The Final Fabergé Read Free Page B

art—there was water damage. You were there, I saw you.”
    â€œI apologize,” Karsalov said. “I don’t remember.”
    â€œIt’s no matter,” Pavlenko said. “I am in a new business, no more plastering.”
    Karsalov nodded. “I’m happy for you. No call for plasterers in these
times.” He pulled on the ropes to his son’s sled and started to walk. “My son is cold.”
    â€œMy new business may be of interest to you, comrade Karsalov. Where can we talk?”
    Karsalov stopped and looked again at Pavlenko, computing he was younger by ten years, dressed in a handsome beaver-lined heavy coat, well fed. Then he asked himself why he had been chosen.
    Karsalov said, “I prefer not. My daughter is still in the hospital and when I am not at my work or on errands, I have no time for my son, or for myself.” He spoke temperately, as he had been trained to treat people with respect, whether friend or stranger. “But, thank you.”
    â€œLet me come tonight to your home. I promise I will not take too much of your time. And after your son is in bed.” He stared hard at Karsalov. “It is important.”
    Karsalov hesitated, then curiosity drove away his reluctance. “All right,” he sighed. “Come before nine o’clock. I live at—”
    â€œI know,” Pavlenko interrupted. “You are at 68 Petra Lavrova, off Liteyny Prospekt.” He put both hands on his black wool hat and pulled it down over his ears and walked quickly out of the park.

    The apartment was on the third floor in a turn-of-the-century building, large for a nonprofessional, but Karsalov lived only in the kitchen, the other rooms sealed off to conserve the small amount of heat generated by the every other day’s fire built in an ancient cast iron stove. Little Vasily had not been able to keep down his tiny meal and by early evening the three-year-old was having severe chills and crying without a pause. Karsalov prepared a mixture of sour-tasting vodka and warm tea, put him to bed, then crawled beside him to help keep him warm. Finally, at a few minutes before nine, the youngster fell into a troubled sleep.
    Punctually at nine, Pavlenko arrived and was let into a tiny hallway that led past closed doors to the kitchen. He emitted what seemed to be the warmth of a July sun, and had also brought with him a heavy paper sack and from it he took a bottle and package and offered both to Karsalov. “A small gift,” he said cheerfully.
    In the bottle was a pepper-flavored vodka and in the package a portion of sausage, more meat than Karsalov had seen in four months. “I
don’t want your food,” Karsalov protested. “We don’t know each other, and I . . . I can’t repay you.”
    â€œThere’s no obligation.” Pavlenko grinned widely, brushed past Karsalov into the kitchen where he found glasses, and poured the yellowish liquid. He handed a glass to his baffled host. “Let’s toast a new friendship.”
    Hesitantly, Karsalov raised his glass, then took a deep sip, then more. It was superior vodka, with flavor, and strong.
    Pavlenko went to the bed where Vasily lay in a small lump under blankets, a gentle wheeze rising up from the little one.
    â€œDo you have enough food?” Pavlenko asked, his hand about where the little boy’s shoulder would be, patting it.
    â€œNo one has enough,” Karsalov answered bitterly.
    â€œI am sorry about your wife,” Pavlenko said kindly but without any deep feeling. “They took her ration card—and your daughter’s. I know.”
    â€œIs that your business? To know who died and who lost a ration card?”
    â€œNot precisely.” He turned back to Karsalov and nodded. “Yet, you might say that food is part of my new business.”
    â€œTo look at you it must be,” Karsalov said. “Our rations were cut again, no butter today, no