by Maxim Osipov
It’s worth discussing, Victor suggests. Thoroughly. Of course, everyone decides for himself in regard to his personal life, but you have to take your partners’ interests into account—in this case, Victor’s interests. After all, they’re one big family, aren’t they? Kostya’s not so little, he can take part in the business. Potentially. So it’s best to consider this from all angles. Just in case. No sense bringing up past troubles, but does he remember—and if not, Victor can remind him—the mess they got into with Robert’s family?
It looks like Victor isn’t drunk.
“Of course, you’re the patron, everything’s up to you . . .”
But it needs thought. Wouldn’t it be better to become—what’s it called?—a guardian? Victor will look into the laws. Guardianship is closer to the mark. But not quite, not quite. It’s just as irreversible. What if—here’s an idea—what if he just gives Kostya a big wad of dough?
Has Victor lost his mind? Kostya’s a little boy, eleven years old—what would he do with “a big wad of dough”?
“Whaddaya mean, what?” Victor says. “When I was eleven, I knew just how to spend my dough. I’d saved up a neat little sum, by today’s standards. If you care to know, at thirteen, I even bought myself a whore.”
•
It’s morning. Everyone’s up. Kostya’s in his own clothes, sitting on the banister again. Hmm. Same joke again . . . The banister’s strong, it can take it.
Old Sasha’s taken charge of the room where the boy had slept. She’s dragged the mattress out into the snow, and the bedding’s piled up on the floor.
“Good morning, Alexandra Grigorievna. What happened?”
“The little fella pissed himself . . . My eldest, Galka,” Old Sasha mutters, “she found herself a husband, and on the first night he goes and pisses himself. How you gonna live with such a pisser, I ask her?”
Quiet, quiet, the boy might hear. It’s involuntary; the child’s not to blame. And can she at least not smoke inside the house?
Total disarray. It was so nice yesterday. . . Before the young gentleman wet the bed. He ruffles the boy’s hair.
“It’s okay, it happens. Been a long time since you washed your hair?”
Now he wants to do something entirely for himself. That’s it, he’s taking a shower.
If he smoked a pipe, say, then maybe he wouldn’t need to stand under the running water for half an hour each day. But as things stand . . . It’s long past time to turn off the water, dry off, dress, and talk to Kostya—he knows what he has to do. But the water keeps running and running. And all sorts of thoughts swim through his head, thoughts he ought to banish. After all, it’s decided—guardianship is the perfect compromise.
“The little fella rode off on that there snow thing . . .” Old Sasha informs him.
Without permission. Took the snowmobile and went. That’s a fine turn of events.
“Hope you had a good soak!”
Thank you, thank you, Alexandra Grigorievna . . . Rode off on the snowmobile—what the hell!
Brick ought to be here by now. He’ll wait another hour or so, then he’ll go out and look for the boy.
•
The ground is covered in fresh snow. Isn’t that the track they left yesterday? No, it looks new. It took them ten minutes to reach the stream on the snowmobile; the walk is a long one. The track breaks off. He remembers the two drowning victims. He walks along the stream, to the left—no, Kostya couldn’t have crossed here. He calls the house: the boy’s still gone. He calls Brick: on his way. Hell of a morning. He’s wearing the wrong shoes. The snow’s nasty, though not very deep, and it isn’t cold. Actually, he’s hot, sweating.
“There’s that bridge there,” Old Sasha tells him.
Apparently, he ought to have turned right at the stream. He finds the bridge. The metal ropes are rusty, and some of the wooden slats are rotted through. Kostya probably made his way across it. Had he known, he would have driven straight to the village and waited for the boy to show up. No point in regretting it now. . .
It takes him about four hours to drag himself to the village. The day’s almost gone—already dusk.
Kostya’s street, the snowmobile, the house. The boy’s lying on the bed, facing the wall. There’s a note, in capital letters: I WAS TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL. WE WILL SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN, SON. He meets the boy’s eyes. He didn’t know Kostya was capable of such a look. Don’t . . . Don’t . . . He remembers the fox. Though really, Kostya isn’t the injured party here—he is.
The reeking man had been evacuated, but the stench remained. He should have told the boy about his father’s hospitalization. His mistake.
He has a sudden, painful desire to go back to Moscow—if not to the realm of reason, exactly, then at least to the realm of common sense. And what about his assistant? Here at last, drinking tea with Alexandra Grigorievna.
“And why so late, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Family circumstances. By the time I found a car . . .” He can tell Brick’s sweating bullets on the other end of the line.
He ought to look for a more effective assistant, without any of these circumstances.
He gives Brick the address and tells him to get in the car and make his way to the village. Brick can’t drive. “What about your license? Did you lie on your application?” He has the license, but he hasn’t driven in a long time.
Let Brick figure out how to get him out of the village; he’s tired of figuring things out. That’s it. On Monday he starts looking for a new man.
At long last, they’re all in one place: he, the car, Brick, and the bags of things. They leave the bags in the dark entryway. Clothing, shoes, a little money. What about the snowmobile? Leaving the snowmobile is almost as risky as giving the boy “a big wad of dough,” in Victor’s words. The snowmobile is tied to the porch with a dog chain. To hell with it: if the boy has a conscience, he’ll return it himself. He’s had enough of this—time to go home.
•
They’re driving back to Moscow, back to late autumn.
“Take off your hat and coat, Anatoly Mikhailovich. It’s warm in the car. Here are some napkins, wipe your hands.”
What’s Brick going on about? That he also has a son . . . What does he mean, also? Let him think what he wants to think.
“He’s twelve years old, my boy, but can’t talk. Devil knows what’s the matter. We’ve taken him to all sorts of professors, healers, psychics.”
It takes superhuman strength to listen to this drivel. He thinks to himself: God damn it! I’m supposed to feel sorry for you, too? But he keeps his cool, endures it. By the time he drops Brick off in Butovo, it’s already quite late: Nonsense, how else would you get home? It’s the dead of night.
He tries to read before falling asleep: “Abraham begat Isaac, and Isaac begat Jacob.” What sense does it make? What’s it all for?
BLACK MONDAY
He stands at the window, shooting crows. His aim is sure: the crows burst into clouds of feathers. Each game bird calls for a specific weapon and ammunition; today’s choice corresponds to the target perfectly. It isn’t enough that you can’t take a step in Moscow without bumping into a car or a person, but now the streets are teeming with these tenacious winged bastards.
Soon the unsuspecting Rafael will show up. He has to respond to Victor’s message: more negotiations with the bank. Today should do it, Victor believes. And he has to call the agency, start looking for Brick’s replacement.
He could have let the teachers go over the phone, but he prefers to say goodbye on good terms. Two envelopes—for Rafael and for the historian: fees for ten unfinished lessons. For each. Very generous.
He rarely spies on the office, but today he is driven by natural human curiosity. He turns on the camera. He wants to see the look on the encyclopedist’s face as he takes the money. There he is. Brick announces the boss’s decision, extends the envelope. Look at that: he won’t take it! Sure, but he’s looking at the envelope—if he knew ho
w much was in it, he’d take it. Too proud. The swagger’s worth more than money, as Victor says in these cases. Now he’ll go bragging to everyone he knows. Damn it.
He’ll have to wait till three to see whether Yevgeny Lvovich accepts his compensation. Rafael’s gone; he can turn off the camera. Wait a minute. What’s Brick doing? Putting all the money in one envelope. Wants to be generous at someone else’s expense. No sense in retraining him now.
•
While he was watching the events below, more crows descended on the neighboring roof. Now he’ll take care of them. A new box of ammunition. One, two, three, no more crows. He looks up the street, towards the conservatory.
Red hair, a familiar coat. Lora? He raises his rifle, looks into the sight. Yes, Lora. Lora with the brunette. That crow of a brunette, that devil. He would love to split her head wide open. Dangerous thoughts for a man holding a weapon. That’s fine, that’s fine; he can control himself.
Binoculars would be more appropriate and safer, but his pair is in the bedroom—Lora would be gone. His phone’s right here, though. Come on, pick up. Lora pulls her phone from her purse. She looks at it—sadly, it seems to him—and shakes her head. She puts it back in her purse and turns to the brunette. The brunette laughs. He takes aim at Lora again. He can’t bear it. Lora is gone. The danger has passed. Both for him and for Lora.
Put down the rifle. No, he can’t tear himself away from the sight of this life—festive, idle, parasitic. All of them—the conservatory brotherhood, the little Kostyas, their drunken dads, the women scribbling on the convent’s wall—they’re all parasites, feeding off the working minority.
And down below, the feast of the parasite continues. Where the brunette had been, he sees another girl, thicker and younger, also dark haired. Brunette 2.0. She’s with a guy—shaggy, like Rafael. He’s put his cello case down on the sidewalk and is waving his hands, telling some funny story. The girl is bent double with laughter; then she straightens up and pushes the cellist in the chest. What are they all so damned happy about? Can anything be that funny? Kids hanging out. Show them a good time. A good time and easy money. Play your cello, play your piano, sing—do whatever; it doesn’t matter.
It’s time to pry himself away from this meaningless scene and make the necessary call—to the bank. But something terrible is happening. A pale pink bubble emerges from the brunette’s mouth. The cellist tries to poke it with his finger, but she turns away. The bubble grows and grows. What’s so funny? It’s disgusting. Chewing gum, like the crap that stuck to his pant leg at Novodevichy. Soon the bubble will take up the whole of his gun sight. Come on, burst! And without wishing to do anyone any harm, he pulls the trigger.
•
He’s far from the scene and can’t hear anything that’s happening down there. Instead of running away—who knows what’s in the shooter’s mind?—the fools have huddled together, over the victim, blocking her from view, so it’s impossible to tell if she’s alive or dead. They’re waving their arms, running out into the roadway, pointing in the direction of his building. Sheep. A herd of sheep.
Gradually, the reality of the situation dawns on him. The safety was off. And there was a cartridge in the chamber. What key cancels the preceding action? There is no such key. Undo isn’t a feature. Soon they’ll come for him.
The road is blocked by policemen. Let the ambulance through! It seems the whole conservatory has crawled out onto the street. What’s the use in crowding around? Make way, disperse, get rid of the cars. How stupid and clumsy this whole thing is!
Nevertheless, they’ll soon be coming, no doubt. He doesn’t even think to hide.
Someone else’s hands all over him. Strangers addressing him without respect. He’ll have no choice but to respond. No, he won’t allow it. Something shameful has happened—irreversible, fatal. Bad luck. Now he’ll have to eliminate himself.
•
The heart? Where’s the heart? Not in the chest, higher, almost in the throat. He takes off his shoe, his sock. Some famous writer did it this way—with his big toe. His rifle’s fairly short; he can reach the trigger with his hand. Or maybe he can run a loop around it.
It is time, or should he wait? Nobody comes. He slips his foot back into his shoe. The window’s open. He’s trembling now.
Paper, pen. COMPENSATION FOR THE VICTIM. He doesn’t know her name or surname. He doesn’t even know whether he’s killed her. ENORMOUS COMPENSATION. Victor will take over the firm. He’ll take good care of it. What else? He writes: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.
Nobody comes. He’s tired of waiting. Time to decide. He’s tired of everything. Now? Now: one shot and he’s gone. The phone rings. Who is it? Don’t check. Now.
He never wanted to hurt anyone.
Funny that one can think up until the last second.
BRICK
Now Victor runs the show, up there and down here. He’s easier to deal with.
“So, brother, now I’m your patron.” Real casual, none of these hang-ups and headaches. “You know what my name means?”
How should I know? Turns out it means winner.
“All right, let’s test your mental faculties. A brick weighs one kilogram plus half a brick. How much does it weigh?”
“A normal solid brick?” I ask.
“As normal as they come.”
“Four kilos.”
Victor laughs—he laughs a lot lately: “Why?”
What does he take me for? Solid bricks weigh four kilos. I should know, I work in construction.
January 2011
Translated by Boris Dralyuk
THE WAVES OF THE SEA
THE PRIEST had a dog. An obedient, patient dog with a reddish coat. A bitch. Applied to their own dog, the word bitch struck the priest’s wife, the matushka, as unsuitably vulgar. She would say: girl, our girl, although the priest didn’t care for this boy-girl business—he was against anthropomorphizing animals, and didn’t really get them anyway. The dog, incidentally, didn’t belong to him, Father Sergius, so much as to Marina, his wife. At least in the beginning.
Years ago (he knew exactly how many: fourteen), in despair of ever getting pregnant, Marina went to the monastery to see the elder—an astonishingly young elder—to ask whether she ought to adopt a child, and the elder said no. This wasn’t what she had been expecting, but the elder said his no very firmly, and Marina decided that they didn’t in fact need a child. She got a dog instead, and for the dog they didn’t seek the church’s blessing.
It was strange that the elder had said no back then. The nineties had given rise to many children who didn’t have families, and the procedure for adopting wasn’t all that complicated—although why turn to the elders for advice if you’re not going to heed it? This is what her husband thought. But don’t children give meaning to married life? asked Marina. For his part, Father Sergius had nothing against adopting—at the time, incidentally, he wasn’t yet a priest. Just Sergey, Seryozha, the Lord’s servant Sergius, as you like. They called the dog Mona. A ridiculous name from some Hollywood movie. They couldn’t just call her Kashtanka, like the red dog in Chekhov’s story; everyone does that.
Once a uniform carrot color with a reddish tinge (a color women sometimes dye their hair), Mona had now lost her looks and was stippled with gray. Her face especially had gone almost white. Although the dog had grayed and grown sadder with age, she remained thin. Marina’s friends praised her. “You’re feeding her right!” they said. Although it wasn’t Marina who fed her; Sergey had taken on this responsibility. In his own way the priest had become attached to the dog. All of his attachments he formed with difficulty and in his own way. Sometimes it seemed the only link between him and Marina was the dog. Other than the fact that, should they divorce, Father Sergius might wind up defrocked. He had seen what happened after these divorces.
It was also his wife who led him to the church some twenty years before. They had all begun going to church back then, their entire crowd, but no one could have imagined that Sery
ozha, the laid-back geologist, dependable (a quality they particularly prized) and soft-spoken, would suddenly—just like that—turn into a priest. He didn’t even have a decent beard. A geologist without a beard is unheard of, a priest even more so. The beard wasn’t an issue, of course: back then people often became men of God just like that, even without a seminary background. Still, it was strange, to just up and get ordained. Many of their friends disapproved of this move. They disapproved silently, to themselves, which made it even more unpleasant.
They were a mixed crowd, mainly hiking friends from their university days. What sort of priest would Seryozha make? He couldn’t sing for his life. And a priest had to sing well, and be somewhat theatrically inclined. Unfortunately, Marina shared this opinion. But once Father Sergius started doing something, he wouldn’t stop. For instance, they had all gone on a special diet where you had to chew your food at length. They followed the diet for a while, then they stopped. But Father Sergius kept on chewing and chewing. This was the price for their youthful diversion—sitting and waiting for him to finish his food. Then Marina got tired of waiting, so when they sat down at the table together, Father Sergius frequently ended up chewing alone.
The women in this group of theirs weren’t very pretty; they were overly masculine. Marina stood out in a good way. She was a theater critic. She wasn’t all that crazy about theater but for some reason it just came to her naturally. In her younger days she took an interest in the most varied things, an interest that would flare up and then go out, but now, as they approached fifty, the range of her oscillations had contracted. She spent her days in her bed—or, more accurately, on it. She and Father Sergius had long slept in separate beds. She’d be on the computer, searching for this and that, and even when the computer wasn’t at hand she managed to read all manner of stuff on her phone. She sent messages, laughed, looked at pictures. Her relationship with the church had all but ended. Or been reduced to something Father Sergius couldn’t see.