Authors: William Ryan
“Why Central House of the Red Army, of course. As an ex-Red Cavalryman it’s my duty.”
“I was a soldier too once, but I was from the Presnaya long before that,” Korolev said, feeling slightly offended.
“Even pigs can choose to leave their sty,” Babel replied with an innocent smile.
Korolev was about to respond in kind when he saw a group of determined-looking young men arrange themselves in front of the gates, each holding onto the belt of the man in front with one hand, with the two biggest and hardest-looking in the front.
“Jack, we should wait for a couple of moments now.”
“Yes,” Babel agreed. “The train is about to leave the station.”
Schwartz looked at the crowd and smiled. “They’re going to crash the barriers?”
“Yes, it’s called ‘the steam engine.’ Ah, the ticket collectors have spotted them.”
But the ticket collectors were too late to marshal an effective defense and the snake of men charged forward, kicking and punching, knocking bystanders and defenders out of their path and, in the case of one, trampling him underfoot. The chain remained unbroken until two of the collectors and a Militiaman, furious and blood-smeared, grabbed the last of them by an arm and detached him from his colleagues. Their triumph was short-lived, however, as the captured gate-crasher’s fellows gathered themselves into a tight wedge and returned to the fray, snatching the captive back and leaving one of the ticket collectors sitting on the ground spitting blood into his hand. The crowd waiting outside cheered and the youths raised their arms in triumph before retreating in the face of approaching Militia reinforcements. Then the crowd cheered once again as a darting rabble of wild-haired street children launched themselves at the same place, squirming and diving around the distracted ticket collectors’ legs. A tiny girl was caught by the hair and flung back through the gates, where she landed in a crumpled heap. The crowd growled and stepped forward in unison, eyes fixed on the perpetrator, a Militiaman with the build of a wrestler and a face like a squashed cabbage. Korolev took Schwartz’s arm.
“Perhaps we’ll try another gate,” he said, as the first brick clanged off the metal fence and, with a roar, the crowd charged. The last thing they saw of the Militiaman was his panicked face just before it disappeared in a tumble of flat caps and flying fists. The other uniforms would have their work cut out to keep the fellow out of the morgue, Korolev thought to himself without much sympathy, as men ran from all directions to join in the mayhem.
“They seem fond of children,” Schwartz said.
“Fonder, I think, of the opportunity to put a Militiaman in hospital,” Babel replied. That was true, Korolev thought. In fact, they’d probably run straight over the girl to get at him. He recalled a splash of red hair in among the scrabbling rush of children and wondered if it had been Kim Goldstein’s gang of ragamuffins charging the gates.
Korolev was relieved when they arrived safely in the relative calm of the south stand. He couldn’t imagine, after all, that the general would forgive him, let alone Gregorin, if he managed to get Schwartz caught up in a football riot. They sat down on the concrete benches and watched players kicking the ball back and forth and occasionally test the goalkeepers. The Spartak players were at one end of the field in red shirts with a thick white hoop around the chest, while at the other were the Army players, wearing blue shirts and red shorts. The Army players looked big.
“They’ll give our lads a good battering, if I’m not much mistaken. I hope Alexei Starostin has put on an extra pair of socks.”
A middle-aged man walking along the bank of seats immediately beneath them looked up and then stood for a long moment with an expression of astonishment. He wore no color to indicate his team preference and Korolev was confused as to how he might have offended him. He pointed at the largest of the Red Army players.
“Come on, brother. You don’t think the horse-washers brought along a lump like him for his footballing skills, do you?”
The man nodded in acknowledgment, but still looked shaken. There wasn’t much to the fellow, Korolev thought, probably a clerk in a factory or a minor bureaucrat, but there was some strength to his face once you looked at it a second time. He sat down in front of them alongside a young boy, about ten years old. The clerk began to point out the players to the lad, reading their names from the program. His voice sounded constricted and the boy looked up at him with a question in his eyes, but the clerk didn’t stop reciting the names. Korolev turned to Babel and shrugged his shoulders. It was an unusual reaction from a stranger, but perhaps the bandage on his head made Korolev look like a hooligan. Babel examined the clerk as though trying to place him, but shook his head after a brief pause. Then, as if to change the subject, the writer produced a silver flask of brandy and they drank to a fair game—Schwartz joining in with enthusiasm.
By now the stands were crammed and, as if on a signal, the crowd rose as one and Korolev said farewell to his seat and joined in the cheer as the whistle blew for the game to start and Spartak passed the ball out wide.
It was a hard-fought first half. As Korolev had predicted, the Army defenders gave no quarter in the tackle, but then nor did Spartak when it was their turn. The game ebbed and flowed with Spartak appearing to dominate, until just before half-time when a well-placed cross allowed a tall Army player to head the ball into the back of the Spartak net. The Spartak supporters roared with anger while the Army fans in the north terraces cheered themselves hoarse. Spartak charged downfield, but they had nothing to show for their efforts by the time the first half finished, and the Spartak supporters muttered darkly about Army transgressions and a weak referee.
Korolev looked at the crowd packed in like logs in a woodpile and volunteered reluctantly to make his way to the buffet for some meat pies. The American should have the real Moscow sporting experience, and in Korolev’s view that meant meat pies—but he regretted his decision as soon as he descended beneath the stands. The room where the buffet was located stank of unwashed bodies, urine and stale
papirosa
tobacco, and the second half had started by the time he managed to get to the front of the queue. Then on his way back the small red-haired figure he’d seen earlier appeared beside him. Kim Goldstein gestured for Korolev to follow and he did, conscious of other children moving in the same direction through the crowd. Not more than a minute later they stood in a quiet spot behind the stands where the boy held out his hand.
“Ten roubles,” he said, determination hardening his jaw.
“Ten roubles. What have you got for me that’s worth ten roubles?”
“We found the woman you’re looking for, Comrade Investigator.”
Korolev looked around at the other children. The young girl he’d seen thrown through the air was with them, a streak of blood running down her neck and her eyes red-rimmed. He nodded to her as he tried to digest what Goldstein had told him. Again, surely it was his duty to establish where this Nancy Dolan was? Case or no case.
“Where is she?”
“Arbat. Ten roubles you said. We’ll take you there after the game.”
“All right.” Korolev nodded. “Here’s five on account. I need to take a foreigner back to his hotel, but I’ll meet you there with the rest of the money. Do you know Prague cinema?”
“Of course. We know it well.” The children shared a smile and Korolev guessed they’d found a way to slip in the back.
“Six o’clock then,” Korolev said, Counting out five notes. “Will you be there?”
“At your command, Comrade Investigator,” Goldstein said, giving him an ironic salute.
Korolev was wondering how he would ever make it back to his seat when the press of people in front of him reduced so suddenly he almost fell over. The explanation was out on the pitch, where hundreds of spectators had broken through the cordon of stewards and were spreading across the green of the grass like a muddy tide. The players moved to the central circle, where they stood around the referee as if to protect him. The crowd, however, was not hostile and it seemed the stands had simply reached capacity and were overflowing onto the pitch.
When Korolev reached the others he found Babel standing on his seat to get a better view as a line of mounted Militia began to push the crowds back to the touchlines. One of the Militia horses was completely white and Korolev found himself following its slow and patient progress along the length of the football field, as the dark-clothed crowd gradually retreated to mark out its edges.
“Will they be able to finish the game?” Schwartz asked, squinting into the afternoon sun that now cast long shadows across the pitch.
“I think so. It just needs a little patience from the
Ments
—sorry, Alexei Dmitriyevich, I meant the Militia. At least they’re being comradely about it. See—they have most of them on the sidelines now.”
The crowd began to clap for the Militia, which was so unusual that Korolev and Semionov exchanged a glance.
“Nicely done,” Schwartz said, joining in the applause. As if on cue, the announcer began requesting the crowd’s cooperation in a friendly voice and a wave of good humor spread around the stands, extending even to the players, who began to shake hands with each other. Korolev handed round the pies and pretended he didn’t see Schwartz’s expression of surprise.
“See, Jack, it’s the Soviet way. Play hard, but always in the proper spirit.” Korolev said, wondering if perhaps the man had never seen a meat pie before. Then there was more applause as the spectators on the touchline linked arms to provide an unbroken human barrier around the playing area. Korolev felt his chest fill with pride and he turned to beam at his friends.
Play began again with a sustained Spartak attack that yielded a goal to Alexei Starostin. The crowd surged again and the Army goal collapsed sideways, leading to another delay as ground staff pushed the upright back into place. Korolev could see the referee discussing the situation with the captains and the coaching staff in the center of the pitch and he could imagine what was going through their minds. The crowd was well behaved enough for the moment, but if the game was canceled the mood would more than likely turn ugly. Even he could feel anger welling up inside at the thought that Spartak might have to wait until a rematch to win the league. But after another flurry of handshakes the game was on once again with the Spartak players returning to the attack. The volume of cheering rose higher and higher as the crowd willed them on and, when the goal came, it was as if the crowd, rather than any one player, propelled the ball into the corner of the net. The Spartak fans embraced each other, stamping their feet and chanting, “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” The clerk’s son threw his cap in the air and his father searched desperately for it on the ground. Korolev retrieved it from the row behind him, but when he touched the clerk’s shoulder the man whipped round as if he’d been hit, before blushing bright red when he saw the cap in Korolev’s hands.
“Thank you, brother,” the man said, his eyes sliding away. Korolev, delighted with the goal, ruffled the boy’s hair.
“My pleasure. One more to be sure, eh? Best keep this in your pocket in the meantime, youngster. It’ll be a long winter with no hat.”
“Yes,” the man replied with a half-hearted smile. “One more for safety.”
Just before full-time, the wished-for third goal came and, to the absolute delight of the Spartak supporters and the rueful acknowledgment of the Army fans, the game was won. The referee allowed another minute of play but with red and white waving all along the touchline, and the thinly stretched Militiamen looking more and more nervous, he blew the whistle and the second pitch invasion of the day took place, far rowdier and more joyful than the first, with the white hoops of the Spartak players visible above the crowd as they were borne around the field.
As they walked away from the stadium, Korolev considered how best to approach the new information Goldstein had given him. The logical thing to do, of course, would be to get hold of Paunichev and let him deal with it, but that would mean disobeying the general’s orders, as he would have to explain to Paunichev who Nancy Dolan was, and how she was relevant to the case. He could haul Semionov along with him, but it was too dangerous to involve the youngster. Or Babel for that matter. And he didn’t even consider calling Gregorin. There, Korolev thought to himself, Kolya had his answer. His loyalty to the State was not, it seemed, absolute. He could always go to Arbat on his own. Hopefully, a quick look at the situation would tell him whether it was worth involving anyone else and, with luck, who that person might be. After all, Arbat was a safe area; he couldn’t imagine anything happening there that he couldn’t handle. Then he thought over the last few days and reconsidered. Maybe he would call Yasimov. He lived nearby.
“So,” Schwartz said, interrupting Korolev’s deliberations, “would you men like to come back to the Metropol for a celebratory drink? So I can say a comradely thank you for an authentic Soviet experience in such excellent company?”
“If you put it like that, it’s impossible to say no,” Babel said cheerfully.
“I agree, Comrade Babel. We are honor bound to accept.” Semionov’s open smile was contagious and so, at Schwartz’s insistence, they hailed a taxi and headed back to the center of town. It wasn’t long before they took their seats at the Metropol bar and watched a white-jacketed barman pour beer from a silver tap into improbably tall glasses. Behind them a jazz band was tuning up for the evening’s performance. Semionov nodded over to them.
“They’re not bad these guys, they’re Utyosov’s players, although the man himself refuses to perform in hotels. A real artist, you see—theaters only for him.”
Semionov caught the eye of one of the band and raised a hand in greeting. The musician gave him a quick grin in response and Semionov excused himself to go and talk to his acquaintance.
Korolev looked around the bar. Babel had wandered off to find a toilet and they were alone.
“So Jack, is it true? About the icon? That it’s the original Kazanskaya?” He spoke in a low voice, too low for any microphone to pick up with the band playing in the background.