Sashenka

She sat at the T-shaped conference table and placed her notebook in front of her. Her instinct in this place was to obey every command but at that moment her curiosity was more powerful than her fear. What had happened to Satinov’s friend Palitsyn all those years ago, maybe in this very building? She realized that she was beginning to catch Maxy’s enthusiasm, the thrill of the chase.

“Now.” Colonel Lentin sat behind his desk and, wetting a finger with an orange tongue, opened a file on the desk. He spoke beautiful, educated Russian. “You’re a historian studying eighteenth-century law under Academician Beliakov and then, fa-la-la, you suddenly apply to see files from the time of the Cult of Personality.” Fa-la-la? Colonel Lentin must be a fan of those crass Mexican soap operas that now pollute Russian television, thought Katinka. His skin looked as if it had never known a razor; he had oily eyelashes that were encrusted with flakes of sleep. But the small face, prominent jaw and flat nose reminded her of an animal. Yes, Lentin was a preeningly officious marmoset. “I didn’t know Catherine the Great reformed the laws of the nineteen thirties—or have I missed something?”

“I have never been interested in the Cult of Personality. I’m just doing this as a little project of family research,” Katinka said casually. “To make a bit of money to pay for my Catherine studies.”

“I see,” said the Marmoset. “Well, your friend Max Shubin and his sort are doing some research too, but it seems to me that you should keep your little project separate from theirs. We have no problem with yours but those liberals are American flunkies who rejoice in Russia’s humiliation today. They are hammering away at the foundations of the State, hoping, fa-la-la, that we will just disappear. But without us, Miss Katinka, Russia would be lost to corrupt speculators and American hegemony—lost, quite lost. And we Chekists take our vows seriously. We’ll always be here.”

Katinka sighed. This KGB claptrap was out of date in the new Russia she and Maxy lived in. “I understand what you’re saying, Colonel,” she said. Just then, the door opened and an old man in a white coat entered with a metal cart piled high with speckled brown paper files, corners hooked with rubber bands, each with different file numbers and stickers on the front.

“Here we are, Colonel.” The old man spat thickly into a brass spittoon that rested on his cart. Beside the spittoon a fat ginger cat was sleeping deeply. “More gold in dust!”

“Good morning to you, Comrade…Mr. Archivist,” said Katinka, standing up and bowing slightly. She recognized a real archive rat, a Quasimodo of the secret stacks. Every archive had such a man, a true descendant of the troglodytic species that thrived in the twilight tunnels and storerooms deep under the pavements of Moscow. But they had power too, and Katinka knew that historians had to give them respect and win their favor.

“Two files from the archives, Comrade Col-o-nel! Good day!” He handed them to the Marmoset, then wheeled his cart toward the door. A very skinny kitten peeped out from under the cat.

“May I ask your name, Comrade Archivist?” Katinka asked quickly.

“Kuzma,” said the specter. He spat again, and Katinka saw that the spittoon was engraved with the KGB crest. Was it a gift for long service?

“I so appreciate your help, Comrade Kuzma,” said Katinka. “You must know so much that you could write the histories yourself. What’s her name?” She gestured toward the cat.

“Utesov,” Kuzma told her.

“You’re a fan of Odessan jazz?”

Kuzma nodded.

“So what’s the name of the kitten? Tseferman?”

Kuzma did not look her in the eye or smile but just stood there for a moment stroking the cats, humming in a satisfied manner like a father whose children have been complimented. Katinka had guessed right.

“Little Tseferman, eh? My father loves that music so I was brought up with it. Maybe I’ll bring Utesov and Tseferman some milk when I next visit?”

Kuzma responded with a specially dense gobbet of spit that did two somersaults before landing in the brimming spittoon. Katinka managed to look as though she appreciated this graceful demonstration.

“Thank you, Comrade Kuzma—and good-bye, Utesov and Tseferman.”

The archivist shut the door.

“Here are your files. Some dust for you to breathe,” said the Marmoset. “Let’s see,” and he read out:

Investigation File May/June 1939

Case 16373 Main Administration of State Security

Ivan Nikolaievich Palitsyn…

He lifted up the file and dropped it on the table in front of her, making her jump: dust flew out of it, tiny particles and silvery satellites vibrating and shimmering in the light.

Katinka hesitated, letting her eyes run over its brown, speckled cover, its KGB-crested stamp, its array of printed and handwritten scrawls listing the number of its fond, opis and papka—the location code of the archives.

“Can I take notes?”