Melnikova

Raven studied the menu. Uzbekistanian. The café was in downtown Moscow where it was difficult to find a restaurant serving ordinary, decent Russian.

Japanese, Thai, even Tex-Mex. God forbid anyone should open a place serving borsht. Raven put the menu down and glanced about. An elderly man nodded at a table in the corner, half-asleep over a plate of soup. They were the only mid-afternoon customers at Café Tashkent.

After what seemed a long time, a waitress approached.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said, in a tone implying she wished the wait could’ve been longer.

Raven studied her for a moment, as he had studied the menu. He knew her to be 48 years old, but she looked closer to 60. She was overweight. Her face showed the ravages of alcohol and depression. Three packs a day of rough Russian cigarettes sounded in her whiskey voice. Her hair, once ice-blond, was thin, straggly and gone nearly all gray.

Only her blue eyes showed that not all was lost.

“How’s the stroganoff?” Raven asked at last.

“If you have to ask, you wouldn’t like it,” she replied. Raven noted his staring silence had not discomfited her. Very encouraging.

“An honest answer,” Raven said. “Bring me a glass of vodka.”

She returned with a small glass of clear liquid. “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

“Sit down, Melnikova,” he said. “Have a drink. The vodka is for you.”

Melnikova swiftly grabbed the glass, drained it, and plunked it back on the table. She didn’t sit.

“I’m not Melnikova,” she said. “You are mistaken. If you do not wish to order, then please leave. I am very busy.”

Raven glanced at his fellow diner. The elderly man, departing, gathered his coat and hat.

Raven produced a small wad of thousand-ruble notes and put them on the table.

“Sit, Melnikova,” he said. “Hear me out. This money is for you whatever you decide. If you like what I say, there will be more. If not, go with God and 20,000 rubles. Eh? Now sit.”

She sat and reached for the bills. Raven deftly caught her hand. “You must hear me out first,” he said. “That is the condition.”

“So speak already,” she said. She withdrew her hand.

“Pavlov Institute of Higher Nervous Activity, 1966,” Raven said. “You were a lovely young girl, Melnikova. Beautiful ice-blond hair to your shoulders, tall and slender. And quite talented.”

“I was 15,” Melnikova murmured, looking down. The rubles were forgotten for the moment.

“Your parents brought you to the institute because of your nightmares,” Raven explained

matter-of-factly. “And because of the phenomena occurring around you. Pictures flying off walls, tables and chairs rattling about by themselves. You remember, don’t you Melnikova?”

Melnikova remembered. Her eyes were shut. “My parents. . .” she murmured.

The blue eyes snapped open.

“How do you know so much about me?” she demanded.

Raven smiled. “What difference does it make?” he asked with a dismissive gesture. “I know and that’s all there is to it. But perhaps you’ve heard enough.”

“No!” she said suddenly. “No. I haven’t thought about these things in a long time.” She smiled a little. “Making a living takes all my attention, these days. Go on. I want to make sure you’ve got it right. What are you anyway, a writer?”

“Recruiter. But your parents. How were they to know the Pavlov Institute was conducting secret parapsychology experiments funded by the KGB?”

“I know nothing of the KGB. Edward said the experiments were for the good of all mankind. To release the human potential.”

“Ah yes, Edward Maunov, guiding spirit of Soviet parapsychology. He took you from your parents and you never saw them again. And you didn’t care.

“What happened to them? Don’t ask, Melnikova. If you have to ask, you wouldn’t like it.” Raven smiled at his little joke.

Melnikova looked unseeingly at the tabletop.

“You were just a young girl, so you couldn’t know the true purpose of the experiments,” he continued. “To develop remote-sensing abilities in KGB psychics in order to spy on enemies of the state, both domestic and foreign. And more, to control their thoughts without their knowledge.

“Sakharov, for instance. Father of the Soviet H-bomb, later to author the anti-communist ‘Report Against the System.’ Darling of the liberal Soviet scientific elite.

“What a coup were he and others like him suddenly to recant their criticisms, to become enthusiastic supporters of the party line.

“And you, Melnikova. What a find you were for Maunov. A goldmine of psychic ability. You could clearly send and receive the most intricate telepathic messages to and from other psychics. You could see through their eyes, and they through yours. Better than television,” Raven laughed.

“You could slide a 10-gram weight about with only your thoughts – even when that weight was enclosed in a clear Plexiglass box. You could leave your body, then return and report accurately on verifiable events.

“They measured the electromagnetic field surrounding your body at what – 100 times that of ordinary control subjects.”

“Five hundred times,” Melnikova corrected him tonelessly.

“Five hundred times. You were the answer to all their questions, liebchen.”

“Why do you call me that?” she asked sharply, and glared at him. Raven smiled.

“You were the promise kept,” he continued. “And through it all, Maunov encouraged your girlish affections. He was no fool. He knew the power of love. Eh, Melnikova?”

“He treated me like a princess,” the old woman recalled dreamily. “I had my own apartments and servants to take care of me ...”

KGB watchdogs, Raven thought.

“Oh, and the lovely clothes” Menikov reminisced. “Silks and furs. Soaps and perfumes from Paris. Jewelry. Money. Shopping at the exclusive Party stores. I could do nothing wrong. Every day, a new triumph in the laboratories. Every night some new expensive, exotic gift ...”

“Yes you were their star, their crown jewel,” Raven said. “But you grew spoiled, unruly. What young girl wouldn’t, with all that attention and adoration showered upon her? Only Maunov could work with you.”

“Maunov.” She repeated the name as if tasting it.

“Those were wonderful days, weren’t they,” Raven said. “Not just for you. The scientific elite throughout the Soviet Union experienced a new academic, intellectual freedom. They dared to disagree publicly with government policies. They called for an end to confrontation with the West, an end to ideological control of scientific research, of literature, of art.

“They thought perhaps the time for freedom was at hand. But that wasn’t the case, was it, Melnikova.” Raven wasn’t asking.

“In 1968, neo-Stalinist elements took control. Thousands of researchers, Maunov among them, were fired for ‘nonconformity’ with the party line. Of course, being fired in the old Soviet Union is not like being fired now.”

“I never saw him again,” Melnikova said.

“Yes,” said Raven, “and when you were difficult with the party hack who replaced him, you yourself were set adrift. A crown jewel one moment, a discarded scrap the next. Difficult for a 15-year-old girl. Eh, Melnikova?”

“I tried to find my parents, but it was like they never existed. I tried to find Maunov,” she said. “He was gone, too.”

She looked at Raven and her eyes flashed. “What is this, anyway? Who are you? I’ve listened to you and I don’t like it. Give me the money you promised!”

Raven slid the notes over to her.

“You are Melnikova, aren’t you?” he hissed. “Still?”

“Yes,” she spat, rising and stuffing the notes into the bra beneath her cheap white blouse. “Still.”

The salt shaker on the table suddenly wobbled and fell over, spilling a few fine white grains on the table. Raven looked at it and grinned wolfishly.

“Edward Maunov is waiting for you, liebchen,” he told her. “He says it’s time to take up where you left off.”