The Sin Collector

MASHA

Lyuda looked over the girl from Petrovka with a curious eye. So people like that were working for the police now? The young woman was wearing a plain sweater and black pants, but when she walked into Lyuda’s kitchen and sat down next to the window, Lyuda knew that this plainness was deceptive. The girl’s whole package was deceptive: her unstyled hair, her open face devoid of makeup, her supershort fingernails. She might have been a musician, a cellist maybe. An extremely successful one, judging from the brand of her purse. But here she was working for the government.

She was asking if there was anything unusual about Ovechkin, about his family. Well, it was true, his parents hadn’t known much about their son—they were both too wrapped up in religion, God forgive her, but it was true! Lyuda had only met them once, by accident, in a grocery store. You should have seen Ovechkin’s dad, with his mess of a beard and the kind of old-fashioned jacket and boots nobody ever wore anymore. His mom was even worse. She was wearing a kerchief, and a skirt so long it swept the dirty floor. Terrible. Slava had squirmed visibly, and he introduced them reluctantly. Like, Oh, by the way, I guess these are my parents. And Lyuda knew right away why Slava had never brought her to his house. What would that have been like? Lyuda’s own mother wasn’t much to look at, but at least it wasn’t immediately obvious that she was a nutjob. With these two, it was right on the surface. What a face Slava’s old man had made, like he wanted to put a curse on her right there in the store. Lyuda knew that in her miniskirt and war-paint makeup, she didn’t have much chance of ingratiating herself to that priestly couple. His nun of a mother had even said to her, as she was leaving, God save you, my child! Lyuda had to admit she hadn’t reacted too well, just giggled nervously and shot out of the store like a bullet.

Now Slava was gone, and, honestly, she wasn’t drowning in grief or anything, but she still remembered how she had laughed like an idiot at that my child, and she even thought, sometimes, about going to visit the church where Slava’s father worked. But his dad was so painfully depressing, and she didn’t have any idea where to find his mom. And if she did find her, what would she say? She must be grieving her son, but Lyuda—of course she felt bad for poor Slava, but not as much as if she had been madly in love with him. They’d had a good time together. That was it, really.

That was what she was trying to explain to this elegant Detective Karavay when she asked her what kind of person Dobroslav Ovechkin had been. Lyuda had forgotten that Slava was short for Dobroslav. What a weird old name! His parents really must have been looney tunes. Lyuda furrowed her brow, looked at the girl from Petrovka, and said the first thing that popped into her head.

“He never stopped talking!” said Lyuda.

“What do you mean?” she asked, interested.

“Well, not like spilling state secrets or anything. I just got tired of it sometimes, you know? Usually, you go on and on, and the guy listens. But with Slava it was the opposite. You couldn’t say a word because his blah, blah, blah filled up the whole room. He couldn’t ever shut up. Not even in bed! I could say, like, oh, I just bought some new shoes near the metro. And right away, he’s like, What were you thinking, they only sell garbage there, the heels will fall off the first time you wear them! As if he knew anything about stilettos! Or, like, I might say I wish I could get bigger boobs. What an idiot, you’re not thinking about the consequences! Strange foreign substances, doctors say it’s dangerous—”

“Maybe he just couldn’t afford to give you presents?” the detective asked, her eyes laughing.

Lyuda laughed, too, out loud. “Want some tea?” she asked. And without waiting for an answer, she put an old teapot, which looked like it had boiled dry once or twice, on the burner.

“No,” Lyuda finally answered, sitting down across from her guest again. “He wasn’t stingy. Even if he’d only had enough money for one tit, he would have given it to me.”

“That kind of relationship, huh?” the detective asked.

“Oh man. We were so good together. Before him I was going out with this real ass—” Lyuda pulled up short. For some reason, she really wanted this Karavay woman to like her. “An absolute, um, good-for-nothing. But I don’t think Slava ever had a real girlfriend before me. He wasn’t all that attractive, really. He was a joker. Skinny, kind of a wimp. I don’t have, like, a maternal instinct when it comes to men. I need a guy who can take care of me. But he needs a girl with balls. Well, needed, I mean.”

All of a sudden Lyuda felt like she might cry, but she managed to hold it in. In that pause, choking back tears, she got the tea ready. She put some cookies on the table, too. The detective remained tactfully quiet, then took a sophisticated sip from her cup while looking at Lyuda, who had sat down across from her again, legs crossed, swinging one foot nervously.

“I’m very sorry,” she said quietly.

It was clear that she really was. Sorry for Slava, and maybe for Lyuda, too.

“Well,” said Lyuda, snuffling noisily, “it’s already been two years. And don’t bother looking for any dirt on Slava. He could be a pain, but he wasn’t a bad guy. The only thing I didn’t like about him was the way he talked about his parents. He made fun of their ‘churchly life,’ as he called it, and laughed at how cut off they were from society. But how else could they be, given what they did for a living?”

“What do Dobroslav’s parents do?”

“You know, preachers in that church.”

The detective’s hand froze in the air over the plate of cookies. She had gone pale.

“Kinda weird, right?” Lyuda said. “You know what happened one time? Once at church, while his father was up there droning on, Slava walked in and started singing loud in front of the whole congregation. And he had this terrible voice, really high, you know?”

“Falsetto,” the detective said slowly.

“Yeah, that. So, in this falsetto voice, he sang a song, some old number about love, totally unbelievable, you know the kind.”

The girl from Petrovka nodded uncertainly.

“He said his mom just about died on the spot, and his dad went totally red in the face. And Slava just ran out. So. I don’t know what else to tell you. Have you talked to his friends yet?”

The detective shook her head no. Lyuda frowned. Before, this Petrovka lady had been listening close, all involved in the conversation. But now she seemed lost in thought, like she had forgotten about Lyuda completely.

“Thank you, Lyuda,” she finally said, turning off her recorder and putting it back into her big black purse. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Really?” Lyuda smiled. “Well, great! I don’t know what I said that helped. Anyway, go and catch that monster.”

The detective nodded, said good-bye, and left. But the aroma of her perfume lingered in the apartment for hours. Lyuda wished she had asked her what it was called.