The Sin Collector

MASHA

She had just finished talking with Nadya. The doctor, as stern and calm as ever in her white lab coat, had told her that Natasha was in stable condition. She wasn’t eating much and she was sleeping a lot, but that wasn’t surprising, given the sedatives she was on. But there was no need to worry. Nadya smiled then, for the first time.

“Your mother is a very strong woman, Masha, dear. Believe me. The drugs she’s getting will give her nervous system a break. But she’ll be better soon, and then, terrible as it may sound, she’ll be too busy making funeral arrangements to get bogged down by her own thoughts. So don’t you even think about making those arrangements yourself, all right?”

“Got it,” said Masha, remembering her fit of dish scrubbing in Katya’s kitchen.

“Good girl!” Nadya smiled and gave her a pat on the head. “I’ve already looked in on her today. Don’t just sit next to her while she’s sleeping. Go outside and take a walk, find something to do with yourself.”

“Okay,” said Masha, and smiled back. But her smile was forced.

Nadya nodded good-bye and walked off down the corridor, and Masha stood there for a few seconds, watching her go. Then she dialed Kenty’s number again. Again she got his voice mail.

When she left her mother’s room, Masha caught sight of a familiar figure standing near the nurse’s desk.

“Irina?” Masha walked over, and the woman turned around. Masha was surprised, as she always was, by her almost sickly thinness.

“Mashenka!” The woman broke into a smile and reached out to embrace her. “Such sad news, Masha! Your poor mother! Losing Fyodor, and now Yury, too! How is she?”

“She’s sleeping,” said Masha. “They’re giving her sedatives, and—”

“Sure, sure,” Irina said, tilting her head to look at her, and Masha saw that she had been crying. “And how are you doing? Holding on all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Masha felt the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Now, now, don’t cry,” Irina said, stroking her shoulder. “Nick-Nick is very proud of you. Did you know that? He thinks you have a real knack for what you do. Just like Fyodor. A gift, if you want to put it that way.”

That’s when Masha finally broke down. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. She took a breath, intending to say something, explain her sudden tears, but Irina was still stroking her back and whispering, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

There was something absurd about how it was only then that Masha was able to cry. Not on her mother’s shoulder, and not to Innokenty or Andrey, but there with Nick-Nick’s wife, someone she hadn’t seen for probably ten years. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose into the lace handkerchief Irina offered her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so tired,” Masha said.

“Of course, of course!” Irina said again, tucking the handkerchief away in her bag. As she did so, Masha caught sight of a bruise on the woman’s arm. Irina hurried to adjust her dress. “Well, Mashenka, I’ve got to go and visit your mama. Come and see us soon, all right?”

And she stood up and walked off, with a heavy tread that didn’t match her thin frame, down the hallway toward Masha’s mother’s room.

Masha decided to take Nadya’s advice about going out for a walk while she waited for Natasha to wake up. She wanted to see her mother, tell her it would be okay, give her a kiss. Then, finally, she would go back to Petrovka. She felt irresistibly pulled to the place, like an addict needing her fix.

But as soon as she stepped outside she saw Andrey waiting, and then he was walking toward her quickly. Masha felt her heart freeze. The feeling of foreboding was so powerful that she stopped where she stood, not wanting to take a step to meet him. No matter what kind of news Andrey was bringing, she knew she would be much happier in the last few seconds before he opened his mouth.

“Poklonnaya Hill?” she asked after Andrey had told her about the most recent body.

“Yes. Moscow’s own ‘Hill of Worshipful Submission,’ where pilgrims traditionally stop before entering a holy city to pray, bow, and—”

“I know what it is,” Masha interrupted him. “Tollhouse?”

It was a refrain by now, a call-and-response routine.

“The nineteenth. Heresy. Deviation from the tenets of the Orthodox faith.”

“Who?” Masha asked in a whisper.

“Masha,” he began. “I’m so sorry.”

But the deep, empty oblivion engulfed her before he could say the name.