lieutenant colonel, or whatever. I dropped in on him yesterday and saw his tunic with the epaulets. And I saw he was a colonel.”

“When were you there yesterday?”

“Last night. Late. I got a book. This one.”

That was a mistake, mentioning the book. Zykov grabbed the book and started leafing through it. Malianov began sweating again because he didn’t have the slightest idea what was in it.

“What language is this?” Zykov asked distractedly.

“Er …” Malianov mumbled, sweating for a third time. “I would imagine English.”

“I don’t think so,” Zykov said, peering into the text. “It looks like Cyrillic to me, not Latin. Oh! It’s Russian!”

Malianov broke out in a sweat for a fourth time, but Zykov merely replaced the book, put on his dark glasses, leaned back in the armchair, and stared at Malianov. And Malianov stared at Zykov, trying not to blink or to look away. A thought ran through his mind: You son of a bitch. I won’t tell you where our boys are.

“Who do you think I look like?” Zykov suddenly asked.

“Like a Tonton Macoute!” Malianov blurted without thinking.

“Wrong,” Zykov said. “Try again.”

“I don’t know.”

Zykov took off his glasses and shook his head accusingly.

“That’s bad! It won’t do! You have strange ideas about our investigatory organizations. How on earth did you come up with that—Tonton Macoute?”

“Well then, who do you look like?” Malianov asked, faltering.

Igor Zykov waved his sunglasses under Malianov’s nose as though giving the whole thing away.

“The Invisible Man! The only thing in common with Tonton Macoute—the only one—is that they’re both capitalized!”

He fell silent. There was a thick, heavy silence in the air; even the cars outside stopped making noise. Malianov couldn’t hear a single sound, and he desperately wanted to wake up. And then the silence was shattered by the telephone.

Malianov jumped. It seemed that Zykov did, too. The phone rang again. Leaning on his forearms, Malianov raised himself up and glanced questioningly at Zykov.

“Yes. It’s probably for you.”

Malianov climbed over to the bed and picked up the phone. It was Val Weingarten.

“Hey, stargazer,” he said. “Why don’t you call, you pig?”

“You know how it is … I was busy.”

“Fooling around with the broad?”

“No—what do you mean, ‘with the broad’?”

“I wish my Svetlana would force her girlfriends on me!”

“Y-yes …” He felt eyes on the back of his head. “Listen, Val, I’ll call you back later.”

“What’s wrong over there?” Weingarten demanded anxiously.

“Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

“Is it that broad?”

“No.”

“A man?”

“Uh-hum.”

Weingarten sighed into the phone.

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can come right over. Do you want me to?”

“No! That’s all I need.”

Weingarten sighed heavily.

“Listen, does he have red hair?”

Malianov glanced over involuntarily at Zykov. To his
surprise, Zykov wasn’t looking at him at all. He was reading Snegovoi’s book, his lips moving.

“Of course not! What kind of nonsense is that? Look, I’ll call you later.”

“Definitely call!” Val yelled. “As soon as he leaves, call me.”

“All right,” Malianov said and hung up. Then he returned to his chair, mumbling excuses.

“It’s all right,” Zykov said and put down the book. “You have wide-ranging interests, Dmitri.”

“I can’t complain,” Malianov muttered. Damn, I wish I could get at least one look at that book. “Please,” he said placatingly, “let’s finish up, if it’s at all possible. It’s after one already.”

“Naturally!” Zykov proclaimed helpfully. He glanced at his watch anxiously and pulled out a notebook from his folder. “All right, so last night you were at Snegovoi’s, correct?”

“Yes.”

“For this book?”

“Y-yes,” Malianov said, deciding not to clarify anything.

“When was this?”

“Late, around midnight.”

“Did you have the impression that Snegovoi was planning a trip?”

“Yes, I did. I mean it wasn’t an impression. He told me that he was leaving in the morning and would bring me the keys.”

“Did he?”

“No. I mean, he might have rung the bell and I didn’t hear him. I was sleeping.”

Zykov wrote quickly, leaning the pad on the folder that lay on his knee. He did not look at Malianov at all, even when he addressed the questions at him. In a rush, perhaps?

“Did Snegovoi mention where he was going?”

“No, he never told me where he went.”

“But you guessed?”

“Well, I think I had an idea. To a proving ground, or something like that.”

“Did he tell you anything about it?”

“No, of course not. We never spoke about his work.”

“Then what do you base your guess on?”

Malianov shrugged. What did he base it on? It’s impossible to explain things like that. It was clear that the man worked in a deep bunker, his face and hands were all burned, and he had a manner that corresponded to that kind of work … and the fact that he refused to discuss his work.

“I don’t know. I just always thought so. I don’t know.”

“Did he introduce you to any of his friends?”

“No, never.”

“His wife?”

“Is he married? I always thought he was a bachelor or a widower.”

“Why did you think so?”

“I don’t know,” Malianov said angrily. “Intuition.”

“Perhaps your wife told you so?”

“Irina? How would she know?”

“That’s what I would like to clear up.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“I don’t understand,” Malianov said. “What is it you want to clear up?”

“How your wife knew that Snegovoi wasn’t married.”

“Ah … she knew that?”

Zykov did not reply. He was staring intently at Malianov and his pupils dilated and contracted ominously. Malianov was on edge. He thought he would start banging his fist on the wall, drooling, and losing face if it lasted one more second. He couldn’t stand it anymore. This whole conversation had some evil subtext, it was all like a sticky web, and for some reason Irina was being dragged into it.

“Well, all right,” Zykov said suddenly, shutting the note pad with a snap. “So the cognac is here,” he pointed at the bar, “and the vodka is in the refrigerator. Which do you prefer? Personally?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. Personally.”

“Cognac,” Malianov said hoarsely and swallowed. His throat was dry.

“Wonderful!” Zykov said cheerfully; he stood up and walked with small steps over to the bar. “We won’t have far to go! Here we go,” he said digging through the bar. “Ah, you even have some lemon—a little dry, but all right. Which glasses? Let’s use these blue ones.”

Malianov watched listlessly as Zykov deftly set up the glasses on the table, sliced the lemon thin, and uncorked the bottle.

“You know, speaking frankly, you’re in bad shape. Naturally it’s all up to the courts, but I’ve been at this for ten years, and I have some experience in these matters. And you can always guess what sentence each case will get. You won’t get the maximum, of course, but I can guarantee you fifteen, at least.” He poured the cognac carefully into the glasses without spilling a drop. “Of course, there may always be mitigating circumstances, but for now, frankly, I don’t see any—I just don’t see any, Dmitri! Well!” He raised his glass and nodded invitingly.

Malianov took his glass with numb fingers.

“All right,” he said in a voice that was not his own. “But could I at least know what’s going on?”

“Naturally!” Zykov shrieked. He drank his glass, popped a piece of lemon into his mouth, and nodded energetically. “Of course you can! I’ll tell you everything. I have every right to do so.”

And he told him.

At eight o’clock that morning a car came to pick up Snegovoi to take him to the airport. To the driver’s surprise, Snegovoi was not waiting downstairs as usual. He waited five minutes and then went up to the apartment. No one answered even though the bell was working—the driver could hear it himself. So he went downstairs and called the office from the corner. The company began calling Snegovoi on the phone. Snegovoi’s phone was constantly busy. Meanwhile, the driver walked around the house and discovered that all three windows in Snegovoi’s apartment were wide open and, in spite of the daylight, all the electric lights were on. The driver phoned with the information. The right people were called in, and they broke down the door and examined Snegovoi’s apartment. Their investigation revealed that all the lamps in the apartment were on, that an open, packed suitcase stood on the bed, and that Snegovoi was at his desk in his study, holding the phone in one hand and a Makarov pistol in the other. It was determined that Snegovoi had died of a bullet wound to the right temple fired at point-blank range from that gun. Death was instantaneous and took place between three and four a.m.

“What does that have to do with me?” Malianov whispered.

In reply Zykov told him in detail how ballistics had plotted the trajectory of the bullet and found it lodged in the wall.

“But what does that have to do with me?” Malianov kept asking, thumping himself on the chest. They had already had three shots each.

“Aren’t you sorry for him?” Zykov asked. “Do you feel sorry for him?”

“Of course I do. He was an excellent man. But what do I have to do with this? I’ve never had a gun in my hand in my whole life; I was rejected by the army. My eyesight …”

Zykov wasn’t listening to him. He kept explaining in detail that the deceased had been left-handed and that it was very strange that he shot himself with the gun in his right hand.

“Yes, yes, Arnold was left-handed, I can corroborate that. But as for me! I slept all night! And anyway, why would I kill him? Judge for yourself!”

“Then who did? Who?” Zykov asked gently.

“How should I know? You should know who!”

“You!” Zykov said in an ingratiating tone reminiscent of Porfiry in
Crime and Punishment
, peering with one eye at Malianov over his vodka glass. “
You
killed him, Dmitri!”

“This is a nightmare,” Malianov muttered helplessly. He wanted to cry.

A light breeze crossed the room, moving the blind, and the strident midday sun rushed into the room and hit Zykov smack in the face. He squinted, shielded his face with his hand, moved in his chair, and quickly set the glass on the table. Something happened to him. His eyes blinked rapidly, color came to his cheeks, and his chin quivered.

“Forgive me,” he whispered in a completely human voice. “Forgive me, Dmitri. Perhaps you could … it’s very … in here.”

He stopped because something fell in Bobchik’s room and shattered with a resounding noise.