FINDING KATARINA M. Read online

  I strolled along among a mix of ethnic Russians and native Siberians, eventually arriving at a canal of dark water separating the city proper from the residential neighborhood where Lena lived. Pedestrians were crossing over on a wide arched footbridge whose railings were festooned with bright cotton ribbons and plastic trinkets that created a riot of color in the dust-filled air. I fell into line, a matted, feral dog trotting calmly beside me.

  A warren of Soviet-era apartment towers rose on the far side of the canal—severe concrete monoliths, structures so lacking in imagination that my imagination would have been hard-pressed to envision them. Their drab faces had once been painted fanciful shades of turquoise and tangerine, but the paint had faded so much that only a wall here and there showed any color at all. Small square windows punctured the facades in lonely rows. There was precious little greenery anywhere, only spindly weeds and the occasional emaciated tree, its branches permanently bowed from yearly traumas of heavy snow.

  Like every other man-made structure in Yakutsk, the apartment towers were set on pilings designed to absorb shifts in the permafrost lying just below the earth’s surface. The pilings in this neighborhood compared badly to the ones in the city proper: they were thin stilts that hardly seemed capable of holding aloft multiple stacked floors of concentrated humanity. If I’d stooped, I could have scurried among them across an apocalyptic landscape of rocks, hardened dirt, concrete chunks, and blown garbage. But first I would have had to duck under a trio of fat steel pipes that ran chest-high alongside the street, bringing heat and hot water to each building and taking away sewage. The old pipes were patched in places; a tear in one of them emitted a human stench.

  A couple was just emerging from the door of Lena’s building. I sprinted up a set of steps, but it banged shut before I could grab the handle. I rang the buzzer and waited. No one came. In time, an old woman carrying a tiny, scrawny dog and a thin plastic bag overfilled with groceries tottered up the steps. She wordlessly handed me her grocery bag and swiped an electronic pass card to unlock a metal door that was almost too heavy for her to manage. I held it open for her and followed her inside.

  The lobby was a dank, windowless area with a wall of broken wooden mailbox cubbies. I trailed the old woman up a dim turning stairway whose shadowy walls were splashed with spray-painted graffiti. She passed the second floor where the Tarasov apartment was located, and slowly ascended to the fifth floor where, her little dog crooked in one arm, she began the tedious process of unlocking three deadbolts on the door to her flat. It finally swung open, revealing another door behind it—also metal, also painted black. This one opened with a single key. Taking back her grocery bag, the old woman favored me with a placid smile devoid of curiosity.

  I headed down to the second floor, found Lena’s door, and knocked. When no one answered, I knocked again. Then put my ear to the door—no television or kitchen sounds. I tried a few more times, glancing up and down the drab corridor—perhaps there was someone I could ask—but the place seemed deserted.

  I checked my phone, but there’d been no text or email from my aunt since I’d left the hotel. Was it possible she had the day of my arrival wrong? I scrolled through my inbox. There was our thread, Flight info in the subject line. The date and time I’d given were correct. See you soon! she’d replied.

  Something must have happened. Something serious enough to have prevented her from picking me up at the airport and contacting me to explain. It occurred to me that she might have taken ill, that she might have had a heart attack or stroke, and could be lying helplessly on the floor of her apartment at this very moment, unable to come to the door or make a sound.

  I hurried across the hall and rapped sharply on her neighbor’s door. The drone of a television was just audible. “Zdravstvuyte?” I called out urgently. “Zdravstvuyte?”

  The door was opened by a small man with a broad dark face and wire-rimmed spectacles. Before I had a chance to introduce myself, a tabby cat darted between his legs and ran into the hallway, and the voice of a little girl shrieked, “Dima! Dima! Come back!”

  The cat ran straight to Lena’s door and stopped, so I was able to scoop it up and bring it back to a girl of about seven or eight, now standing by the man’s side with her arms plaintively outstretched. She immediately cradled the pet safely to her chest.

  “What do you say?” the man prodded.

  “Spasiba,” she murmured shyly, and immediately withdrew.

  The man smiled at me. “Dima is still getting used to his new home.”

  “Did he used to live…?” I gestured to the door behind me.

  “Yes. He’s really our neighbor’s cat. We’re taking care of him while she’s away.”

  “She’s away? Lena Tarasova is away?” I repeated, stunned.

  He furrowed his brow, seeming to realize he’d never seen me before.

  “I’m her niece from America. I didn’t know she was away.”

  “She went to visit her mother a couple of weeks ago. You probably know that her daughter died recently.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s partly why I’m here. I was expecting Lena to meet me at the airport this morning. She said she would.”

  “Hmm. If she said so…maybe there was a mix-up?”

  “It looks that way. Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “A few months. She left it vague.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say months?”

  He nodded.

  “And she left a couple of weeks ago?”

  He nodded again, obviously perturbed by my incredulous reactions.

  “Two weeks, would you say?”

  “About that.”

  Maybe I had the wrong Lena Tarasova. Both her first and last names were fairly common. There could easily be other Lena Tarasovas in Yakutsk. But how many would have a recently deceased daughter?

  I gave a great, long exhale. At least now I knew why I’d been stranded at the airport. My aunt had left Yakutsk shortly after Saldana was killed, apparently intending to stay away for months.

  I cleared my throat. “Do you happen to know where her mother lives?”

  “A little village. I didn’t catch its name. She said something about getting to the ferry on time, so it’s probably to the east, across the river.”

  The area between Yakutsk and the Pacific Ocean was about the size of Canada.

  I must have looked upset because he said, “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “Oh, thanks. This is helpful, actually. Do you happen to know what the cell reception is like out there in…” I stopped myself from blurting the god-forsaken wilderness. “…in the country?”

  “Depends. In some places, very good; others, maybe none.”

  So there was another puzzle piece falling into place: Lena could be out of cell phone range.

  I thanked the man again and tottered out of the building, light-headed with confusion. None of this made sense.

  Lena had told me that she worked as the secretary to the president of Alrosa Corporation, one of the largest diamond mining and processing companies in the world. Tomorrow was Monday. I supposed I could try to call her at work. But what would be the point of that, if she’d already left town?

  The sullen concierge shook her head before I even asked—no messages. Was it my imagination, or was she sadistically pleased? I tromped up the three flights to my room and tried Lena’s phone numbers again half-heartedly. Nothing.

  I’d barely noticed the room that morning, but now I took a good, long look. It was remarkably ugly, even by hotel standards. Green shag carpeting and burnt orange wallpaper gave it a garish circus look. The furniture was cheap and thin, and a stuffed armchair exhaled dust when I sat on it. The air had a dense, stale quality, as if the exhalations and evaporated sweat of previous guests were still hanging about.

  I tried to raise the window again, perching one butt cheek awkwardly on the ledge to get my shoulder into the upward push. It wouldn’t budge. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to open.
There would be reasons for not opening windows in this part of the world. Ungodly cold in winter, hordes of spring mosquitoes, swirling summer dust. Other factors I was presently unaware of. I gave up on the window and switched on the wall-mounted air conditioner. It wheezed and stuttered before settling in to a loud, rattling drone, expelling lukewarm gusts.

  I was still trying to grasp my situation. I desperately wanted to keep an open mind about my aunt, but the facts kept getting in the way. Those times when we spoke on the phone, those emails—she’d already left Yakutsk by then! Why wouldn’t she have said that? The agreed-on plan was for her to show me around Yakutsk for a few days before we went out to the country to meet Katarina. In fact, she’d specifically promised to take me on a tour of an Alrosa processing plant, where I could see the diamonds being cut and polished, and even buy some at a deep discount. Why would she have mentioned that when she’d already informed her neighbors that she’d be away from home for several months? Had she intentionally deceived me? If so, it was an odd lie. I couldn’t imagine what she’d been trying to hide.

  I thought back to how she’d sounded on the phone. She’d come across as sensible and grounded, intelligent and caring, and there’d been absolutely nothing in her speech to make me question her sincerity. Despite her recent bereavement, or maybe because of it, her enthusiasm for my visit had seemed warmly authentic. But I also recalled our conversation about the crime scene, when her cold curiosity had struck me as more professional than maternal. At the time I’d chocked it up to the fact that people grieve in mysterious ways; now the strangeness of her reaction assumed a foreboding tint.

  A worrisome pattern was emerging: Misha possibly in some kind of trouble, which then seemed to have been resolved; Saldana wanting to defect, then murdered; Lena leaving the city even as she encouraged my visit. The members of the Tarasov clan seemed to be disappearing one by one. My head spun, concocting various scenarios to explain it all, each one more absurd than the last. It was like trying to recreate a recipe when you had only half the ingredients.

  It’s not my job to figure this out. I was just a distant relative, a virtual stranger, whose place in these opaque machinations was tangential at best. Whatever else might be true, Lena had left me stranded without a word of explanation, and now it was up to me to take the hint and withdraw. I felt damn foolish about the whole clumsy mess. What Kool-Aid had I been drinking when I thought it was a good idea to travel halfway around the world on the basis of a couple of phone calls and some emails? And the saccharine dream of a joyful union with relatives who hadn’t sent so much as a postcard until they’d needed a very big favor?

  I opened my laptop and checked return flights. I’d come in on a Washington-Moscow-Yakutsk route, which had been as direct as I could get. Now I saw that there was no way to get back to the States early without adding a few legs to that journey, incurring a cancellation fee and dramatically increased ticket prices, and enduring some very long layovers. Nevertheless, I hobbled together a workable itinerary. But held off on booking, as I needed time to cool down.

  I called my mother late that afternoon, fully intending to announce that I was coming home.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded weaker than usual.

  “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you called. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I heard you had a fall.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I got a little bruise on my knee, that’s all.”

  “You know you’re supposed to use your call button when you have to go to the bathroom, right?”

  “Of course. I do that. Usually.”

  “All the time from now on, okay?”

  “Please don’t dwell on it, dear. Your mother isn’t made of glass. Now tell me about you,” she said, sashaying out of the spotlight. “You landed safely, I heard. Have you met up with your aunt?”

  “Well, as it turns out, things haven’t gone as planned.”

  “Oh, really?” A tone of dismayed surprise.

  “Yeah, she didn’t meet me at the airport, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. I left messages and went by her apartment. And she hasn’t contacted me. I guess we got our signals crossed. I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, too, darling. That must be frustrating after your long trip,” she said, trying to bury her disappointment in concern for me. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “The problem is, Mom, I found out she left Yakutsk weeks ago. It’s crazy. I have no idea what happened, and I can’t think of what else to do.”

  “What are you saying, Natalie? Are you saying you’re coming home?”

  “Well, there aren’t many options, are there?”

  “It’s only been a day or two. You shouldn’t give up so easily.”

  “I don’t really see it as giving up. More as accepting the facts.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sure she’ll reach out to you soon.”

  “Mom. She knows I’m here. She has my phone number.”

  “I know, darling. But something might have happened.”

  Of course something happened, I thought.

  She continued, “Give it a few more days. I know how impatient you can be, but you can certainly use the time to your advantage. After all, you’re in a very remarkable city! I was just reading about it. Let me see…I bookmarked it…” The sound of rustling pages. “Yes, here it is. There’s a place called the Permafrost Institute, which does some very interesting scientific research that I’m sure you would enjoy. There’s also a Mammoth Museum, where you can find life-sized stuffed mammoths, whatever they are. And there’s a khomus museum, the only one of its kind in the world!”

  “Khomus?”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen one, Nat. It’s that metal instrument that people hold against their lips, and then they pluck a reed that vibrates at different speeds? Apparently, there are a lot of excellent khomus players in Yakutsk. And did you know that our own President Abraham Lincoln was quite a good khomus player himself? He’s even featured in the museum’s Hall of Fame!”

  “Gosh. I didn’t know that, Mom.”

  “See? There’s always so much to learn about a place.”

  I sighed, knowing I was beat. Vera would never forgive me if I left Yakutsk so fast. In a few days, maybe she’d see things differently. After she’d had a little more time to prepare herself psychologically for what she would probably experience as a personal rejection, though I would do my best to talk her out of that.

  “Okay. You made your point. There is a lot to see here,” I said, trying to work myself into the tourist spirit.

  Vera paused. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? It’s not too much to ask, is it? A few more days, just to be sure there hasn’t been some simple mix-up that will be straightened out soon?”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense to have come all this way just to turn around and go home. And who knows—I may get a call from Lena tonight.”

  “I hope so. I truly do.”

  “So do I. Now you take it easy, okay? No traipsing up and down the halls in the middle of the night.”

  “You make it sound like I’m out on safari.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “Oh, Natalie. I love you, too.”

  The restaurant on the ground floor of the North Star Hotel was reputed to be one of the best in the city. It was certainly lavish. Red damask wallpaper with a raised felt design, ornate brass sconces, velvet draperies dripping with silken tassels. A white grand piano worthy of Elton John occupied a corner of the room, next to a raised platform for a band or performer. Gold-veined mirrors doubled and tripled the dim interior of flickering candles on white-clothed tables. The place looked like a cross between a cabaret and a nineteenth-century bordello.

  I was waiting for the hostess to seat me when a diner at a shadowy corner table waved. It was the same woman who’d asked to share a cab earlier that day. The jacket of her linen suit was slung over the back of her
chair, while the leather tote occupied the seat across from her, papers sticking out. She had the wilted look of someone at the end of a long work day.

  “Not eating alone, are you?” she asked in English when I went over.

  I admitted that I was.

  “Then you absolutely must join me. I haven’t ordered yet, so the timing’s perfect. Come, sit down.”

  It was undeniably good to hear someone speaking English.

  Seeing me hesitate, she added, “Just put that bag on the floor.”

  I complied, happy to avoid another solitary meal, and searched my memory for the name she’d given earlier. “Meredith Viles? Did I get that right?”

  “You certainly did. But I don’t remember yours.”

  “Natalie March.”

  Her friendly smile revealed prominent, slightly yellowed teeth. She turned to catch the waiter’s eye. He was already approaching. “Caviar and another menu, Sergei. And a bottle of my favorite. You know the one—Cuvee D’Amour.”

  She had a lean runner’s build, a long face with deep creases from nose to lips, a wide, expressive mouth, and admirably square jaw. Her make-up was a shade darker than her natural skin tone, giving her the artificially tanned look of a Palm Beach socialite. Dirty-blond hair, worn long and loosely curled, was stiffened with styling gel and teased at the crown.

  “Where in our United States do you hail from, Natalie?”

  “Washington, D.C.”

  “Oh, I love Washington. I went to school there—Georgetown. Foreign Service with a specialty in Russian affairs. If I’d know I’d end up spending months each year in Siberia buying diamonds, I might have switched to French or Italian.” She gave a throaty laugh.