Moscow Noir

FIELD OF A THOUSAND CORPSES by Alexander Anuchkin Elk Island ^{Translated by Marian Schwartz}

Bogorodskoe Municipality,

Eastern Administrative District, 1996

When Nikolai Petrovich Voronov is sitting there like that and looking like that, expect trouble. Actually, if he’s looking some other way, you should still expect it. Nikolai Petrovich and trouble are twin brothers. Behind his back they call him Banderas, after the Spanish actor who conquered the world with his incredible muscularity and crazy machismo. When you look at the Hollywood Banderas, you can’t believe he actually exists. No one’s really like that. At least, that’s what they say. Me, I haven’t been to the movies for a long time. It’s expensive and pointless. Especially since a real homegrown Banderas is directly in front of me right now and I’m sitting here looking at him.

I realize that meeting a man like this on one’s life journey is tremendous good fortune. Don’t think I’ve got some alternative orientation or I don’t like women. God forbid. It’s just that Nikolai Petrovich is truly magnificent.

He’s forty or so, his hair’s the color of a crow’s wing (as they write in books), he combs it with a side part, but it’s too long. He’s been on duty for more than twenty-four hours but he’s wearing a snow-white shirt without a single wrinkle in it, and his collar, my god, his collar.

He has piercing eyes. Right now, as I write this, I can come up with only one comparison: a movie about sin city. The movies again, damnit, but that’s how it goes. Agent Voronov is top dog in the district of sin, the region of sin, the administrative division of sin. Strictly speaking, he’s sin and its nemesis all rolled into one.

He also has a mustache that droops down to the middle of his chin, deep wrinkles from his temples to the middle of his cheeks, and few teeth. Just the front ones, and those are smoked out, boozed out, brown. When he smiles—no more questions. A cop but an alcoholic. An alcoholic but he can stop. Can but won’t. He’ll kill. Without a second thought.

He lights up his third cigarette—he chain-smokes—in ten minutes, and through the poisonous haze of his Java Gold looks me right in the eye. His eyes are brown, but his look is icy, colder than the ocean. Our staring match has been going on for more than two months, ever since I came to work for him. That is, became the junior agent in the property crimes department of the Bogorodskoe Internal Affairs Department of the Eastern District Internal Affairs Department of the Moscow Main Internal Affairs Department. It all happened so suddenly, it wasn’t my doing, but that’s beside the point today, the subject of a whole separate novel. I’ve been a bad boy. I’m twenty-four and my very smallest tattoo, a huge kraken devouring the world, starts at my right ankle and ends at my left ear. I spent all the money I made seven years ago—when me and the boys drowned this drug dealer, a guy in our class, holding him by the leg in the Yauza—on this tat. That was when I suddenly developed my acute sense of righteousness: I was able to convince everyone that selling drugs was very bad. We forced that monster to promise not to do it anymore and then took his money before finishing him off. To teach him a lesson. Then there were the ladies. We swept the district clean of pimps, small-time profiteers, and fences, but at some point the guys stopped me. Actually, it was too late. I’d turned myself into one big walking sign, a yakuza out of a Takeshi Kitano nightmare. Twigs, leaves, branches, Celtic knot, and Japanese dragons—all the world’s evil spirits battled it out on my body for the right to a free millimeter of skin. What was going on a little bit deeper inside me—well, best not to even try to understand that.

I had only two options left, and I chose the wrong one. Now I’m an agent, a puny sergeant with a regulation cannon, in puny Bogorodskoe Internal Affairs, where druggies steal drills from construction sites, and druggies rape druggies, sometimes without even being clear about their victim’s gender, and druggies kill druggies to get themselves a little heroin—drugs aren’t just born under tram tracks after all. And tracks are the only thing (if you don’t count druggies, of course) we have an abundance of in our district.

Nikolai Petrovich is sitting in his white shirt across from me smoking his fourth cigarette. Today’s kind of like a holiday for him. After the obligatory five years, they made him a major. He’s on duty, but there hasn’t been anyone at all on Boitsovaya Street, where our department is, for the last few hours. Even the lunatics are lying low. Pretty soon we’ll go out and celebrate his stars. Fuck every living thing.

I light up my second and look at Voronov. He’s relaxing. A meter and a half from us, behind the door, the perps and vics—all jumbled together—await their fate on the sagging vinyl bench in the corridor. Soon Nikolai Petrovich, a king in his white shirt, with two nonregulation guns in his tan underarm holster, will start seeing them. He’ll punish and pardon.

But for now he’s sprinkling some nasty Nescafé some broken Hindu brought him from the market early this morning into his cup. Voronov sprinkles in one spoonful. Two. Three. He pauses for a moment over the fourth and then throws that in too, with the decisiveness of Alexander the Great. Oh, and seven lumps of sugar. A stream of boiling water, a dirty spoon, the first noisy swallow. The agent lights up again and leans back in his chair, which is worn down to the veneer. He closes his eyes, takes a drag, and releases the smoke. Then—with just his eyelids—he gives me the order: Go. I open the door for the first time that night.

I cautiously slap the first petitioner on the cheeks. He’s been sitting there for a long time. Neighbors relieved him of the nice new TV in his room in a communal apartment on Otkrytoe Highway. Voronov has already warned me we’d be rejecting his appeal. This vic will never see a criminal case. He was born to suffer, to be a vic. I’m learning to be like Nikolai Petrovich. Why do you think the street our department’s located on is called Boitsovaya—Fight Street? Pretty strong people live and work here on Boitsovaya. To be blunt, they don’t have much choice.

Here’s another. They just brought her out of a jail cell. She threw her newborn in the garbage. She reeks of sweet cheap alcohol that makes me sick. In the time we spend questioning her I run out four times to our filthy two-holer—one for the cops and one for the crooks—and puke. I must be puking my stomach out. Voronov’s as calm as a sphinx. His ironed white shirt gets whiter and stiffer all the time. He says, “You’ll be going to that garbage heap soon. Believe me. There, in the garbage, you’re going to find the corpse of another newborn infant who had a couple of gulps of air and then got stupidly fucked up. You’re going to feel awful. You’re going to search for his damned mama furiously, you’ll find her, you’ll put her in that chair where you’re sitting now. You’ll sit where I am and look into her eyes in hopes of seeing hell. But what you’ll see is emptiness. Emptiness, my young friend. Emptiness is hell. And vice versa. I want you to lose your illusions as fast as you can and understand all about where, how, and why we are the way we are. Believe me. I’m one of the better ones.”

I get queasy again and dash off. Voronov waits patiently; today he has no intention of stopping.

“By the way, they’re going to give this mama two years’ probation. You’ll be very lucky if this story doesn’t repeat itself on your watch. But if it does, that’s bad. It could break you, even though by then you’ll be pretty tough.”

He hands me a vile cigarette. I try to strike a match and on the fifth try manage to light it. I see the various back alleys through the window. Every day I walk these alleys, but I don’t remember exactly what the streets are called. I’ll admit, I don’t want to either. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just endless emptiness. The whole Eastern District. Not too far from here you get to the school I went to. A little farther and there it is, the tram stop where, in a frenzy, I battered the painted iron kiosk with my fist, trying to take away the pain of love. And there’s the courtyard where I had my first dead body, a dead body whose name and murderer I found. I found him quickly, in the next entryway. At the time I was given a commendation—as the youngest detective. Only Voronov didn’t join in the general rejoicing at my success. He said, “One day everyone’s going to die. Absolutely. Then other people will come, either cops or doctors. They’ll come and tell you the cause of death. You just have to understand, student, that no one in my memory has ever been resurrected by that. Don’t take pride in it or you’ll start wanting to be a little like God.”

Later I cursed him all night long and couldn’t sleep. I think I cried. But in the morning he was standing on Boitsovaya, just like a monument to a poet. Smoking, blowing off the ashes. Waiting for me. He was always waiting for me. He liked working with kids like me.

“Life is a lot of things. And it takes crazy shapes. You don’t mind that I’m like a biology teacher, do you? Love your neighbors and your family. Everyone else deserves death. You think I’m wrong?”

He found a way of instilling all this wisdom of the ages in my head in the three minutes it took us to walk back to the department. I couldn’t remember school or the institute anymore. It was stupid, in fact, to remember those chalk-stained wusses. I had a real man walking on my left. Someone who had known life and then fucked it doggy-style. He always liked to be on top and couldn’t stand lying down. Or sitting down facing you. Or standing. Impressive.

His shift’s over and it’s time for us to go. We leave the department, slipping on the chipped steps, which are coated with a thick layer of ice. Today there hasn’t been a short-timer or drunk in jail—no one to hack the ice off—and the fat guard would never get off his fat ass. All he does is dream of somebody installing a bedpan in his chair so he’ll never have to get up again. We slip and curse and light up. Voronov starts the engine of his Moskvich, which he bought with his fifth wife’s money. His spouse never seemed to begrudge him anything. The most powerful mass-produced engine with the most affordable afterburner. On the highway this battered heap hits as high as 250 kilometers an hour. When they hear that sound, the sound of the engine on Voronov’s heap, young skinheads move to the shoulder out of respect. Right now we’re driving to the Field of a Thousand Corpses. It’s a special kind of place.

I have a little time now, while the car is warming up, while we’re driving. The whole trip takes about fifteen minutes. Let me tell you about this field.

Once, a very long time ago, after God created the earth and people divided it up into pieces, one particular town chopped up its own territory. Each ragged piece was attached to a specific district. Only somewhere, in the very rear end of the Eastern District where several boundaries come together, in Elk Island National Park, the police chiefs messed something up. They ended up with an odd piece of land that wasn’t anyone’s at all. A kilometer by a kilometer. No one lost any sleep over this. What kind of crimes could you commit on that pathetic patch of ground? But those who thought like that were wrong. When all the cops in the vicinity realized exactly what their lands bordered on, that patch of ground turned into a living hell. Unidentified corpses were ferried here, and here they rotted away. Local thugs and uniformed officers both came to settle their disputes. They set up meets here, and once, before my very eyes, there was a very real duel. Two young lieutenants fired at each other over a female expert from the district CSI. I was the second for one of them, and I had to stuff my new jacket into the gaping hole in the wounded guy’s belly. He turned white, then gray, and honestly, never before or after have I seen someone’s face change color that fast.

For those who know anything about life and death, the field is a cult location. That’s where we’re going. Actually, we’re nearly there. Coming toward us through the night, through the black branches, reflecting off the thin crust of ice, are the headlights of someone’s car zapping us in the eyes. They’re waiting for us. Voronov has a lot of friends.

“A guy died here once,” Voronov says, addressing no one in particular, and he kills the engine. But I know—he’s continuing my education. He’s teaching me how to live. We get out of the car and look both ways. A junior agent, Khmarin, takes the alcohol and snacks out of the trunk. “It probably took a few days,” Banderas continues. “His car broke down on the parkway and he crawled here. He lay here, rasping, calling for help. All kinds of vermin ate him up.”

“What kind of vermin?”

“All kinds. It’s a national park. They have wild animals here.” He spits a yellow gob long into the snow.

The oncoming car switches its beams to low. Men get out, shivering in their summerweight leather jackets. I know them only vaguely. District criminal investigations. All friends of my new boss. They’re scary, but I’m getting used to them. For them the field is a known quantity. For me it’s still wild and exotic. We shake hands. The men break up into groups while Khmarin and I serve up an improvised meal on the hood of a long American automobile. There are lots of cars, ten or so. They pull up one after the other, forming a lopsided circle. Each on his own side of the field. I’m cutting sausage with fingers stiff from the cold, and I realize that here today they’re going to solve a dozen crimes ranging from serious to very, just like that, easily, plastic cup in hand. One pours for another, the other for a third. They’re cutting deals, and first thing tomorrow morning they’ll start writing reports.

“Does everyone have some?” Voronov asks, lifting a ribbed white cup.

“Aaaaoooo!” the agents respond.

“Down the hatch,” my boss sums up, sending 120 grams of pepper Kristall down his throat in a single motion. We’re lucky. The Kristall factory is the Eastern District agents’ patrimony. At least we drink high-quality vodka.

Adam’s apples are bobbing. Up and down. The cops are getting a buzz on. Stealthily I pour myself a half at the hip. It’s comfy here sitting on this mossy piece of concrete. Slippery but comfy.

The picnic drags on. It’s looking to be dawn soon. I examine the faces of the men surrounding me. They’re stinking drunk but not repulsive. They’re just talking a little louder, and more and more often their hands, with their thick short fingers, slice the air dangerously close to whoever they’re talking to. Yes, the word “danger” right now couldn’t be more accurate. These men, unpredictable and invested with almost limitless power, could do something terrible stone sober, but now…

Another bottle makes the rounds. And another. I’ve stopped counting and stopped being amazed at the foresight of those gathered. How much did they bring? Their business discussions are drawing to a close. Here and there—bursts of laughter. The cops are in a great mood today.

“Banderas!” a cop shouts from the other end of the field. “Listen, they told me that after a liter you can hit nine out of ten with either hand! They were lying, right?”

“No way.” Nikolai Petrovich throws back his heavy head. “They only lied about one thing: it’s ten out of ten. Even after two.”

The field laughs. This slippery topic ought to be shut down, it seems to me, and I even open my mouth, but they get ahead of me. I think things over too long to say anything original.

“Well now, let’s see if it’s true.” A man of about fifty totters out to the middle of the field. I know him. He’s the deputy chief detective from the next department over. A colonel. He was in line for a promotion to Moscow homicide, but something didn’t work out. They say it was the vodka again. The colonel takes an apple from the pocket of his pretentious leather jacket, blows tobacco flakes off it, and places it on his own head. The field bursts into laughter again.

“Watch,” the young agent Khmarin elbows me in the side. “Something’s about to happen.”

To be honest, I’m scared, but Khmarin is perfectly calm and smiling his big gap-toothed smile.

“Two years ago Banderas stood three Tajiks here, rapists. They didn’t want to write confessions. He put an apple on top of each head, and took out two barrels. They say it stank of shit, but nothing bad happened.”

“Did they write them?”

“Sure did. You’d write anything if a bullet grazed your head.” Khmarin sniffs. “True, I didn’t actually see it. But that’s what people say.”

I don’t doubt that’s exactly how it all went down, but my alarm doesn’t abate. I’m looking at Voronov. He’s very, very drunk. Catching my look, he smiles and the tips of his mustache go up. He comes closer, leans toward my face, bathing me in a haze of vodka, and whispers, “If you get together with an old friend and buy a case of pepper vodka, you can have a pretty decent time of it. You just have to leave your guns at home. Someone told me that too, but I forgot. Just so you remember, student.”

I’m gripped by panic, but changing anything—that’s out of my hands. The colonel stands in the middle of the field and keeps smiling idiotically. The apple is shaking on his head, looking to fall. Voronov marks off twenty-five paces and stands facing him. The cops fall silent. You can touch the silence now, you can cut it with a knife and spread it on bread. Snow crunches under someone’s feet; the officers are freezing in the winter woods, and warm boots are not their style. Voronov gets his nonregulation TT out of his left holster, examines it carefully, and closes his eyes for a second. Right now I can feel him as if I’ve entered into his mind. He aims with eyes closed, without raising the barrel. The next instant something terrible happens. Chilled from standing there in one place, the colonel sneezes. We still haven’t heard the sound and don’t realize what’s happening. All we see is his face suddenly crumple. His mouth opens wide, the apple falls off his shaven head, and the night silence is shredded by gunshot. He sneezes and drops like a sack into the snow. His legs bend, his arms fling awkwardly to the side, and the 7.62 caliber bullet pierces his head like it’s a ripe melon—straight through. Now his left leg twitches spasmodically—the tiniest bit. Once, twice, three times. All his muscles tense and his chest rises and falls. The thousand and first corpse on the field.

No one seems surprised. The agents collect the remains of their feasting silently and efficiently and toss the bottles and snacks into their trunks. One after another the engines start up and the dry snow creaks under their wheels. Another three minutes or so probably pass, or maybe it’s an eternity. And here we are. The two of us on the field. Voronov nervously squeezes the TT in his hand, and I’m frozen in an awkward pose on the mossy concrete.

The colonel’s corpse.

Our eyes meet. Banderas walks over to me and looks me up and down. He throws the gun at my feet.

“Keep it. It’s a present.” He turns on his heel and walks toward his car. “Boy, cops don’t go to prison. They die fast there. Or stop being cops. Or stop being at all.”

“And so?”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Aha.”

“Aha. Idiot. You’re a cop. That’s all. God help you. And if he does—you’ll understand real fast. Bye for now.”

He starts his engine and leaves. I’m alone. I sit like that for another hour, until my drunk is completely passed. My brain is now amazingly clear, and I know what I have to do.

I put on my gloves and pick the TT up by the barrel. I painstakingly wipe the whole gun with my handkerchief and walk over to the corpse. I try desperately to remember whether our colonel was a lefty or not. No, I don’t think so. His fingers have already started to stiffen, but all is not lost. I put the gun in his right hand and carefully survey the field. Yes, all’s well. The apple is lying a meter from the corpse—yellow with a red blush. I pick it up and take a big bite. I like slightly frozen apples. What can I say?

There’s nothing more to do here. Crunching on the apple, I quickly take the path toward Rostokinsky Road. I still have some money. I have to grab a passing car and make my way home. And be at work at 8 a.m. tomorrow.

I know what’ll happen in the morning. Banderas will look me in the eye and I’ll nod silently. He’ll nod in reply and shake my hand. Just like that. Two men shaking hands. He won’t ask questions, since he never asked me to do anything the day before. Everything I did, I did myself, of my own free will. Any one of us in the smoke-filled two-by-three offices at 12 Boitsovaya Street would have done the same.

The months and years will pass, and Nikolai Petrovich and I will share the same two-man office.

We’ll catch, solve, and punish or tell the pesky vics to fuck off.

Old man, you shouldn’t have put your valuable property where everyone could see it. Even on the surveillance cameras in stores they write: The management is not responsible for your valuables. What the hell are we supposed to do?

As it is, we have a heightened sense of fairness, and the next Internal Affairs office over, by the way, has an excellent deputy chief detective now. A young muzhik, smart. A recovering alcoholic, they say; doesn’t drink at all. I should stop by and say hello someday. First we’ll repair the Moskvich since it’s not respectable to go to a first meeting with a colleague with these rusty fins.

I remember everything and know everything, and everyone else knows it too. And I have absolutely nothing to fear. For the last five months I’ve either been staying home or going to the prosecutor’s office. I’m lucky they kept me under house arrest and didn’t send me to Lefortovo because it’s close. Such a stupid thing, you know? It was really dark there, and scary, I admit it. None of us knew what would be there behind the door, and I was standing in front. I haven’t been junior or a student or a probationer for a long time, but I was in front again. My whole life I’ve been in front. When the muscle took out the door and jumped aside, I went in and fired at the sound. Now in my statements—however many there’ve been—I write: She thrust something out toward me. It was a syringe, just a syringe. But at the time I nearly shat myself, word of honor, and fired four times. I shoot well, though not as well as Voronov. When they take us out to the range once a year, he still hits ten out of ten, and my best record is eight. The officer there says that’s actually pretty good. But this time I was like a different person: all four bullets went in side by side, and after that the girl had no chest left.

She was nineteen or so, I don’t remember anymore. My investigator is a good guy, my age. I know before any arrest he’ll let me go home. I call Nikolai Petrovich, we go to our field, and I suggest a game. He can’t refuse me. But he shoots better. This is how it has to be. They can’t put me in prison. I’ll die there. Cops don’t go to prison. They stop being cops there or they die. And it doesn’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference which.

PURE PONDS, DIRTY SEX OR TWO ARMY BUDDIES MEET by Vladimir Tuchkov Pure Ponds ^{Translated by Amy Pieterse}

As usual, Maxim walked at full speed coming out of the Pure Ponds metro station, throwing his muscular legs out in front of him as though they were the cranks of an engine. Actually, an engine—lacking vision, hearing, and a sense of smell—would have had a much easier time in this “heavenly” corner of Moscow. Maxim had to squeeze through two chains of sweaty people, human sandwiches who were handing out poorly printed leaflets with the addresses of a translation agency. Past the piss-stinking bums draped nonchalantly all over the Griboedov Memorial. Past the crazy, long-haired old man with a loud amp who sang psalms accompanied by Arabic music. Past a dozen dogs that took turns drilling the same lascivious bitch. Past the foul creek that our shortsighted forefathers had, for some reason, chosen to call Pure.

Maxim recalled a song that Igor Talkov had sung in his time. Sung until he caught a bullet at a showman’s showdown. A bullet straight out of a handgun that sent him to his final resting place. The mawkish lyrics were a parody of the present situation: Pure Ponds and shy willow trees/Resemble maidens who’ve fallen silent at the water’s edge/Pure Ponds, timeless dream of green/My childhood shore, where the accordion sounds.

Willows? What willows? More like disgusting benches with morons lounging around on them. What accordion? Only the monotonous thumping of electronic music blaring from the windows of cars stuck in a traffic jam.

And maidens? Sluts, all of them!

Maxim hated places like this, places that were once steeped in an aura of history or cultural tradition. Now that Moscow had stuffed itself with oil dollars to the point that it was about to explode and send pus flying in all directions, places like this were identified in his mind with unwashed, stinky socks.

Of course, he could have pretended to be a machine and slipped off to his base, which long ago had been the Jatarang Indian restaurant. He might have moved on by, blind, deaf, and paying no attention to anything. But he was another type of machine entirely. And his capabilities and functions were very different. He had survived to the age of forty thanks only to his capacity to observe the details of his surroundings, any of which might prove a lethal threat to him.

Before, in the mountains of Afghanistan, death could lurk in the swaying movement of a twig, or the suspiciously smooth (not by the hand of the wind, but the hand of a minelayer) dust on the road.

Later, after he’d finished his service and killing became both his trade and his boss, with a big fat wallet, a lawyer, and a manager, the bony face of death could be hiding behind the dark tinted windows of a jeep, in a crowd, around the corner… anywhere. There was no front line anymore, no rear guard, no fortified base. The front line was wherever Max happened to be.

Now that he had chosen to play big time—which he did not so much for the money (he had enough already), but rather to prove to himself and to others that at the age of forty he could still be a match for any little twenty-year-old chump—he was surrounded by death on all sides. Theoretically, guns with silencers could be aimed at his forehead, and at the back of his skull, at his temples, right side, and left, simultaneously. It couldn’t be ruled out that at that very moment someone was aiming an infrared beam at the top of his head. Despite the enviable virtuosity of his five human senses, honed to perfection, he remained vulnerable. He needed his animal instinct. And it had not once betrayed him. Although just once would be enough.

Three weeks ago, Maxim had accepted an invitation to play an amusing game. The jackpot was ten million. The last player (out of twelve) left alive would be declared the winner. The rules were simple. The game board was the Moscow area, within the limits of the beltway. Each player chose his own weapon. You could hook a howitzer to the back of your jeep and drive around town with it, or carrry a sharpened nail file in your pocket. Players were to kill competitors in any way possible, filming the process on a webcam that was connected to an online server. The game’s powerful organizers refused assistance to contestants taken into police custody during play. Such individuals would be put on trial, hence disqualified from the game. They were allotted one month. If there was more than one player left alive when the time was up, the referee would draw lots and the unfortunates would be shot in the head.

The contenders were told that a group of around twenty millionaires were behind the game. They were the ones at the bottom of the Forbes list, the ones with only a sorry twenty or thirty million to their names, which they had come by in the drug trade or illegal gambling. Maxim didn’t really give a damn about who, what, or where. There’s a lot of money sloshing around in this sweepstakes, where folks bet on people, not on horses, cutting each other up with great expertise. As long as they coughed up the prize money at the end of it.

There were only six days left, but he was already bone-tired. He had killed not only five of his opponents, but nine others as well. Collateral damage, it’s called. Three of them were merely the victims of a misunderstanding. A case of mistaken identity. But they had acted suspicious too. And it wasn’t like he had a lot of time to make sure. In that situation, it’s just a matter of who pulls the trigger first. None of them pointed a gun at him, but then, not one of those poor suckers had even had a gun on him to shoot with. Tough luck.

Six of them deserved to die. One of the players had hired them as informers for next to nothing. They shadowed his opponents and kept him notified of their whereabouts. Maxim didn’t feel sorry for them at all. Nope. He recalled how one of them, a nervous guy of around thirty, begged him to spare his life. Said he needed the cash because his five-year-old daughter had sarcoma and needed expensive treatment, or she’d die. And if he died, she wouldn’t make it. Maxim almost let him go, in exchange for the telephone number of the player who hired him. But when he found out it was the same guy who had killed Arkady, his old army buddy, he couldn’t restrain himself. He broke the kid’s neck so quick the guy didn’t even notice his own death. It’s different if you’re nailed to a hospital bed, but not many healthy people see it coming. Death is especially quick at the hands of people who make it their profession. Fast as a bullet that has already found a home inside a lifeless body by the time the shot rings out.

Maxim sure hadn’t expected to find Arkady’s name among the players. They had been close friends back in Kandahar, with ghosts firing mortars at their marine company. And there was Nikita too. They had been the only ones left alive in their platoon. They made a vow of eternal friendship. But a lot had changed since then. Things were different now. And they weren’t the same guys they had been either. Life’s a bitch.

“I really need the cash,” said Arkady, staring at Maxim over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have a choice.”

“I have no choice either,” Maxim replied. “Although I could do without the cash. In fact, I could even help you out, I’ve got some savings. But it’s too late now to call it quits.”

It was true, the players were already in the game. They’d signed a contract with the devil in blood. Refusal to continue with the game carried a risk of the secret being leaked, so any such player would be liquidated. Everything was absolutely fair. And gentlemanly.

Obviously, Maxim and Arkady agreed that they would not kill each other under any circumstances. If, by the end of the month, only the two of them were left, then lots would be drawn to decide the answer of “to be or not to be,” a bullet shot out of the barrel of a gun in a game of Russian roulette. After all, they were army buddies and not some pussy bastards off the street.

The agonizing problem solved itself, really.

He walked on, scanning everything up ahead—to the left, to the right, behind him—calculating all the possibilities for how the present situation might develop. Two clerks, a mother and daughter, three rough-looking losers, a wino, a student, a bum, a prostitute, an old man, WHO’S THAT? An athlete? Yes, definitely an athlete. Three teenagers with snowboards, a spaced-out druggie, WHO IS HE? HE’S GOT HIS RIGHT HAND IN HIS POCKET! No, his wrist is straight, and the pocket’s too small, yeah, he’s just a jerk. And old woman trying to look younger than her age, a suicide case definitely a suicide, a workaholic, a cop, a guy looking down at the grou—NIKITA!

Yes, it was him. It wasn’t easy to recognize the handsome and easygoing buddy he had known from his army days in this unkempt person, slumped over on a bench with a one-liter plastic bottle of extra strong Ohota beer. Ripped sneakers, his big toes nearly poking out of them, threadbare jeans, a filthy coat. Gray hair speckled his five-day-old stubble and made its way up to his temples and into his once black hair. But most horrifying of all was the expression in his eyes: dull and lonely like an autumn swamp. His gaze wasn’t staring inward. It wasn’t staring outward either. It was unfocused and wandering somewhere in the direction of nonexistence.

Maxim paused, although in the present situation this wasn’t very safe. But he couldn’t just walk past a friend who looked like he needed help.

“Nikita!”

“Oh, it’s you,” Nikita said, as though he hardly recognized the person he was speaking to.

“What’s all that?” asked Maxim, nodding at the plastic bottle that seemed to be a primary attribute of all the downtrodden and hopeless.

“You sure got this life thing all figured out. Looks like you got it made,” Nikita said, his voice so shrill he was almost shouting.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Maxim scanned the hostile territory around him.

“What’s wrong with me? Where were you three years ago? I wrote to you from St. Pete. Tried to get hold of you. And where were you a year ago, when I was all alone, up to my neck in shit? What’s wrong with me?”

“Give me a break! I moved into a new place and got a new number. And I’m not in Moscow much anyway. Come on. What can I do to help you now? I mean it, right now.”

It was obvious the guy was in bad shape. He was angry at the whole world, and appeared comfortable that way. His body language was saying, Forgot about me, the bastards, stabbed me in the back! Not one single son of a bitch came around when I needed help. Well, I don’t need you assholes anymore. Scram! Guys like that never admit that it is they, and not the “bastards,” “sons of bitches,” or “assholes,” who are to blame for their misfortunes. Backed up by such sentiments, they enjoy not shaving and going for weeks without changing their underwear; guzzling Ohota or Baltika 9 as they go under, until they stop somewhere about six feet beneath the earth’s surface and worms start gnawing at what’s left of them. Even worse, Maxim once heard about a dog breeding company where bull terriers were fed a diet of homeless people, live homeless people, to turn the dogs into killers and cannibals.

“You should have helped me out back then when I needed it, before I ended up in Moscow,” said Nikita.

When, at last, he ran out of excuses to prop up his ego, Nikita told his story. It turned out that three years before, in St. Petersburg, he had made some big money and decided to move to Moscow. What’s the big deal, everybody’s going! It’s the city of unlimited possibilities. So he sold his Petersburg apartment and added that money to the bundle he’d received from Valya Matvienko for working on her election campaign, and bought a three-bedroom apartment at Pure Ponds, one that was big enough to house their whole damn platoon back in Kandahar. He partied for a month, spending dollars like they were five-kopek coins. After that, he settled in. Turned out that the easiest part was finding a mate. Or something like that. Whatever. She was beautiful, smart, sexy, and devoted. Or she seemed devoted back then. That was why, three months later, he awarded her the official status of wife, and a note was made of this both in his passport and in an official registry book.

Making a living in Moscow proved much more difficult. He tried opening a souvenir shop on Taganka. They wouldn’t let him. He set up a snack shop at Kitai-Gorod. It was burned down two weeks later. He signed a contract to deliver a small consignment of Polish perfume. He got cheated, cost him fifty grand. Well, after that he gave up on having his own business and got a job as a security guard at the Reutov casino. His salary, plus the interest he received on the Petersburg money he’d put in the bank, was enough to live on quite comfortably.

Fate, however, decided to play a trick on the Afghan war hero. The bank went bust. With great difficulty, Nikita managed to get a tenth of his savings back. But he lost even that at the very same casino where he worked. He went in one weekend just to try his luck. Just about hit the jackpot too. His wife’s devotion, like snow in April, began to melt steadily.

She soon turned into a terrible fury. Even so, her three other good qualities remained. She was sexy (though she stopped sharing that particular quality with her husband). Beautiful. And smart. In fact, she was smart enough to kick Nikita out of the apartment three days ago.

“What are you, some kind of wuss?” said Maxim. “Show her who’s boss! You’ve got fists, don’t you? Tell her to get the hell out.”

“She reregistered the apartment in her own name. I’m like the heir or something.”

“Then kill her! Have you forgotten how it’s done? Make it look like an accident.”

“I can’t. I just got baptized. I made a vow, for the rest of my life. Besides, look.” Nikita stuck his arms out in front of him, palms facing downward. His fingers shook visibly, like those of an alcoholic.

“Ouch,” said Maxim, shaking his head. “I’d head for a monastery, bro. And how about your vow never to touch the drink again?”

They were both silent for a moment, puffing on their cigarettes.

“How about this,” Maxim said, interrupting the silence. “I’ll kick her out myself. Then you’ll be off the hook. Where’s your place?”

Nikita gave him an address. It was nearby, 12 Pure Ponds Boulevard.

Maxim waited around until someone opened the door at the main entrance and then held it open for the young mother pushing a stroller. He went up to the third floor and turned off the switch in the fuse box he found in the hallway. Behind the door, where Nikita’s wife Zhanna lived, the television set fell silent.

Maxim went up one more flight of stairs. He waited, giving her time to call the electric company, who would tell her that everything was working down at the station and that she should check her fuse box.

Of course, Zhanna peered through the peephole, but not seeing even the smallest sign of danger she opened the door. Before she had time to realize what was happening, she was back inside the apartment, a hand pressed over her mouth and her arms clamped to her sides.

Maxim turned the key in the lock twice and carried Zhanna deeper into the apartment.

She tried to resist.

“Don’t make any noise,” he said in a whisper. “If you keep quiet, I’ll let you live. Got it? Whisper.” Slowly, he uncovered her mouth and relaxed his grip. Zhanna was silent as she studied the intruder.

“Money?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“Oh, I get it. My jackass sent you over to say hi. My ex-jackass, that is.”

“He said you were smart, and he wasn’t lying.”

It was then that Maxim noticed that she was also beautiful. Beautiful, as in sexy. The thought occurred to him that there was no real difference between one rape or two. Nikita would understand.

So he changed the character of his grasp: from clenched, to imploring.

He noticed with surprise that she did not try to resist. On the contrary, she seemed to press her body toward him (and she smelled so deliciously female!). She gasped with excitement.

Maxim had an instant hard-on.

But he didn’t lose his head. He took off his coat with the webcam that was always hooked up to the game server, and hung it up in the hall so that the camera was facing the wall. There was no reason for them to watch this.

Zhanna moaned. She squeaked. It was unbelievable. You only come across this kind of girl once every six months, Maxim thought to himself.

He drilled her in her cornhole like a wild animal. Like a baboon. Like an orangutan. And she enjoyed it.

That crazy bitch couldn’t get enough. “More!” she howled, cursing like a Shanghai whore giving herself to a platoon of sailors.

They peeled themselves apart. He listened without interrupting as she praised him. He listened as she cursed her impotent husband. As she begged him to stay. Forever. How happy they would be together. Fucking amazing. Those were the exact words she used: Fucking amazing. But she didn’t just say them. She sang the words, which lost their foulness and gained a certain eloquence. Maxim listened quietly, nodding his head. Dream on, baby, he thought. Dream on.

And then he drilled her some more, with the same ferocity.

He came.

Then he noticed she had an Adam’s apple.

Fuck!

A transvestite!

It was a dirty and dangerous game that Nikita had gotten him into.

He stayed cool, not letting on that he had noticed.

“Let me get us some drinks,” said the transvestite. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

The transvestite brought in two glasses of wine from the next room. And Maxim realized that he wouldn’t drink it even at gunpoint.

He took the glass.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to watch you drink. You’re so beautiful, I’m sure you drink beautifully too. My cock is ready for action just watching you.”

The transvestite laughed, and took two sips. His Adam’s apple went up and down two times and then stilled. It wasn’t that big. But it was obviously a man’s.

Maxim set his glass down.

“Why don’t we start off with the usual question,” he said, his fingers locking around the transvestite’s throat. Not too tight, but probing. “Who are you working for? Tell me quietly.”

In all likelihood, at that very moment Nikita was glued to his own transmitter, which connected to an opponent’s webcam and mic, and it was extremely important that he not hear a thing. Each player had a transmitter that allowed him to hook up to his opponent’s channels and receive picture and sound from their webcams, broadcast nonstop. The pictures helped players track each other down if they recognized their opponent’s location.

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. Now listen carefully: this is your one chance to stay alive. Tell me the truth. Everything, and in great detail. Who hired you and why? And what do they want from me?”

The transvestite shrank back. And spilled the beans. About how they sometimes sent people to him who he didn’t know. And he “served” them, the same way he had served Maxim. Then he would put clonidine into their wine. And when his client fell asleep, he would call a certain Artyom, who would finish them off while they were still knocked out. Then, at night, the body would be taken away by two bald guys in a jeep. The transvestite knew nothing more. The answer why seemed pretty clear, but who was behind this? That was the question.

Another question was how had Nikita turned into such a cunt? The traitor! But Maxim tried not to think about that.

“You don’t kill?”

“No,” answered the transvestite, blanching.

“So you guys have a division of labor and everything. You got one son of a bitch working as a decoy, another giving sexual favors, and the third does the killing. Four and five get rid of the body. You guys are a goddamn hockey team!”

“Please don’t kill me,” whispered the transvestite.

“Did you tell me the truth?”

“Yeah, honest. In the beginning I didn’t know what was going on. I just wanted to make a little dough. But then, after that first time, I couldn’t refuse. They’d get me too.”

“All right, you can live. Call him.”

“Who?”

“The killer, Artyom.”

When the door opened, Artyom got a blow on the head with the handle of a gun. As he was collapsing, Maxim saw that it was Nikita.

What a fucking world, Maxim thought. What a goddamn fucking world.

He even spat on the floor. Rather, he spat on Nikita’s stained jacket, which was his uniform.

“All right, holy man, start talking,” said Maxim when Nikita came to.

Nikita was quiet.

“Do you realize you’re not getting out of here alive, you Judas?”

Nikita nodded.

“Did you kill Arkady?”

Nikita nodded his head again, staring at the floor.

“Talk.”

“I had to.”

“What, does your five-year-old daughter have leukemia?” asked Maxim, recalling the thirty-year-old whose neck he’d broken, snapped just like a chicken’s.

“No, I owe big money. They took my wife. Gave me three months to pay.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred grand.”

“Holy shit!” Maxim roared. “What are you doing? I have the money. I have a million! I could have—”

“How was I supposed to know that? It’s like everybody just kind of up and left. Life fuckin’ pulled us apart in all different directions.”

“Okay. I give you my word that I’ll get your wife out of there. Now talk.”

So Nikita started talking again. He told Maxim how the program manager had decided to play under the table. Of course, he kept that secret from the organizers, who paid the prize money. Player number four was supposed to get ten million. No risks on his part, because the manager had put together an unofficial team. That was where Nikita was working. The unofficial team had two functions: guarding number four, and not letting opponents get near him. Also, they got rid of “extra” players using any means possible, including what they had tried on Maxim. The payoff for the mongrel team was supposed to come from the prize money that number four would receive. Nikita agreed. How much the others were getting he didn’t know; naturally, the manager would be taking the largest cut.

When Nikita finished, Maxim handed him a gun with one shot in it.

“Don’t worry about your wife, I’ll get her out. But don’t try any funny stuff, cause you know my response time was always better than yours. Do I make myself clear?”

Nikita nodded and moved into the far room.

Time slowed down to almost a standstill. It got as thick as ketchup that doesn’t want to come out of the bottle in the freezing cold.

Outside, a baby started crying.

Water rumbled in the pipes.

Then it got quiet.

Then a shot rang out.

“That’s it,” said Maxim. “Get dressed.”

The transvestite, chalk-white with fear, started.

“No!”

“Idiot. You’re going with me. You’ll be a witness.”

“Why?!”

“You’re not on trial, darling. But I have to explain to the investors why I crushed all those snakes and cut the manager’s balls off before I killed him.”

Maxim crossed the streetcar tracks and jumped the low barrier dividing the fetid boulevard from the street stinking of exhaust fumes. He strode toward the house with columns, digging the heels of his massive lace-up boots into the road. The manager had twenty minutes left to live. His moronic bodyguards, with earphone wires sticking out from underneath their jacket collars, had even less time.

The transvestite hurried along, sticking close by, in a tight English skirt, his face crumpled in fear. From an outsider’s perspective, it might have looked like a stately middle-aged man walking an exotic, purebred dog.

A bum sitting on a park bench took a sip from the bottle of extra strong Ohota he had just found—miraculously, almost full. What a wonderful evening, he thought to himself.

DECAMERON by Igor Zotov Silver Pine Forest ^{Translated by Marian Schwartz}

Facewise, Ryabets resembles a skull: gaunt, with a deep-set, chalk-white gaze and lips slightly parted—a permanent grin of large yellowed teeth. At school they called him Skull behind his back but didn’t dare to his face, so they gave him a nickname from his last name: Ryaba.

Now that he’s on the wrong side of fifty, the skull resemblance applies to his whole frame: shriveled and bony.

At breakfast Ryabets is reading the Moskovskii Komsomolets police blotter. While he’s tapping around the butt end of his egg with a spoon, while he’s peeling off the shell, he skims through the second-grade girl lost in the taiga outside Krasnoyarsk—takes a bite of buttered bread and chews—the drunk officer who shot a soldier—takes a sip of ersatz coffee—the…

Under “Private Prison with Torture Chamber in Silver Pine Forest,” it says that the cops picked up a naked vagrant wearing handcuffs, right there on the street in broad daylight, with a cracked skull and evidence of beatings to his body. The vagrant called himself Andryukha and managed to say he’d been tortured in a cellar with “electricity and tongs.” He whispered the address, 43 Second Line, then fell silent. They didn’t get Andryukha to No. 67 Hospital in time. He died in a traffic jam without regaining consciousness. The cops went to the address but the jailers were gone and the trail was cold. But the prison was remarkable: three cells with a stun gun, tongs, a rack, a Spanish boot, and all kinds of other things. The two corpses were also Silver Pine Forest vagrants. An investigation is under way.

Ryabets sets the newspaper aside and looks out the window. July. Hazy, hot, and stuffy. When he’s finished with breakfast, he puts his Marlboros, towel, swimsuit, three big sausage sandwiches (carefully wrapped in that same newspaper so they wouldn’t go bad), a bottle of water, a bottle of 777 port, and a plastic cup into a paper bag.

He tucks his short-sleeved shirt into his pants and slips on his sandals. Two trolley stops to Kaluzhskaya and then the subway to Kitai-Gorod. The route remembers itself, even though the last time he took it was back in the early 1970s, when Kitai-Gorod was called Nogin Square. Transfer to the purple line to Polezhaevskaya. He’ll ask from there.

Not much out the trolley window has changed in all those years: dust, buildings, poplar trees. Here’s the arched bridge and to the left another bridge—red cables, looks new. Beyond that the river and the Krylatskie Hills. The trolley dives down a slope and stops at a square. Ryabets gets out.

A few streets fanning away, fences, and behind the fences pines and high dacha roofs. Ryabets glances around—should be here somewhere. There used to be a beer stand here, but not anymore. They’d gone from the beer stand to the dacha last time. Not him. His feelings were hurt so he went home. Bolt took his book away from him. A word clicked in his memory:Decameron. Oh yeah—a stinging sleet slashing at the burn site, his heel making little holes in the black muck—the cover was charred, with dark blue, intricate twisting letters, Bolt’s book… He came here in the fall, before the army. How could he not? No, later.

It’s too hot for port… He then bought beer at a stand and took a sharp left turn into the woods.

Ryabets sleeps briefly. Right here under this willow. The beer-sun has taken it out of him. More like dozing, with quick dreams involving water splashing, children squealing, and a female mocking whisper directly above him. He opens his eyes but no one’s there and it’s quiet. Close them and all over again—a squeal, a splash, a whisper. And a rustling—are they stealing his bag? No one, a total haze. He sits up, gazing blearily at the river and at the white church on the opposite bank, cockeyed.

Below—stretch his legs out—the evening water lightly laps-spills over. Music, laughter, a shashlik smell coming from beyond the fence on the private beach. A volleyball thumps. A little closer, in a chaise longue, a woman with a book. The view from behind: short haircut, folds in her neck, the edge of her glasses, her ass. Ryabets reaches into his swimsuit and tugs and tugs—nothing doing. A languid spite sours inside him. He did drag himself all the way out here! Halfway—no, all the way—across Moscow!

The woman is approached by another, younger, who leans over and says something as her white breasts rise lusciously from her blue swimsuit. Ryabets is back in his trunks, kneading away furiously. Nothing. The cupola radiates an officious sneer. He gives the church a dirty look and kneads and kneads. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Luscious observing him, a combination of revulsion and curiosity on her face. He pulls out his hand. Just scratching. He stands up—his trunks sag in back—scrambles down the bank, and swims noisily. The water isn’t refreshing; it’s too warm.

Ryabets slowly plies the shoreline, watching Luscious. You’d think he wouldn’t care, but imagine, he’s horny; he feels dumb too, old goat.

Once Luscious leaves, Ryabets moves ashore. He towels off and gets out the 777: to drink or not to drink? No, first go there. He eats his sandwich, takes one last look at the address in the paper, gets dressed, and leaves.

First he follows the shore and edges around the beach fence, but immediately, in a young pine grove, he runs across some naked men lying there, privates exposed. Ryabets sidesteps them but the farther he goes, the more naked men there are catching some rays, arms spread wide. “Cocksuckers,” he mutters, veering more to the left. He tries not to look but can’t help it. The bushes along the river are filled with naked men’s bodies. He spits. Right in the middle of Moscow!

He fantasizes TNT exploding and scraps of genitalia in the bushes—too many to collect! The bloody image calms him, and Ryabets moves deeper into the woods, emerging on paths that lead to Lake Bezdonka. Evening is falling and the crowds stretch from the riverbank to the park entrance. Ryabets has nearly changed his mind about going to the address in the newspaper. He’s tired. He wants to go home. He’s walking down Tamanskaya when across the street on the left he notices a street sign: Second Line. He stands there a second and turns. Did I make the trip for nothing?

The street is suddenly quiet. The dachas are behind a fence. Turrets, porticos, balconies. As if they weren’t right next to that half-naked, heat-wasted mob. No. 43. In back of them, a new red-brick, three-story house. The kind ministers of state and oligarchs live in, Ryabets thinks. Actually, the house gives the impression of being uninhabited. Ryabets “accidentally” pushes the gate, which yields with a light creak. The house is standing where the dacha burned; Ryabets recognizes the lawn behind it and the semicircle of tall pines. But a prison? Construction debris, doorframes in their original packing, the porch unfinished. On the door, yellow police tape—looks like this was indeed the prison.

Cautiously he unsticks the tape and opens the door. Inside it’s half-dark, and he senses the staircase on the right. He gropes for the light switch on the wall and heads downstairs. Exactly: three cells fabricated out of thick sticks. In front of him a table, two chairs, and a mechanism that looks like a welding apparatus. Were the cops too lazy to pull it out? On the floor, reddish-brown spots and broken glass. Torture—and why not? Hah! Vagrants, human matter. Hah!

Ryabets doesn’t linger. It’s all just like the paper said. He goes upstairs, turns off the light, walks out, and puts the tape back. Not a trace of the other dacha, as if it were never there. He wants to go home.

But before he moves out to the street he decides to take a look, refresh his memory, see where he kept watch once upon a time. Over there, over there… Wait, wait…

In the lilac bushes past the pines, in the exact same place, he notices a figure on the ground. The instinct to flee subsides instantly. No cop would sit squatting in the bushes! On top of everything else, it’s a female. She waves. He’s walking, glancing from side to side to make sure no one else is there. But there is. The female has a dog at her feet. It raises its head to Ryabets.

“Got anything to drink?” she asks. “Who are you?”

Definitely a woman. And drunk. Two leathery folds are slipping down her belly from her unbuttoned pink top. Cellulite legs in white ankle socks spread wide. Bezdonka, hah!

While Ryabets is considering her, the woman takes out of her bag (just like his with his Marlboros) a bottle (just like him with his 777), tosses her head back, and glugs down the last of the liquid. She kicks an empty bottle aside.

“Commander, fill my glass! See? Not a drop! I won’t fucking say anything to your wife.”

A flat face, dark, slit eyes, no neck, formless all over. Like a steak! Ryabets thinks culinarily. But something very familiar I can’t put my finger on. What?

“Ryaba? Ryaba! Ryabets! Is that you? Yes, it is!” The woman scrambles onto all fours, straightens up, and starts hobbling toward him, as if she were wearing prostheses. The dog, too, yawns and wags its tail.

Buratina! Fucking amazing. Burataeva! he shouts in his mind.

This clumsy creature had been Ryabets’s erotic dream. Nadya Burataeva—Buratina, as they’d called her in school. The nickname was a jibe at her flat, half-Kalmyk, but definitely not Buryat, nose.

“And you’re just the same, Ryaba, just the same. Maybe a little shrunken, hee hee hee! Still jerking off?” Burataeva’s a meter away and Ryabets can smell her sour stench. “What are you standing there for? Pour! To our meeting! You wouldn’t begrudge Nadya Burataeva a drink, would you? How many years has it been? Eh? Gotta be thirty.”

Ryabets reaches into his bag, removes the bottle and cup, pulls the cork out with his teeth, pours, and offers it to Buratina. He drinks from the bottle.

“So tell me, how have you been? What’s up?”

Ryabets is sitting under a pine facing Buratina. Echoes of her fate surface right away. She was burning up in the fire so she jumped, broke her foot and back, spent a long time in recovery, and after all that discovered she was pregnant. It was born dead, actually. She went quickly downhill. Her parents supported her but she drank, then her lover (a recidivist) did and she drank, they put him in jail and she drank, her parents died and she drank, another pregnancy and she drank, a miscarriage and she drank, she sold everything and drank, her apartment too and drank, disappeared and drank.

“This is Polkan,” she introduces.

Ryabets nods but the dog isn’t taking to him.

“Don’t wet your pants, Ryaba, he won’t touch you. He’s been with me since he was born. Andryukha brought him when he was just a puppy, thi-i-is little. You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you, Ryaba!” Buratina hiccups. And in a gleeful non sequitur: “They shut down the beer stand a long time ago, back under Gorbachev. And all the stores too. We go over the bridge, to Priboy. I’ve been living here ten years, Ryaba, across Bezdonka. I’m moving to Kazan station now. They say it’s a rich place—you can take melons off the trains from the Chuchmeks. You won’t die of hunger near a train station. I’m not staying here, no way.”

“Why?” Ryabets recalls the morning paper.

“Hell if I know!” Buratina shrugs. “Everyone’s run off. Even Andryukha. He promised me. ‘You and me, Nadya, we’ll go to Kazan station, I won’t abandon you.’ So where’s Andryukha now? Kaput. Hee hee hee.”

“Why are you limping?”

“I’m limping? What do you mean I’m limping? What do you mean? I know why I’m limping, I know. But I won’t tell you. Never!” Then she mutters under her breath, “Maybe I’m Madame de La Vallière! Listen, Ryaba, I’m limping because I’m Madame de La Vallière!”

If Ryabets had known how to put his emotions into words, it would have come out something like this: Did I really lust after this woman once? Her? Me? Incredible! Ryabets crinkles his nose.

“… How I’ve lived this long I don’t remember, Ryaba. I took a leap from the second floor! Broke both my little legs. I could’ve suffocated. All the others did: my Alik, and Lidukha, and those other two, I don’t remember who they were. And that fat one who carried around the pictures of women.”

“Boltyansky?”

“That’s it, Ryaba, exactly! He suffocated.” And suddenly she winks. “Should I tell you?”

“What?”

“This! Remember how you used to moon over me, Ryaba? Remember? Hee hee hee! You did, I know you did! But I wouldn’t give it up for you! I would for anyone else, but not you.” She falls silent and starts rocking from side to side.

“Is it true there was a prison here?”

“Definitely. Yes!” And now he can’t tell whether it’s the drink talking or she’s serious. “I won’t let you have any now either, so don’t get any ideas! Don’t you look at how old I am… You’re no stud yourself. All skin and bones. They used to call you Skull, remember?” She fell silent for several moments, then suddenly: “Andryukha died here. Kirei died and Sabel died. We were four in this pipe—I mean the four of us lived together… I’m all alone now… Andryukha left a week ago, said he’d grab me some booze… He didn’t… It’s scary here, Ryaba. Where can I take Polkan? Huh? They won’t let him into the train station. Will you take him?”

“That’s all I need.”

“Yeah, right. You like a little port now and then too, I see! Like when we were kids. Don’t you make enough for a little brandy, Ryaba? What’s your job these days?”

“Cook.”

Buratina whistles. “In a restaurant?”

“A cafeteria. I feed the black-assed negroes at the university. Fortunately, it’s only ten minutes from home.”

“What do you cook for them?”

“Oh, everything: goulash, groats, cabbage soup.”

“Did you ever try foie gras?”

“That’s only a name: it’s goose liver. What’s there to try? Put it in rassolnik, potroshki—just the ticket. And the cucumbers have to be thickly sliced, preferably marinated.” Ryabets pauses to pour for Buratina. “Here’s to our meeting!” He takes a swig.

“Ryaba, you know why I wouldn’t let you have any? You look all cold, but on the inside—phooey! One of those. Us girls didn’t like you; you had this look, like you wanted to maul us. Maul us with your eyes and go down there with your nose. Hee hee hee! Our dear departed Bolt was like that too, but I felt sorry for him. Who was going to give that fatso any? He carried those dirty pictures around, but you mooned, you just egged me on. Oh, poor Bolt! And poor Mesropych, even if he was a stinker.”

“Why be sorry? They’re gone.”

“Who would have thought? Not one gray hair,” Buratina mutters.

“How’d you see me?” They’re sitting in total darkness now and can’t even make out each other’s faces anymore. Buratina’s smoking, a cheap bitter smell.

Ryabets stands up to pee. He’s not shy.

“Don’t piss on the grave!” Buratina cries.

Ryabets says nothing.

“Listen, Ryaba, here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe I could come to your place? With Polkan…?” The dog growls huskily. “I’ll wash up. Do you live alone? Are your mother and father dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t even remember the last time I slept anywhere clean. What’s there for me here? They killed Andryukha! And Kirei… and Sabel… What about you, Ryaba, not married?”

“No.”

“Why not? Waiting for a princess? Or for me? Hee hee hee! Maybe I’ll give you some today, but Ryabets…” Buratina babbles.

Sometimes he can’t tell whether she’s really drunk or just pretending.

“You didn’t answer me, Ryaba. Why haven’t you gotten married?”

“I’ve been waiting for my dick to grow up.”

“Hee hee hee! You? I don’t believe that! Why did you jerk off outside my window? I remember…”

“My first little darling is lying over there.” She nods toward the fence and a night-black honeysuckle. “Do you think his little bones are still there?”

Ryabets imagines the child’s half-decayed bones. “Of course not, after all those years. Maybe a skull… or the tibias, they’re thick.”

“You’re a chef, you should know. And the second one next to him. I buried them at night, the snow was coming down; I remember, it was November.”

“You got the first from Mesropych?”

Buratina nodded and hiccupped.

“Whose was the second?”

“I don’t know. I was sleeping with everyone. I’d go to sleep under one and wake up and another’s going at it. Let the dogs have their way! And my baby girl. She’s lying right over there. She’d be nine… Pour me a little, why don’t you.”

Ryabets splashes some in the cup and Buratina drinks greedily.

“My baby girl was Andryukha’s. We lived over there, where you see the gazebo now. We had a concrete pipe, like this.” Buratina tries to show him how big with her hands. “We lived there a good five years. Or more. With Andryukha and Sabel, and Kirei came later.”

“You mean you gave birth there?”

“Where else, I’d like to know! Andryukha sterilized the knife in the fire and cut the cord. I wanted to leave my little girl, my baby daughter, with them, the people with the fanciest house. I thought at least then she’d have a life. Only she died a week later. Right when I was about to give her up. Andryukha would bring her food, he knew the cashier at the store on Zhivopisnaya, a good woman, and she gave it to him for free. Milk, Ryaba, and cereal. You can imagine what my milk was like. My little girl…”

Buratina strokes the ground and weeps silently, only her sniffling gives her away.

The noises on the other side of the fence have died down completely. Only occasionally does a car whoosh by, unseen.

“It was nice when we lived in the pipe, Ryaba. Even in the winter, it was a palace! We’d fill up the opening on one end and hang a towel over the other. A foursome makes it cozy—terrific! Tchaikovsky Hall! There weren’t any windows, but what good would they do? And the other cops left us alone. They’d come, take a look, and leave. There was this one, Lieutenant Bessonov, he was old and had a red nose, a lush. He’d come have a smoke at our fire. He used to say that when he retired he’d move in with us. Hee hee hee! He’d just grab his fishing rod from home, he didn’t need anything else. That’s what he used to say. He was joking, that cop. Later he disappeared. And the cops turned mean! They set all my stuff on fire twice, Ryaba, they burned it! Oh, what good stuff… mattresses! We moved over under the bridge, then to the church—you know the one, past the bridge? But now, Ryaba, that’s it, it’s time to stop!”

Buratina stirs, and Ryabets listens.

“Pour me some more. I’m going to drink my fill today, as if it were the last time, Ryaba! My life’s been bitter. And now I have to go to Kazan. They must have their own ways there, those station whores must be on top there!”

“Did you think I didn’t know? Hee hee hee! It was you who burned down the dacha, Ryaba. You! You! Damn it all.”

“Cut the crap.”

“You always wanted me. I remember the way you used to look at me, the way you hung around outside my window, peeping! Hee hee hee!” Buratina’s voice is so raspy he can hardly make it out. “You still had your beret, the brown one. Ryaba in his beret!”

Ryabets remembers those fall evenings well. He did walk around under Buratina’s windows, since she lived on the second floor, and he would keep an eye out—in the window just a fine veil of tulle, and Buratina prancing around her room in her panties, tight white panties. Before she went to bed she’d examine herself in her window reflection. She really didn’t have a mirror? She’d touch her breasts, belly, hips. Those brief minutes were the ones Ryabets lived for. He never suspected that Buratina was doing that for him, the spy in the night.

She was telling the truth. In school Ryabets couldn’t take his eyes off her. Everyone knew it. He’d sneak up behind her after class, staring at her strong, curvy legs, and fantasize. Knowing this, she’d tease him. First she’d stick her foot out in the aisle between their desks, then happen to clasp her breasts, then happen to touch herself down there. She was teasing him, and in his erotic visions every night, he tortured her ingeniously as only a youthful imagination can. None of his classmates digested the porn Boltyansky unfailingly brought to school as avidly as Ryabets. He’d arrive at school in the morning listless and gray from lack of sleep.

After the fire he found out that Buratina had survived and was in the hospital, pregnant. He was afraid to visit her. But he did visit the burn site right before he went into the army. His three years’ service were pretty cushy, stationed at a garrison kitchen in Baltiisk. He was eventually discharged and went back to those windows, but Buratina was gone. Her Kalmyk father was watching television in the next window; her mother was bustling around the kitchen. He kept going back there for two weeks. After dark. He started culinary school, graduated, and wound up at the cafeteria where he’d worked to this day. He’d lived unsociably, especially after his hard-drinking parents both died. He never married. He gratified his urges (occasionally, on days he got an advance or a paycheck) with train station prostitutes, whom he threw out after coitus. Had they known that he could barely stop himself from strangling them as he was ejaculating, they would have thanked their lucky stars.

Later he moved on to self-service, thanks to progress: there probably wasn’t a better collection of porn films in Moscow.

“Bolt was better than you, just fat. He didn’t jerk off under my window. He came to me honestly and said, ‘Give me some, Buratinachka, just once. What’s it to you?’ Hee hee hee! He’d come down to my place. We lived near each other, remember? Like he had a question about biology.” (Buratina was good at biology; she’d wanted to go to medical school.) “He’d come and sit down and breathe hard, like a sperm whale… He’d bring me that book… what was it? About the Italians who told stories.”

“The Decameron.”

“That’s it! He said he’d taken it from his parents. He’s reading it out loud and squeezing his thigh… And he stinks to high heaven, Ryaba, from cologne. He must have poured half a bottle on himself so I’d give him some. I even thought maybe I should. Why let the guy suffer? But I decided—first Mesropych… I wanted him to pop my cherry, hee hee hee! Then we’d see! I had some real studs, didn’t I, Polkan boy?” Buratina scratches the dog’s scruff again. “I’m a whore! I’d give some to Polkan, but the animal gets me all scratched up. What do you expect? Hee hee hee!”

Ryabets remembers. He remembers very well. He remembers Buratina being the only girl in their class—to the envy of the other girls and the greater dissatisfaction of Pichuga, their homeroom teacher—to wear lacy stockings, which made Ryaba’s heart race.

“Remember, Ryaba, the story in that book when one woman arranges to meet him at her house? He comes, and the maid says, ‘Wait a little, her husband’s there…’ And she—the maid, that is—gets it on with the man. That guy was out in the cold all night! Just like you! Hee hee hee. But later he had his revenge, he drove her out on the roof, I think… Right?”

Buratina takes the bottle and finishes it off in one swig.

“Whoo! All right, Ryaba, what the hell. You can’t bring ’em back. Not Bolt, not Mesropych, not Lidukha. I don’t remember the others.” She suddenly falls over, first on her side, then facedown. “But you, Ryaba, you’re not getting any. I was going to give you some, but I’m not. Sleep, my beloved children.”

Her hands stroke the rough grass and fall still.

Ryabets has a headache. He shuts his eyes. He should be getting up. It’s late. He’s not going to spend the night here, on her children’s bones. Or is this crazy woman lying? Though no, she said some sensible things too. Such a strange day. But there’s still the newspaper. His mother didn’t give him up when that detective came poking around. He’d asked, Could someone have fought with Mesropych, or Boltyansky, or even Burataeva? From their class, maybe someone was getting back at them? Or was it just the drinking and carousing? The detective questioned everyone. With some, he went to their houses; others he called in. Eventually he decided it was an accident, a cigarette butt. Besides, it was so dry there. Like now. Drier even. The peat burned, definitely. There was smoke. People were coughing.

Crackle, pain, heat. Ryabets opens his eyes and sees Buratina, her arm raised, holding the bottle—the moon’s predatory reflection on its jagged edges. She’s going to kill me! He moves to the side, Buratina falls—crack!—a red rose plunges into the sand.

“Bitch,” he whistles, clutching her shoulders and pressing her to the ground. “You wanted to kill me?”

Buratina is silent, and for a moment her back is tense under Ryabets’s hands, but then it goes slack. He holds her down with his knees and moves his hands to her neck. Blood drips black on her hair. He smells fresh urine. Finding the thyroid cartilage, he presses and presses on it from both sides, vividly imagining her anatomy. A quiet whistle like from a bicycle tire, and then silence. Off to the side Polkan’s shadow is wagging its tail, baring its teeth. “Nadya, Nadya!”

“You never read The Decameron?” Boltyansky exclaims.

Ryabets doesn’t like Boltyansky. That he’s fat is bad enough, but he has those sticky little hands and those manicured nails, damnit. On top of it all, Boltyansky keeps bringing porn to school, photos blurry from being copied so many times. Girls with big tits and grayish bodies (the result of the copying) straddling muscle-bound guys. Or offering up their cushiony asses. Or spreading their lips. One look is all it takes and then there is strawberry jam all over the floor.

Boltyansky shows the photos in his hand, gripping them with his little pink fingers. If for the others the viewings are a standard diversion, it’s different for Ryabets. The sticky feeling has degenerated into horror at a female’s touch, be it a hand, elbow, accidental breast, or innocent hair. Even his mother’s touch—extremely rare, fortunately—repulses him. If Praskovya Fyodorovna so much as strokes his head when she’s tipsy, it turns his stomach and make his insides clench up.

“Droll Stories too. That’s Balzac,” Boltyansky preaches. They’re walking home from school.

“Can I read it?”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’ll bring The Decameron, not Balzac. Balzac’s in a series. My parents would notice. They don’t let me lend books. The Decameron’s better than Balzac anyway. Balzac just has one weird story, about how he disguised himself as a woman so he could fuck her. Well, I mean, first he’d make friends and all that, you know, and then he’d fuck her. The rest is just boring. The Decameron’s more interesting.”

Boltyansky does bring The Decameron, a fat blue volume with an elegantly lettered title, and gives Ryabets a two-week deadline. Ryabets skims the yellowed pages and sets it aside. Final exams are starting soon.

“Wouldn’t you know? The minute I climb off her, the bell! She goes to the door and wipes off the blood, all scared. ‘Who’s there?’ Boltyansky: ‘It’s me, Nadya.’ Her: ‘Damn! What do you want?’ Him: ‘Want to go for a walk?’ Ha ha ha!” Mesropov nearly falls down laughing. “Just imagine. A walk!”

“What did she say?” Ryabets’s lips are dry. He and Mesropov are standing in the schoolyard. The graduation party is starting in half an hour. Everyone’s already been drinking and they’re sharing the news half-soused.

“She’s practically rolling in laughter. Well, I sneak up from behind while she’s talking to him through the door and give it to her good! If only Bolt could have seen what we were doing four inches away!”

Six months before, Mesropov had vowed that before graduation night he was going to pop the cherry of one of their classmates. Fiercely handsome and ox-eyed, he drove the girl crazy.

“I just came and he says again, ‘Nadya, Nadya’”—Mesropov mimicked Boltyansky’s squeaky voice—“‘Let’s go for a walk…’ Well, I yanked the door open! Just as I was, no underpants, only a T-shirt! And a rubber flapping in my hand. Catch! Bolt’s eyes bug out and he runs! Ha ha ha!”

“What about her?” Ryabets is breathing fast.

“Who? Nadya? Nadya’s fine, Ryaba, just fine. She plays along! We fucked like bunnies for hours. Whoo! I can barely stand up. So we’re going to Silver Pine Forest tomorrow, right, Ryaba? Nadya’s got this friend, Lidukha. She’s little but she’s got titties out the wazoo! I’d rather have Lidukha, but Nadya… It’s nice there, in the forest. Never been? Tons of bushes! ‘Under every bush she kept a table set and a home!’ Ha ha ha!”

Some other classmates come up and Mesropov starts recounting his adventure.

“Bolt gave me The Decameron to read,” Ryabets says when he’s finished.

“What? The De-cam-er-on? Give me a break! That Decameron’s kid stuff. Ever heard ‘Luka Mudischev’? The actor Vesnik does it. ‘The Mudischev clan was ancient, it had a patrimony, villages, and giant firs!’ Come over, I’ll play it! The Decameron. Hah! Kid stuff, Ryaba, kid stuff!”

“It all depends on your imagination,” Tregubov the intellectual interposes weightily. “Some guys can get off on a keyhole. I don’t think The Decameron’s half bad. Quattrocento, feast during the plague… Italy! It’s not ancient Russia. Signorine, not girls! Pinos, not pines!”

Tregubov knows what he’s talking about. In his not quite seventeen years he’s the only one in class who’s been abroad, he even lived in Italy. His father worked at the Soviet consulate in Rome.

“Pinos? Is that like a blowjob?” Mesropov.

“No, amico mio, it’s a Mediterranean pine tree. A sky of purest blue! The sea! The sun! O sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/O sole, o sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/sta ’nfro-o-o-onte a te-e-e-e!” Tregubov sings, breaking into a falsetto.

“A goddamn Caruso!” Mesropov says with respect.

Boltyansky enters the yard wearing a black suit and a skinny black tie. His black hair is combed back and slicked so it shines. Seeing Mesropov, he nearly stumbles and his cheeks break out in red spots.

“Hey, pino,” someone shouts, “want to go for a walk?”

Friendly laughter.

Ryabets doesn’t stick around for the party. He takes his diploma and leaves. As he’s walking down the stairs from the auditorium, Boltyansky catches up to him.

“You’re taking off?”

“What do you care?”

“You’re not staying for the dance?”

“I don’t give a damn about that.”

“When are you going to return the book? My parents have been asking. Did you read it?”

“Not all of it. Exams. I’ll finish tomorrow. I’m fast.”

Buratina passes them on the stairs. Powdered cheeks, high heels, short little skirt, lacy stockings, and looking slightly sloshed—she’s giggling oddly. Boltyansky licks his lips. Three more steps up and she stops.

“Ryaba, want a drink? The kids are in the gym. They still have some left.”

“No, I’m going home. I have a headache.”

Ryabets can’t tear his eyes away from Buratina’s legs. She smiles.

“Home, home, home,” she teases. “To his mama… Why don’t you come to Silver Pine Forest tomorrow? Third beach. Know it? We’ll go swimming at 5 or 6, when we wake up. My girlfriend Lida has a dacha there, her parents are taking off, so…”

“Fine,” Ryabets rasps, and heads downstairs.

“What’s with you?” he hears the teasing directed at Boltyansky. “Want to go for a walk? Hee hee hee!”

Boltyansky calls at 4 or so.

“Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Did you forget?”

“Too far.”

“That’s okay, you can stay over. Nadya’s friend has a dacha there.”

“I don’t know, maybe I will.”

“And grab The Decameron. My parents are pestering me.”

“All right.” Ryabets hangs up.

Followed by a surprise: Buratina. She’s calling! In the whole ten years they’ve been in the same class, this is the first time.

“Ryaba, hi.” A depressed voice, as if she’s holding back tears. “Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Take me.”

Ryaba’s heart is pounding. Joy! But fear too. Picturing Nadya in a swimsuit, he can’t imagine what he’ll do with himself. His swimsuit’s going to bristle!

“All right.”

“Should I come by then? In an hour?”

Ryabets hangs up and runs to the bathroom. He decides that if he does it a few times he might get by… He twirls in front of the mirror—uses his mama’s powder on his zits, combs his hair back, then parts it; changes his shirt, rolls up his sleeves, rolls them down. What else? What if she walks in, he kisses her, she responds, and—

A ring. Not the door, the phone. It’s her.

“Listen, Ryaba, I’ll wait for you at the bus stop. If I come over, you’ll rape me. You gave me such a look yesterday! Hee hee hee!”

Oof!

Ryabets grabs his bag and towel, throws The Decameron in—he suddenly remembered—and runs outside.

Nadya’s wearing a yellow shirt with the top buttons undone, and there are her breasts. And a miniskirt too. Her face is creased; she drank and partied all night long. She’s got a mark on the back of her neck. A hickey? Her eyes, half-Kalmyk to start with, are swollen; the abundant mascara highlights this. Her perfume—from a long way off. Ryabets stares and joy bubbles up inside him alternately with horror.

It’s a long trip: trolley, subway, transfer, subway, trolley. Ryabets notices glances at his companion—men’s leers, women’s frowns.

Ryabets can’t for the life of him figure out why she isn’t with Mesropov. It’s a puzzle. Going with Mesropov makes sense. Mesropov would take her in a taxi. All the way to the beach. His parents are really rich.

The trolley crosses the bridge toward pines, pines, and more pines. Pinos.

“Lidukha lives way over there,” Nadya points out the window. Tall green and blue dachas with turrets amid century pines. “We’ll go to her place after the beach, tonight. Her parents are off traveling somewhere. Will you go?”

“Maybe,” Ryabets mumbles.

They get out. Ryabets is holding his bag in front for obvious reasons.

They’re walking down the road next to a very high fence.

“Who lives here? Artists?” he asks.

“Big shots, diplomats, and artists too. Did you see the Japanese flag behind the fence at the stop?”

“Lucky dogs… In Moscow, but like being in a forest.”

Nadya shrugs.

They leave the road and walk among the pines across the sand. Nadya takes off her platform shoes. Ryabets lags behind a little. Make up your mind! is knocking in his brain. She went into the forest on purpose, on purpose!

He puts his hand on Nadya’s shoulder. The girl stops.

“What are you doing?” She removes his hand.

“I… I—” He drops his bag and tries to put his arms around her.

She dodges him. “That’d be just great. This place is full of people!”

“I… I… just… wanted… to kiss you.”

“Kiss me?” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips. “There! Later, later…”

“When?” Ryabets rasps.

“Tonight, maybe. Who makes love in the afternoon?”

Mesropov and the gang are already at the beach. Boltyansky’s there too. The others are strangers, dark-haired and guttural, Mesropov’s fellow tribesmen. They greet the appearance of Ryabets and Burataeva cheerfully, by pouring the Armenian brandy. Ryabets doesn’t drink. He takes a whiff and sets it aside. First of all, he’s never tried anything stronger than New Year’s champagne, and second, he’s angry. Nadya’s the only girl in the group. She goes for a swim. She swims for a long time and he watches her. She’s already squealing and giggling, and they’re already pawing at her. Mesropov and his friends. “Bastards! Bastards!” he shouts with his head under water so no one can hear.

They play ball, jump around, roughhouse. Ryabets sits on a lounge and rages. Then they wander over to a beer stand on Krug. Mesropov and Burataeva take up the rear with their arms around each other. Ryabets looks back. He doesn’t go near Buratina at the beer stand or later when they finally show up at the dacha of Lidukha, a little brunette with small, intense eyes. She greets her guests on the porch. Mesropov kisses her hand, and at that moment Buratina remembers Ryabets and glances around. He’s standing at the gate.

“Are you coming or what?”

“No, I’m going home.”

He’ll kill her, the bitch, he will.

Ryabets squeezes his dry fists.

Laughter from a second-story window: “Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!”

That last is hers.

Ryabets feels the rough wall. It’s dry, it’s going to burn, so don’t cry, mama!

First, gasoline. No problem. There’s a car by the gate.

Second, a hose. Where’s the hose? There—the dead snake on the dry grass. Everything’s very dry. Laughter and more laughter. Drunken and insolent. And music. Someone’s puking.

Third, a bottle. Here’s a jar under the porch. Two of them. Liter bottles. Great!

Ryabets uses his teeth to rip off a piece—about a meter long—of the snake-hose’s black flesh. There we go, there. He twists off the gas cap. Now suck—ha ha—suck! Acrid fumes, more, more… till you feel like puking. More, more… E-ro-tic! Boltyansky would say. He wouldn’t have to listen to his, Boltyansky’s, laughing, fearless, or him jerking off in the hall… Not a damn thing was going to be left of him either.

It’s flowing! First down the throat, then into the jar. A liter. Let’s pour. Another liter. That’s it, no more sucks out. That’s enough. It’s so dry it could catch without gasoline.

Now to wait. Cover the jar with a towel at least, so it doesn’t evaporate off, and wait-wait-wait.

Ryabets moves away from the dacha and sits leaning up against a sticky pine trunk. Wait. It’s a good thing there’s no dog. No dog.

Ryabets’s hand slithers into his pants. No, he shouldn’t. If I come I’ll back down. It’s wrong. For three years she’s all I’ve been thinking of. Hands off!

Her short haircut in the window. She’s smoking, tapping the ashes right where he was just standing. Oops! The butt flies like a drunken star and drops next to his invisible feet. And smolders. But it could catch fire. It could. Excellent. She’s gone. Yesterday Mesropov said he wanted her girlfriend. But who wants her? These guys? The Chuchmeks? Bitch.

It’s not jealousy, it’s justice. Like in The Decameron. She keeps him waiting in the yard in winter while she consoles herself with someone else. Italy. And the wife forced her husband to climb into a barrel to caulk it up from the inside. She’s standing there and showing him where… while another guy fucks her from behind. Cheerful folks. And there’s the one who pretended to be deaf and dumb in a convent. That’s the life!

Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!

When are they going to settle down? First brandy, then beer, then brandy. How will he get home? How? The trolleys will stop running. So will the subway. I’ll call my mother. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Evidence. They’ll ask his mother, When did your son come home?

Phooey! He’s in trouble again. Don’t do that. Go home. Jerk off as much as you can. Until you can’t, ha ha.

Shhh. They’ve turned off the lights. Gone to bed? Bolt too? With who? Quietly by myself… Super! The terrace door creaks. Ryabets presses up against the trunk and tucks his feet in. The shadow from a nearby bush hides him. A rustle. Lidukha with the big tits. Mesropov. They stop and whisper.

“I won’t without them. Where did she throw them, the fool?”

“Over here somewhere. It’s dark, where should I look? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You promise but it’s my ass!”

“Lighten up, will you? I swear, I’ll be careful!”

“Uh-huh, and then it’s you and Nadya?”

“What’s with you? I didn’t invite her, you did. You and I have all day tomorrow, don’t we? When are your parents coming back?”

And he paws at her, the Chuchmek, he paws at Lidukha. He pulls her to the ground and lifts her skirt, goddamn decameron!

Ryabets goggles at the silhouettes fornicating. He feels like coming out and… kicking, kicking! Just be patient. Wait and be patient. Lidukha gives a faint cry. And Ryabets notices her look out the window. Her profile is sweet, but her eyes are harsh. That means she sees everything and isn’t going away. Why? Why? Mesropych rolls off the girl. Like a tick. Nadya spins around and vanishes.

They stand up, shake off, and leave. They close the door. Lock it. Very good. Wait.

Ryabets, crouching, moves toward the house, right where the couple was. There’s something kind of white in the grass—condoms! Two packets held together by a rubber band. Why did they leave them here?

Ryabets is standing behind the bridge pylon watching. The flashes he could barely make out a minute ago are visible now, and furious. The pinos are burning, the pinos! Like candles!

He stands and watches. Another ten minutes and it’ll be dawn. Two fire engines speed past. And an ambulance. Too late.

He descends to Novikov-Priboy Street, finds a telephone booth, drops in a two-kopek coin, and dials. His mother doesn’t answer right away, she mumbles incoherently, and Ryabets is relieved. She’s drunk. If she’s drunk, that means his father’s been asleep for a long time too. No need to hurry.

Last man standing. How powerful is that? Like Mesropych. Boltyansky once asked Zinaida Leonidovna, the lit teacher, about The Decameron. Had she read it? That idiot four-eyes exploded. “Who gave you permission to read books like that?” And Boltyansky said to her, “But it’s a classic. It says so in the preface.” “A classic?” Zinaida Leonidovna hollered. “I’ll give you a classic, Boltyansky! I worry that’s all you think about! It’s never occurred to you that The Decameron is primarily an anticlerical book. Go to the board, Boltyansky. Tell me about the images of Communists in Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov’s Quiet Flows the Don and Virgin Soil Upturned. Or should I fail you immediately? Tell your parents to come see me tomorrow!”

“You mean we shouldn’t read Balzac either, Zinaida Leonidovna?” This was Tregubov, a top student. She wouldn’t dare yell at him. “What Balzac?” She was buying time. “Droll Stories, Zinaida Leonidovna!” She blushed deeply, removed her glasses, and put them back on. “Today we will continue our study of Virgin Soil. Open your notebooks…”

Ryabets finds an open doorway and hides under the stairs. He can wait here a few hours, in the corner, and then the trolleys will start running. And the subway. Don’t cry, you’ll wake people up. Don’t cry.

THE DOPPELGÄNGER by Gleb Shulpyakov Zamoskvorechye ^{Translated by Sylvia Maizell}

Once there lived an actor in Moscow. For many years he performed in a celebrated theater and appeared fleetingly in TV serials. He was considered famous although he never made it as a popular icon. And this didn’t bother him in the least. It happened long ago, about twenty years or so—he had the good fortune to play a small but impressive role in a famous film about the Revolution. Eventually he settled down, having decided he’d made his mark, that he’d already been inscribed in the history of cinematography.

After that film they recognized him for many years on the streets. But without any frenzy, without their eyes popping out. Hey, look who’s coming, uh, what’s his name… And there followed the name of the character he played, since no one remembered the actor’s real name.

He lived many years alone in a tiny bachelor apartment the theater provided for him, in a Stalin-era building by the Paveletskaya station, in the Zamoskvorechye neighborhood. The theater administration had offered several times to move him to a new place on the other side of the river, closer to work. But each time the actor refused. He liked living here. Over time he had grown fond of the mysterious silence of the streets on Sundays; more and more often he imagined another life that was long gone in its sagging mansions; in the evenings, when he strolled the narrow streets, it seemed to him that this life hadn’t ended one hundred years before but still flickered—there, behind the dusty panes, behind the chipped wooden shutters. He was fond of the amusing and naïve residents of these streets, who were on a first-name basis with each other, who at the streetcar stops exchanged rumors about a maniac from the chocolate factory; about a sect that met in the abandoned church by the metro and devoured ancient ecclesiastical texts; about the corner house with the rotunda that housed a secret brothel.

And so on.

His daughter used to come from Germany to visit him here in Zamoskvoreche. She’d clean the room and stuff the refrigerator with provisions. She’d bring medicine for his chronic cold. Photos of his twin grandchildren. And then she’d be gone for a year.

He kept a photo of the twins with a stack of fan letters in a desk drawer. He’d study the identical faces with amazement and disdain, making out, through their German imprint, the features of his ancestors.

His hobby, his passion, was telescopes. Spyglasses in particular. He assembled them, with his own hands—after shows or in the morning if there were no rehearsals. He calculated angles and radii from magazines and handbooks. And distances. He’d send a list to his daughter and she’d bring him first-class German lenses. He’d fit them in a tube made by the theater metal workers (for some reasons these workers loved him). Thus a telescope on a tripod made an appearance. And he’d pull heavenly objects somewhat closer to Moscow.

What can you see in the blurry Moscow sky, where only the moon—and that with difficulty—makes its way to the viewer? Nonetheless, right after a performance, he’d rush to Paveletskaya. If the night was more or less clear, he’d sit down on the wide windowsill and sharpen the focus. Or he’d spread maps out on the floor and make calculations. He’d determine the favorable days and segments of the sky in which a constellation would appear.

And so he lived this way from year to year. He went on film shoots and tours, to festivals in Sochi and Vyborg. He took on a lover from the theater orchestra. He’d call on her at the dormitory on Gruzinskaya Street. But mostly he spent his time between the theater and the stars. Until, ultimately, this thing happened.

One March morning he set out for the laundromat, as he did every other Saturday, to drop off his underwear and shirts. The establishment was close by, two stops on the streetcar. Since on the weekends you can wait forever for Moscow’s public transportation, and since it was sunny, he decided to go on foot. He had just set off when suddenly, ringing and rumbling, a streetcar came bounding down the street.

It simply emerged from the flow of traffic and flung its doors open.

There was nothing to be done. It was fate. He was in luck. He made his way to the end of the car and set his laundry bag down. He looked around. The car was empty, except for a man in a sheepskin coat and an old woman with her grandchild sitting up front. The car started off; the mansions, like rickety old wardrobes, drifting by. Somewhere church bells were sounding—the Saturday chimes had begun. The actor closed his eyes and imagined they were riding through old, prerevolutionary Moscow, as in some Ivan Shmelev tale or a play by Ostrovsky. A hundred years ago the bells probably rang exactly the same way, he thought. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the man in the sheepskin coat was standing near the front, about to get off.

His profile seemed familiar and the actor was touched with the thought that earlier, two centuries ago, everyone here would have known each other.

Moving down the steps, the man turned around and their eyes met. The actor gasped. He saw that this man resembled him; they were like two peas in a pod.

And that, in essence, before him stood he himself—only in different clothes.

Amazed, the actor dropped his bag and a towel fell out onto the dirty floor. When he managed to stuff it back, the doors had already slammed shut. His double had disappeared. The actor rushed to the window but the pane was covered over with glossy paper. Nothing was visible through the face of an advertisement diva.

He pulled the window open and leaned out. An enormous billboard, Gold, and a yellow church fence caught his eye. That one, the other one, was standing on a corner looking right back at the actor. And again, with frightening clarity, he saw himself. His own face—familiar to the point of disgust from all the films and posters.

Well, so what? Anything can happen in Moscow. But still, thoughts of a double made him anxious. At first he drove them away, annoyed at his stupidity. He tried to make fun of himself. He laughed. He recalled many films with just such a plot. But nothing helped. The image of his double was haunting and tenacious.

What if it’s my twin brother? After all, it was postwar times. Total confusion. We were returning to Moscow from the evacuation… Mother remembered she was holding a little baby, and that he didn’t make it, that he had died… Maybe he simply got lost?

My daughter too gave birth to twins.

No, this just can’t be true.

He’d sit down on the bed and drink a glass of water from a decanter. He’d nervously stare at the hair on his bare legs. Then he’d take out the photo of his grandchildren and scrutinize it once more. With each night it seemed they resembled him less and less—because they looked more and more like the man in the sheepskin coat. From the empty streetcar.

That means people recognize him on the streets. Of course they do! They want to know how things are. They ask for an autograph. Maybe he’s an honest fellow and tells them they are mistaken. But what if he isn’t?

He imagined clearly how that one, the other one, arrives instead of him at the theater, pays visits to the flutist. And he’d throw himself on the bed, snarling into the pillow from rage. But soon another feeling began to penetrate his impotent fury—of emptiness, total emasculation, of indifference. He had only ever experienced something similar after difficult performances. When he played a role he didn’t fully understand. One he hadn’t quite entered. He felt like a coat shoved onto a hanger; it just hangs there, dangling in the darkness, completely forgotten by everyone. Dead. He’d pinch himself and pull at his hair. He’d grab the phone. But who could he call?

Not the police.

His life gradually began to take a new turn. He shifted the telescope from the sky to the streetcar stop. For hours he’d track the people clustered there in hopes of seeing the one in the sheepskin coat. For no particular reason he kept going downstairs to the store. He hung around the counter a lot so they’d recognize and greet him. If they didn’t, he’d begin to panic. He’d loiter around the neighborhood, peering into faces, and his feet would inevitably take him back to that corner with the yellow church fence and the Gold billboard where his twin, the stranger, had disappeared.

But the twin was nowhere to be found.

What’s more, they stopped phoning him from the theater to remind him of performances and rehearsals. As if they had forgotten or fired him. Once he made the call himself, but an unfamiliar voice didn’t recognize him. He got frightened and hung up. So he stopped calling. He was afraid.

A week later, he simply got in his car one evening and drove downtown.

Under the notice Today on the poster in front of the theater, his performance was announced.

So, the impostor has already taken my place.

Relieved, the actor sat down in a café and began to drink, although he had given up alcohol after a heart attack ten years earlier. Cognac, beer, vodka—he ordered them indiscriminately. He drank greedily, without a snack, gazing between glasses at the ad behind the dusty window. Your blood will save a life, a girl urged from the poster, smiling her celluloid smile.

He couldn’t remember how he got home. The smoke-filled cellar at Novokuznetskaya station and the patchy shadows, in whose company he’d swigged down vodka and belted out songs, flashed in his memory.

He collapsed in his clothes but couldn’t fall asleep because he was sick at heart. Pulling his knees to his chin, he lay there and listened to the very same sentence that kept echoing in his head. Your blood will save a life, someone’s quiet, velvety voice kept repeating.

Your blood will save a life.

He had finally begun to doze off when a thick, enveloping nausea overtook his body. It rose up like sludge and flooded his consciousness. His heart became a big balloon about to burst into pieces. So that’s how one dies, he thought, starting to lose consciousness, vanishing slowly into an airless well and resurfacing later in the darkness of a sleepless night. At dawn, coming to on sweat-soaked sheets, he moved to an armchair. Hunched over from the pain in his heart, he sat there until daylight.

Around 11 he was jolted by the ringing telephone. It was a call from the theater; the troupe, it turned out, had just returned the day before from a short tour. The director’s assistant was reminding him there was a performance that evening. “In your honor,” she flirted.

“But how can…?” he mumbled into the receiver.

“The new cloakroom attendant got it mixed up,” the woman nattered on. “Instead of Tomorrow, he put up the sign that said Today. We’ll rehearse the dance an hour before curtain, as usual.” And she hung up.

Standing under the shower, he came to his senses. He was amazed how quickly, with one single phone call, the nightmare vanished. It simply came unglued like a plastic advertising sticker and flew away in the wind. Sobered up, cheerful, he set about tidying the whole apartment. He washed the floor and windows. He dropped off his underwear, which had been lying in the corner since that day, at the laundromat. He for the first time ever phoned his daughter.

“Imagine, such nonsense!” he said, chuckling into the receiver. “I knew they were supposed to go on tour, but I simply forgot.”

“Everyone’s so nervous!” The daughter gave a Chekhovian sigh, and it was obvious she was thinking of someone else as well.

“The Irish call one’s double his fetch,” she said in parting. “I’ll send you some pills. That should help.”

That evening they gave the performance. And they say he played Caesar as never before, fiercely, implacably, desperately. In such a way that before the ovation, when the emperor exits into eternity, a pause hung in the air for a few seconds—as in olden times, when the spectator truly believed what was happening on stage.

Returning home, the actor didn’t feel his usual fatigue. On the contrary, blood was racing through his veins, his energy was overflowing. He even got out of the cab and walked home on foot, swinging his arms widely. A new life, he thought, will definitely begin from this night forward. It will be wonderful and serene. Unpredictable and clear.

Not like the one which he had lived.

He entered his apartment. Without taking off his coat, he began to wander around the room. How about going back again on the street? he thought. How about a breath of fresh air? To hell with it, how about meeting some woman, maybe even from the railroad station? Maybe go to a café, or a movie.

He stood looking out the window, watching how persistently and interminably the cars moved around the ring. Then his gaze fell on the telescope. It was pointing to the streetcar stop, as before. And rubbing his palms, he triumphantly sharpened the focus.

In the lens, two round-shouldered teenagers stood shifting their feet and spitting noiselessly. He moved the tube forward a millimeter and saw next to them a man with a briefcase.

His twin, his double. That very one.

When he ran out onto the street, the kids were trying to snatch the briefcase out of the man’s hands. An empty jar was rolling along the asphalt. A hand flashed, the sound of a dull, crunching blow. The double clutched at his face.

“Hey!” shouted the actor across the street. “What do you think you’re doing!”

And he stepped out into the road.

The impact of a car flipped him around several times in the air. He fell, and tumbling along the asphalt, he came to a stop, his arms flung wide.

Through the dark sludge that was flooding his consciousness, he was able to see his double take off down a side street. Then someone’s hands ran along his body, and he thought about the flutist, how she would undress him, caress him. But these were other hands. Fast and clumsy, a man’s hands. They dug into his pockets and grabbed his watch. Then wiped it off with disgust on the sleeves of his raincoat.

“Look at this weirdo, he’s a copy,” sounded over his ear. “Same face.”

There was some spitting and a swish of fabric. The last things he saw were two pairs of tattered sneakers retreating swiftly down the street.