Rostnikov's Vacation by Kaminsky Stuart M

Author:Kaminsky, Stuart M. [Kaminsky, Stuart M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Detective
ISBN: 9781560543404
Publisher: MysteriousPress
Published: 1990-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

SASHA HATED THE SMELL of hospital corridors. He had spent many hours, whole nights, in such corridors waiting for victims and violators to survive and speak or to die. He remembered the night when his father had lain dying in a hospital that smelled like this one while he waited all night with his mother.

The waiting wasn’t bad. The sound of people in pain was not pleasant, but it was tolerable. What he couldn’t stand was the smell and its memories. He always wondered why others did not seem to have the same reaction to the strong, sweet-acrid odor he could actually taste, like shaved metal in his mouth.

But this time Sasha Tkach welcomed the smell, for it overwhelmed the scent of Tamara on his clothes. He was pleased that the smell of the hospital would not be easy for him. Rostnikov had said he would suffer, and suffer within he would, and he also needed something physical to punish his senses as he sat talking to Zelach’s mother.

They sat on a bench in the corridor, a long wooden bench that had been painted pink, probably under the misconception that it would add a touch of color to the grayness. It did not.

Sasha had tried to call Maya. He wanted to see her and Pulcharia, but he was afraid that his clothes, his look, would betray the awful thing he had done and she would be unable to forgive him. Maya had not answered the phone. With each ring he had hoped she would not answer. She had already gone to work. After twenty rings, he had hung up, deeply disappointed that she had not been there, his heart beating wildly. And then he had called Rostnikov. Zelach’s mother said something. Sasha apologized and asked her to repeat it.

“He will not die?” Zelach’s mother asked for the eleventh time in the past hour.

She was a great lump of a woman, and Sasha could see her son in her.

“He will not die,” Sasha reassured her once again, though he had no idea whether Zelach would survive.

“He is my only child,” she said softly. “Have I told you that?”

“I knew,” said Tkach.

The woman’s large nose and eyes were quite red from a constant, slow stream of weeping and nose blowing. She had entered wearing a babushka but had removed it when Tkach had led her to the bench. Her hair had stood up, gone in all directions, wild, ridiculous. She looked like a clown, but Tkach could neither bring himself to tell her nor ignore her.

“Arkady, let me tell you, is not very smart,” she said. “I know that. I am not a fool. But he works hard. He does what he is told.”

“I know,” said Tkach.

“He does what he is told,” she repeated, watching a man in white push a cart down the corridor.

“He is a good man,” said Tkach.

“He speaks of you fondly,” she said, turning to Sasha with a pained smile.

“I …” Sasha began, knowing that the confession was about to come out unbidden.

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