The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

same one could have flown above the battle at Berestechko? The ominous bird stared down at him as if it knew something. Where had he seen this unmoving gaze before? Like a snake’s, the Queen of Snakes...
    TICK...TICK...TICK...TICK...
    As he turned the corner, he spotted the gray Mackintosh at the other end of the street again (Could it be the same one?) and made a sharp turn into the first available gateway, and stood still, waiting. A woman dressed in a whole pack of silver foxes walked by with a small boy—“How many times do I have to tell you—No!” scorched her high, screeching, self-assured voice. Must be a commissar’s wife. Claws clicking on the cobblestones, a dog ran by—there’s a creature that doesn’t need to be afraid anymore.... Minutes dropped, loud as drumbeats; somewhere in the building a radio came on. The gray Mackintosh still did not show. If he was a tail, he was an incredibly sloppy, amateur one.
    Come
on
already, for God’s sake!
    Here it is finally, Kirov Street. Kirov! All streets now renamed after some Bolshevik commissars, new scabs on old walls.... From here, it’s the sixth door on the right. One, two...
    “Watch out!” boomed in his head.
    The morning street looked empty, lying in wait. And, like in the children’s game of cold-warm-hot, his alarm grew with every step. He could actually hear it, the sound of alarm pushing frominside at his temples. Something was wrong, and the something was right ahead of him. Dear Lord, please let him be alive, please let me come in time, Lord Almighty, please keep him living.... A small old man with a cane shuffled out of the third door and began to close it behind him with a protracted, teeth-grating screech. Four, five...he saw every doorstep at once, polished to a silky gloss by thousands of feet, saw every crack in the sidewalk, the moist gleam of the cobblestones, the sugary trim of snow along the curb, and the dark specks in it, burbling with thaw-water, and the tear-streaked, cracked (Why doesn’t anyone fix it?) clay gutter at the building’s door. And—three curtained windows on the fourth floor: safe to proceed.
    Here are the doors, the sixth doorway, a lion’s head with a ring in its maw, a gold maslin handle. Heavy. His mouth instantly dry. Lord, please let me not be late. Fourth floor, apartment eight.
    Stairwell—dusk, pale light from the pseudo-gothic window facing the yard. If need arises, he can flee that way. Silence uneasy, ominous. But no, a door slams overhead. That’s lower, on the third floor. Someone coming down the stairs, the planks groan and creak: a man.
    Adrian hastened his step to have his back to the window when he meets the man—he’d already advertised himself plenty, no need to parade his face before the neighbor as well.... From above, a pair of boots descends, then navy uniform breeches—a policeman! A major. Well, that’ll beat your grandmother! Jeepers. Steady now, don’t look away, keep straight at him, open, bold, schlagfertig...
    TICK...TICK...TICK...TICK...
    But the policeman, much heavier and slower, also plows straight at him, silently like a somnambulist, his entire body blocking the way, like a boulder; he snuffles with the previous night’s vodka heaves and poor digestion; he blocks Adrian’s path as if he wants to embrace him—and looming, with all his shoulder straps, stripes, stars, and belts, exhales unexpectedly quickly, quietly, hoarsely into Adrian’s face.
    “Number eight?” he asks.
    Adrian is silent.
    “Leave, it’s a kapkán. They arrested everyone last night. ”
    “Thank you,” Adrian manages to peel off through his dry lips, then jumps astraddle the rail and slides down in a blink. He’s out in the street, in the deafening, blazing day, faster, faster—but not too fast, he can’t run, watch out!—puts distance between himself and the sixth door, Kirov Street, all the while waiting, with his back tuned to every sound, for someone to yell “Halt!” after him like a shot of the starting pistol. But nothing happens, it’s all quiet behind him; there’s no chase, no stomping boots; two more blocks and he’ll turn onto a more crowded street that runs to the market; he’ll mix with the passersby. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal have mercy on us....
    Why wasn’t there a curtain pulled back in the middle window—the agreed-upon signal in case of failure? They didn’t have time? Someone prevented them? Or, worse, the worst—were they betrayed?