The Sin Collector

MASHA

Masha was sitting in the kitchen surrounded by books. She had only a very vague idea of where to look, but she wasn’t the type to be deterred. First, the Bible. Then some of the old Russian philosophers, Berdyaev and Losev, and Daniil Andreyev’s mystical tome The Rose of the World, and maybe even Gogol’s Dead Souls. It felt cozier, somehow, to work in the kitchen at night than in her room. Next to the thick volume of Gogol was a bowl of crackers. Without looking, Masha fished another cracker out of the dish and crunched into it.

Heavenly Russia, she read, concentrating on the Andreyev, is an emblematic image: a pink-and-white, onion-domed city on the high banks of the blue bend in the river… Heavenly Russia, or Holy Russia, is geographically situated within an area that approximately coincides with the borders of our country today. Several cities are major centers; between them are regions where nature flourishes in all its wonder. The largest of these centers is the Heavenly Kremlin, standing tall over Moscow. Its holy sanctuary gleams an unearthly gold and white…

Close, thought Masha, but not quite.

Her stepfather walked into the kitchen, where he took in the sight of the books piled on the table. He spent a few seconds examining the titles on the spines, grunted softly in admiration, and put on the tea kettle. Masha’s attention wavered, and at that instant she felt as if some important clue had slipped from her fingers. She went back to the same passage, annoyed. The largest of these centers is the Heavenly Kremlin, standing tall over Moscow. Her stepfather took a cup out of the cabinet and shut the door with a small thump. Masha jumped, then picked up the books and left the kitchen.

“Am I bothering you?” he called after her, too late.

“No,” she answered flatly from her room. “I’m just getting tired.”

Masha was in bed, still reading, when the doorbell sounded. She looked at the clock: it was eleven. Who could be visiting them at this hour? Indistinct voices came from the front hall—Natasha’s, and somebody with a deep baritone. When they passed her room, Masha recognized the voice: the visitor was Nick-Nick.

“Sorry to come by so late. I’ve been slammed with work, as always.”

“Oh, no, it’s not too late. I’m sorry to bother you, I’m just so worried about—” The kitchen door closed, and Masha couldn’t make out what came next. But she was certain it was her name.

So that’s what’s going on, she thought. Mama’s calling in the heavy artillery.

In the kitchen, Natasha made some fresh tea and pulled out a box of candy given to her by a grateful patient, then sat down across from Nick-Nick. He looked at her, his eyes smiling under his expansive eyebrows, which were just beginning to go gray.

“You’re more beautiful all the time,” he said softly, and Natasha, just like in the old days, laughed quickly and slapped him on the arm.

“You’re such a joker.”

“No.” Nick-Nick laughed with her. “I’m not joking. What’s going on with Masha?”

“Well… Her friend died. She’s had to cope with that along with working at this internship you set up for her at Petrovka. Nick, could you find her something else? Please.”

Katyshev looked at her in surprise. “Would you really want me to? She’s been working so long to get where she is—”

“Exactly!” Natasha interrupted him. “So long! Ever since Fyodor died! And I want it to stop. I was waiting and waiting for her to turn into a normal, happy college kid! Now she’s almost ready to graduate, and all she’s thinking about is serial killers! And your internship is encouraging it! I’m scared, Nick! Do you get that?”

“Natashenka,” Katyshev said, pronouncing her pet name exactly the way Fyodor used to. “You have to understand, she’s suffering. Her past is festering inside her. To pop the blister, Masha needs to find a killer. She needs to save somebody’s life, even if it’s not her father’s. The sooner that happens, the better. Then she can move on, focus on other things. And this obsession of hers gives her a leg up, even compared to seasoned professionals. So give her the chance to finish the internship. Then, later, you can push her toward something more suitable.”

Masha’s mother said nothing, and there was no indication that she noticed how Nick-Nick was carefully, gently, touching her hand, one finger at a time.

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and smiling tiredly. “Thank you, though.” She patiently pulled her hand away. “You’ve always been such a good friend to us.” The tea kettle had gone cold, and she went to turn the burner on again.

“Don’t bother.” Katyshev, tall and gaunt, was already on his feet. His face was impenetrable. “It’s long past time for me to get home. And you should get some rest, too.”

She nodded morosely, and brushed Katyshev’s shoulder in a quick, fluttering caress, as if flicking away some invisible speck of dirt.

Katyshev gave her a wry smile and walked quickly back down the hall to the door, pausing, just for a second, in front of Masha’s room.