Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 5

Tobolsk, October 1981

On the dusty stage at the city’s Pioneer Palace, a dance ensemble was finishing its number, “Russian Quadrille.” Boys in yellow silk Russian shirts and girls in boots and blue sarafans dashed gaily across the stage, arms akimbo, stamping loudly to the recorded music.

Fat Galya Malysheva, the propaganda instructor, couldn’t keep from tapping her foot to the beat and, in a whisper, joining in with the rollicking song about how much fun and what important work they were doing in the factory and on the collective farm.

“Galya, quit it!” Volodya Tochilin, the arts instructor, elbowed her. “We are the official city commission, after all. Behave accordingly, like Veniamin over there.”

Veniamin Volkov was sitting and looking at the stage with a stony face, as befits a member of an official city commission who’s come to watch the rehearsal for the holiday concert celebrating the anniversary of the October Revolution.

“You have a terrific ensemble!” Galya whispered loudly, slapping her broad knee. “You should send them to Moscow! Abroad, even, to Karlovy Vary. Hey, Comrade Culture Chief, you should encourage young talents!” She winked gaily at Volkov.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn his head. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the stage.

The soloist’s nimble feet were flying across the stage. Her narrow feet, in soft dance boots, barely touched the floor. Several of the girls in the ensemble had artificial braids pinned on that were a slightly different color from their own hair. But the soloist’s braid was the same color as her own thick, shiny, and ash-blond hair. The bodice of her blue sarafan tightly swathed her delicate waist, and her wide skirt fanned over her long, slender legs.

Venya saw before him a flushed, slightly elongated, pretty little face with merry, bright blue eyes. The girl was about sixteen.

“No, you absolutely must send them to Moscow for some competition!” Malysheva couldn’t restrain herself from exclaiming. “Talents like this are wasted in this backwater!”

“Yes, our Tanya Kostylyova is a diamond in the rough,” the Pioneer Palace director sitting next to her said, nodding proudly.

The music ended. For a second, the children onstage froze in their final, triumphant poses. There weren’t more than ten people sitting in the auditorium. Everyone started applauding. Everyone but the Culture Department chief, Veniamin Volkov. He sat without stirring, intent on the blue-eyed soloist. Her name thundered in his ears: Tanya Kostylyova. Tanya Kostylyova.

“You’re some kind of savage, Volkov.” Galya shrugged her pudgy shoulders. “You could at least put your hands together once!”

“Russian Quadrille” was the concert’s last number. Now the Young Communist Commission was supposed to go to the Pioneer Palace director’s office to drink tea and discuss the concert program.

“Well, what do you say?” the director asked as he sat at the head of a table generously spread for tea. “Help yourselves, comrades. The tea’s hot. Veniamin Borisovich, how do you like your tea? Strong?”

The dead don’t rise up, Venya thought, nodding mechanically at the director. I haven’t lost my mind. It’s all very simple. Tanya Kostylyova had a brother. I think his name was Sergei. That Sergei could very well have a daughter that age. He could very well have named her in honor of his dead sister Tatyana. There’s nothing surprising in the girl looking so much like that Tanya. Nothing surprising at all.

“Veniamin, are you unwell?” the elderly director of the dance ensemble asked quietly. “You’re very pale.”

“Huh?” he caught himself. “No, no. I’m quite all right.”

You can’t do that. You have to get a grip, he thought, smiling hard. Or it could end badly.

“A marvelous concert,” he said loudly. “And the dance ensemble was especially fine. Galya’s right. We have to take them to the provincial competitions, maybe even to Moscow. The chorus isn’t bad at all, but I think that in addition to the revolutionary and Pioneer songs, they could add a cheerful children’s song, especially when the younger group performs. As for the poetry reciters, their outfits should be fancier. You’ve got them too stiff. It is a holiday concert, after all. Those are all my notes.”

After tea, the director accompanied the commission through all five floors of the palace. The director showed them the holiday preparations and the concert posters.

A deafening wave of rock and roll struck them as they passed by the auditorium door, which was ajar. Glancing in, they saw Tanya Kostylyova onstage. Wearing her brown school uniform, without the black pinafore, she was dancing a wild dance to an Elvis Presley song. Her partner, a tall, slender boy in navy school trousers and a checked shirt, was spinning her and tossing her around. Her loose, ash-blond hair flew straight out to the sides and fell on her slender, flushed face. The girl stuck out her vivid lips and mechanically blew the hair from her forehead.

“I hope you’re not planning to include that in the concert program,” Volkov said to the Pioneer Palace director, grinning.

That other Tanya, the soloist’s aunt, had been a great dancer, too. She had had bright blue eyes and long, thick, ash-blond hair. She’d been considered the prettiest girl in their class. And Venya Volkov had been an ugly duckling until the tenth grade, when all that changed.

He grew three inches in one summer. His shoulders broadened and his voice dropped. He started shaving. He was amazed to discover that girls were giving him the eye.

Among his classmates, it was the worst students who had that kind of success. They were colorful, manly, brave. They smoked, drank port, spat, swore nonstop, and feared nothing and no one.

The best students and goody-goodies were despised. And Venya Volkov was both. But he was very strong physically and he could push back at anyone who tried to bully him. By tenth grade, no one dared challenge Venya. He fought too well.

Vovka the Dove had lost Tanya in a card game. Not a school boy, Vovka the Dove was an honest-to-God crook just out of prison. He’d been lying in wait for the girl one evening in a dark side street. Venya Volkov just happened to be nearby.

At that point, nothing had happened. Tanya and the Dove were standing and talking. Venya immediately recognized the slender silhouette and long braid.

Whenever he looked at Tanya, his mouth dried up and his hands instinctively balled up into fists. At twelve he hadn’t been able to explain it, but now, at sixteen, he was sure he understood his own feelings perfectly well.

Had anyone told him, “Volkov, you’re in love with her!” he would have laughed in the idiot’s face. There are no such feelings. They don’t exist. There’s instinct, attraction between the sexes, like in all the rest of the animal world. It’s like hunger, only stronger.

“Venya! Venya Volkov!” Tanya’s voice sounded scared and pleading.

He took a step in their direction. The Dove’s huge paw lay on Tanya’s shoulder. Before he could even think, Venya had already thrown that paw off her skinny shoulder, and a minute later the two were locked in a cruel and silent fight.

The Dove fought desperately but was physically weaker than Volkov, and less agile and evasive. Rather quickly, Venya had laid the crook out flat on his back.

Now he and Tanya Kostylyova were “steadies,” which at their school consisted of strolling through the streets, going to the one ice cream parlor in town, sitting in the last row of the movie house, and making out, though never daring to go over the limit, which was defined quite specifically as doing anything below the waist.

Venya understood that the “fast girls” that his classmates drooled over in the vacant lot behind the school with their port and cigarettes were nothing but the fantasies of sick young minds. When some pimply lady-killer reported on his latest conquest in a mysterious whisper, Venya could barely restrain a contemptuous laugh.

Actually, he thought about the enthusiastic storyteller, you’re as innocent as a newborn lamb. First of all, you don’t have anywhere you can do that. You live in a communal apartment with plywood walls. There are five of you there in one room, and your nasty grandmother is always home. Secondly, your face is covered in pimples, and you’ve got bad breath. And thirdly, you’re telling it all wrong. I would know.

After his story with plump Larochka, Venya thought he knew everything.

Although he didn’t live in a communal apartment or have a nasty old grandmother, he and Tanya Kostylyova had lots of problems. She had no desire to go home with him and didn’t invite him over, either.

“You see, Venya,” she would say, “I like you a lot. But there’s a time for everything. First we need to get to know each other properly. Better we just go for walks and talks for now. And what if your mama comes home from work unexpectedly? Don’t be mad, but I’m a little afraid of her. She’s so strict, so proper.”

Winter wasn’t a great time for walks through a Siberian town, though. Sometimes they warmed up at the movies, sometimes in entryways. Every time he was alone with her, Venya greedily sunk his mouth into her soft, salty lips and tried to get his hot hands—hot even in bitter cold—under her rabbit-fur coat and thick knitted sweater. She resisted, but only for show.

“Stop it, Venya. Come on, stop,” she would say, pressing her entire body to him and raising her lips for a kiss.

Sometimes he hated it. She was lying, pretending she didn’t want to be touched. She purposely aroused him, tortured him, made him gasp and pant. He started hating her in those moments, and he wanted to hurt her, so she would kick and squirm in his hands, the way pudgy Larochka had. He often dreamed of falling on Tanya, pressing her to the ground, and ripping her clothes.

Sometimes he was horrified even in his sleep. He was burning inside from a hard, animal hunger. He felt that if he didn’t satisfy it, if he didn’t hurt Tanya Kostylyova, hurt her badly, he’d burn up inside, and he’d die.

Everyone around them thought it was love between him and Tanya. So did she. Only Venya knew that in fact he hated his girlfriend.

He was waiting for spring and warm days when they could go for walks in the evenings in the park above the Tobol River. The more trusting and tender Tanya was with him, the more powerfully he hated her. If someone had asked him why, he wouldn’t have been able to say. And he had no intention of answering this sensible question for himself. His hunger was more important than the answers to any questions.

He was waiting like an animal before it leaps, patiently enduring Tanya’s blind acceptance of social ritual and her belief in the stupid fairy tales about true love and till death do us part. Intuitively, he was afraid of spooking this silly, romantic girl.

“Venya, do you love me?” she would ask in a whisper.

“Yes, Tanya, I love you very much,” he would say with a sigh in her pink little ear.

“Venya, you’re the best, the strongest, and I love you so much.” Her blond head buried itself in his shoulder, and her hand gently squeezed his hot fingers.

Spring came late to Tobolsk, but was always stormy and swift. The ice broke on the Tobol and the Irtysh majestically. On clear days, sunlight fractured the large, slow-moving ice floes, which splintered in the heavy, dark water, and sometimes a vivid rainbow would shimmer at the cracks.

Then came the high waters. The two Siberian rivers, which flowed together in the old town, would leave their banks and, together with the first real May rains, wash away the last remnants of snow. But in the taiga, there could be snow in low-lying areas as late as June.

Right up until their graduation night in late June, Tanya Kostylyova continued to play games with Venya. She refused to go for long walks with him to the park above the Tobol.

“You’re so worked up, Venya,” she would say, lowering her bright blue eyes. “We won’t be able to stop ourselves. And what if I get pregnant? It’s too soon for that. We’re still children. We have to continue our studies.”

There was a lot of vodka at the graduation party. Hiding from their vigilant teachers, the students took turns drinking, shutting themselves up in the chemistry office. The girls drank less, sipped at the glass as it went around the circle, made a face, and quickly took a bite of black bread.

“Is that any way to drink?” Volkov laughed, giving Tanya back the full glass she’d barely even touched. “Take a normal swallow. Graduation only happens once. Come on, drink to my health. You’re not a little girl anymore.”

Tanya gave in. She’d never drunk vodka before. She was happy, her exams were behind her, and she’d aced them all. It was a time to celebrate, so she should have a drink.

She screwed up her face and knocked back half the glass. Her throat was squeezed by a stinging spasm. The vodka wouldn’t go any farther. Tanya started coughing. Venya stuck a piece of bread and pickle in her mouth. Chewing helped right away.

“Well, did that go down well?” Venya smiled, took the glass out of her hands, and finished the remaining half.

They danced a little more in the auditorium and then quietly ran off to the park. The night was warm and clear. In the mysterious summer silence, the mosquitoes were buzzing, and the old cedars’ thick trunks creaking. Using Venya’s arm for support, Tanya took off her fancy patent leather shoes and walked barefoot through the nighttime dew.

They kept walking farther along the banks of the Tobol under a full moon. A wide, layered column of moonlight swayed gently on the calm river water. There wasn’t a soul around.

“Venya, I’m really drunk,” Tanya said gaily. “My head’s spinning. Why did you make me drink that horrible vodka? I’m never going to drink again.”

“How about a swim?” he suggested. “You’ll sober up in a flash.”

“But I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“What do you need a bathing suit for? It’s a high—skinny-dipping.”

She laughed. “But the water’s cold.”

He pulled her close and started feeling around for the zipper on her graduation dress.

“Have you lost your mind? Let me go!” She tried to slip out of his arms.

The zipper jammed; a lock of her hair from her long braid got stuck in it. He pulled as hard as he could.

“That hurts! Venya, what are you doing?” Tanya did manage to break away, but only for a second.

He immediately put his arms around her and threw her down onto the wet grass.

“Venya, Venya dear, stop…”

Quickly and deftly he pulled off her dress and just as he did with Larochka, he put his hand over her mouth and nose. She started moaning and jerked her head. He felt the warm breath from her nostrils under his hand.

He pressed his hand harder to her face. She kissed his hand and then pushed it off her face.

“Venya, stop, I can’t breathe like that. Kiss me,” she whispered.

He started greedily kissing her long neck and delicate collarbone. Her skin smelled not of cheap perfume but of lily of the valley and slightly bitter pine needles. Venya’s heart started pounding, and he could feel how fast and hard her heart was pounding, too.

It’s going to be just like it is for everybody else. My hunger will pass—these thoughts raced through his head. She’s very pretty and she loves me… I’m a normal boy, and it’s all going to be just like it is for everybody else.

But a black film fell over his eyes. His body wouldn’t obey his will. His hands were living their own, independent life, and he didn’t understand what they were doing.

“Quit it. That hurts!” Tanya cried out suddenly.

His hands couldn’t stop. They squeezed her small, firm breasts, and his nails dug into her delicate skin.

“Venya, quit it! That hurts a lot!”

She was shouting too loudly. Her shout grated on his ears.

“Easy, easy… It’s supposed to hurt,” he said quickly. “It always hurts.”

“No, I don’t want it this way. We shouldn’t. You’re crazy.” She attempted to break away. He didn’t even notice his hands crushing her delicate neck. She tried to break away from his hands, tried to knee him. It was like combat between two enraged beasts fighting not for life but for death.

With the tiniest corner of his receding human consciousness, Venya understood that this was exactly what he’d wanted, exactly what he’d been expecting.

Tanya Kostylyova was stronger than Larochka. He had to wind her graduation dress, which was lying nearby, around her head. The dress was made of a thick white Crimplene that didn’t let air through.

The body beneath him jerked and fought back. A wave of acute, wild pleasure washed over him. It felt as though some new, blinding, invincible power was rushing through him.

A massive shudder ran through the girl’s body, piercing him through like a flash of lightning. He felt himself getting stronger now with every movement and every sigh. He felt almost immortal as he satisfied his fierce, animal hunger.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Satiated, he came to his senses, rolled up the white Crimplene dress, and in the light of the moon saw two frozen, vividly blue eyes looking straight at him.

That scared him. Was this really what he’d wanted? Was this the only way he could feed the insatiable beast in his soul? Tanya wasn’t breathing, but the satisfied beast could at last take a deep breath.

The blinding strength pouring into him now was the life of Tanya Kostylyova. This and only this was how he could satisfy his hunger. There was no other option. It was her own fault. She’d teased and tortured him for so long. She’d ignited the hatred in him, played her vile, hypocritical, romantic games with him.

He felt hot, bitter tears running down his cheeks. He cried out of compassion—not for the girl he had murdered, but for himself, the obedient little boy who no one loved and everyone lied to. The tears made him feel better. His head cleared.

Quickly looking around, he pulled up the panties on her still-warm body and fixed her bra. He mechanically noted that her underwear wasn’t ripped, and he had left no bruises—at least, none he could see in the moonlight.

He neatly hung Tanya’s white dress on the trunk of a fallen birch and set her patent leather shoes nearby. Undressing and leaving his own things on the trunk of the tree, he dragged her body to the river, pushed it in the water, jumped in himself, and swam leisurely to the middle of the river, where it was deep, pulling the body behind him.

Lots of people drowned in the Tobol, especially the good swimmers. Usually they had to search a very long time for drowning victims because the current carried them toward the broad Irtysh and there was solid taiga stretching along the banks. Sometimes they were never found.

When he finally climbed out onto shore, his teeth were chattering from the cold. Without dressing, in just his underpants, he started toward the park exit. He walked very quickly and then started to run.

A wet and trembling Veniamin Volkov—graduate of School No. 5, top student, the quietest and most obedient boy in his class—ran into the police station. He had only his underpants on, tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“Help!” he yelled. “Please, help! Tanya’s drowned! We were swimming together, and it was dark, and we were talking, and then she wasn’t. I looked over and she wasn’t next to me. I dove and searched…”

He couldn’t go on.

They found Tanya Kostylyova’s body two weeks later, far from the city, in the Irtysh.

The Young Communist Culture Department chief remembered he’d left his cigarettes in the office of the Pioneer Palace director. Returning, he heard music coming from the auditorium. It was a song from an old American movie. Tanya Kostylyova was doing a leisurely Russian step dance on the stage. Her slender partner was assiduously repeating every step after her.

“No, try it again! Wrong again!” she said. Her light feet in their black gymnastics shoes seemed to fly over the wooden floor by themselves, without any effort, lightly and gaily.

The dead don’t rise up, Volkov thought. He softly shut the auditorium door and strode down the corridor toward the office of the Pioneer Palace director for his forgotten cigarettes.