The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey sat on his porch, in an old chair he had liberated from the dump, reading. It was a book Innokenty had recommended, by the historian Mikhail Petrovich Kudriavtsev, about the architecture of old Moscow. He trudged painfully through the text, motivated more by professional obligation than aesthetic interest. The practically unintelligible prose was painful enough, but Andrey’s chronic exhaustion and the weak porch light also tested both his worn-out brain and his tired eyes.

Of course, Marilyn Monroe could also have been to blame. The mutt was lying in the corner tossing him dramatic, pleading glances. He must have caught a whiff of the cheap sausages Andrey had brought home with him. It was time for dinner, but despite the growling in Andrey’s stomach and Marilyn’s silent reproach, he didn’t have the strength to get up out of his chair. When he finally tore himself away from the pictures—which, thank God, there were plenty of in that damn book—he stared absentmindedly through the dusty latticework of his porch out into the yard.

It was August now, and getting dark earlier. The night was milky with stars. Leaves rustled in the summer breeze, and an owl hooted. Andrey sighed and fought his way to his feet. Marilyn Monroe instantly leaped up, too, and hurried after him to the refrigerator. The fridge was so old it shook, and the door opened with a sound like a noisy kiss. Andrey spent a few seconds examining its inner chamber. His examination yielded the following: one sausage—the soft pink Soviet kind called Doktorskaya, a pair of hot dogs, puckered with age, a piece of hard-as-rock cheese, and a few expired yogurts from that time he had tried to start eating healthier. He should probably throw them out, but Andrey hated wasting food, so usually he waited till the food in question was in a very advanced stage of decay. That way nobody, not even his own conscience, could think any less of him.

Andrey pushed the obnoxious beast out of the way with one foot, took out the hot dogs and the sausage, and set a pot on the stove. While the water boiled, he sliced some bread and greased each piece with a thick slab of butter. Andrey tossed the wizened old hot dogs into the boiling water and allowed himself a first bite of bread. Marilyn Monroe had transformed into a slobber machine, and if looks from pushy strays could kill, Andrey would have been long gone. That look said, What do you think you’re doing, scumbag? so clear it might as well have been written in all caps in Kudriavtsev’s book. Andrey knew that nobody else was going to teach Marilyn Monroe to behave, and a dog ought to obey and respect its master, who, by the way, had every right to sink his teeth into a nice slice of buttered bread after a hard day’s work. He clung to his pedagogical principles for nearly a minute before tossing the beggar a heavenly smelling pink disc of cooked sausage. The hot dogs were nearly ready, and Andrey was nice enough to share those, too.

At first Marilyn Monroe eyed the hot dog suspiciously, but when Andrey downed his own serving with one fluent gesture, Marilyn decided to have faith, and he chewed up the ancient specimen happily enough. After that, they went on sharing sausage chunks until it was gone. Once there were no new meaty issues to worry about, the dog went to lie down in the corner again, and Andrey made himself some tea.

He drank it straight up, and with a pleasantly heavy feeling in his stomach, Andrey settled onto the broken couch and thought about what Masha must be doing right now. Probably dining on a salad made from—what was that stuff called? Arugula? Maybe with that fancy boyfriend of hers. Drinking a little wine, he thought, as his eyes started to close. A sauvignon, or something. Listening to live music. String quartet, or something. Andrey drifted off to sleep without even noticing.

He dreamed of a ballroom, like the ones he remembered seeing on school trips to old palaces. Couples spun by in an endlessly repeating waltz, and Andrey realized that Masha and Innokenty were among them. Masha was wearing a low-cut light-blue silk dress that reflected the light, and her hair was arranged artfully in a bun at her neck. Swept up in the dance, she was laughing and laughing, never taking her eyes off her partner. Andrey looked at the other couples, getting more and more nervous, because although he was sure that he was there at the ball, too, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find himself. Now every woman there had Masha’s face, and she twirled around, her head flung back in rapture, now dressed in scarlet, now in navy blue, now in deep-black satin.

Finally Andrey spotted himself standing by the door, and a footman lurking on the other side of the room winked at him. That’s when Andrey realized he was not there to dance. He was a servant. He raised his hand, alarmed, and felt the rough hair of a cheap powdered wig.

Andrey’s eyes shot open in horror. The rough hair under his fingers belonged to Marilyn Monroe, who had crept over for a snuggle.

“What the hell!” Andrey said out loud, wincing. He turned his head to stretch his stiff neck, and shooed away some annoying little thought about Freud and the subconscious. Then he got up, intent on finding a nicer, more horizontal environment for sleeping.

And you, Karavay, he thought, as he kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, you may know people in high places, but you’re no fool. We could even say the opposite is the case.

With that vague pronouncement, Andrey fell asleep. This time without dreams.