When I arrived the body was lying on two office tables drown together. Over the body, from the head with ruffled blond hair to the naked pale feet, was dangling a thick electric cable. I recognized this man just glancing at his pale face with half-closed eyes. But not just his face or eyes, but everything here, including this twisted cable, seemed to me an absolutely improbable, a hundred percent déjà vu. Or more precisely, like a hundred-year-old photograph that I’ve seen so many times before.
Police investigators just left this place before I came here, and in this ordinary city apartment stayed only employees or, more to the point, this party’s head members. When I entered this apartment from the staircase two huge young men at once blocked my way. But they were not professional guards – I can easily spot those. These looked like old Soviet style volunteers of militia, druzhinniki, they even had red bands on their sleeves. One of them, apparently taking me for minor party member coming for some routine, declared resolutely but softly that “no reception today by Ts-Ka”, and I should better call by phone tomorrow. Ts-Ka was for Central Committee of Communist Party, and that was obvious for everybody coming here. I was born and raised under very hard Communist regime in this country where only one party was legal for seventy years, that’s why this softly spoken Ts-Ka had effect of electricity on me. The only thing that still ringed funny for me, this once mighty and inaccessible party organ now inhabited such a shabby place and received members and guests so simply. Times have changed, indeed.
In short, I told these two that somebody named Fomin asked me to come here immediately, and then one of them dashed back into the rooms, and in a half a minute returned with middle-aged slender man. The man had a short haircut, dressed in a dark expensive suit and white shirt with a tie. Silently and grimly as it’s suitable only at funeral, he shook my hand and with a jest invited to follow him.
We walked through the room that served as an office; it was quite large, with heaps of papers and rather old office equipment on the tables. It was empty and quiet as it happens in the places with a dead body lying somewhere. But next room was all different. It seemed as if in a moment I traveled thirty years back to glorious days of Communist Russian Empire. There stood huge, three yards high plaster bust of founder of that Empire Vladimir Lenin, sacred person for Communists of the whole world. On the wall behind it were gloriously spread two large flags, with golden profiles of this Communist saint glittering on its heavy dark-blood colored velvet.
Thirty years ago that kind of plaster busts of this great leader stood in the ceremonial halls of all country’s organizations. All these establishments – factories, laboratories, shops, and everything, – belonged to the government, and therefore the busts were everywhere. On frequent memorable days these halls and busts were decorated with flowers and with more flags; the passionate speeches were heard here, solemn oaths were given in front of these white busts. Those were official institutional sanctuaries. In the schools in front of the these busts of great Lenin young children were accepted to Lenin’s pioneers, and senior pupils were admitted to Lenin’s komsomol, the union of young builders of Communism. In research institutes and nuclear laboratories white busts silently sanctioned new progress in spread of Communist influence over the world. In front of these busts at the thousands of factories workers and engineers, that reached outstanding productivity, were triumphantly awarded with honorary titles and decorations as the winners of socialist competition. In the Lenin’s rooms of army and navy in front of these busts politruki, the Commissars, awarded the heroes with combat decorations.
That’s why passing this bust I involuntarily slowed down; my guide did just the same, and we stopped. In fact, I haven’t seen any Lenin’s plaster bust several decades, that’s why I looked at it with kind of amazement.
After a polite pause the man said, “You talked over the phone to me. I am Fomin”.
I turned to him and nodded. He took a deep breath and said, "Come."
Behind the next door I saw two closely shifted tables and a dead body lying on them. I walked slowly around man’s body and only then looked at his face. Perhaps, I had dumbfounded look, because I noticed Fomin darted a fast sharp glance at me.
“Do you recognized him?” he asked.
I didn't answer. This man was dead, and one couldn’t be mistaken about it. Otherwise, I would take it for a strange and shameless performance. Not only his face incredibly resembled a person well-known in this country, but even this cable on which he was apparently hung, now was loosely stretched over his motionless body. I felt as if I was looking at almost century-old revived photo. In front of me lay the body of the famous Russian poet Sergey Esenin, who hung himself almost hundred years ago in the Sankt-Petersburg’s hotel.
“What’s his name?” I asked, continuing to examine the familiar features of the man’s face.
“Well, I quite anticipate your further surprise. His name was also Sergey. He was colleague of ours working in this office.”
“Striking resemblance.”
“By the looks he could be taken for a twin, you know, and he idolized the great poet, too. Of course, he also wrote verses.”
“He played this role too true. But why put the neck into the noose!”
After poet’s suicide almost hundred years ago dozens of his admirers did the just same, in the same manner – his fans, as they could be called today. Perhaps this case was of this kind, very belated, but outwardly indistinguishable.
“It looks like suicide,” I said, with my back to Fomin.
“Investigator said the same.”
“Do you think otherwise?”
“I would like to hear your expert opinion.”
“When was he found?”
“Early in the morning. Colleagues found him hanging on a hook from a ceiling chandelier with his neck in this cable-noose. The police said he probably hung there all night.”
“Who removed the body? Police?”
“Yes. I managed to take some photos before that, though. Take a look.” He got out from his pocket a small digital camera and handed to me.
One by one I carefully examined five images taken from different angles. Thin body hanging on the hook; the neck unnaturally stretched; half-opened eyes. I tried to enlarge the image of a neck with a zoom. The way of tightening the noose knot could clarify something. Cruel killer’s hands tighten the noose sharply and strongly, maliciously. One’s own hands always do it timidly, fearing to cause unnecessary pain. But all these images were too small, and the zoom only smeared a neck into cloudy squares. One picture showed a part of a window. Glass at the edges was black, with the bright glare sweeping up from the camera’s flash in the middle. “How early they start working in this party!” I silently reflected, because in September, in Moscow, such a dark window could be no later than at seven in the morning.
“Good photos,” I said and returned the camera. “Anything else?”
“They found it on his table.” Fomin handed me a sheet of paper. It was an ordinary computer printout, but the chosen font was not standard, it was slanted as if handwritten. There were only two lines.
Jumping out of September,
Heavens closer, God is there.
The rhyme was, of course, right to the point. However, it was odd that these last words in his life the poet did not write with his hand, but typed with computer and picked such a flowery font. But who can understand these poets.
“Did they take his blood for analysis?” I asked.
“No, I did not notice. Why?”
“Alcohol, drugs, harsh hypnotics. It can reveal something.” I said. As there was nothing else on the surface I was close to wind up. “Looks like a suicide.”
“I think so too. He was a nervous young man. Very good one but very unbalanced. We grieve so much, all of us.”
“Relatives notified?”
“He had no relatives. At least we heard nothing of them. He arrived from India”
"An Indian writing verses in Russian? A bottomless bag of surprises. Not a bad rhyme he left, though. Wonderful India.” I said, and I felt pity for this poor foreigner. “Are we done?”
“Not yet. I would like you to work with us a couple of weeks. As you possibly know, we’re in the midst of the election campaign. Our party will be a success on this election, undisputed success, but we have a lot of ill-wishers.”
“I do not perform security functions.”
“No, no, we don’t need more security! We have our volunteer druzhinniki, and besides our sponsor-bank provides us with his security service when it’s required. We don't need any more guards.”
“Then what do you need?”
“Let’s say, we need an expert for analyzing the hazardous situations in our election campaign.”
“Sounds very sophisticated, though I have no experience in politics.”
“Can I make an objection? Everybody in this country got this kind of experience already. You would work personally with me.”
“May I ask your position in this party?”
“I am the Secretary General of the Communist Party of Leninists, the only proper Leninist party left in this country.”
The words Secretary General still have an electrifying effect on all Russians born and raised in former Soviet Union, just the same as the title czar had for our ancestors. That’s why I mused, “Secretary General, hell, what a mess I’m getting into again!”
The Secretary General continued, “Very soon our party will not only enter the Duma, but it’ll become a party in full power it deserves. All our people will rise, all the country will demand justice and punishment for traitors and Capitalist collaborators – you'll witness it in pair of weeks! The present occupational regime will collapse as a rotten tree!”
“Wow,” I thought “what a conviction! Was this poor Sergey of that sort? Why then he hanged himself?” Though I interrupted this pathos chant.
“Excuse me, I must warn you. I am not a Communist. I have rather contrary views.”
“I know that. But in your work it won’t be important. Maybe it’s even an advantage. And in a couple of weeks you may well become true and convinced Communist. And I can tell you sincerely, I would never have invited you for this job if I didn't hear of you from my friend, an ardent Communist, unfortunately departed.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“I’m sure you remember him. He was the member of our party. Communist Glotov.”
“My God,” I thought, “who recommended me!” Indeed, a year ago I rescued a large factory, where he was a chief, from the capture by the raiders – a plague in post-Communist reality. But the Secretary General did not probably know about the last hours of his friend. They were tragic, he committed suicide. And what he didn’t know for sure, I thought, that to stop him and save the life of hostage girl taken by this Glotov, I had to use a shotgun and wounded this member of his party. I described all that in published notes just like these here.
“OK,” I said aloud, “I'll work with you.”
I told him my rather high rates, and saw by his eyes it did not bother him at all. “"It seems,” I thought, “a sponsor-bank, which he mentioned, showers money on them. If that bank’s able to earn its money it should also know what the horse to bet on in this election. Money is not the words, it must be returned.”
Secretary General saw me to the doors, and he was very courteous. Catching sight of us, two druzhiniki with red bands on their sleeves, stepped from the doors and stood to attention. Not yet reaching them I stopped and softly said, “I do not imagine how police would go with this case, but in your shoes I’d have insisted on all analyses done including the contents of his stomach. I cannot exclude homicide.”
Fomin just nodded and said loudly, changing his tone with druzhiniki nearby: “Don’t bother with it, police will do their job, concentrate on more important matters. Since he was a foreigner, police will do everything it should do. Poor Sergey, what a pity! Our poet arrived in this country just a month ago… Because you will work with us you should know – in a few days very important events will take place in Moscow. Those will be great opportunities for our party and the people of this country. Do not waste your time in vain, Nicholas. See you tomorrow in our office.”
When I stepped down from the entrance to my Harley, a white van with red sanitary crosses just parked nearby. Two huge men, with traces of frequent use of alcohol on their faces, got out of it. Sanitary ambulance, called in Moscow trupovozka, dead man’s carriage, arrived to take our Sergey to the morgue. I got on my motorcycle, and heard behind my back the telephone rang in the van. The driver briefly discussed something, and then he stuck his head out of window and shouted to his men entering the building, “Hey, hurry up there! Manager just called, said one more to take on the way. Just found, laid for weeks in apartment. Rotten through, they say.”