The Speculist

Chapter Nine

Part I

Chapter Nine

He made his way back to the south wing without being discovered. When Keyes dropped in on him late that afternoon, Reuben told him about his excursion to the other side of the dacha and what he had found there.

"I’m not surprised," Keyes told him. "I knew if I kept putting off telling you, you would find out sooner or later. Not that that was my plan, mind you."

"How long has she got?" Reuben asked.

Keyes frowned at the question, and let out a long sigh.

"That’s hard to say," he began. "Especially when we don’t know for sure what it is she’s suffering from. But she’s shown some improvement since we got here. Chevlenko has her on a new diet that’s got her feeling a little better. And starting on a new book has made a big difference."

Reuben could see that. Having something to be engrossed in, and something to accomplish, could only make life more vital and interesting. But what would happen when she finished?

She had described it as her last book.

"But that’s just the start," said the old man. "I have resources at my disposal, and I'm putting them to work."

He went on to describe in detail the program he had put together for his wife’s recovery. It was an elaborate plan, involving all the treatments that Betty had listed, and many more besides. Some of these were just a shade or two south of respectable. Others were almost comic in their strangeness and improbability.

"Reuben," said Keyes, "I know how this all sounds to you. And maybe you’re right, it does all look like a longshot. But only one of these things has to work, and it’s all worth it."

"That’s for sure," Reuben said. But none of them will, he thought.

"Well, there is one other possibility I recently learned about. It may be worth pursuing."

"What is it?"

"I’ll tell you in detail later, when I know more. It’s different. Really different. It’s going to require some travel and a little bit of snooping around. I was thinking maybe in a month or so, when you’re feeling better — "

"Of course. Whatever I can do."

Keyes smiled. A little of the gleam had returned to his eyes. The old man had a limitless capacity for hope, Reuben reflected. He wished he could have the same.

"Thank you, son," he said. "I’ll tell you more about it soon."

Over the next few days, Reuben began to join Betty in her sitting room on the days she wasn’t being treated. Sometimes they would have lunch together. Some days they would talk the afternoon away; others, he would sit and read while she worked on her book. From time to time, she even allowed him to read a few pages. The old man was sometimes there, often disappearing for long stretches of time to make phone calls or attend to some other piece of business.

The weeks went by. The dressing on Reuben’s head got smaller, and his shoulder and back began to itch infernally, indicating that they were healing. In the intervening time, neither the doctor nor Reuben could see any sign of brain damage, superficial or otherwise.

On a bitter December afternoon, Reuben and Betty paid a visit to the Monastery of St. Sergius. Betty had mentioned the place frequently. It took several tries, but Reuben was able to persuade Dr. Chevlenko that a change of scenery and some fresh air would be the best thing for both his patients. The old man opted out, claiming he had calls to make. Keyes’ driver, a wizened fellow named Anatoly, drove them there.

Reuben was amazed by the monastery’s huge white walls — fifteen feet high — which surrounded the compound. Betty told him that the fortifications dated to the time of the Mongol hoards. Inside, the white and blue onion-domed churches seemed out of place somehow: their beauty and grace were difficult to reconcile with the massive fortifications that surrounded them. There was almost an other-worldly quality to these churches; he could imagine them as living things which had sprung in all their intricate detail from the surrounding ice and snow.

Inside, however, with their candlelight and incense, their ornate metal work and stone floors, the churches were clearly the work of men. The work of men, but not belonging to them. Although the priests were men, and the few monks and seminarians seen around the grounds were young men or boys, these were not the true citizens of that holy city. The compound belonged to a small army of grandmothers, scarved and bent, as dutiful in their sweeping of the churches’ stone floors as they were in the singing of their part in the Mass.

Betty took him through each of the churches, looking for a priest whom she had met on one of her previous visits. Father Alexy, she explained, could tell not only the story of Saint Ksenia, but of any other saint whose story Reuben would care to hear. Reuben didn’t bother reiterating what a short list that would be. They looked for the priest for an hour or so, but to no avail. No one seemed to know where he was; and anyone who claimed to know was wrong. Or was thinking of a different Father Alexy, of which there appeared to be several.

As the afternoon passed, and the day grew colder, it became apparent to Reuben that there was something desperate in Betty’s urgency to find this priest. She stood outside the third church they had visited and looked one way and then the other, trying to decide where to go next. Her face had a bluish tint; she shivered violently.

"We haven’t been to the museum yet," he said to her. "Let’s go warm up there, maybe sit down for a while and have something to drink. Father Alexy will probably find us."

Betty said nothing, seeming not to hear him. She continued to look around anxiously.

"If not," he continued, "we can always come back and find him ourselves after we’ve had a chance to rest."

She still didn’t respond. Reuben took her by the hand.

"Come on, Betty. What do you say?"

She glanced up at him, looking almost startled to realize that he had been talking to her.

"I’m cold," she said, not really looking his way.

"I know you are," he said. "I am, too. Let’s go; we can find him later."

She looked off in the distance, her eyes moving from place to place, from figure to figure. But the elusive priest was nowhere to be seen.

"All right," she said at last, with supreme resignation. Now she looked directly at Reuben.

"Let’s go, dear," she said. "Take me home."

Reuben put his arm around her shoulder. He could feel her trembling.

"This is something we’ll have to leave undone," she concluded.

"For now," he said. "We’ll come back when it’s a little warmer. Or we’ll try again in the spring."

Reuben knew how unconvincing he sounded. Betty simply nodded.

They walked out together, through the arched gate that revealed the thickness of the compound wall. Anatoly was still sitting in Keyes’ gray Mercedes, parked near the entrance. Reuben opened the back door for Betty, then bent down so he could see in and talk to the driver.

"Anatoly, before we go, I need you to come help me with something."

The old driver sighed and slowly got out of the car. Betty gave Reuben a puzzled look.

"What are you doing?" she said. "I’m cold."

"Be right back," he said.

He and Anatoly walked back to the entrance of the Monastery. A boy stood just under the archway, holding up a black puppy. There was a cardboard box at his feet. The puppy was small and scrawny, with oversized paws and pointed ears.

"Tell him we want to see them," Reuben said to Anatoly.

Responding to Anatoly’s request, the boy opened the box. Reuben bent over and peered in. Two others lay huddled in the corner, also black.

"Guess we’ll take the black one," Reuben said. "Ask him what kind they are."

Anatoly asked; the boy said something in response.

"Well?" said Reuben.

Anatoly shrugged.

"Don’t know how to say in English. Is dog for…lambs. Sheeps."

Reuben looked at the pup. German shepherd, maybe.

"Ask him whether they’ve been weaned."

"Shto?" What?

"Oh, um…ask him if they still need milk from their mother."

"No," said Anatoly. "He wouldn’t give dog if it needed milk."

"Just ask," Reuben said.

Anatoly shrugged again, and said something to the boy.

"Da da da," the boy said. Impatient Russian for yes, what a stupid question.

Anatoly looked at Reuben.

"Is okay," he said.

"Great," said Reuben. On a sudden impulse, he reached into his back pocket and found his wallet. He had several ruble notes as well as some US currency. He found a five dollar bill and handed it to the boy, then took the puppy.

Both the boy and Anatoly looked astounded.

"Dobri!" the boy shouted., holding the bill up, and then quickly thinking better of that and stashing it in his pocket.

Anatoly muttered something in Russian and started back towards the car. Reuben followed with the puppy. Betty sat in the back seat with her eyes closed, not even bothering to open them when Reuben opened the car door.

"Look who I found," he said, setting the puppy in her lap. "I think we should call him Father Alexy."

Startled by the sudden weight on her lap, Betty opened her eyes. She looked down and let out a little gasp.

"Oh, my God," she said.

She lifted the puppy so she could see it better. It began licking her lazily on the face.

"Oh my God, Reuben," she said. "Are you crazy?" And she began to laugh.

"I just didn’t want the trip to the monastery to be a total loss."

"The poor thing is freezing!" she said, hugging the pup close to her. "What will Dr. Chevlenko say?" She laughed again.

"I don’t know. Maybe we just won’t tell him."

Six weeks to the day after coming to the dacha, Dr. Chevlenko removed the stitches from the exit wound in Reuben’s back; shortly before, the last of the stitches in his shoulder had been removed. A week later, on December 21, Dr. Chevlenko unwound the bandage on Reuben’s head for the last time, and carefully pried off the plastic cap which had held everything in place while Reuben’s forehead slowly knit itself back together.

"Looks like we’re unwrapping the present just in time for Christmas," observed the old man.

"No, we’re early," said Betty. "This year we’re going to celebrate Christmas in January, like proper Russians."

"Careful, old man," said Reuben, wincing as Chevlenko adjusted his grip on the cap. "The Saints are getting to her. Pretty soon we’re going to have a full-fledged babushka on our hands."

"Quiet please," said the doctor. And in one quick motion, the cap was gone.

Everyone was there: Chevlenko, Olga, Maria, Betty, and the old man. Reuben could tell from the strained and careful smiles, and the carefully composed we’re not shocked looks on all the faces, that this was not going to be pleasant.

"Well, Reuben," Betty said bravely. "I think the doctor did a fine job. It’s good to see you’re in one piece."

"Uh huh," he answered, far from convinced. "May I have a look now?"

Maria handed him a mirror. He had been right.

Pleasant it was not.

Now fully visible, the scar from the cigar burn was bigger than Reuben had realized it would be. It should have been just about the size of a quarter and located in the center of his forehead, but either the stork had moved the cigar while holding it to Reuben’s head, or his own quick motion in getting up had pulled the cigar, and thus the burn, down and to the right. Dangerously close to his eye. It was gray in color and shaped like a big comma on his forehead.

The burn scar was not as big as it might have been, however, because apparently some of it had been blown off along with the rest of the right corner of his forehead. This area, about half the size of the palm of Reuben’s hand, was an odd-looking salmon color, especially odd when contrasted with the deep brown of the rest of Reuben’s face.

"The color will be more normal in time," Dr. Chevlenko said helpfully.

One word caught Reuben’s attention: more.

However, color aside, it was plain to see that Dr. Chevlenko was a skilled surgeon. Reuben’s head was shaped more or less the way it should be. Moreover, as Betty had pointed out, Reuben’s first priority where his head was concerned — ahead of both coloration and shape — would have to be integrity. The breach had been sealed.

"Thank you, Doctor," Reuben said after a moment.

Chevlenko nodded at him.

"And thanks to all of you," he continued. "I’ve been to the edge. You all had a hand in pulling me back, and I appreciate it."

Before anyone could respond, Sergei entered the room.

"Ah, I am late for big unveiling!" he said.

"You look good, Reuben," he said after a moment. "You don’t look any different from before."

Reuben laughed at the preposterousness of the statement. Once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. Sergei laughed, too, along with the old man and Betty.

"No, to be serious," Sergei said after a moment, catching his breath. "I can see that there has been change. Big change. I won’t lie."

"That’s better," Reuben said.

"But don’t worry, my friend, " Sergei continued. "Is change, yes, but maybe is improvement, yes?"

The laughter erupted again.

Dr. Chevlenko and the nurses smiled uncomfortably, but couldn’t really get with the joke. After another moment the doctor cleared his throat, said a curt "good evening," and left with his nurses in tow.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Well," Keyes said after a moment, "looks like you managed to scare off your doctor."

"Don’t worry," said Reuben. "He’ll be back. Did you see the look on his face? I think that for the first time, he’s truly worried about brain damage."

"Don't say that," said Betty. "Not even as a joke."

"All right," said the old man. "I think we should check on Father Alexy before he chews something else to shreds."

The puppy now officially lived in a box in the kitchen, but could usually be found wherever the old man was. This included Betty’s room, much to the doctor’s disapproval.

"Come on, sweetheart. We’ll let Reuben talk to his friend. He’s had enough excitement. Besides, tomorrow is a big day for you."

"Helium detox?" Reuben asked.

Betty shook her head.

"I’ll be listening to bells tomorrow. Tibetan bells. Talk about brain damage."

The old man began pushing her wheelchair towards the door. She turned for a moment and looked at Reuben.

"Don’t worry about your scars. Mike knows some excellent plastic surgeons back home."

"We’ll talk about that later."

Reuben wished her and the old man a good night, and they departed. Sergei closed the door.

"Now we can talk," he said, seating himself in the doctor’s chair.

"Yes. So what have you learned?"

"Things have been very quiet. Kolkhi is not in Russia, he is on trip to Germany right now."

"Do you know what it’s about?"

"No. Some business of Markku’s. But what, I can not say. Meanwhile, his people have been mostly inactive. Pulling off a few small robberies and making their normal collection runs, that is all."

"Any sign of interest in Ksenia? Or any of us?"

"Not so far. Again, I don’t believe Kolkhi will take action. But I keep my eyes open, of course."

"Right," said Reuben. "What else can you tell me, Sergei? How is she?"

"She’s okay." He shrugged. "Here, read for yourself." He produced a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to Reuben. The paper was heavy and coarse; nothing was written on the envelope. Reuben tore into it. The note was written, neatly printed actually, on a small sheet of paper, equally coarse as the envelope.

Dear Reuben,

Sergei told me that he would go to see you and that you are well. I want him to give you this letter to tell you that I am well also. I write to say thank you for what you did for me. And to say I am sorry for the many terrible things. You have been kind and brave. You are good friend for me and always I will remember you. I wish for you health and happiness.

I remain your friend,

Ksenia

Reuben read it over several times.

"So?" said Sergei after a while.

"Well, she’s okay. She says she’s okay."

"That is good."

"Sure."

"But you don’t look happy."

Reuben set the letter down.

"Sure I’m happy. It’s just that…"

Sergei sat back in his chair. he crossed and re-crossed his legs.

"Is just what?"

Reben looked up from the letter.

"Well, she doesn’t say anything about wanting to see me." He scanned the letter again. "This thing reads like a goodbye."

"Oh, I see," Sergei said. "That is good. Must be relief for you, eh?"

Reuben looked at him, puzzled.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don’t remember, Reuben? Forgive me, maybe it was bump on head?" Sergei’s voice abruptly changed to a flat twang.

" ‘Oh, I don’t want girl to get hurt. Ya know, don’t want to confuse girl, so young and innocent. Want to take her someplace, ya know, neutral.’ "

It took Reuben a moment to realize that what he was hearing was an attempted impression of an American accent. He eyed Sergei.

"What the hell is that? Is that supposed to sound like me?"

"Da," Sergei said. "It sound exactly like Mr. Reuben Stone."

"I think not," Reuben said. "You sound sort of like a Texan, but not very much."

Sergei waved his hand in a scoffing gesture.

"Cowboy from Texas is American," he said. "Is all American."

"What, we all sound alike?"

Sergei nodded.

Reuben turned back to the letter. "I’ve never really liked you," he said, without looking up. "I think we should be clear on that point."

He read the letter again.

"So what are you telling me, Sergei?" he asked after a moment, setting the letter down again. "That it’s all for the best?"

Sergei sighed.

"Always so complicated," he said. "Reuben, you remember when we talk about roulette?"

"Of course."

"You have ever played roulette and run out of money?"

"Every time."

"Da," Sergei said. "That is exactly right."

"Um, you lost me, there," Reuben said .

Sergei sighed again.

"Sometimes when you play roulette, you lose much of your money. You don’t have much left, but you put all you have on one last bet. Sometimes you do this, and you win."

"Once in a while it works out that way. Sure."

"When this happens, what you do?"

"Well…"

Reuben pondered this.

"If I’m smart, I guess I quit. But usually I keep playing."

"No, I don’t mean that. I don’t care about are you smart gambler or stupid gambler. I mean what you do when you win."

"Huh?" Reuben shrugged. "I don’t know what you mean."

"You know — you do know, of course. When you win on big spin like this, you make loud whooping noise like Indian Chief and give big tip to croupier. Da?"

"I do that?" said Reuben, "I’m thinking you had Pasha watch the wrong guy. What’s the point?"

Sergei looked agitated.

"Point is this: you do these happy things. But what is one thing you never do?"

Reuben looked blank.

"Okay, then what is one thing you never say?"

"I’m sorry, Sergei, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then I tell you," he said, still agitated. "One thing you never say after making big win is ‘it is all for best.’ Da? You never say this."

Reuben let that sink in for a minute.

"You’re right," he said. "I never do."

"No," Sergei continued. "But when you do same thing: make last bet, bet all money, and lose…"

Reuben suddenly saw his point.

Neither of the two men said anything for a while.

"So then what you’re saying is," Reuben started. "I mean…what are you saying? About Ksenia. Is it all for the best or not?"

Sergei folded his arms and sighed.

"I do not know, Reuben. Only you know. Do you still have chips? Do you still want to spin wheel?"

Reuben blinked.

"Do you steel feel lucky?" Sergei asked.

Posted by Phil at March 1, 2004 12:00 AM | TrackBack