Self-discovery

When she entered his office, Hilobok's wavy hand gestures came to mind; she was a beautiful woman. “Isn't she just fine?” thought Onisimov. Any single feature of Elena Ivanovna's, taken out of context, was ordinary — her dark hair was like any hair, and her nose was only a nose (perhaps even too upturned), and the oval of her face was just an oval — but together they created such a harmonious picture, a picture that needed no analysis but simply called to be enjoyed and remarked upon as an example of nature's great sense of proportion.

Matvei Apollonovich remembered what the late Krivoshein had looked like and he experienced typical male envy. “Hilobok was right; he's no match for her. What did she see in him? Was she looking for security? A husband with a good income?” Like most men whose looks and age left little hope of romantic conquest, Onisimov had a low opinion of beautiful women.

“Please be seated. You are familiar with the name Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein?”

“Yes.” She had a throaty, mellifluous voice.

“How about Victor Vitalyevich Kravets?”

“Vitya? Yes.” Elena Ivanovna smiled, showing her even teeth. “I didn't know his father's name was Vitaly, though. What's the matter?”

“What can you tell me about the relationship between Krivoshein and Kravets?”

“Well… they worked together. Victor, I think, is a distant relative of Valya… I mean, Krivoshein. I think they were good friends. What's happened?”

“Elena Ivanovna, I'll ask the questions.” Onisimov figured that she would reveal more if she were emotionally off balance, and he was in no hurry to clear up the situation. “Is it true that you and Krivoshein were close?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you stop seeing him?”

Elena Ivanovna's eyes became cold, and a blush came and went from her cheeks.

“That has nothing to do with this!”

“And how would you know what does and what doesn't have to do with this?” Matvei Apollonovich perked up.

“Because… because this can't have anything to do with anything. We broke up and that's all.”

“I see… all right. We'll come back to that later. Tell me, where did Kravets live?”

“In a dormitory for young specialists in Academic Town, like all the probation workers.”

“Why didn't he live with Krivoshein?”

“I don't know. Apparently they both preferred it that way.”

“Despite the fact that they were friends and relatives? I see. And how did Kravets behave with you? Did he court you?” Matvei Apollonovich was milking his version for all it was worth.

“He did….” Elena Ivanovna bit her lip. But she couldn't control her tongue. “I think you'd do the same if I let you.”

“Aha, so you let him, eh? Tell me, was Krivoshein jealous of Kravets and you?”

“Perhaps, he was… but I don't understand what all this is about.” The woman looked at the investigator with great hostility. “All these innuendos! What happened, will you please tell me?”

“Calm yourself, citizen!”

Maybe I should tell her? Should I? Is she involved? She is beautiful, and a man could really fall for her, but… it's the wrong milieu for serious sexual crimes. The statistics are against it. A scientist wouldn't lose his head over a woman… but Kravets….

The telephone interrupted Onisimov's ruminations. He picked it up.

“Onisimov here.”

“We've found him, comrade captain!” the operative announced. “Do you want to participate?”

“Of course!”

“We'll wait for you at the airport, car license plate 57–28 DNA.”

“I see!” The investigator stood and looked merrily at Kolomiets. “We'll finish this little talk another time, Elena Ivanovna. Let me sign your pass. Don't be upset, and don't be mad: it's nerves — we're all like that, you and I, included….” “But what happened?”

“We're investigating. I can say no more for now. Good day!” Onisimov walked her out, then got his gun from the desk drawer, locked the room, and hurried, almost at a run, to the parking lot.

The snow white IL jet taxied up to the terminal exactly at 13:00. A light blue, elevated companion stairway pulled up at its door. A heavyset, short man in tight green pants and bright shirt was the first to run down the stairs, and, swinging his colorful traveling bag, he marched down the concrete hexagonal paving stones to the barrier. He kept looking around, seeking someone in the crowd of people greeting the arrivals, found him, and rushed toward him.

“You look great! What's all the rush, the 'fly out immediately' during vacation? Let me get a look at you! You're better looking than ever, even taller! That's what a year away does for your looks! Your face seems noble and I can even look upon your jaw without irritation.”

“And you, I see, have gotten fat off the graduate land.” The greeter looked him over with a critical eye. “Have you furnished yourself with socialist accumulations?”