Facts Relating to the Arrest of Dr. Kalugin

“And we’re home again.” I gestured at the breathtaking view, rather pleased with myself. Across the gleaming Pacific, the red sun was just descending into a bank of purple fog. Far below us, down beyond countless treetops, the Ross settlement looked like a toy village, with its quaint blockhouses and domed and towered chapel. There were still tiny figures moving in the patchwork fields. Mortal places are so beautiful.

I glanced over at Courier to see if he were appreciating the full effect. No. A moment before, his face had been all bright and animated, gleeful as he urged his mount up toward the crest. Now, however, he drooped visibly.

“We’re going back there ?” he complained.

“Well, of course. It’s nearly dark. Wouldn’t want to meet with a bear up here, after all, would we?”

“I guess not.” He moved restlessly in the saddle. “Have you got my orders?” he demanded. I drew out my credenza at once and checked.

“No, Courier, not yet.”

“They’ll never come,” he cried mournfully. I just shrugged and urged my horse on down the trail. After a moment he followed me, sad and silent, and finally caught up as we crossed the road and neared the stockade.

“Maybe we could eat dinner with the other Russian guys here, tonight, instead of just sitting in that dark room?” he asked.

“You mean dine in the Officers’ mess?” I was nonplussed. “Er—you might find it a little boring.” The truth was that I was fairly certain he hadn’t paid much attention to my lecture on Russian habits; and as peculiar as he seemed to me, he’d seem even stranger to my fellow officers.

“Oh, no, it’d be neat!” he told me. “Is it anything like that party in Anna Karenina ? The one with Greta Garbo?”

I paused in my saddle to access and got a mental image of a vodka-swilling Vronsky (as portrayed by Fredric March) crawling under a table. “Good heavens, no! Dear God, if we carried on like that we’d really lose money here!” I chuckled.

But he insisted, and so that evening we dined at the long table in the Officer’s mess. He helped himself to great quantities of salmon, of piroshki and blini and caviar, so I wasn’t too surprised when he turned up his nose at the serving of venison stew. He didn’t want the kvass again, either, he went straight for the vodka; I was half afraid he’d attempt to reenact the window-ledge scene from War and Peace, but he behaved himself. Perhaps that film wasn’t in his internal library. No, he sipped sensibly and stared around him with his usual pleased expression, listening to the amazingly dull mess conversations as though they were fantastic adventure stories.

When the servant had cleared away the plates and small after-dinner cigars had been lit, in strode Iakov Babin. He came frequently for vodka and cigars at our mess, and not merely to enjoy the bachelor atmosphere; rumor had it he was an expert cheat at cards. He glanced over, saw Courier and gave him a fierce glare: then, thank heaven, ignored him as he pulled out a deck and settled down to win inordinate amounts of Company scrip from a junior manager who ought to have known better but didn’t want to appear timid. Courier watched in fascination; and when I was momentarily distracted by the clerk who kept the Company store, who buttonholed me to complain about his rheumatism, Courier got up and went over to the card table to have a closer look.

“That looks like fun,” he told them hopefully.

“Would you like to join the game?” responded the junior manager, even more hopefully.

“Oh, I don’t know how to play,” Courier replied, and every head in the room turned toward him. A young man, supposedly a Russian, who didn’t play cards in that day and age? How much more conspicuous could he make himself?

“Yes, Andrei Andreivich, that does sound serious.” I looked over at Courier, wondering what on Earth he was doing. “Er—look here, it sounds to me as though a violent purge is needed. Rid yourself of poisons, you know.”

“You’ve never played cards ?” the junior manager was gaping at Courier.

“A purge!” Andrei backed away a pace or two. “Do you think that’s really necessary, Doctor?”

“You never know. Of course he’s played cards, gentlemen, but he’s from Kiev, after all; he’s never learned Frontier Rules.” I moved swiftly to the table and addressed Courier. “You play Picquet, I’m sure, and Whist, don’t you?” Tell them you play Whist, for God’s sake!

Okay. “Yes, I play Whist,” he agreed.

“Well, shall we have a game, then?” I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Whist!” Iakov Dmitrivich exhaled a cloud of noxious blue smoke and bit down on his cigar viciously. “Well, I’m out! That ain’t no game for me.” He folded his cards and threw them on the table, pausing just long enough to chalk his winnings. The junior manager looked relieved, nevertheless.