Moscow Noir (22 page)
“Mm-hmm.” Now Felix moved forward slightly, forcing Korenev to fall back a step. “And you took the role of fate upon yourself?”
Korenev snorted in exasperation. “You’re not listening. You try to attach meaning to everything. To find someone to blame. Naturally, it’s easier that way, when there’s someone to blame.” He took another step backward, as if to observe Felix from head to toe. “But you must understand—there is no one to blame. And nothing you can do.” Another step backward. And then, from the side, a group of loud, gesticulating young people surged around him. There was some minor scuffling, after which Korenev ended up about five meters away from Felix. Somehow following fluidly in the wake of the young people, he moved away, skirting the fountain. He quickened his pace, weaving in and out of people in the crowd.
When the bastard was about fifteen feet away, Felix started following. He had no plan—but he wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch get away. Felix had to somehow lead him to a more secluded place, to set him straight or just tie him up and gag him …
In pursuit of Korenev, who maintained a fairly brisk pace and never turned around, Felix crossed the square and made it to the corner of the station—and there he realized the bastard was heading for the subway. He sped up, gaining on Korenev; but only when he was in the crowded vestibule of the station, only when he saw the bastard getting in line to pass through the turnstile leading to the escalators, did he look back at the ticket booth—a hopeless throng of people—and think:
I’ll jump the turnstile
. Right then, however, he met the gaze of a cop on patrol.
Damn
…
Korenev pushed his way toward the escalator without having bought a ticket … He completely blended in with the crowd at the turnstile. Felix watched him descend underground—his feet, his waist, finally his neck and head vanished from view …
Rudely pressing against some heavyset lady (who cackled at him indignantly), Felix slipped through the turnstile. Pushing his way in front of everyone else, he hurried to the escalator, expecting to see Korenev rushing down the stairs.
The descent at Kievskaya is a long one; but the bastard was nowhere to be seen.
What the …?
Felix scoured the length of the escalator with his eyes, oblivious to the complaints of the people whose way he blocked.
Gone … gone …Just like that … slippery bastard …
Shuffling around aimlessly for another minute or two, Felix sighed deeply several times then made his way back outside.
No big deal, really. He knew who to look for, and, thank god, he knew how to search. He’d been doing it his whole life. He never even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t find the bastard again. And besides, Felix was always lucky …
Moving toward the parking lot where he had left the car, he came to the street. He waited for a lull in the stream of traffic and stepped out onto the pavement. In his pocket he felt a buzzing—then he heard the beep of his mobile. Felix hesitated, his hand scrambling around for his phone … Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department. Felix finally managed to press the answer key, then turned his head at the furious sound of screeching brakes—but for some reason he didn’t feel the impact of the blow at all.
“Hello, Felix? Hello! Hello!?” But after a short, sharp sound, he heard a steady beeping—the connection had broken off. Never mind; he’ll call back.
Kostya stared at the monitor again. Huh, no way, colonel. That Pasha Korenev, the one the Petersburg cop was looking for, had died; according to a document Kostya had just located, it happened twelve months earlier. In the Sklifosovsky Hospital, in the intensive care unit. Fractured skull, swelling of the brain. They found him by the fountain on Europe Square. He had been beaten, and his wallet and cell phone were gone. That place was bad news, Kostya thought, always full of bums.
What a stupid death …
Translated by Marian Schwartz
N
ikita dozes off holding my hand.
Such a handsome hand he has. Strong fingers, smooth oval nails, nicely defined tendons. Light hairs, almost imperceptible, but stiff to the touch.
He’s sleeping holding my hand, but I just can’t.
I’m afraid of dozing off. It’s like walking into cold water, slowly immersing yourself, diving headfirst and not knowing what you’ll see on the bottom.
That Crimean summer I dove alone while Nikita watched from shore. Only later did he admit he was afraid to swim.
I wasn’t afraid of anything. I was twenty-eight. Never before had I been as beautiful as I was that summer.
Nor will I ever be again.
Time has wrung me out like laundered linen and thrown me into the dryer like a crumpled rag. Back then I thought,
Time spares no one
, but now I know that’s not so.
Time changes everyone, but men are grazed by a touch of gray, a leisurely gait, a solidity of figure. At least Nikita has been. As for anyone else, to be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve cared.
His hands have barely changed. Except that seven years ago a wedding ring appeared.
My skin is tarnishing, withering, covered with a fine fishnet inside of which the years I’ve lived thrash around like caught fish. My hair is falling out and in the mornings I look at my pillow, fighting the temptation to count them.
Once I couldn’t stop myself. Now I know: 252 hairs, almost a handful.
I’m afraid of going bald. I’m afraid of my breasts disappearing in a few years, my belly sticking to my spine, my eyes sinking. Sometimes I feel like a living corpse.
Nine years ago I wasn’t afraid of anything. Now I can’t fall asleep out of fear.
But Nikita isn’t afraid of anything. In those years he’s lost all fear.
Blind swap?
as we used to say in kindergarten.
I didn’t want to go to kindergarten. I was still afraid then. I thought one day my mama wouldn’t come for me and would leave me there forever. Only later did I learn where that fear came from; it was the echo of my orphanage infancy, the first months of my life.
My mama told me the story herself.
You see, sometimes children are mistakenly born to people who aren’t their parents. So they can take them to a special place where their real parents find them. The way we found you.
I was six years old and I didn’t know where children came from. I probably thought about a stork that might mix up his bundles, or a store where after a long line you could buy a child—and they might sell you the wrong one by mistake.
When I was ten, my papa explained:
The ancient Hindus believed in the rebirth of souls. I believe you are the little girl your mama couldn’t give birth to.
I knew by then that children came out of the belly, but I didn’t really understand how you could not be able to give birth.
I no longer believed in the stork, or the store, but I believed in the rebirth of souls immediately. And I still do. I believe the soul travels back and forth through history, and can even be born several times in the same century, miraculously not meeting herself in a previous (subsequent?) guise.
I believe that. Or, rather, I know it. And that’s why I lie here sleepless, squeezing Nikita’s hand. I’m afraid to fall asleep.
In the filmy, viscous dimension between waking and sleep my past lives return. Men, women, children. They fill me until it seems like there’s no room left inside for
me
.
I squeeze into a ball and try to push the past out—it was mine, it wasn’t mine, it may not have existed at all.
No surprise I’m losing weight. I must think that if I shrivel up completely the ghosts will decamp and find themselves another receptacle.
Though I could get used to them. Ultimately, these are my past lives. I recognize them: the old lady twirling in front of a mirror; the man gazing at the river; the young woman hugging her pregnant belly; the man crushing out a cigarette butt; the soldier pulling a grenade pin; the naked man cooking breakfast; the little girl staring at the Black Sea; the man dropping to his knees in front of his lover.
They shout, laugh, cry, moan, and sigh … Sometimes I feel like throwing myself open, embracing them, and saying,
Come in, it’s me, your unsafe haven, your future, reincarnation, rebirth. Don’t cry, everything worked out fine, look at me, I’m much happier than you. My life is wonderful: a loving husband, a home, a car, a household, a full cup. They didn’t beat me during their interrogations, my friends weren’t killed, radiation didn’t eat up my flesh, and I didn’t wait to be arrested. I don’t worry about money or survival, I don’t worry about where I’m going to sleep tomorrow or what I’m going to eat. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry.
But the incorporeal ghosts sway in the stratum of sleep and swirl in the murky corners of my huge apartment.
They’ve already lived their own lives; they’re not rushing, being sold off, drinking up the bitter water of earthly existence, or eating the bitter bread of posthumous exile anymore.
They’re always hungry.
They’re eating me from the inside out. My life is food for those I once was. They’re gnawing at my flesh—and every month blood flows out, attesting that the feast continues, the ghosts are not sated, they are still unhappy.
Every month, following the phases of the moon, plus or minus a day, I receive the same letter:
You aren’t going to have a child.
Dozing off, we hold hands. My Kolya, Kolya-Nikolai. I want to sleep facing you, but every month that gets harder. You might even say we’re sleeping for three, right? Only two months to go—and our bunny will be born. I wonder whether it’ll be a boy or a girl. The old women in the countryside always guessed—based on your walk, the shape of your belly, and other signs.
Just think, it’s been five years and I still can’t get used to the idea that my Berezovka’s gone. True, old Georgich’s great nephew wrote last month saying they were planning to build a state farm in its place. I don’t even know … I guess that’s good. The cows will moo again and the chickens will run around, as if there’d been no war. You just look at it and it’s all so horrible what happened; how are people supposed to live there?
I told Kolya about it, and he said,
So the fact that we’re living in a dead soldier’s apartment doesn’t bother you? That’s the way it should be. New people come to take the place of dead fighters.
Except that we didn’t have any fighters in Berezovka. Foolish Lushka hid two partisans—and that was it.
Nina looks at the street, lined with two-story wooden houses; an invalid on a bench is talking to two old women. The sound from a gramophone reaches her from a neighbor’s window.
This is Moscow, the capital of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the first worker and peasant state in the world. Marina Roshcha.
Nina gazes at her round belly and tries to persuade the boy or girl to hold on a little longer and not kick but lie quietly. The doctor said she could talk to him already. Or her?
Nina’s waiting for her husband. She sits home for days on end, afraid to go out. Even in the daytime they could attack her on the street, take her money away, or just strip her. They could jam a knife into her, or a bullet. There are an awful lot of thieves.
Kolya says it all started after the war. Before, Moscow was different. But now that people have been taught to kill, they just can’t stop.
Nina doesn’t know how to kill. She only knows how to hide so she won’t die.
For two months she hid in the forests, surviving on berries and occasionally digging up potatoes in Berezovka’s charred gardens. At the sound of an engine she would fall to the ground, perfectly still.
Nina loved walking in the forest before. Her mama would laugh and call her
my little forest girl
.
Her mother burned up along with the rest of the village.
Nina survived because that morning she’d gone out for mushrooms when the punitive expedition showed up. She hid out in the woods and didn’t emerge until it was all over.
Until everyone was dead.
Kolya says he wouldn’t have lasted a day in the forest.
I’m afraid of wolves
, he says. She laughs; he’s probably not afraid of anything.
Nina is afraid for him.
Afraid they’ll slit Kolya’s throat to take away his gun.
Afraid Kolya will stop someone to check his documents—and the person will start shooting.
Afraid Kolya will go after a thieves’ den—and be killed in a shootout.
Afraid Kolya will walk into a building—and into an ambush.
Nina says,
Take care of yourself, for god’s sake. If only you could wait until the child is born!
But Kolya replies,
I took an oath. If I don’t stop them they’re going to keep on killing. Pretty recently they butchered a whole family in Marina Roshcha. Even a tiny baby. Got away with 25,000 rubles.
A huge amount. Kolya’s salary is just 550. How long do you have to work to make that kind of money?
How old was the baby?
Nina asks.
Still in its cradle, absolutely tiny
, Kolya answers.
They killed him so he wouldn’t cry.
Why is he telling her this? Nina wants to hear one more time how after she gives birth Kolya is going to take time off. No, Kolya doesn’t want to talk about leaving work, he answers Nina.
Wait for us to catch them all, and then we’ll start living well and happily!
Nina doesn’t believe it. She remembers how people used to say,
We’ll drive Fritz out and then we’ll start living well and happily
. Where is that happiness now? Now it’s like seeing her husband off to the front line every single day.
Actually, it’s her own fault. She knew who she was marrying. From the very first second. Only Kolya was so handsome in his new uniform, blue with red trim. His cap with its sky-blue band. His boots. The moment she saw him at the dance, she fell in love. Kolya later admitted he’d gone into the police force because of the uniform; they issued it for free and he liked wearing it.
There was a star on the cap, and in the center a soldier with a rifle at the ready. Nina liked that a lot too.
At the time Nina had only just arrived and she was afraid of Moscow. It was awful! Everyone cutting in and out, sideways, down the streets—and the locals pushing their way past, swaggering, spitting at their feet, not afraid of anything. You could spot them right away: soft eight-panel caps, boxcalf boots, and white mufflers.
Later Kolya told her those were the thieves. Crooks.
Why can they walk down the street like that with no one arresting them?
Nina asked.
Well, you can’t arrest someone for an eight-panel cap
, Kolya laughed.
Don’t worry, they won’t be walking around for long. Too bad they’ve abolished the
vyshka
. But that’s all right, if need be we’ll take matters into our own hands
—and he winked.
Vyshka
was short for
capital punishment
. Execution. It was abolished a year ago. Kolya says there’s no one to chop timber in Siberia.
Nina thinks,
We’re going to have a child—and how are we going to live? It’s good the war’s over. But still, are we really going to spend our whole life in the city? No forest, no real river.
You can go to the big park, people dive and swim from the pier—but Nina feels shy. She swims like a country girl, after all, and in Moscow everyone must have some special style.
Nina sits home waiting for her husband. Sits and waits, worried, troubled, and afraid. She can’t make heads or tails of what she reads, and they don’t have a gramophone, or even a radio speaker; it’s an old building. I don’t know whether there were any televisions back then, but Nina and Kolya definitely didn’t have one.
I’m sitting home too, and I’m waiting for Nikita too. I’m worried for him—even though I have no cause for worry. Nikita’s business is peaceful and he drives carefully. I’m still worried, though.
I’d like to say,
I don’t know if I could deal with being in Nina’s place
, but I can’t. She and I are one and the same, which means at some point I was sitting there like that, waiting for my husband to come home from work, bored, looking out the window, stroking my pregnant belly, afraid to go outside.
It’s weird to feel other people’s lives inside you. Snatches of other people’s thoughts and irrelevant facts suddenly surface in my memory. Edible berries. The best place to gather mushrooms. How to climb a tree and get settled so you don’t fall out at night.
And sometimes a tune gets stuck in my head and keeps ringing in my mind hour after hour. Sometimes I can even make out the words.
My dad the bigwig fucks his tart
Oh bastard me, I fuck my aunt
All the time, everywhere,
From midnight until morn
From one night to the next
And back again till morn.
My dad the bigwig only fucks ’em rich
Oh bastard me, I fuck ’em bent and humped
All the time, everywhere
From midnight until morn
From one night to the next
And back again till morn.
I know this is what the little boys sang when Nina walked around the yard. Nina heard this song, and now I hear it in my head.
All the time, everywhere, from midnight until morn—
and I don’t know whether this song amused, frightened, or annoyed Nina. I get my melancholy from her.
All the time, everywhere—
that is, in this life and the ones before, around the clock, night and day, I sit in an armchair, on a seat, on a stool, and wait for my beloved to come home. And I’m afraid something’s going to happen to him.
When I’m Nina, I caress my big pregnant belly. When I’m Masha, I paint my toenails over and over again, though I have no plans to go out. It calms me.
Kolya comes home and tells me how they picked up the Kazentsov gang a few days before, on a train, and how there was shooting. The gang had hidden out in the children’s car but the conductor noticed them and called it in. It turned out they were hijacking cars. They’d ask a driver to take them out of town, where they’d kill him. Now they were the ones getting killed, at least two of them.
