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© Nelli Kopeykina, 2019

© International Union of writers, 2019

* * *

Nelli Kopeykina (Nailya Gumyarovna) was born in the city of Furmanov, Ivanovo Region. Date of birth – 03/03/1959

Author of novels, short stories and adult stories, fairy tales and children books, poems for adults and children, prosaic and poetic scripts. Author of the lyrics to over a hundred songs composed for children's performances.

Member of the Moscow Municipal Organization of the Union of Writers of Russia; member of the Russian Union of Writers; member of the International Union of Writers, Playwrights and Journalists; member of the regional public organization “Club of Writers of the Central House of Writers”; member of the Literature Development Fund named A. M. Gorky and other literary associations.

Full-fledged member of the Academy of Russian Literature and the International Academy of Russian Literature.

Winner of a number of literary contests and literary prizes.

Awarded with the “For Major Contribution to Russian Literature”, “Alexander Pushkin’s 220 Anniversary”, “Vladimir Nabokov’s “Major Contribution to World Literature” medals.

Awarded with the title “Master of Russian Literature” by the Decision No. 39 dated March 6, 2019 of the Presidium of the International Academy of Russian Literature.

Nelli Kopeykina considers children's books to be the most important part of her work. Based on the “Fairy Tale Adventures”, her first series of children's fairy tales, she wrote scripts for staging musical performances accepted by various children's theaters in Russia.

Katia, a beautiful good-looking young woman, was sitting on a chair, smoking and looking enviously at Clara’s back

“You’re not getting fat at all sister. Getting prettier every day.”

“Thank you.” Clara was also beautiful and good-looking, but much more slim. She smiled without turning around, preparing cottage cheese pancakes by the order of her guest.

“Do you remember our childhood fights?”

Unpleasant memories hit Clara’s mind. She immediately stopped smiling. Her eyes got sad, and she slowed down a little. For some reason Clara wanted to answer with a loud “yes”, but restrained herself and put on a smile again. The smile looked somehow guilty. She turned to her sister:

“Honey, there’s nothing to remember.”

“Mmm… yeah. Well, I was a nasty kid. Okay, let’s forget about it.” Katia agreed, although none of them could forget their childhood just like that. It was an agreement not to remember.

Katia and Clara were siblings and had the same father, but different mothers. Clara's mother died when she was three. A year later her father married, and another year later Katia was born. The girls resembled each other like real sisters, but they had a different temper. Clara grew up as a dreamy girl. She was always an excellent student and everyone liked her very much. Katia was restless, spoiled, moody, and it has always been difficult for her to study. Now the sisters lived separately. Clara lived in the apartment she inherited from her grandparents. Katia had a studio apartment bought by her father, in the house opposite to his. Clara successfully graduated from the university and worked in the tax police. Katia's father bought her a philology degree, and she was considered unemployed. From mid-spring, the sisters suddenly became close. Katia began to visit her sister, share her women’s secrets, and even brought gifts. Clara took Katia cautiously at first, but then, seeing how her sister changed, she went limp and began to accept her with joy.

“You are very kind,” Katia spoke again, putting a cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’m happy to have you.”

Clara, having finished cooking, turned to her sister:

“Katia, what’s the matter with you today?”

“This, my dear Clara, is called sentimentality. One friend of ours said it’s fashionable, so now I try, ” Katia joked. “As I recall, you have always been sentimental.”

“It suits you.”

“What?”

“Sentimentality.”

“Ah… Haha, that’s what I think.”

The sisters laughed.

* * *

“Clara has a very positive effect on Katia,” Yuri Vladimirovich remarked during the evening tea. His wife, Vera Stanislavovna, thought differently, but decided not to argue with her husband and, just in case, she agreed:

“I guess so.”

“You know what she did,” Yuri Vladimirovich went on, touching a fine cup with a gilded border, “She even remembered my birthday!”

“I don’t understand,” his wife answered with undisguised irritation, putting the same cup with fragrant tea on her saucer, “what does Clara have to do with it!” Vera Stanislavovna even shook her shoulders in indignation. Not responding to his wife’s remark, Yuri Vladimirovich continued:

“Today she even washed the dishes for herself! For the first time in her life!” Yuri Vladimirovich shone with joy. He looked somewhere through his wife, thinking.

“Our daughter is growing up. I don’t understand why you are so surprised. I always told you to wait until she grows up and gets wiser. We should be happy.” Vera Stanislavovna retorted with the same irritation in her voice, pursing her flaccid, reminded lips and shaking her head.

“I am happy, dear,” Yuri Vladimirovich looked at his wife, who had already lost a hint of joy in reality.

“But you should talk to Clara as a father,” Vera Stanislavovna went on attacking. She shook her head like a horse throwing a long bang from the eyes.

“To Clara?” Yuri Vladimirovich repeated. “What for?”

“You know she has a crush on this poor professor. She wants to marry him. You won’t let her beggar for the rest of her life!

Vera Stanislavovna was holding a half-eaten piece of cake in her left hand that she couldn’t eat. She looked at it in frustration, threw it into a plate, took a napkin from the holder, crumpled it in her left hand, wiping fingers, and threw it on a beige tablecloth.

“I won’t let that happen!” Yuri Vladimirovich became cheered when he realized what they were discussing.

He stared at the yellow crumpled napkin, which fell not far from a gilded jam vase and was spoiling the general mood and order on the table. Thirty seconds later Yuri Vladimirovich looked up at his wife. For a split second, Vera Stanislavovna caught something very touching in this look. She used to like the way her husband, a handsome blue-eyed man, looked when he informed his little Vera about some joyful event, full of triumph. Mostly they were his financial victories, but this look appeared fewer and farther between, and finally was erased from her memory. This time the touching flash was not connected with any victory, so Vera Stanislavovna seemed to be offended and regarded it as a mockery.

“Isn’t it time for me to write a will? What do you think?” asked Yuri Vladimirovich, squinting.

Yuri Vladimirovich, the father of Clara and Katia, was an active party leader before Perestroika, and easily climbed up the career ladder. After the change of power, having a decent capital acquired by illegal actions, Yuri Vladimirovich quietly left the political arena, privatized a number of inconspicuous enterprises and actively engaged in commerce. Today, he was the owner of a land plot near Moscow which could house an entire cooperative, a mansion called summer residence, two cars, five apartments in Moscow in addition to the one in which he lived, one apartment in Leningrad and one in Tashkent. He also owned several gas stations along the ring road and three companies. He preferred to keep his wealth in foreign banks. Yuri Vladimirovich didn’t like fame or noise around him, and considered the desire for fame to be a sign of wretchedness. He preferred to be listed as an average, and because of this most of his property belonged to him incognito. No one, even his wife Vera Stanislavovna, knew the true level of his income. Vera Stanislavovna guessed about it, and it irritated her very much. Now when she heard about the will, she got worried. “Not again,” she thought. “After all, he will divide everything between girls. He doesn’t take me into account. He thinks he will outlive me for a hundred years. Clara should never get any heritage. She’s had enough. She should be grateful for bringing up and educating her. This will never happen.”

“When you write your will, honey,” Vera Stanislavovna spoke in her ingratiating voice, fingering the edge of the tablecloth, “you must take into account that Katia is a cream puff. Clara can achieve a lot herself. She’s always been very independent. Katia needs support.”

“True, Clara is independent just like me!” Yuri Vladimirovich said proudly. “If she fell in love with the professor, so be it. After all, he’s a professor, not a gambler,” Yuri Vladimirovich hinted at Katia’s past relation with a sharpie. “Leonid is a wonderful guy, and very smart”

“Hm,” Vera Stanislavovna snorted, “a guy! I bet he had dozens of lovers. After all, he’s ten years younger than me!”

“Even if he was ten years older. Why are you comparing? He is an intelligent man, and most importantly, they love each other,” her husband answered firmly, with some pressure in his voice.

“Love! How can she love a poor man? Living fifty dollars a month and enjoying it is moral ugliness. How they are going to raise their children? Feed them, educate them? You’ll see how their love ends!” Vera Stanislavovna pouted her lips, offended, and turned her face away from her husband.

“Vera,” Yuri Vladimirovich spoke softly, “stop saying that.” I understand that you worry about Clara…”

“Yuri,” Vera Stanislavovna attacked again, delighted with her husband’s soft tone, “you’ll see them begging for money in a year.”

“I will not let that happen!” Yuri Vladimirovich said firmly, putting the cup and the saucer aside.

Vera Stanislavovna was delighted with these words. However, his subsequent words upset her.

“What do you mean – begging? Clara is not the kind of person who begs. If she needs help, she will come to her father! Yes, I will not allow her or her children – our grandchildren – beg! By the way, I already told you that I want to give my daughters all they need while I’m alive. They should live like queens, and not wait for my death to receive an inheritance.”

Vera Stanislavovna broke out and even squealed in her chair.

“You go again! We’ll live years and years more. Are you going to die or what?”

“Yes, of course,” Yuri Vladimirovich answered, thinking of something of his own.

“Yuri, I’m talking about something else… They will experience inconvenience anyway. You know this professor is so proud.”

“Is pride a vice? Please do not bother Clara. Leonid is a very clever man. He’s marked by God!” Seeing irony in his wife’s eyes, Yuri Vladimirovich added with pressure: “I’m telling you.”

Yuri Vladimirovich made a special emphasis on "I", which always meant that he did not intend and would not argue more on this subject.

“I am not worried about Clara,” Yuri Vladimirovich softened his voice and extended his leg from the table in order to get up and leave. “Katia bothers me more now.”

* * *

However, two months later, sitting at the same table, Yuri Vladimirovich was anxious and spoke different:

“I'm very worried about Clara. Who could she interfere with?”

“I don’t know,” answered Vera Stanislavovna. She also looked concerned. “Who would need it? Has our Clara got involved in some dirty business? Dear God, she could die! Maybe she should move to live with us?”

“I already suggested, but she doesn’t want it,” the husband answered, rubbing his face with his palms pressed together.

“Without even asking me,” Vera Stanislavovna pricked painfully. “She will move to Leonid tomorrow,” continued Yuri Vladimirovich.

“Before the wedding?” – Vera Stanislavovna was indignant. Then, remembering that two months ago Katia was dating a sharpie who was not going to marry her, she stopped and, reducing the pause to the minimum, like she often did when she wanted to “erase” something from the interlocutor’s memory, she asked: “Well, what does Clara say? Does she suspect anyone?”

“No, no one. She thinks this is either an accident, or they confused her with someone.”

“The only person she could be confused with is Katia,” Vera Stanislavovna suddenly turned pale. “God, didn’t they want to kill Katia? I must tell her not to go to Clara, at least for now.”

Vera Stanislavovna rushed to the phone, moving pretty quickly for her age.

The house where Clara lived did not have garbage cans or garbage chute. Twice a day, morning and evening, a special car arrived and took the garbage away. Residents went out with garbage bags at the appointed time and threw them directly into the car body. That evening Clara threw out the trash as usual, and hurriedly returned home. Suddenly, not far from her entrance, she saw a small helpless spotted kitten on the road. The kitten silently pressed to the asphalt, helplessly raising its head, and it was strange that so far it had not been crushed by anyone. Without hesitation, Clara leaned toward him, and at that moment something quickly flashed over her head. Having stood up with the kitten, Clara turned her head in the direction of movement and saw a knife deeply piercing the trunk of a tree. The black knife handle had a ruby inlay in the form of a blood drop. Not having time to be frightened, Clara glanced in the direction from which the knife supposedly flew, and saw that someone was hiding behind the tree. Clara waited a few seconds, but the man did not go out. He lurked, which means that he had good reason for that. Clara was seized with inexplicable fear. She quickly moved, catching up with a neighbor from her porch. Returning to the apartment, Clara went to the window to look at the stranger from the third floor, but she did not see anyone suspicious. Residents peacefully dispersed along their porches; the driver of the garbage truck, Uncle Pasha, closed the hatch; two elderly women talked peacefully two steps from where Clara picked up the kitten. The fear passed, but not the excitement. “It flew so close. Seems to have even shuffled through my hair. Is someone having fun with knives?” Not knowing what to think, Clara called Leonid. Leonid silently listened to her and said:

“I'll be right there, and you call the police.”

“The police? What will I tell them?”

“Same thing you told me.”

Clara and Leonid argued a little more: Clara asked him not to worry and refused to call the police, but he exhorted and insisted.

The police attendant on duty did not pick up the phone for a long time, and when he picked it up, he answered with irritation:

“Lady, call your district police officer on this issue.”

“I don't know his number. And it is unlikely that he’s working at this time.”

“Ok, where do you live?”

Clara gave her address.

“Yours police officer is still working,” the attendant answered with mocking intonation. “Just a moment.”

He came back in five minutes with the number of district police officer. Clara reluctantly dialed the number and told what happened. District police officer introduced himself as Gleb Borisovich and arrived in fifteen minutes.

“So he saved you from death?” – asked the police officer, fingering the kitten. “Did you give it a name?”

“Not yet.”

“I think,” said Gleb Borisovich, picking up the kitten, “you should call him Savior if this is a male, and if it’s a female… This is male,” he interrupted himself. “So small. Wrap him with something wool. It would be even better if you put him in a box. As for the knife, it was no longer in the tree when I checked. What was it like?”

Clara told him.

“So a ruby drop. Was it glued on top?”

“It was inlaid, that is, located in the handle itself.”

“Not convex?”

“I don’t think so. Sorry, I don’t remember exactly. But it was a beautiful knife.”

* * *

As soon as Leonid crossed the threshold, he grabbed Clara by the shoulders and, anxiously looking into her eyes, asked:

“Are you all right?”

Clara shrugged.

“Fine. I told you everything is fine.”

Leonid impulsively embraced the girl, squeezing her with an unexpected wheeze. Clara examined the face of her beloved for a moment, and a picture from early childhood suddenly surfaced in her memory: same expression on her mother’s face, same hug, same question: “Did you hurt yourself?” Clara remembered that she was wearing new red shoes with hard slippery soles. She was almost in the middle of the metal game ladder when the shoe slipped, and the leg fell off.

Leonid’s hugs lasted longer than usual welcome hugs. Then, a long time ago, mother’s hugs were also longer than usual. The deliberate inspector’s coughing made Leonid and Clara pay attention to him.

* * *

The men introduced themselves, talked about the knife, about the kitten, about the likelihood that a bully boy could have thrown the knife and then ran away, frightened. Gleb Borisovich made some notes and seemed to finish his visit, but Leonid delayed him.

“Gleb Borisovich,” he turned to the precinct tone of a man seeking support, “I think it’s not safe for Clara to stay here. It would be better if she moved to me.”

Gleb Borisovich carefully looked at Leonid and silently nodded. He made five nods, then turned to Clara. Clara wanted to say something in protest, but Gleb Borisovich was ahead of him:

“Yes,” he said firmly, “I think it’s better for you, Clara, to move to live with mister Izmailov, at least temporarily.”

Seeing the praying Leonid’s look, Clara, pondering the words of the district officer, unexpectedly said:

“Why move temporarily? I’ll move permanently then.”

Leonid had long asked Clara to move to him, but Clara wanted to first legalize her status.

“Permanently would be better,” Gleb Borisovich confirmed. “Better do it today.” Without giving either Clara or delighted Leonid the ability to say something, as if considering this matter settled, he turned to Leonid: “Leonid Aleksandrovich, leave your address and phone number. Do you live far from here?”

Inspector found out everything he wanted and left. Immediately after his departure, Leonid grabbed Clara in his arms, began to kiss her on the lips, eyes, nose and cheeks. Moreover, in the intervals between kisses he whispered rustle and exhausted words. These words circled the room. In the midst of a word circle, the question suddenly arose: “Did you call your parents?” The question did not circle in the air, but froze asking for an answer.

“What for?” Clara asked fearfully. She did not want anyone else to know about this, because, in fact, nothing happened, and she did not want to bother anyone else.

“I don’t know,” Leonid shrugged, “but I believe your parents should be informed.”

“Leonid,” Clara said reproachfully, with a plea in her voice, “why bother them?”

“Clara, I think it’s worth calling them: maybe Yuri Vladimirovich knows something about this.”

“You think so?”

“No, I don’t think anything yet, but I think that it would be better.”

“Okay,” Clara surrendered, “whatever you want.”

Leonid called Yuri Vladimirovich and told him about the incident.

“Was that an assassination attempt?” Yuri Vladimirovich asked after a pause.

“We don’t know that.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes, Clara called a district police officer.”

Yuri Vladimirovich raised his voice.

“District officer!” He was indignant and asked to give the phone to Clara. He began to instruct his daughter not to go anywhere, and reproached her with the fact that she did everything herself and refused other people's services.

“Dad, I can’t stay at home all the time. I think they were just hooligans.”

“It doesn't matter who kills my daughter – a hooligan or a gangster. I want my daughter to be alive and well.”

Yuri Vladimirovich, accustomed to the fact that everything in his life is settled, predetermined and stable, suddenly felt a terrible excitement caused by several feelings at once. The first feeling was fear. Fear of losing his daughter, who was the subject of his father’s pride and a constant source of life energy. It wasn’t just because Clara reminded him of his beloved wife: the image of the deceased was vague and no longer attractive. But Clara herself, with her clear mind and refined beauty, with her restrained inner energy, exalted her father and, despite the rudeness surrounding Yuri Vladimirovich in life, kept him within the intellectual, in a very narrow sense of the term. The second unpleasant feeling was anger caused by the insult which, he believed, someone dared to inflict on him by attacking his beloved daughter. And, of course, other feelings included resentment, anxiety and some other vague feeling that arose from the thought of a possible or past death of a loved one. Yuri Vladimirovich asked Clara to immediately move to live with them, but Clara refused and told about her decision to move to Leonid.

* * *

Katia invited some school friends. Four girls – Katia and the three guests – were sitting at a beautifully furnished table when the phone rang.

“Mom, call me back. I have guests,” Katia said and made a short gesture to hang up, but the phone stayed by her ear. Apparently, what she was told was very important and very alarming to her. Suddenly she alarmed, bit her lower lip, as she often did when she was being accounted for at school, and almost fell into a chair near her with a pipe in her hands. It was Vera Stanislavovna.

“Katia, I’m calling you for the fifth time, where have you been? Why is your mobile phone turned off? Do you know that they shot Clara?”

“Shot?” – Katia was surprised. “How’s that? Who!”

“No, they didn’t shoot her, but they threw a knife at her. They wanted to kill her, they probably mixed her up with someone.”

“They wanted to kill her? When? How is she? Is she fine?”

“Yes, yes, don’t worry, she is safe and sound. The knife flew by. I don’t know if this is true, but they say it flew very close, and if it were not for chance…”

“What chance?”

“She leaned over to pick a kitten. You know how compassionate she is. She dragged rubbish into the house when she was a child.”

“God! Do they know who threw the knife?”

“They don’t. They say it was a man from behind the tree.”

“Did she see or remember him?”

“I don’t know. Seems like she saw someone. Please don’t go to her now. They may have mixed you up.”

“Mom, are you out of your mind? You mean they wanted to kill me?! Who would do that!”

“Dear, calm down. I just wanted to say that they could mix you up because you are alike, and instead of her they could accidentally kill you.”

“Bullshit! Are you sure they wanted to kill Clara? Who would do that! Besides, now they have other means of killing people. They shoot, they arrange accidents or arsons – not with a knife! This is nonsense!”

“Yes, yes. But you stay away from her. Especially now when she is moving, or already moved to her professor.”

“Perhaps you are right. Okay, Mom, I'll call you later. See you.”

Leonid Alekseevich Izmailov lived opposite to the tax police service where Clara worked. Leonid repeatedly asked Clara to move to his house, but Clara refused, wanting to become a legal wife first. Now, despite the fact that the plans were violated and the reason for her move was not joyful, Clara was glad, because now she could be with her Leonid every day, know how he was, be sure that he was all right. Without changing anything globally, Clara brought softness and comfort to Leonid's housing with skillful light touches. The kitten, named Saviour on the advice of the local policeman, gave Clara and Leonid a special comfort.

* * *

Nona Ivanovna, Leonid’s neighbor, retired, and his former classmate Tatiana, who had known Clara, were not surprised with her moving, but reacted differently: Nona Ivanovna, pleased with the appearance of a new neighbor, showed Clara the location and entered into conversations, friendly and courteous. Tatiana remained cold and unfriendly like she always was. But Clara, who knew from Nona Ivanovna that Tatiana loved Leonid, understood her feelings, so she tried to justify neighbor’s unfriendliness.

* * *

Clara went to work five minutes before the start of the working day, because now, in order to get to work, she only had to cross the yard. Checking that everything was in order, Clara, as usual, looked into the kitchen, ran a glance through the switches of the bathroom and toilet rooms, sent Savior a kiss and left the apartment. The elevator descended from the upper floors and opened, showing a young woman hiding irritation behind the mask of indifference. The irritation was caused by elevator opening. “Probably she’s in a hurry,” Clara thought of her, saying hello. The woman inexpressibly answered Clara’s greeting and began squeezing her to the exit. She seemed to be in a real hurry. As soon as the elevator doors opened, she impatiently jumped out of the elevator, banging her heels, ran down the stairs and rushed out onto the street. Walking behind, Clara saw a woman who was looking forward. Suddenly, somehow unnaturally, she stopped, staggered back and collapsed onto the dirty concrete floor between the front doors. Her head was in the entrance. Clara, instinctively rushing to her aid, saw a knife dug into the woman’s white neck. A scarlet streak of blood was flowing down onto the beige collar of her blouse, and woman’s wide eyes were fixed on the dusty entrance ceiling. An alien, terrible, ugly scream burst from Clara’s chest. Her legs became rubbery, and she instinctively pressed herself against the dusty wall.

* * *

“A month ago, Clara Yurievna Bychkova, then living at her registration address, was thrown with the exact same knife,” Major Cheredkov reported at an evening meeting of the investigative group. “She was saved by chance: she saw a kitten on the road, bent down to pick it up, and the knife flew by. According to her description, the knife looked exactly like this one”. Alexander Ivanovich nodded at the inlaid knife lying on the table. “She claims she saw a man behind the tree that day, but she could not describe him.”

“Well, can she at least say who this is, a woman or a man?” asked Colonel Stasov.

“She thinks it was a man of average height.”

“Well, what was he wearing?” Colonel continued asking.

“Something dark.”

“Brunette, blond?” Stasov was getting annoyed.

“She didn’t remember. She was very scared. She grabbed a kitten and ran away.”

“But did she at least remember the knife?” asked Stasov with obvious suspicion.

“Yes, she described it as exactly…”

“Or maybe she was under the impression of this murder?”

“No,” Intervened Captain Rublev. “I…”

“It’s not your turn to report,” Stasov stopped him. “Is that all?” He asked sternly.

“I also wanted to say,” Cheredkov hesitantly spoke, “that Clara Yurievna Bychkova is a Captain of the tax police. Now she is performing an audit of TAKHO, which is engaged in intermediary operations. Their audit results are not that positive.”

“More details, Cheredkov,” Colonel demanded. “Was there a theft?”

“No, tax concealment.”

“Is the sum large?”

“Yes, seems like it’s a bulk of money.”

“How much?”

“This is still being investigated.” Colonel frowned nervously and asked again: “Is that all?”

“Yes,” answered Alexander Ivanovich.

“What a lucky lady,” said Stasov. “First kitten, now this. What about you?” He turned to Captain Rublev. “I spoke with the district police officer from where Bychkova used to live. Officer Gleb Borisovich Chernyshev was called on June 17 by Clara Yurievna Bychkova. There was no knife in the tree where Clara Yurievna saw it, but a fresh trace remained. Chernyshev recorded the description of the knife made by Clara Yurievna in his notebook. I made a copy from this sheet. Here it is, I will read it.”

“No need to do that,” interrupted Stasov. “Go on!”

“On June 19, Gleb Borisovich Chernyshev found the described knife from Anton Karlovich Kirkorov. He was called by his communal neighbor.”

“Name!” demanded Stasov. He demanded "accuracy, accuracy and competent legal language" from his subordinates. Captain looked into the notes.

“Sofya Lazarevna Kobzon.” Major Cheredkov and Captain Kudinov started laughing.

“Kobzon? Is that right?” Colonel asked sternly.

“That's right,” Captain Rublev clarified, “Sofya Lazarevna Kobzon.”

“Well, why would Kirkorov and Kobzon argue?” Colonel asked, feeling pleased from making a good joke.

“Drunk Kirkorov fell asleep in the bathroom with an open tap. The bathroom overflowed and water went over the edge. Kirkorov did not respond to Sophia Lazarevna's knock, so she called the district police officer.”

“Okay,” Colonel interrupted impatiently. “What about the knife?”

“The knife was in Kirkorov’s room, stuck in a loaf of bread. He…”

“Where did he get it?” interrupted Stasov.

“Kirkorov explained he found it on the street. He was walking in the evening and saw it in a tree. No one needed the knife, so he took it home.”

“When? Was it the same day?”

“Kirkorov does not remember the exact date, but he seems to be telling the truth.”

“Seems to be! How many times should I tell you: there should be no inaccuracies in our job like “seems”, “probably” or “maybe”. “That is, we can’t even build versions?” Asked Captain Kudinov in a cold voice.

“You can, Andrei Vladimirovich,” Stasov answered without looking at the Captain. “But you have to rely on facts, not on something like that. Do you understand, Captain Kudinov?”

“If all the facts were known, our work would have lost its meaning,” Andrei Vladimirovich answered. Colonel Stasov left these words unanswered and again turned to Rublev: “What else do you have?”

“I think it was the same person in both cases. Probably they are knives from the same collection.”

“Captain Rublev, you will think later,” Colonel's irritation grew. “First we must listen to everyone, find out all the facts, and then we’ll be able to express our opinions and thoughts. Captain Kudinov has not yet spoken to us. Captain, do you have something to report?” Captain Kudinov hid a smirk and began:

“I found out that professor Leonid Alekseevich Izmailov, Clara Yurievna’s fiance, was in the laboratory during the first attempt, where he received a call from her.”

Colonel Stasov grimaced. “Received a call. Sounds like receiving an order. Can’t he just talk in a more simple language? This Kudinov is always showing off,” he thought, and said out loud: “But we are more interested in the second case.”

“Today he was also at the institute, but so far no one can confirm this. Bychkova did not call him immediately, but somewhere in an hour and a half. At that time he was at the department. But in an hour you can get to the institute from home.”

“Does he have a reason to kill her?”

“I don’t know. Ekaterina Yurievna, Clara Yurievna’s sister, had an alibi both times. On the seventeenth of June, she was having guests – her school friends. Today she was in Suzdal with her friends.”

“Are the names of all friends set?”

“Yes. I can list.”

“No need to do that. Why did you start checking her sister's alibi? You could have checked the alibi of her father and mother then.”

“I have,” Andrei Vladimirovich answered calmly. “Both times, Clara Yurievna’s father was in the office of his company. He spends a lot of time there. This is confirmed by the guards,” – Captain named their last names, first names and patronymics, “the manager”, he called his name, “the cleaner”, his name. “The wife of Yuri Vladimirovich, Clara Yurievna’s stepmother, has no alibi. Both times she was at home. She was sleeping during the assassination attempt yesterday.

“Stepmother? Have her father remarried? What about the first wife?”

“She died when his first daughter, Clara, was about two years old. The other daughter was born in the second marriage.”

“Got it. Who else have you checked? Neighbors?” Kudinov calmly answered:

“One neighbor, Nona Ivanovna Chizhova, retired, was at home at the time of attempt. She immediately went to a scream. But the second neighbor, Tatiana Vladimirovna Barysheva, apartment number one hundred and ten, was walking these morning hours.” Captain emphasized the last words and, knowing that Colonel would interrupt him with a question, fell silent. Colonel immediately said:

“Walking? Did she walk her dog?”

“No, she doesn't have a dog. According to her, she was just walking.”

“I see. Who else did you check? Neighbors at Bychkova’s previous address did not interest you?”

“They did,” Kudinov answered smoothly, “but I did not have time to check them.”

“Shit, he is mocking me,” Stasov thought, asking:

“Is that all?” Captain answered in the affirmative. Sitting still, Colonel clasped his fingers, grouped, took a deep breath, held it for a while, exhaled noisily and, looking around but speaking to no one, said:

“So, what do we have. Someone has been trying to kill Clara Yurievna Bychkova twice. The method of murder is unusual, I would even say, original. Now,” Colonel turned to Captain Rublev, “you can build your own versions, even the most absurd. What do you think, Captain Rublev?”

“First of all, it is obvious that the killer is not a professional, as he has already made two mistakes. He got nervous. Today he threw a knife at a woman, not even having time to examine her properly.”

“Correct, but it is clear even to the fool. What about knives?”

“The killer probably has a set of knives. I think the next attempt will be committed with the same knife.”

“Next attempt? You think…”

“Yes, I'm sure the killer will repeat his attempt, because he probably knows he killed the wrong woman. These knives, in my opinion, are a work of art. I don’t know much about it, but I think these are antique.”

“Give the knife for examination,” Colonel ordered.

“You know the result of the examination,” Major Cheredkov recalled, “the killer used gloves.”

“I'm talking about another examination,” Colonel grimaced in irritation, “knives should be shown to art historians.”

“I handed the first knife to Florensky, antiquarian,” Major said, “he promised to show it to professionals and find out something. In general, I think they didn’t want to kill Bychkova, they just wanted to scare her. Maybe this is someone from TAKHO. She said that last year, when she was checking another company, she had also been threatened and called.

“Did they fulfill their threat?”

“No, they just scared her. Maybe they’re scaring her now.”

“What do you think, Captain Kudinov?” Colonel sharply turned to Andrei Vladimirovich.

“I admit all the proposed versions. We’re working on it, Colonel.”

“Good. Major Cheredkov, please take care of the company. You,” Colonel addressed Captain Rublev, “deal with the knives. Although Major has already taken up knives. When did they promise to give a result?” He turned to Major Cheredkov.

“They didn’t promise much,” Major shrugged vaguely. “When it works out, maybe tomorrow, or maybe the day after tomorrow.”

“I see. Captain Rublev, take care of the knives and knife throwers. It’s strange none of you paid attention to the fact that throwing knives also requires a certain skill, I would even say professionalism. Now almost everyone knows how to shoot, but rare person can throw knives.”

“I think we all paid attention to this,” said Captain Kudinov with a pressure in his voice. “I arranged a meeting with circus director Denis Petrovich Shakura for tomorrow.”

“And you were silent?”

“You demanded to report only about the result.”

“Good,” Colonel answered, turning away from Kudinov, as if he was something very unpleasant. His answer sounded evil and even threatening. Then he turned to Captain Rublev and ordered: “You work with the knives and knife throwers, and meet with the director tomorrow. And you, Captain Kudinov,” still not turning to Andrei Vladimirovich, with a reproach and accusation in his voice, squinting his eyes evilly, Colonel turned to Andrei Vladimirovich, “you,” he paused, apparently thinking something over, then slowly turned to Captain “you’ve done a good job with parents, sisters and neighbors. Check the neighbors at the previous address and, most importantly, check the deceased woman: maybe they wanted to kill her, not Bychkova, and they need Bychkova for fraud. Well, that’s it. Thanks to everybody, you're free to go.”

* * *

Colonel Pyotr Danilovich Stasov was called the Novice, although he had not been a beginner. He’s been working in this police department for two years, and two more people came there after him, but the nickname stuck to him, probably because upon his arrival he announced to his subordinates that they would now work in a new way. Although he himself admitted and often complained that he still could not teach his subordinates to work in a new way, there were too many amateur performances in their work, deviations from the rules he established. Everything in the department was very homely: employees called each other by name or strange nicknames; they exchanged information on the go, without waiting for meetings; treated Pyotr Danilovich, their immediate superior, incorrectly. There was no servility in their attitude. On the contrary, there have always been a smile and indulgence slid. Captain Kudinov stood out among the others for his mocking. Colonel was sitting at his desk, holding heavy hands with fingers locked. His gaze rested on the edge of the shabby blue cuff of his shirt. “What did she give me?” He thought of his wife. “It's time to take this shirt to the country house. This bastard”, his thoughts again jumped to Kudinov “always wants to make a fool of me. You see, he made an appointment with the circus director, though he didn’t have my order. What a snob. Cheredkov is no better: he gave the knife to a friend. Who ordered him to do so?” Pyotr Danilovich was stifled by resentment, he wanted everything to come from him and his subordinates to do strictly what he ordered them instead of doing what they wanted. Their job was to carry out his orders and report on the implementation.

* * *

Pavel did not like this. He did not think that everything would turn out that way. He planned to quickly do the job, make three thousand dollars and start a business. But there he was, with two misfires! The lady seemed to be bewitched. “That’s okay,” Pavel reassured himself, “there will be no third misfire.”

Pavel learned to throw knives from his grandfather Pavel Evgrafovich Zipunov. Pavel Evgrafovich was once a circus performer and knife thrower. His wife, Bella Nikolaevna, Pavel’s grandmother, assisted him. For fourteen years of work in the arena, Pavel’s grandfather never missed and never wounded his assistant. All fourteen years Pavel Evgrafovich worked with the same knives inherited from his father, also a knife thrower, people's artist Evgraf Panteleimonovich Zipunov. The knives that Pavel got, twenty-four pieces in a large leather case, were presented by the great leader Joseph Stalin. Stalin liked Zipunov: he was accurate like a highlander, respectful like a true citizen, and most importantly, he had a young beautiful wife Tosya who assisted him. Twice the Zipunovs were invited to speak in a narrow circle of people close to the leader. For the third time Stalin himself drove into the circus, gifted Evgraf Panteleimonovich a set of knives in the presence of the whole troupe and took Tosya alone with him, without her husband. The Zipunovs usually kept silent about this, but proudly remembered the gift of the Leader of the Peoples. All knives in the set had black stone handles with ruby inlay in the form of a blood drop. They were packed in a black leather case of three cells, each of which housed a drawer lined with black velvet, where the knives were packed in the amount of four, five and fifteen – this is exactly as much as was required to display Stalin's favorite number.

* * *

Two years ago, after the death of Pavel Evgrafovich, grandmother handed the knives to 15-year-old Pavel at the funeral of her husband, and ordered to protect them. “These knives,” his grandmother said, “are very expensive. They brought wealth to your great-grandfather and your grandfather. By the grace of God they will help you raise your capital, Pavel.” Pavel believed those words, and perhaps because of this he easily accepted the offer to kill the lady. He has seen a lot of action films, read enough detective stories and played enough of the bloody computer games, so he began to perceive the murder as an ordinary thing. Not a single thought from Raskolnikov’s torments flashed in his mind. At that moment he was not worried about his ruined life – he was worried about the money, about the loss of time and about the second lost knife. However, Pavel had reassurance (consolation): there were four of them in the box. Two were gone, one had to be used, so he had one more left. He had to sell it. Those knife could not remain in the box alone. That would be a waste. The main thing was not to cheapen. “How much should I ask for? Thought Pavel. “Fifty dollars, one hundred?”

* * *

Pavel sold his knife for one hundred and fifty dollars. They easily gave him more than he expected to ask, but his mood did not improve: he thought it was cheap. They gave one hundred and fifty dollars with ease, which means they needed it. Thus, they could have given more. He should have bargained

* * *

“I think,” said Katia, playing with the slipper on her foot, “this is some kind of maniac. Or at least a person with a mental disorder. Who would throw knives in the twenty first century! They are the same, with some ominous symbolism. I can’t imagine who it can be. Maybe someone whom she pushed at work. You know Clara is so adherent to her principles! Crazy! It was impossible to agree on anything, even in childhood. She’s an idealist.”

“Did she push many people?”

“Yes, I think many people were compromised.”

“She doesn’t love her sister”, Captain thought of Katia. “Boy, she can be a killer too. The reason is inheritance. The wealth that Yuri Vladimirovich has officially is only a part. The unofficial part is probably much more interesting.”

“Want some more coffee?” asked Katia.

“No, thanks.”

“I also think that this is because of jealousy. Have you seen the neighbor of Leonid Alekseevich? She has a killing look not only at Clara, but even at me. They say she is in love with Leonid.”

“Excuse me, but who said that?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Katia motioned vaguely with her shoulder. “Clara once told me. I asked her that this neighbor next door was looking at me like a beast. So Clara explained to me. Their neighbor on the landing told me the same thing… Although I don’t think she did it. Most likely this is someone among her victims.”

“Victims?”

“I mean, those whom Clara strangled with her checks. Actually, I am surprised that she is still intact, because, as a rule, most crimes are committed because of money.”

“Ekaterina Yurievna, you think one can commit a crime because of inheritance?”

“Hm. Of course, if it’s worth it.”

“You and Clara Yurievna are also the heirs of your father.”

“Ha ha! You must be joking about inheritance. Although, if you think about it…” Katia beautifully lifted her head, wondering something in her mind. “Perhaps you are right: Clara and I will inherit our summer house, car and gas station after his death. For some people this is unimaginable wealth. For example, as far as I know, Leonid Alekseevich gets miserable wage.”

“She only listed a small fraction of what they should inherit,” thought Andrei, looking at the beautiful good-looking girl. “She has an alibi, but she could hire a killer. She didn’t have to throw knives herself. But why knives? It was easier for a hired killer to arrange a car accident for his victim, shoot her, or even slaughter her in a dark corner with the same knife. It doesn’t make any sense. Such a maniacism. I wonder what kind of men surround this woman?”Andrei voiced his question, giving it a slightly different shape:

“I'm sorry, but are you dating someone? Or have a groom?” Katia smiled indulgently. Her eyes became playful as she asked: “Do I look very much like a woman who does without men?”

“No, you are not at all like that, but I had something else in mind. Do you have an intention to cast in lot with someone?”

Katia laughed softly: “I do have an intention, but I have not yet decided who and when would it be.”

“This one will never cook borscht for her husband,” Andrei thought about Katia, admiring her. Katia was dressed in a sleeveless dark blue dress with a shaped collar, which resembled sailor’s costume with its size, white stripes and a white tie. Her hair was neatly gathered into a bun and locked with a white hairpin. Her home look was not “home” in the common sense of the word; the only home thing was the slippers that matched to the girl’s dress. The decoration of Katia’s apartment showed the wealth of its hostess and the good design work. Andrei noted the skillful use of color, light, the absence of unnecessary things, which, as a rule, get into an apartment by chance and litter it. All the things in Katia’s apartment were in place complementing each other, were in harmony with each other and were not cheap.

“You probably won’t drop in here,” thought Andrei, wondering who, in his opinion, could. “The apartment has been cleaned well, obviously not by this young lady. She probably holds a servant. Where does she get the money?”

“Ekaterina Yurievna, excuse me, I will ask you a tactless question – however, all the questions of the investigators are tactless. What means do you live on? Are you supported by your parents?”

“No, I wouldn't say that. They help me. But I earn myself.”

“What do you do?”

“Different things, for example, translation.” Captain noticed that the girl was not at all embarrassed. “Translation costs a penny,” thought Andrei, “she is skillful at lying. She didn’t even bat an eye.” Katia, in turn, hastened to change the topic of the conversation:

“Don’t you think I was trying to kill my sister?” Andrei silently continued to examine the girl. This offended Katia. “Do you really suspect me?” She asked indignantly.

“Suspecting is my profession,” Captain answered, smiling timidly.

“Do you consider yourself a professional?” Katia asked with sarcasm. “Or maybe you just confuse the meaning of “profession” and “job”?”

“I do not confuse them,” Captain answered as calmly as possible, “I mix them.”

“In my opinion, this is an inadmissible luxury,” the girl retorted with a hint of anger and sarcasm.

“Perhaps I overestimate myself…” Katia didn’t let Captain finish and interrupted:

“I’m afraid you do. You know, Captain, if you were a professional in the generally accepted sense of the word, the killer would have been arrested. Instead you’ve been interviewing Clara’s closest people for two days, but it’s obvious that the killer is a maniac, a hysteric or something. Maybe even a sectarian. But it’s obvious he is mentally ill,” Katia said these words without malice, without sarcasm, and even despite their content, without reproach. There was a request in her voice and almost a plea, as if she had asked Captain to search for the killer. After listening carefully to the girl, Andrei asked Katia:

“You said that your father,” Andrei deliberately replaced the word “parents” with the word “father,” “is supporting you with money. How much? And how often?”

“Hm,” Katia snorted indignantly. “I would say “not much and not often”, but it might be different from your understanding.

“Most likely,” thought Andrei.

“You tell me exactly, and I’ll decide,” he said.

“Exactly? You mean how often?” Katia did not even try to hide her anger. “When I ask him.”

“Do you ask him often?”

“Andrei Vladimirovich,” for the first time Katia addressed Captain by name, “what are these games you are playing? You were convincing enough. I believed you. I am one of the suspects, but I hope,” Katia smiled charmingly, “I am not the only one. Now we are wasting time.” Katia glanced at the large wall clock and, breaking her comfortable position, leaned forward in her chair.

“Sorry, I have to get ready. I have an evening class today.”

“You study?” Katia grinned unkindly.

“I'm visiting shaping classes.”

Andrei thought about his Annushka, who could not afford this sort of classes because of the high fee. “Thank you, Ekaterina Yurievna,” Andrei said, rising from his seat. “You helped me a lot.”

“Really?” Katia was surprised. She wanted to ask why, but the desire to escort the Captain soon gained the upper hand, and she silently followed him, showing her intention to say goodbye.

* * *

Tatiana Vladimirovna didn’t open the door for Captain Kudinov for a while. Finally she opened the door and unfriendly invited: “You again. Come in.” There was order in Tatiana’s apartment, but there was no cosiness in the understanding of Andrei Vladimirovich. Silly blue wallpaper; windows hung with curtains made of expensive sand-colored fabric, without tulle curtains; upholstered furniture, covered with colorful green and brown bedspreads; unsettled parquet floor. In the corner behind the cabinet there was a roll of carpet, seemingly red. On the wall above the sofa in an expensive frame with stucco work there was a reproduction of a forest landscape. The forest in the picture was unhealthy, with some rotting stumps in the foreground, a rotten swamp and an old crow. Andrei noted that this picture was not perceived as part of the interior, but rather seemed to be hanged by mistake and forgotten.

After standing for a few seconds in the room, Tatiana Vladimirovna turned and went into the kitchen. Andrei Vladimirovich followed her. The kitchen was also clean, but Andrei did not like it here either. On the wall there was an old glossy calendar with the image of white kittens on a blue background. On the old refrigerator there was a red samovar painted with gilding, gilded macrame, white flowers, artificial flowers in a crystal vase on the table, a yellow teapot on the stove, three cutting boards painted with red roosters in black background. Other kitchen utensils, a green sofa covered with a red plaid, a yellow sconce above him – everything was in disharmony and spoke about the poor taste of the hostess. Tatiana herself had an unpleasant look: she was wrapped in a red terry bathrobe and was wearing soft blue slippers with white fur. At first Andrei thought that she was going to shower, but judging by how Tatiana thoroughly sat down on a stool, by the way she pulled cigarettes and lighter from her coat’s pocket, looking at her freshly applied makeup, or maybe for some other reason, Andrei Vladimirovich guessed that the girl was wearing her everyday home clothes. Tatiana Vladimirovna, who, apparently, had sat down on her favorite place, facing the window, pointed a place on the stool at the end of the table, lit a cigarette without offering Andrei, took out a clean crystal ashtray from the table drawer, and despite the fact that there was no ash on the tip of the cigarette yet, gracefully tapped the tip of the cigarette over it with a long, beautiful manicured finger. After making two more puffs, she finally turned to Andrei. “I'm listening to you.” These words somehow sounded distantly, with poorly hidden notes of reproach and irritation.

“Tatiana Vladimirovna, I want to apologize…”

“For what?” interrupted Tatiana. She rose her eyebrow, but there was no interest in her look. A mask of arrogant emptiness remained on the woman's face. “I'm afraid my questions can irritate you. This is a common thing in our work. And I want you to understand me correctly.” Andrei Vladimirovich was outwardly calm, but in fact he started to get a little annoyed.

“Do you like your job?” girl's voice sounded sarcastic. “Yes,” Andrei answered firmly. “In the end, we catch the criminals.” Tatiana turned away from Andrei towards the window and said distantly:

“Do you write poetry?” Asked Andrei in order to establish relations with the girl, but Tatiana, letting Andrei understand that she did not intend to spend time on conventions, ignoring his question, asked her own question:

“So what should I understand?” This time there was a question in her gaze.

“I want you to understand: by asking “stupid” questions, I want to come to the truth.”

“I can tell you right away that I did not kill miss Frolova. I didn’t kill anyone.” Girl’s voice sounded resented, irritated and arrogant. “Tell me, do you always have a habit of taking a walk during morning hours?” Deliberately not responding to Tatiana’s irritation, Captain asked in an even voice.

“No, usually, if I don’t work, I sleep at this time of day,” Tatiana replied without looking at the Captain, with the same expression, but more calmly. “Why did you go for a walk yesterday?”

“Because I just wanted to go for a walk,” saying these words, Tatiana even shook her head in stubbornness. Her answer sounded defiantly, and behind it there was a rebuke and a request not to meddle in her affairs.

“Or maybe you had insomnia yesterday?” Andrei still asked exactly.

“No. I got up on the alarm clock,” the girl replied with an evil pressure, without developing an answer, deliberately provoking the next Captain’s question.

“So you got up at a certain time?”

“Yes. I told you, I woke up yesterday with an alarm clock.”

“What about yesterday? You just decided to take a walk in the morning?” Andrei asked the question Tatiana expected.

“Officer Kudinov, isn’t it…” the girl flashed her evil green eyes.

“You can call me Andrei Vladimirovich.”

“Officer Kudinov, I’m not going to report to anyone about what I did yesterday. I’m telling you, I didn’t kill anyone!” Tatiana pronounced these words looking evilly into Captain’s eyes, emphasizing every word and swaying a little to the beat of each spoken word.

“A hysterical girl,” thought Andrei about Tatiana, “what was she doing? Seeing some guy or what? Okay, you have to give it another try.” He spoke softly, even a little insinuatingly:

“Tatiana Vladimirovna, I knew that my questions would annoy you, but I'm here to protect you.”

“Protect me? From whom?” There was still anger and indignation in girl’s voice.

“You don’t understand that you play the killer game with your silence. I believe you didn’t kill anyone. I’m more than sure about that, but the facts… The facts speak against you. You are one of the suspects.”

“Am I a suspect? Do you have facts?” Tatiana almost screamed, turning her whole body to the Captain. “What are the facts? What are you talking about?”

“We know,” Andrei spoke as indifferently as possible, “that you have been in love with your neighbor, your former classmate, Leonid Alekseevich Izmailov since school.” According to the testimony of witnesses, you dislike his bride, Bychkova Clara Yurievna. It was her whom they tried to kill, not Frolova Nadezhda Yakovlevna. Nadezhda Yakovlevna was only an accidental victim. And we know that you, Tatiana Vladimirovna, for some unknown reason stayed somewhere at the time of the murder, while on other days you sleep at that time. Doesn’t it seem strange to you?” Andrei Vladimirovich said this and watched the woman. She seemed to be more and more shocked with each of his words. Her lips pursed, her hand with a cigarette trembled slightly. After a pause of thirty seconds, Tatiana asked in a stone voice: “Who are those witnesses?”

“What witnesses?” Andrei knew whom Tatiana was talking about, but specified nevertheless only to make her talk. He wanted to hear what she would call them, how she would describe them, but, contrary to his idea that Tatiana herself would somehow unflatteringly respond about her neighbor and Katia, Clara’s sister, she simply answered:

“Those who said that I disliked Clara… Yurievna. She’s very nice. You know, they are lying. I rather envy. Yes, I do not hide my feelings for Leonid, but I’d never kill a human!”

Tatiana got up, tempting to leave, but suddenly sat down again on the other side of the table, facing Andrei.

“Believe me, Andrei Vladimirovich, this is nonsense! How can you believe it!” Now the voice of Tatiana sounded indignated. “Why are you so sure that they were trying to kill Clara, not Nadezhda?”

“They were trying to kill Clara Yurievna for the second time. The first attempt was made about a month ago in her yard.”

“See, I don’t know where she lived!”

“This is how the true killer would answer.”

“Andrei Vladimirovich,” she was still indignant, but already had a note of supplication in her voice, “do you really believe in this nonsense?”

“No, I don’t believe it. That's why I want to help you.”

“How?”

“I just want to prove that you were doing something else during the murder. If you don’t want to reveal someone’s name, it will not be called, but I need to know. I must check it.”

“Name?” Tatiana asked with surprise growing into indignation, staring at Andrei. “Do you think I was with a man?” Tatiana had an insulted look.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to offend you. I actually don’t think anything yet. I would like to know the truth.”

“I was at the train station,” the girl replied, somehow abhorrently, as if giving in something dear to herself.

“At the train station?” surprised Andrei. “What for? At which station?”

Tatiana shrugged and answered in an offended tone: “I don’t know why. They called me from my sister and said that she had sent me a parcel by train. I went to get it.” Tatiana resentfully turned to the window. “Did you get it?” “No. There was no parcel. My sister didn’t send me anything, it was someone’s stupid joke.” The girl still hid her hurt eyes, accompanying them with her actions – shaking off the ashes from a cigarette.

“A joke? You mean, your sister didn’t send or call you?”

“No.” Tatiana raised her eyes and looked into the eyes of Andrei. Anger in her gaze was gone.

“Then who called you?”

“I don’t know,” the girl shrugged vaguely, “a woman. She introduced herself as Olga's colleague.”

“Is Olga a sister?”

“Yes. You know, I was very surprised. I said why hadn’t Olga called me, but the woman replied that Olga’s phone was turned off for non-payment. It then seemed strange to me: Olga is a neat person, she could not that. Then I called Olga directly from the station on her cell phone. She didn’t know anything. They didn’t turn off her phone, and she didn’t send me anything. Recently she asked me to buy a jacket for her husband.

“Where does your sister live?”

“In Kiev.”

“Did you go to Kiev station?”

“Yes.”

“Has anyone seen you there?”

“Of course. The conductor of the sixth carriage. This woman told me that Olga handed over a parcel with a conductor from the sixth carriage, although Olga is familiar with conductors from the twelfth carriage. I approached them too, but no.”

“So who do you think could have made such a joke?” Tatiana again shrugged her shoulders vaguely, pulled a pause, and at the same time exhaling air, answered in a chant:

“I don't know.”

It was obvious from her face that she really did not know, and this tormented her.

“Did the woman’s voice sound familiar to you?”

“No.”

“Did they call from Kiev?”

“Now I'm not sure, but then I thought so. They said “answer Kiev”, then this lady spoke. She even said her name, Larisa or something, and explained that she worked with Olga and she asked her to call me.”

Andrei and Tatiana talked for another ten minutes about the train schedule, about the parcels, about why it was train, not mail, about conductors, about the sister and many other things. The longer they talked, the more Andrei became convinced that Tatiana was not so evil as it seemed at first. She really needed attention and protection, and her bitchiness was a defensive reaction of a small single woman. Suddenly, Andrei noticed that she had a beautiful high forehead, high breasts, clean skin. Having once again extended her hand to the ashtray, Tatiana waved the lighter with the sleeve of her bathrobe, and immediately bent to pick it. The neck of her robe sagged down and exposed the beautiful white breasts. “Gotta visit her once again,” thought Andrei.

* * *

That day Captain Rublev had a headache. His brother came to him the previous night, and they only drank a bottle, but the next morning Captain felt nausea and pain in his temples without even lifting his head from the pillow. Passing through the narrow passage between the lion’s cages, Captain wanted one thing: to rush through this stinking place and come somewhere where he could sit down and ask for a sip of water. By the evening his head ached so badly that he needed to take a pill of analgin, which he grabbed just in case, knowing that the pain could intensify. But the wide-backed guard walked slowly ahead. He deliberately hesitated, giving the Captain opportunity to admire the animals. Entering the long corridor, the guard stopped at the first door, knocked, opened it without waiting for an answer and slipped into the opening.

“It’s for you, Denis Petrovich. Come in,” the guard invited, freeing the doorway. Circus director was waiting for his arrival. He sat at a clean table, clasping his hands one on top of the other like a pupil, and smiled kindly at the Captain. Having waited when Nikolai reached the middle of the room, he got up, shocking Captain with his small height, and went towards him to shake his hand.

“Hello, Captain,” he shook his hand vigorously. “So glad to meet you.”

“Nothing to be glad for,” thought Rublev.