of him.
The woman looked very beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. “Who is this man,” she asked, “and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?”
“This is Inspector Pekkala,” Maximov answered, “from the Bureau of Special Operations.”
“Pekkala,” she echoed. “Oh, yes.” The dark eyes raked his face. “You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.”
“Detained,” replied Pekkala. “Not arrested.”
“I thought that was all cleared up.”
“It was, Mrs. Nagorski.”
“So why are you here?” She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily, she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. “You were supposed to take care of him!” she shrieked, raising her fists and bringing them down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
“That was your job!” she shouted. “He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?”
“Mrs. Nagorski,” whispered Maximov, “I did everything I could for him.”
Mrs. Nagorski stared at the big man as if she did not even know who he was. “If you had done everything,” she sneered, “my husband would still be alive.”
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the oar blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs. Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. Asshe climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. “I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband.”
“I would not advise that,” replied Pekkala.
“I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.”
Hearing the determination in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realized there was no point in trying to dissuade her.
The rowboat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head and shoulders taller than his mother, with her dark eyes and unkempt hair that needed washing. His heavy canvas trousers were patched at the knees and looked as if they had belonged to someone else before they came to him. He wore a sweater with holes in the elbows and his bare feet were speckled with bug bites, although he did not seem to notice them.
Konstantin looked from face to face, waiting for someone to explain.
It was Maximov who went to him. He put his arm around the boy, speaking in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
Konstantin’s face turned pale. He seemed to be staring at something no one else could see, as if the ghost of his father were standing right in front of him.
Pekkala watched this, feeling a weight settle in his heart, like a man whose blood had turned to sand.
W HILE M AXIMOV DROVE M RS . N AGORSKI TO THE FACILITY , P EKKALA sat with her son
The woman looked very beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. “Who is this man,” she asked, “and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?”
“This is Inspector Pekkala,” Maximov answered, “from the Bureau of Special Operations.”
“Pekkala,” she echoed. “Oh, yes.” The dark eyes raked his face. “You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.”
“Detained,” replied Pekkala. “Not arrested.”
“I thought that was all cleared up.”
“It was, Mrs. Nagorski.”
“So why are you here?” She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily, she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. “You were supposed to take care of him!” she shrieked, raising her fists and bringing them down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
“That was your job!” she shouted. “He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?”
“Mrs. Nagorski,” whispered Maximov, “I did everything I could for him.”
Mrs. Nagorski stared at the big man as if she did not even know who he was. “If you had done everything,” she sneered, “my husband would still be alive.”
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the oar blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs. Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. Asshe climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. “I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband.”
“I would not advise that,” replied Pekkala.
“I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.”
Hearing the determination in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realized there was no point in trying to dissuade her.
The rowboat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head and shoulders taller than his mother, with her dark eyes and unkempt hair that needed washing. His heavy canvas trousers were patched at the knees and looked as if they had belonged to someone else before they came to him. He wore a sweater with holes in the elbows and his bare feet were speckled with bug bites, although he did not seem to notice them.
Konstantin looked from face to face, waiting for someone to explain.
It was Maximov who went to him. He put his arm around the boy, speaking in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
Konstantin’s face turned pale. He seemed to be staring at something no one else could see, as if the ghost of his father were standing right in front of him.
Pekkala watched this, feeling a weight settle in his heart, like a man whose blood had turned to sand.
W HILE M AXIMOV DROVE M RS . N AGORSKI TO THE FACILITY , P EKKALA sat with her son
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