The Stylist

Now his face showed anger, his features seemed sharper and frozen, as if he was controlling himself to keep from saying something harsh.

“She started calling up all her friends to tell them that the Solovyov who translates Eastern Best Seller had been viciously mugged on the street. She was so sorry for you. She suffered so much over you.”

Now Nastya was completely sure that the talk of the mugging was true. But why hadn’t it appeared in the reports? This was a serious crime, to leave the victim an invalid. You could get eight years for that. Solovyov was protecting the criminal, that was clear. That’s why he didn’t want to talk about it. Who was it? His son? Maybe. But what about the doctors? They were required to report a viciously beaten patient to the police. Why hadn’t they? Because no one cared anymore. For the last few years nobody did what the law or the regulations demanded. Because everyone was out for himself and didn’t care about anyone else. The country was going to hell in a handbasket.

“She called me then, too,” Nastya continued without a pause, as if nothing were wrong. “Actually, it was then that I started thinking about coming to see you.”

“It was a long think,” he replied dryly. “Almost two years.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was. I was planning to get married then and I couldn’t decided whether I should come see you. I didn’t know that Svetlana was gone. I thought and thought, vacillating. Then I cooled off somehow, and then there were the wedding preparations and the honeymoon. But you see, I did come.”

“And you did the right thing. You can’t even imagine how happy I am that you are back in my life.”

Nastya could see that he wanted to change to topic and she did not resist. But she had no intention of talking about feelings, either.

“Tell me, please, which of the Oriental books you think is best?” she asked. “I trust your taste. I’ll read whichever you say.”

“Read the whole series, you can’t go wrong. They’re all great. Plot, characters, dialogue.”

“But there has to be one that’s the best,” Nastya persisted. “Your favorite.”

“My favorite? Then read The Blade. But it’s out of print by now, it was hot last year. If you want to read it, I’ll give you my copy.”

“Thanks, I certainly will read it.”

Of course, she would. She’d read The Blade and all the others he translated. Simply to understand why he considered this one his favorite. Tell me which book you like and I’ll tell what you were thinking when you read it.

“Wait!” she said to herself. What are you doing? Why do you need to know what he was thinking and feeling when he translated the book? Are you planning to work on him? Why? Just because he is trying to hide the fact that he was beaten? Get a grip, Anastasia. Be honest: are you interested in him? Are you falling for him again? If so, then you’re a fool, sad to say. If not, then leave him alone and don’t try to get inside his head.

* * *

Gennady Svalov, the officer from the Western District was young and looked more like a New Russian than a traditional policeman. Strong, stocky, and with very short hair, he drove a sweet blue VW and never parted from his cell phone. Nastya knew that each minute on the phone cost a dollar, which made it expensive on a policeman’s salary. The fellow had to be moonlighting somewhere, she thought with disapproval.

“I remember you,” he announced happily. “You ran the criminology course at the police college.”

Quite possible. Every year before the graduates were sent on their first cadet posting, Nastya arranged to give a few practical lab exercises. The point was to find the students who were brighter and did not think in standard ways. After that Gordeev got involved, making sure that they got the pick of the litter for their department. For two reasons: first of all, they were always short-handed, and second, they picked their new recruits from these cadets.

“You took Oleg Meshcherinov as a cadet for your department, remember?” Svalov continued.

She remembered. It was one of her worst memories. Oleg seemed quick and bright in his studies, and she selected him alone from the entire class. But it turned out that Meshcherinov used those qualities not only to fight crime. Oleg became a turncoat, working for the enemy, interfered with the course of an investigation and in the end… Meshcherinov killed Zhenya Morozov, a cop, and Major Lartsev was crippled, and Oleg was dead. They shot at each other, and Lartsev was a better shot. He was good with hand guns. Nastya wondered if Svalov knew the circumstances of his classmate’s death.

She explained her plan for gathering information that might lead to the identification of the film-loving thief. The work was hard and apparently did not elicit Gennady’s enthusiasm. Moreover, it didn’t seem to Nastya that he was following her reasoning very well.

“You mean go to all the rental places?” he drawled unhappily.

“Not only go there, but write down the names of the people who rented the films that interest us.”

“They don’t ask for ID, people can use any name they want.”

“That’s not your problem. First we have to get all the names and then we’ll think about how to use them,” Nastya explained patiently.

“How can you use them if they’re fake?” Gennady wondered sincerely.

Nastya was getting angry. This fellow wanted to take the easy way. Strange, how did he have the sense to check the fourteen films. Did someone else suggest that to him?

“First of all, we don’t know whether the thief used a false name or not. Perhaps he saw no need to do that. Secondly, we don’t even know if he rented any videos at all.”

“Then, you mean, all this work could be for nothing?”

“Maybe,” Nastya said. “But it still has to be done. We’re talking about a possible killer and we have to do anything we can to find him. And remember this, please: don’t talk about this. I mean the missing and dead teenagers. Do you understand?”

She had the feeling that he had understood absolutely nothing. It looked as if they had made a mistake with this Svalov, but it was too late now. He was part of the group and he knew everything about the poor boys. No retreat.

* * *

In the evening, Nastya went to the hospital to visit her sister-in-law. Her brother had done his best, naturally, and Dasha was in a private room with a television set and refrigerator. One look at the young woman’s pale face, Nastya felt a jab in her heart. She could tell that they couldn’t save the baby.

“You’re so young, Dasha dear,” she said gently. “You’re only twenty. You have time to have as many babies as you want.”

“I wanted this one so much,” Dasha whispered. “It was such a marvelous day when Alexander and I… well, you know.”

“Dearest, you and Alexander love each other so much that you’ll have plenty of marvelous days in your life. Please, don’t despair. You’re planning to go to Paris for your anniversary, right? Think how lovely it would be to bring back a baby from Paris.”

“I can’t,” Dasha whispered sadly. “The anniversary is next month. We can’t. The doctor said I have to be careful for three months.”

Tears started flowing from her huge blue eyes, even though Dasha bravely tried to smile with trembling lips. Nastya’s heart ached for her.

“When are they letting you go home?”

“Next week, if there are no complications. I’m sorry.” Dasha sat up and wiped her tears. “I’ll try to stop crying. It’s my own fault, no point in wailing now. I shouldn’t have moved that stupid machine.”

Nastya knew from her husband that the accident happened when Dasha tried moving the washing machine in a burst of housewifely energy. It really was her fault. Though that didn’t make Nastya any less sorry for her.

In the corridor she ran into her brother, who was carrying two huge shopping bags filled with fruit.

“Why don’t you bring her a good book instead?” Nastya said, kissing his cheek. “She needs distraction.”

“I’ve brought her books. She doesn’t want to read.”

“Make her. Are you the husband or what? Use your manly powers. It’s not good for her to lie around all day thinking about the lost baby. And get her home as soon as you can. She’ll sicken here. She just lies around and weeps from morning till night. That’s no good.”

“I know that,” Alexander sighed. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Not especially. Why?”

“Let’s go back in to see Dasha. I’ve been twice today. I’ll just give her the fruit, we’ll sit another ten minutes, and I’ll drive you home.”

They went back in. Dasha, not expecting any more visitors, was weeping inconsolably. It was unbearable to watch. Nastya tiptoed out into the hallway, leaving her brother alone with his weeping wife. About twenty minutes later Alexander came out.