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Chapter Nine
 odly stood in front of the chessboard in his office. He took his watch out of his vest pocket to check the time, 2:05 p.m. He was thinking of going home. The hangover from last night's festivities at the Red Rooster was still ravaging his head.
 Too much Vodka. Too much of the jazz band and dancing. And far too much of that Mayakovsky and his ranting and raving, thought Podly. He still worshipped the poetry of Zhukovsky, now virtually in secret. And too much of that redhead. Still sleeping it off in my bed, I'll bet! thought Podly. He turned the watch over and read the inscription on the back:
"To Children's Choir Director, V.V. Podly, Cathedral of St. Sofya, Novgorod - 1910."
His throbbing head found temporary relief while drifting back 11 years. The incense-heavy air of the choir loft where from among all those little faces, he picked out the one with the crooked little nose and the big brown eyes with a touch of green. Her silky dark brown hair was braided messily, by shaky hands, unsure of what they were doing. The white dress needed cleaned. There were signs of neglect...and vulnerability. From the group of captured pawns next to the chessboard, Podly picked up the pawn that he had captured with another pawn during Olga Shpion's last visit to his office. He pressed the white marble to his chest. His black eyes glowed and moistened.
A knock on his door brought back his throbbing head. His secretary peeked in to announce that Ivan Drugo was there to see Podly.
"How many others are out there?" Podly asked the secretary.
"Eleven, Comrade Podly."
"Send them home. Have them come back Monday. Send Drugo in."
Drugo came into the office and clicked his heels.
"Comrade Podly. You wanted to see me?"
"Please set down, Comrade Drugo. Well, ah...ah, you were at the Rooster last night, yes?" Drugo's dull face somewhat brightened.
"Another great reading by the foremost poet of the Soviet Union. A performance to make one proud to be Russian..."
"Yes..., Mayakovsky, of course, a very...ah...clever fellow. Such a fine loud voice for declaiming, too."
Podly wanted to change the subject somewhat. He massaged his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand.
"That big beautiful wife of yours, mm, eh boy! How do you do it, Drugo? A rod of steel, eh? Just between us, comrade, do you need any help with that?"
Drugo moved uneasily in his chair, right to about the exact spot where Podly wanted him. He seemed ready to question the propriety of such comments. Podly realized this and said,
"How is your apartment, comrade? Cozy enough for you, spacious enough for you and the big beautiful woman?"
Drugo bit his lip. He looked away.
"What is it you want, comrade?"
"Ah, yea. Business with you, always serious business. You don't drink much, do you Comrade Drugo? Always with your nose to the grindstone. Ah, I suppose your Anya has enough fun at the Rooster every night, eh? Ha, Ha, Ha!"
Drugo's right hand involuntarily slipped to the gun he carried in the holster. Podly noticed this and laughed at him even harder, with hearty bell-like peals of laughter. The Commissar for Housing stood up to taunt him further. He turned his back on Drugo.
"Such a serious fellow!"
Podly looked at Drugo over his left shoulder. Podly's features at that moment seemed to be constructed as a lurking-place for villainies.
"Well, a comrade has to do what a comrade has to do!"
Podly continued his laughter. Drugo, surprised that his hand was on his gun, stood up quickly. Embarrassed, he reached into his coat pocket for a cigarette. Podly, finished with his little joke, sat down. A tear was on his cheek from laughter. He motioned to Drugo that he would take a cigarette, too. Drugo handed Podly a cigarette and sat down.
"Okay, businessman, Comrade Drugo. You've been to the Dumatskoys' recently: One Two Zero Novokirovskaya?"
Drugo pulled a notebook from his coat pocket. He leafed through it.
"A month ago. They had a baby boy, Aleksandr, named after that reactionary, Blok, no doubt."
"How is the mother? Who is her doctor?"
"She required many stitches. The surgeon was: Vrach, Mikhail Mikhailovich."
"See him as soon as possible. Find out how she is, concerning the surgery, etc. The situation in the household with the father, Ostavlyavich there. Does she have many guests? Who are they? Etc., etc. Report to me."
Drugo was about to protest. He thought better of it.
"A tutor, for Greek language, sometimes comes to the house. I'll get his name."
Drugo tried another tactic. "My sister and her husband. They need to move."
"Leave their names with my secretary. We will see."
Podly's head was exploding. He thought of his bed, and the redhead.
"That is all, Comrade Drugo. That is all."
 . G. Uchitelnitsky and Zina Dumatskoy finished their Greek lesson a little after 6:30 p.m. on Friday, October 4th. They had begun working at 4:00 p.m., Uchitelnitsky's class at the University was over at 3:00 p.m. He had come to 120 Novokirovskaya after its completion, and after conferring briefly with some students. Zina invited Uchitelnitsky to stay for supper. He agreed, and was delighted. Dmitri would be home around 7:00 p.m. Dmitri's mother, Tatiana Andreevna, had made arrangements with Zina to come over after her work at the school was over, to be with Sasha while Zina had her lesson. But Tatiana hadn't come when she said she would come. She telephoned around 5:30 to say that she was working late at school and was sorry, but she couldn't be there. Fortunately for Zina, Sasha rested quietly in his cradle beside Zina in the pantry, the cradle that used to belong to Dmitri. Sasha soon fell asleep, and would not awake until after Dmitri came home. Ostavlyavich was sleeping too. Passed out on his cot on the sun porch, and would sleep until 9:00 p.m.
"Oh!" groaned Uchitelnitsky as he got up from his chair at the table with a tired movement, like someone waving last good-byes in a dream.
Zina gave him a concerned look as she began to chop cabbage at the table on the cutting board near the stove. He saw her look and waved it off with his hand.
"It's nothing, Zina Sergeevna. My condition is aggravated when the temperature starts to fall. This time of year is not my favorite, I assure you. In class, I have to employ a combination of sitting for a time and standing for a time, and stretching in between. I've earned the nickname 'Professor Gymnast.' Somehow, we all manage. Here, I want to help you."
Zina smiled and thanked him with the way she rolled her big brown-green eyes. Uchitelnitsky took a large pot and scooped the cut cabbage and potatoes into it. Another pot, sitting by the stove was filled with water from the backyard well. Uchitelnitsky poured the water into the pot with the vegetables until they were covered. He had some trouble with that. Zina thought she was going to have to help him, but he managed.
As they prepared the supper, they talked of many things. Soon, Uchitelnitsky brought the conversation around to the Tsar Ivan Grozny Library.
"Poor Mitya. His whole situation has made him so unhappy. And the silly work he had been forced to do now. This...Shpion, do you know her? I knew her a few years ago. How can they be so oblivious to culture and history?"
"The Bolsheviks? They are pigs!" said Uchitelnitsky.
Zina looked him with surprise. Then she looked away. She was afraid to enter into a political discussion with someone who's personal life she knew nothing about.
"I know nothing, and care even less about politics. I'm a Russian woman. I'm an artist. What more is there? Is it an offense? Against the law? Dmitri fought in the war against the Germans. Had he not been wounded, he would have fought in the despicable Civil War, as well."
"But on what side?" asked Uchitelnitsky looking straight into Zina's eyes, eyes that he thought at that moment were the most beautiful he had ever seen. His granite chin softened its line somewhat. It seemed to him that Zina's eyes were drawing him into their vortex.
"Help me set the table, Evgeny Gavrilovich. Dmitri will be coming home soon. I hope he sleeps forever." Zina nodded in the direction of the sun porch. Uchitelnitsky knew that her father was out there, a drunken, broken man. Zina noticed a different look in Uchitelnitsky's eyes, and was somewhat afraid of that look.
Dmitri came home from work and the three ate supper. They spoke mostly about the library project. Dmitri was eager to talk and vent his anger and disgust. After they finished eating, Dmitri got the letter from Holtz and showed it to Uchitelnitsky, the one that described Johann Fichte's copy of the list of the library contents. They went into the small sitting room and shared a bottle of Chianti. Dmitri and Uchitelnitsky sat on the two overstuffed armchairs, Zina on the loveseat. Soon, Sasha woke and had to be fed.
"My God, Dumatskoy, where could the library be, do you think? Surely you have some theory?"
"I wrote a proposal to have the St. Basil the Blessed Cathedral excavated!" Dmitri massaged his temples with both hands. He ran his fingers through his hair. He furrowed his brow. He was clearly distressed.
"Tsar Ivan had holdings and influence all over Russia. He could have secured his library...anywhere."
There was silence for several minutes. Both men drank their red wine. Dmitri refilled their glasses. Dmitri took a deep breath and said to Uchitelnitsky,
"But, I think it's inside the Kremlin...somewhere. The Savior Tower is said to be full of uncharted passageways! It could be there!"
 ne sultry August night, Ostavlyavich and Zina were in the Sinyaya Ptitsa Tavern. He was drinking up the money he had collected earlier from Zina's songs and dances in the street. The pathetic man realized a few years before that tavern patrons or people in the street would throw more kopecks at him if little Zina was with him, her big brown-green eyes peering out from the mass of wavy chestnut-colored hair. He made her sing and dance to attract a crowd. By the time she was ten years old, he took her with him regularly.
Zina was seated alone at a little table near the door to the kitchen. From time to time, she sipped from a glass of kvass, fermented mare's milk, a drink she had grown used to from her nights in taverns with her father. That was about all that was available for someone of her age. From time to time, she yawned. Ostavlyavich was drinking and telling stories to anyone who would listen to him. He was, by that time, quite drunk. Someone suggested going outside for air, or going somewhere else. Ostavlyavich left the Sinyaya Ptitsa Tavern without Zina. He forgot about her! He had left her at taverns many times before. It wasn't long before someone in the place, who was still reasonably sober, realized that Zina was still there and Ostavlyavich was not.
"God damn that Ostavlyavich! The kid needs to be taken home again! I did it last time, no? Well, who's turn is it? Ah, Christ, look at all these bleary-eyed fools here! Who could take the kid home, eh? Who can do it. I'll not! It's not my turn. Is it?"
Zina remembered that night long afterwards. How she hated her father! But then she immediately felt the presence in that filthy tavern of a powerful force: one that could offer her a certain amount of short-term comfort; but, one who, at the same time, held out the possibility of sin and sorrow. Zina's faith in God at that time was strong. She was being taught by monks at a Russian fortress of Orthodoxy. She knew exactly what constituted sin for a ten year old girl. She had been taught that evil was everywhere in the world, poised to strike at the most saintly, the most chaste. It was that profound kind of ambivalence, which little Zina felt that night. She awoke. And then, she saw him. He came through the door of the Sinyaya Ptitsa Tavern, a medium-sized man with a broad chest, a high forehead, and a flat nose. A cigarette dangled between his thick lips. Dark curly hair, darker skin than most men of Novgorod, and big ink spots for eyes - the look of a gypsy. All of his features seemed machine-made for each other to a fraction of a centimeter. He wore a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing hairy, muscular forearms and big, hairy hands. His blue pants were of the light woolen variety, and were stuck into black military-type boots. He seemed like a knight from a fairy tale to her. And, at the same time, she felt him to be a loathsome petty demon, covered with bog and marsh slime, peering fiery-eyed out of the fog and mist and grinning horribly, sinfully. But, she ran to him.
"Choir Master Podly!" she exclaimed.
"Why...Zinaida Sergeevna...is that you? What are you doing here?"
Podly had been out roaming the back alleys and side streets of the poorest sections of Novgorod. He loved to prowl about among poverty and the threat of crime. He loved to see and try to imagine how the unfortunates suffered, how they struggled along, scratching and clawing for every bit, each speck. He loved to breathe in the poisonous vapors that rose from those places. All that - fed him, and provided him with the things he thought about, his obsessions.
The tavern habitue who was fretting about taking Zina home approached Podly with an attempt to explain Zina's appearance. Podly roughly pushed the man away. The man fell against a table of drunks, spilling glasses. Someone at the table hit the unfortunate fellow in the face with a glass. Podly took Zina out of the tavern and into the street. Zina respected Choir Master Podly. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and his knowledge of the liturgy was indisputable. He listened sympathetically and with concern to Zina as she related the story of her drunkard of a father. Zina and Podly had never spoken of personal matters like that before. Podly promised to help her, and take care of her. He took her home that night. She felt safe. He was there in the apartment with her when she fell asleep.
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