The Sin Collector

MASHA

But Masha was only just getting in bed.

She and Innokenty had driven back from the hospital in silence. Masha needed to let Dr. Gluzman’s lecture stew for a while. It was crazy, fantastical, impossible. But the impossible and fantastical fit so well into the pattern Masha had already spotted in the murders. It was logical, in an insane way. Masha’s studies of serial killers had taught her that insane yet logical justifications were their forte. She stared out at the Garden Ring Road flying by her window. She needed to get into the killer’s head. Who are you, Mr. Heavenly Jerusalem?

Expensive cars rushed by. Ah, Moscow. It was a city that never slept. Restaurants flashed by, too, and the lights from exclusive strip clubs. The last trolleybus of the night lumbered past, looking like a plant-eating dinosaur next to the Jaguars with their predatory grins. The bus was full of people with a very different look from that of the driver of the Porsche convertible waiting next to them at the stoplight. Masha frowned at his smug face.

“I bet our guy couldn’t afford a Porsche,” said Innokenty, seeming to read her mind. “He’s probably a bus rider. On the other hand, if they haven’t caught him yet, he must be well educated.”

Masha shivered, remembering the architect with that medal pinned into his skin. Cruel, too, she thought. He must imagine the shining wealth of New Jerusalem all around him. He hears the choirs of angels, so he can’t hear the cries of his victims. He is as cold as the jasper and emeralds in the walls.

Innokenty parked the car Masha shared with her mother in the garage and walked her to her door.

“Good night, Mashenka,” he said gently, looking at her with a sort of tender sadness.

Masha smiled, and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug. She really didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. But the idea of sleeping with Innokenty was ridiculous.

Masha crept into her apartment and took off her coat without turning on the entryway light. She didn’t want to bother her mother and stepfather. She could hear their calm, measured breathing from the back bedroom, and Masha felt a sense of relief, for the first time, that there was a man in the house. She tucked herself into bed and curled up tight in a ball. She warmed her feet one at a time in her hands, trying to banish terrible images from her head. Her dreams, when they finally came, were incredibly beautiful.

Masha dreamed of medieval Moscow, a church at every crossroads. The walls of the churches were decorated with herbs and vines, flowers and birds, and Masha tilted her head back and stared up at a cupola shining in the sun. She walked over a wooden roadway, casting her gaze hungrily in all directions. Flowers were blooming everywhere; she heard roosters crowing, cattle mooing, and birds singing; and the air smelled of freshly cut grass. Any direction she turned, Masha could see the brick-red battlements of the Kremlin, stretching in a toothy row above the lush-green banks of the Moskva. In her dream, Masha effortlessly traveled from Borovitsky Hill, where the Kremlin stood, to the lowlands on the far side of the river, and then southwest to Shvivaya Hill. Everything she saw was fresh as when the world began, when human beings had not yet been created—yet there were already gardens and cathedrals with countless floating cupolas. And everything seemed very logical and correct. All streets converged at the Kremlin’s gates; the towers of the concentric old walls—Kitay-gorod, Bely Gorod, and the Skorodom—grew taller and more numerous the closer they were to the Kremlin itself; and when Masha suddenly found herself sitting in the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, a breathtaking view spread out below her of ancient monasteries dancing in ancient circles.

Masha awoke with a feeling of delight she had not experienced since childhood—like the feeling when you open your eyes and know there are presents under the tree and you are wrapped warmly in your family’s unconditional love. In the shower, the feeling began to fade a little. She thought, sheepishly, that the dream-Russia was the false image zealous nationalists clung to. They acted in the name of the blue sky, golden cupolas, ruddy-cheeked children, and maidens in traditional dress. But, she realized, one thing about her dream did make sense: everything had been beautiful and good and simple as far as the eye could see because there were no people there.

When she climbed out of the shower, a new question occurred to her: How did Moscow look in the murderer’s mind? Could it really be so mawkish, so dripping with honey? No, Masha thought with confidence. Her killer knew everything there was to know about people. He did not forgive them; he killed them.

Masha made her way to the kitchen table. Her stepfather gave her a wink over his cup of coffee, but her mother kept her back to Masha, making an awful racket at the stove. Masha smiled. This was Natasha’s way of proclaiming that, like any decent mother, she would like to have a little insight into her daughter’s personal life. When Masha came home after midnight, what could her mother assume other than some romantic rendezvous? Oh Mama, thought Masha, pouring herself a cup of Belov’s always-excellent coffee. If you only knew!

She could easily have cleared up the misunderstanding and informed them that there had been no romance last night. But then she would have to make a similar statement the next day, and the day after that. And Masha hated talking about herself. Her mother blamed it on the annoying sense of secrecy she had inherited from her father.

“You look great, Mama!” Masha said as she stood up and gave her mother a kiss on the side of the head, noticing her skillful new dye job.

“Really?” Natasha turned and grinned happily.

“Just what I’ve been telling you!” Masha heard her stepfather crow as she skipped out the door.