The Final Fabergé (33 page)

Here, beneath the icon wall, in one of the most famous holy buildings in the world, Jack Oxby lowered his head and prayerfully announced his presence. This was not a display of piety; Oxby had never declared his dedication to one religion or another. But it was Oxby's way of acknowledging that a Supra Power had created man and man's inventions, including lasting, beautiful art in all its forms. Now he could add St. Issac's to the long list of great cathedrals where he had, as he put it, “borrowed a little space,” so that he could speak to whatever Power would listen.

His message delivered, he searched for Poolya in the crowd and waved to him. They met at the great south door, twenty tons of bronze and oak, then went out into a warm sun. Poolya had a car, a small, ancient Peugeöt, likely owned by a long departed member of the French consulate. The two men were getting on, not forming an intimate relationship, but communicating through their minimal understanding of each other's language. Their conversation was laced with “uhs,” grunts, and a few words strung together. Occasionally Oxby pointed to a word in his dog-eared dictionary.

In a city without telephone directories, it is possible to obtain the address of a resident by applying at an
adresnoye byiuro
, or address bureau. But these leftovers from the Soviet Union are anachronisms; out-of-date, slow, and of questionable accuracy. Such a bureau is located in each of Petersburg's twelve districts, and usually can be found three steps below street level in a windowless room with dark green paint on the wall and red linoleum on the floor. Behind a small window similar to a currency exchange booth, a
bahbooshka
receives the written application, then commences her tedious look-up in a tome-like ledger. The setting and the process might have been devised by Franz Kafka. Providentially, there was an alternative.

In the manner in which things have changed, the incentive for profit helped create a more modern method, though still not in any measure as practical, efficient, accurate, and so utterly prosaic as a telephone directory. To Oxby, it was inconceivable that in a country where the government had, over a span of three generations, devoted huge resources to capturing information on its citizenry, facts ranging from sexual preferences to secret religious leanings, that only mere dribbles of the data had been permitted to become public knowledge.

Oxby's collection of guides and references yielded the names of two private companies that, for a price, would find the address of a name the customer supplied. The most expeditious way to obtain an accurate address was to submit a full name; first, middle, and last. The very old and very young might also have a saint's name appended. Though Russians take personal pride in their names, in a city of five million, there would be more than one Leonid Baletsky. Provide a phone number and the accuracy of the address improved to nearly 100 percent.

The address bureau at 6 Liteyny Prospekt got Yakov's recommendation on the basis that it had the best address. Poolya parked close to the building. Sheltering Oxby in a professional manner, he rushed him into the building. The address bureau was on the third floor, and in the front overlooking the street. It pleased Poolya, as he could keep an eye on his car.

A row of windows lined an inside wall, and resembled, it seemed to Oxby, a bank. Three of the windows were attended and Oxby chose one he hoped would move quickly. An idle hope in Russia, as he was soon reminded. After thirty minutes he had moved to the front of the line and placed the names Yakov had neatly printed on a glass counter. Fingers with painted nails picked it up. The young woman gave Oxby a bored, but nearly friendly smile and entered the names into a computer.

Oxby was told there were seven persons answering to the name Leonid Baletsky. Included along with the address was a middle name. Interesting information, though of dubious value.

When the search for Viktor's address was made it confirmed that a Viktor Y. Lysenko lived at 9 Kubansky Street. Oxby asked for information for all the other Viktor Y. Lysenkos. There were five. He bought them.

For the twelve addresses he was asked to pay 550 rubles, or about two dollars an address.

“We'll locate Baletsky first,” Oxby said, handing the names to Poolya
and suggesting that they begin their search at the farthest point from the Winter Palace, the epicenter of Petersburg as reckoned by the locals.

Poolya studied the street names, said he was not familiar with two of them, but said he had a city map in the car. Though he had watched his car carefully, he approached it cautiously. Oxby smiled admiringly as Poolya checked the little pieces of clear tape he had put on both front doors. If either had been opened, the tape would be broken. They were intact and Oxby was waved into the passenger's seat.

Poolya drove south from the city to a long line of apartment buildings that had been built in the 1960s. There was an inevitable sameness to the architecture, the exterior walls either curved or severely straight. Along Varshavskya Street the buildings rose fifteen floors, and whether the exterior was covered with a stuccolike finish, or a smooth brick, each high rise had a boring similarity to the one next to it. Only the color varied; pale yellow or pale gray. Every apartment had one small balcony, some had two. On the balconies were pots of flowers or laundry pinned to a line, both adding little spots of much needed color.

They made their first stop. Poolya took charge and said they would wait until someone went in or came out through the locked entrance. In ten minutes an elderly woman approached the door, burdened with a plastic food bag in each hand. Poolya jumped at the opportunity to help and, taking the bags, ushered the old lady inside, Oxby following.

Leonid S. Baletsky's name was printed on the mailbox numbered 66. The
bahbooshkah
had held the elevator door open, waiting for them to join her. Then they rode together to the sixth floor and the men got off and were wished a smiling
dah sveedahneeyah
.

Poolya pushed a button at the door. A chime sounded and soon the door was opened by a trim woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was combed neatly and she wore jeans and white sneakers. She held the door tightly and asked who was inquiring about Leonid Baletsky.

Oxby strained to understand her, but he could not. In no more than a minute he saw that the conversation was over and the door was about to be closed.

“Wait,” he said. “What did she tell you?” he asked Poolya.

“She said Leonid Baletsky is her father. A very old man.”

“How old?”

Poolya waved his hand as if guessing the old man's age. “Seventy? I don't know. He sits at the television all day.”

No, Oxby confided to himself. That wasn't good enough. “Ask her if we can see her father. Say it will take only a few seconds.”

Poolya turned back to the woman and spoke to her, pointing at Oxby, who smiled and wondered which Russian word for “please” was appropriate and decided he'd try all he had learned if it came to that. It would not have mattered, as she pulled the door toward her and invited Oxby into the apartment with a wave of her hand. It was, except for a woman's touch, very similar to Yakov's apartment. The front door opened on to a small central room with doors to bedrooms, to a kitchen, and to a room in which an old man with flowing white hair sat in a large chair. He stared blankly at a silent performance of
The Flintstones
.

Oxby looked at the man, turned to the daughter and thanked her, then nodded to Poolya and they went to the elevator.

Poolya referred to his map and said their next stop was on the Obvodny Canal. The traffic thickened as they moved past rows of kiosks, and neighborhoods of small factories. The apartment building was an old affair that might have been built a hundred years ago as a private home. A strong odor of stagnant water and engine fumes lifted up from the canal. A steady stream of small boats moved noisily, ferrying women with shopping bags and tourists with cameras.

It required all of Poolya's resources to gain entrance, and once inside it was difficult to locate the apartment in which a Leonid Baletsky lived. There was no response to Poolya's rapping and shouting, but it did attract a neighbor who said Baletsky usually returned to his apartment for lunch each day at between five and ten minutes after noon. It meant an hour's wait but Oxby agreed to sit it out.

The man who returned for his lunch answered all the questions that were put to him with both politeness and patience. But Poolya, educated to Oxby's thoroughness, demanded proof. The man produced a registration and driver's license as evidence that he was Leonid Baletsky, reacting just short of outrage that there might be some doubt.

Even if there were a hundred Leonid Baletskys in Petersburg, only one had followed Yakov and Oxby into the Hermitage. This was not that man. Again Oxby expressed his thanks with now familiar words. Poolya checked the car once more, then they got into it.

In the home of the third Leonid Baletsky, the identification was determined quickly and convincingly. Leonid was aged fourteen and at that moment was in the Polytechnical School. His mother showed Oxby an album of family photographs and pointed to her son, proudly
proclaiming, “Leonid skiing . . . Leonid birthday . . .” the mother was pretty and Oxby could not refrain from using his favorite all-purpose word, with a superlative tossed in for good measure: “
Spahseebah. Bahlshoeh spahseebah
.”

The fourth location was on Zagorodny Prospekt. They arrived at two in the afternoon following a stopover to feed Poolya. It was another high rise apartment, in a dull, faded yellow. As he had been able to do on their first stop, Poolya waited until the main entrance was opened, then slid inside as if he were a longtime resident who had misplaced his key. But a surprise awaited them when they reached the mailboxes and searched for Leonid Baletsky's name. It wasn't there.

The elevator door opened. A man and a woman walked out of it and started for the exit. Poolya stopped them.

“We do not find the name Leonid Baletsky.” He spoke in Russian. “You know him?”

“He is dead,” the man said. “He killed himself.”

“What is it, Poolya?” Oxby asked.

Poolya explained.

“Ask how he did it, and when? And did the police come?”

Poolya quizzed the couple, who showed little interest in talking about a suicide. They halfheartedly answered a few of Poolya's questions, then would take no more. Oxby watched them go off.

“They say he jumped from his balcony.”

“Not pushed?”

“They say he jumped.”

“Police?”

“The police were here.”

“What floor?”

“Five.”

“Let's go.”

On each floor were three apartments, all opening off a rectangular-shaped room illuminated by a window and a single ceiling light. An open door led to the staircase. In front of one apartment entrance was a child's tricycle. On the floor in front of all three doors was a thick, fiber mat. There was a number on each door, no names.

Oxby pushed the button at the door with the tricycle. No answer. He pressed the button again with the same result. He tried the next door. The third try brought a response.

“Dah?”
a man's voice said from inside.

“We are looking for Leonid Baletsky,” Poolya said.

The door was opened by a man who Oxby imagined was an Olympic heavyweight wrestler, as he literally filled the doorway. He pointed.

“In there,” he said. “He's dead, you know.”

Poolya turned to Oxby. “You understand?”

“Yes,” Oxby said firmly. “Can he describe Baletsky for us?” Oxby threw the question out, expecting Poolya to shape it into Russian. To their surprise, an answer came from the wrestler in a mix of Russian and English. His description matched up with the man Oxby and Yakov had seen in the museum.

Oxby inspected the locks on the door to Baletsky's apartment, fully aware neither he nor Poolya could get past them. And with a man the size of a small mountain residing across the hall, he wasn't about to become involved in breaking and entering. Perhaps it was time to introduce himself to the local constabulary.

“Where is the nearest police office?”

The word “police” caught Poolya by surprise, but the big man answered again. The words had strange sounds, but Oxby understood perfectly that the precinct station was less than a kilometer away on Moskovskiy Prospekt.

Oxby had noted his bodyguard's reaction to the thought of paying a visit to the police, even though Poolya had vigorously claimed that he was not currently in violation of the law. He argued that many of the police were pigs because they ran the biggest extortion racket in Petersburg. “They bodyguard the ones with big money. Politicians, too,” he grumbled.