Moscow Noir, page 23
They’d probably be ashamed to erect something like that in the middle of Brussels.
A shaggy black dog gulped voraciously from the fountain. Little children waded in up to their knees. The girls sitting across from me finally stood up and walked by me, passing to my left toward the bridge, their heels clicking along. I thought to myself that if I had been here with Dmitry, like in the old days, an exciting little encounter with them would have taken place—at least a 70 to 80 percent chance of it.
I can’t say that I really envied his garrulous nature. His ability to get along with anyone, anywhere, at any time, and talk about whatever came up could be tiresome. But his very communicativeness bewitched me sometimes—in its universality and inexplicability. I couldn’t figure out what attraction Dmitry held for people of all ages, social backgrounds, and IQs. He didn’t have, say, Gleb’s brains. He wasn’t especially charming or handsome. He didn’t have the rudeness that is so attractive to girls. On the contrary, Dmitry’s manner and appearance were characterized by a faint, slightly intentional goofiness. A person without much education and wit, he played the role of an enfant terrible. And in this niche he enjoyed condescending but indubitable success, even when he behaved like a complete idiot. Everyone teased him, but at the same time they sought him out and called him incessantly (often without any reason whatsoever), and gathered around him in remarkably large, motley crowds. He affected people like a beautiful woman or free drinks: in his presence people began to chatter loudly, guffaw, and swagger. Guys gave themselves over as drinking buddies, girls as lovers. From the day he was born, Dmitry hadn’t had to lift a finger to find either business partners or bedfellows—in spite of the fact that the guy never stayed loyal to either.
I was no different from his other friends. I was glad to drink with him, prepared to lower my standards of intellect and wit, and was forgiving about minor and not so minor character flaws; I generally took on a protective role, even when our social and financial status suggested the exact opposite …
I thought about our spontaneous encounter last week. There was something very strange, and at the same time very predictable, in the repetition of the classic scenarios of the old days—two people with a bottle on the grassy slope across from Europe Square. Right above the station we saw a golden slash through the gray clouds. Dullish rays fell in fan-shaped sheaves on the shimmery heights of the construction site, its signal lights winking on the straining arms of the giant insectlike cranes. (When we used to sit here back then, there weren’t any cranes.) Below, from the Rostov embankment, a steady hum rose up, interspersed with bellowing horns and the gunning of engines. A Miller beer ad the size of a small building hung above the square, where everything ended for me …
We sat and drank, like before—both of us understanding perfectly well that it would never again be like it used to be. And then it dawned on me that Dmitry had started this phony demonstration of solidarity to prove to himself the absolute and fundamental inequality between us; two people who don’t differ in any fundamental way, neither superior to the other, yet one of them receives everything and everyone without asking, and the other is shunned and doesn’t even get what he has honestly earned. And neither one is to blame for this. And this is nobody’s fault. No one is to blame for anything—actually, there is never rhyme or reason to anything whatsoever.
It’s all just the way it is. For no reason. Just because. Just—because.
I looked up and met someone’s searing gaze. A fairly unpleasant one. It belonged to a burly man who had suddenly materialized in front of me; someone of about fifty with the broad, crudely chiseled mug of a charismatic antihero. The fellow was walking toward me—uncertainly at first, but with every step more and more purposeful. I realized right away who it was. I was about to get up when the guy stopped abruptly, shoved his hand inside his coat, and, staring at me from under his brow, clapped a cell phone to his ear.
* * *
Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department called; he was a great resource for Felix here in Moscow.
“Hello?” Felix answered in a quiet, curt voice, not taking his eyes off Pasha Korenev.
“You’re trying to find out about Dmitry Lisin?” Kostya asked cautiously, his voice full of concern.
“Yeah.”
“Were you able to see him?”
“Yes. Yesterday.”
“Well, that’s lucky,” Kostya snickered. “Just in time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I happened across his name this morning. I thought of you right away. The report on the explosion on Sirenevy Boulevard came in from the eastern precinct.”
“What explosion?”
“You haven’t heard? At 2 Sirenevy Boulevard. It looks like a gas main burst. Several apartments were destroyed, three people died. One of them was Lisin. He lived in the apartment right above the one that blew up.”
“A gas main?” Felix repeated slowly, looking at Korenev, who sat serenely in the same spot.
“That’s what they suspect. The cause hasn’t been determined yet.”
“It wasn’t gas, Kostya. I mean, maybe it was gas—but it wasn’t an accident. It was murder.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” Felix barked, then hung up.
He approached the bastard, who stared calmly back at him and seemed like he was about to hold out his hand in greeting; but Felix’s facial expression stopped him.
“Pasha …?” Felix asked, surprised at the hesitancy of his own voice.
The bastard nodded. “Felix …?”
A plain, pale fellow, who seemed paradoxically both younger and older than his thirty-some years. Absolutely average, a somehow ineffably unprepossessing appearance. At the same time, a certain detail that Felix didn’t catch—probably something in the guy’s eyes—triggered his memory of the words of the late Lisin: He’s gotten really weird. He’s drinking, I guess. Or shooting up …
They stood there facing each other—Korenev, calmly expectant. Felix suddenly realized he didn’t know how to begin, or what to do. Or why he needed to see the guy so urgently … Since Felix had homed in on the creep, reason only intermittently guided his actions. The situation was dictated exclusively by emotions: Felix was impatient to see the monster, to stand near him, to observe him at close range—and to let him know that he knew everything. That this bastard had no way out—he would cringe in fear, he would feel terror so fierce it would hurt …
“My name’s Shakhlinsky,” Felix finally said, in the same strangled voice.
“Uh-huh,” Korenev replied, nodding slightly to himself. Something flickered behind his eyes—but no, it wasn’t fear.
“I’m Yanka’s uncle,” Felix added.
“Please accept my condolences,” Korenev said after a slight pause, and Felix was ready to rip him apart right there. He knew why the son of a bitch had suggested meeting here, in a place full of people. He was afraid …
“I’m a colonel in the police force, Criminal Investigation Department.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“You know what I want,” Felix said, and mastered himself with a deep intake of breath. “They say it was several hours before she died. And you, son of a bitch, will suffer ten times longer, and worse. Do you think I’m going to send you up for this? No, you don’t, of course.” He struggled to assume a gentler expression. “You know there’s not enough evidence. Only I don’t need any friggin’ evidence; I’m going to kill you myself …”
The bastard smirked. Felix could hardly believe his eyes—the guy was smirking without the slightest sign of fear.
“So you think I killed her?”
“And you didn’t think anyone would find out? Right. No clues, and—the main thing—no motive. But I was lucky. Just by chance I learned about a few of your acquaintances. About what happened to them during the past year. The year when you suddenly disappeared. When no one could find you, except a few who died soon after. Or ended up as vegetables on life-support systems—like Gleb Mezentsev.”
“Wait a minute—Gleb was in a car crash.”
“Right. His BMW flew into a ditch after someone drove him off the road … It was a hit and run.”
“You think I did that? That’s crazy—I’ve never even had a driver’s license. Although the fact that you single me out at all is kind of cool. You say you were lucky …?” Korenev stared at Felix, who had a hard time not averting his gaze. But he held out, of course—the bastard lowered his eyes, and nodded. “So you decided I killed them … There’s just one thing I don’t get—why me?”
“Because you, motherfucker, envied all of them. Because you’ve been a sniveler your whole life. Because your life has been a pile of shit. Because you never got a fucking thing you wanted. Because you, you little shit, hate everyone who has it better than you, who lucks out—”
“Lucks out,” Korenev interrupted. “What does that mean, ‘to luck out’? You think you have the right to judge who’s lucky and who isn’t? Do you think there’s any logic to anything? But of course. We always look for some rationale, some system to explain things. But we really invent them ourselves. Simply because we think in these categories; we don’t know any other way. Only there is no system, and no explanation.” Still staring, Pasha Korenev shook his head slowly back and forth. “They only exist in our own minds. That’s what none of you want to understand. What I myself didn’t understand for a long time. I kept thinking there had to be rules of some kind. And I tried to play by them! To do things conscientiously. To keep my word. Not let anyone down. I kept thinking if I was good to people, they’d be good to me.” The corners of his mouth contorted. “But it’s all a load of crap. There are no rules. Nothing depends on your personal qualities or the efforts you make. Either you’re lucky or you aren’t. Only that”—he suddenly took a half-step toward Felix, almost pressing up against him—“doesn’t mean a damn thing. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why I come to all of you—so you’ll finally start thinking about it. Rules don’t exist here either. And even if you luck out all the time, it doesn’t guarantee anything. Nothing. At. All.”
“Mm-hmm.” Now Felix moved forward slightly, forcing Korenev to fall back a step. “And you took the role of fate upon yourself?”
Korenev snorted in exasperation. “You’re not listening. You try to attach meaning to everything. To find someone to blame. Naturally, it’s easier that way, when there’s someone to blame.” He took another step backward, as if to observe Felix from head to toe. “But you must understand—there is no one to blame. And nothing you can do.” Another step backward. And then, from the side, a group of loud, gesticulating young people surged around him. There was some minor scuffling, after which Korenev ended up about five meters away from Felix. Somehow following fluidly in the wake of the young people, he moved away, skirting the fountain. He quickened his pace, weaving in and out of people in the crowd.
When the bastard was about fifteen feet away, Felix started following. He had no plan—but he wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch get away. Felix had to somehow lead him to a more secluded place, to set him straight or just tie him up and gag him …
In pursuit of Korenev, who maintained a fairly brisk pace and never turned around, Felix crossed the square and made it to the corner of the station—and there he realized the bastard was heading for the subway. He sped up, gaining on Korenev; but only when he was in the crowded vestibule of the station, only when he saw the bastard getting in line to pass through the turnstile leading to the escalators, did he look back at the ticket booth—a hopeless throng of people—and think: I’ll jump the turnstile. Right then, however, he met the gaze of a cop on patrol. Damn …
Korenev pushed his way toward the escalator without having bought a ticket … He completely blended in with the crowd at the turnstile. Felix watched him descend underground—his feet, his waist, finally his neck and head vanished from view …
Rudely pressing against some heavyset lady (who cackled at him indignantly), Felix slipped through the turnstile. Pushing his way in front of everyone else, he hurried to the escalator, expecting to see Korenev rushing down the stairs.
The descent at Kievskaya is a long one; but the bastard was nowhere to be seen. What the …? Felix scoured the length of the escalator with his eyes, oblivious to the complaints of the people whose way he blocked.
Gone … gone …Just like that … slippery bastard …
Shuffling around aimlessly for another minute or two, Felix sighed deeply several times then made his way back outside.
No big deal, really. He knew who to look for, and, thank god, he knew how to search. He’d been doing it his whole life. He never even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t find the bastard again. And besides, Felix was always lucky …
Moving toward the parking lot where he had left the car, he came to the street. He waited for a lull in the stream of traffic and stepped out onto the pavement. In his pocket he felt a buzzing—then he heard the beep of his mobile. Felix hesitated, his hand scrambling around for his phone … Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department. Felix finally managed to press the answer key, then turned his head at the furious sound of screeching brakes—but for some reason he didn’t feel the impact of the blow at all.
“Hello, Felix? Hello! Hello!?” But after a short, sharp sound, he heard a steady beeping—the connection had broken off. Never mind; he’ll call back.
Kostya stared at the monitor again. Huh, no way, colonel. That Pasha Korenev, the one the Petersburg cop was looking for, had died; according to a document Kostya had just located, it happened twelve months earlier. In the Sklifosovsky Hospital, in the intensive care unit. Fractured skull, swelling of the brain. They found him by the fountain on Europe Square. He had been beaten, and his wallet and cell phone were gone. That place was bad news, Kostya thought, always full of bums.
What a stupid death …
MOSCOW REINCARNATIONS
BY SERGEI KUZNETSOV
Lubyanka
Translated by Marian Schwartz
Nikita dozes off holding my hand.
Such a handsome hand he has. Strong fingers, smooth oval nails, nicely defined tendons. Light hairs, almost imperceptible, but stiff to the touch.
He’s sleeping holding my hand, but I just can’t.
I’m afraid of dozing off. It’s like walking into cold water, slowly immersing yourself, diving headfirst and not knowing what you’ll see on the bottom.
That Crimean summer I dove alone while Nikita watched from shore. Only later did he admit he was afraid to swim.
I wasn’t afraid of anything. I was twenty-eight. Never before had I been as beautiful as I was that summer.
Nor will I ever be again.
Time has wrung me out like laundered linen and thrown me into the dryer like a crumpled rag. Back then I thought, Time spares no one, but now I know that’s not so.
Time changes everyone, but men are grazed by a touch of gray, a leisurely gait, a solidity of figure. At least Nikita has been. As for anyone else, to be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve cared.
His hands have barely changed. Except that seven years ago a wedding ring appeared.
My skin is tarnishing, withering, covered with a fine fishnet inside of which the years I’ve lived thrash around like caught fish. My hair is falling out and in the mornings I look at my pillow, fighting the temptation to count them.
Once I couldn’t stop myself. Now I know: 252 hairs, almost a handful.
I’m afraid of going bald. I’m afraid of my breasts disappearing in a few years, my belly sticking to my spine, my eyes sinking. Sometimes I feel like a living corpse.
Nine years ago I wasn’t afraid of anything. Now I can’t fall asleep out of fear.
But Nikita isn’t afraid of anything. In those years he’s lost all fear. Blind swap? as we used to say in kindergarten.
I didn’t want to go to kindergarten. I was still afraid then. I thought one day my mama wouldn’t come for me and would leave me there forever. Only later did I learn where that fear came from; it was the echo of my orphanage infancy, the first months of my life.
My mama told me the story herself. You see, sometimes children are mistakenly born to people who aren’t their parents. So they can take them to a special place where their real parents find them. The way we found you.
I was six years old and I didn’t know where children came from. I probably thought about a stork that might mix up his bundles, or a store where after a long line you could buy a child—and they might sell you the wrong one by mistake.
When I was ten, my papa explained: The ancient Hindus believed in the rebirth of souls. I believe you are the little girl your mama couldn’t give birth to.
I knew by then that children came out of the belly, but I didn’t really understand how you could not be able to give birth.
I no longer believed in the stork, or the store, but I believed in the rebirth of souls immediately. And I still do. I believe the soul travels back and forth through history, and can even be born several times in the same century, miraculously not meeting herself in a previous (subsequent?) guise.
I believe that. Or, rather, I know it. And that’s why I lie here sleepless, squeezing Nikita’s hand. I’m afraid to fall asleep.
In the filmy, viscous dimension between waking and sleep my past lives return. Men, women, children. They fill me until it seems like there’s no room left inside for me.
I squeeze into a ball and try to push the past out—it was mine, it wasn’t mine, it may not have existed at all.
No surprise I’m losing weight. I must think that if I shrivel up completely the ghosts will decamp and find themselves another receptacle.
Though I could get used to them. Ultimately, these are my past lives. I recognize them: the old lady twirling in front of a mirror; the man gazing at the river; the young woman hugging her pregnant belly; the man crushing out a cigarette butt; the soldier pulling a grenade pin; the naked man cooking breakfast; the little girl staring at the Black Sea; the man dropping to his knees in front of his lover.
