Danaë quickly crushed her cigarette butt in the ashtray, walked over to him on legs she could barely feel, and pressed her cheek into Daddy’s lips.
“You too,” she whispered, “dying one… Daddy…”
Golotsvan was done. But the rain in the neighborhood of Perovo wasn’t about to finish. Danaë moved to the kitchen, leaving her dad to stare out the gray window covered with heavenly moisture…
She struck him with a meat hammer, with the burled side. Danaë knew beforehand that just once on the head wouldn’t be enough. Neither would two. During the process she realized that it would be enough only when she had lost count for the third time. Then she stood there listening, without looking. She imagined a monitor with a wan green image of her dad’s threadlike pulse. Then she dropped the hammer, went to the kitchen, washed her hands, went to the hallway, grabbed her bag of notebooks, came back to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and began grading papers. After a half hour she was sick of it. She moved into her dad’s room, turned on the light (it had grown dark outside, but the rain was still pouring down), and peered at him. Innokentii Karaklev was sitting in the same armchair, but tilted over on his side so that his knuckles were trapped against the rug. His thoroughly beaten head was glazed in its own juices.
Danaë decided to leave everything as it was, at least for now, until she took a bath with some fragrant salts. Salts always had a positive effect on her body. Sitting on the edge of the tub and looking into a mirror, Danaë pronounced: “This is easy.”
Later she was told that she’d gone mad. Just like her mom. Those who said it were right. She knew it and she’d reply: “And you’re all bastards, bastards, all of you.” It’s possible that she was right too.
CHRISTMAS
by Irina Denezhkina
New Arbat
Translated by Marian Schwartz
Jacob hung there, his shoes scraping the parquet floor spasmodically. “Papa, stop!” he rasped, trying to untangle the string of lights around his neck, while German, suspecting nothing, kept pulling the garland tighter and tighter thinking there wasn’t much time left and the house decorations still weren’t finished.
There should be a comma after “tighter,” Yulia noted in the margin, then set her pencil down and rubbed her temples. As usual, the words were swimming before her eyes. They would keep swimming for another half hour, until Yulia put on her coat, picked up her purse, and left the publishing house. She put drops in her eyes. I’m going to have to move on to glasses pretty soon, she thought sadly.
As Yulia left the Barrikadnaya metro station, the heavy glass doors swung closed behind her with a loud wallop.
She heaved a distraught sigh, her head finally clearing after the stench of the sweaty underground crowd and their identical faces, on each of which she distinctly read: IhateyouIhateeveryone. Her black sweater was stuck to her body, the harsh wool bristly. What was it knit from? It pricked her armpits and back.
Yulia wiped the sweat from her forehead and made her habitual motion of smoothing down her jacket.
Her wallet was gone.
She had her cell phone. Here it was, on the right. But her wallet was missing.
Frightened, Yulia looked from side to side, feverishly trying to figure out who might have relieved her of her salary and bonus and where, when, and how.
Yulia moved forward on cotton legs and leaned her shoulder against one of the vans selling burned chebureki and sausages wrapped in pastry. Any other time the smell of the tainted meat would have turned her inside out, but the thought of the money drowned out every other consideration.
How was she going to live now?
Go to the police? Yulia laughed nervously. A lady walking by, wearing a gray puffer coat, gave her a nasty look and sent a tut-tutting curse her way. Rush back, down there, into the bowels of the underground, wrest her money back (from whom, dear Yulia?), howl…? Pretty funny.
She gathered all her strength and walked on. Toward her building.
She moved past the chebureki and pirated-CD vans, past the crazy Gothic high-rise with the gargoyle faces. She gazed, sick at heart, at one of the faces, which looked down on her haughtily. Yulia sighed and plodded on. A frigid wind whistled down her jacket collar; her scratchy black sweater wasn’t keeping the cold out. She stopped next to the American consulate, but she didn’t have the strength to take another step forward, even though it was just a few more meters to her building. A dreary line stretched out from the consulate door. Jacob took the hacksaw and, panting, began sawing off his mama’s head. The hacksaw was hard to work, and the sweetish spurts made Jacob frown… The words raced through Yulia’s mind.
A guard with a badge bore his little piggy eyes into Yulia, and his muscles tensed to lunge. Yulia came to her senses and hurried on.
She tumbled like a sack into her apartment, having begun to slump in the elevator. Now she was sitting, drained, leaning against the doorjamb, moaning softly, and tears were pouring down of their own accord, dripping on her jacket.
Her Siamese cat ran up on his soft paws. His slanted blue eyes watched Yulia carefully.
“Barsik,” she moaned faintly. “Sweet Barsik… I got robbed. Barsik. We have nothing to eat and nothing to live on.”
Barsik rubbed his round head against Yulia’s leg. And meowed.
Her phone rang. Yulia took it out of her pocket with trembling hands and pushed the button.
“Yulia darling.” It was Oleg.
“Hi,” she answered, trying to buck up, wiping away her tears and getting up from the floor.
“How’re things, my dear?” Oleg sang sweetly.
“Kind of… strange.” Yulia tried to quash her sobbing. “Today they fired our second proofreader… Mikhail Ivanich… You don’t know him. And he… he left calmly enough. But when I went into the metro… I saw… imagine, Oleg, he took a running jump right… right in front of a train.”
“What?” Oleg gasped, though there was more curiosity in his voice than concern.
“He took a running jump… He was standing in the middle of the platform… and when the train started coming out of the tunnel… he jumped.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Also… you know… when he jumped he knocked over a stroller… and he and the stroller… fell.”
“What was in the stroller?” Oleg’s curiosity was growing.
“A child,” Yulia sobbed. “And then… when the train pulled out… Mikhail Ivanich and the stroller were lying there on the track… Mikhail Ivanich was still twitching, but the child didn’t have a head… There was just the horrible scream of its mother.”
Yulia caught her breath. It must have been someone in the crowd that gathered who stole her wallet.
“What happened then?” Oleg asked.
Yulia felt like telling him how she’d been jostled in the crowd, how someone’s cold insolent hand had slipped into her pocket for her wallet. Not that Yulia knew exactly what kind of hand it was, hot or cold, but that was exactly how she thought of it: someone’s cold, bony, malicious hand.
Jacob started twisting her arm out of the shoulder socket but got nowhere; he hadn’t sawed all the way through the flesh…
Jacob again! Yulia was getting angry.
“Nothing,” she replied with a sigh, and got a grip on herself. “Nothing else. I feel sorry for Mikhail Ivanich. But everything else is fine.”
“Good,” Oleg said quickly. “You know, I’m hungry as a wolf! I’m on Paveletskaya right now. I’ve got some business to do. I’m selling a picture. But I’ll come right over after that.”
“All right.” Yulia nodded and ended the call. She thought sadly, So this is what we’ve come to. There was no food in the house. No money whatsoever. Yulia was one of those people who drags out the last three or four days before her paycheck and by payday has absolutely nothing left in the house.
Oleg, however, had one quirk: food. There always had to be some. And food always meant meat. Salad wasn’t food. When Yulia met Oleg
Bekas at his gallery and got to talking to him over a cup of coffee with brandy, he immediately informed her of this quirk. That—dinner not being made—was why he’d left his wife (now his ex) and his infant child. The baby’s name was Sevochka Bekas and his wife’s was Marina. Oleg came home from the gallery one day and there was nothing on the table. Marina’s brown eyes stared at him guiltily as she held Sevochka, who was burning up with fever, to her breast. “Sevochka got sick,” she said. “I didn’t have time.” Oleg gnashed his teeth, turned on his heel, and left. Softened by the brandy, Yulia nodded, as if to say, Rightly so. What kind of a wife doesn’t cook for her husband? “You have to understand, I’m an artist,” Oleg explained. “I’m not some low-brow proletarian. I have the right to put myself first.” Yulia nodded.
A week later she learned from common acquaintances that on that fateful day Marina picked up Sevochka, who was still burning up with fever, wrapped him tightly in her robe, and went out to the balcony barefoot. It was snowing, and Sevochka quieted down and peeked out of her robe. Snowflakes were melting on his cheeks. “Pretty?” Marina asked. Sevochka goo-gooed approvingly. Marina climbed onto the railing, holding her son to her breast, and from there, from the sixteenth floor, to the dumbfounded looks of the group smoking on the next balcony over, she jumped.
When she first heard this, Yulia just shook her head. Foolish woman Marina. Who jumps off over men?
But right now she was ready to do the same thing. Pick up Barsik, hold him tight to her breast, and leap from her sixth floor, right in front of the dumbfounded visitors at the Metelitsa casino. Because she no longer had the emotional strength to be left not only walletless but also Oleg Bekasless.
Yulia worked as a proofreader in a publishing house. Her only connection to art was through grammar. For days on end Yulia read other people’s words very, very carefully. And corrected them. She felt like a worker who hammers a nail into a wall to hang a painting that gives off a divine light. But what kind of light does a nail give off? None whatsoever. Oleg was an artist, though, and canvases came to life in his hands. Even a sheet of notebook paper. Yulia couldn’t do that. She could only go word by word, like an infinite rosary, barely penetrating the meaning of what was written.
She fell in love with Oleg once and for all (though she had never believed in love at first sight and in her youth had often snickered at her more naïve girlfriends). With Yulia it was all very simple. Like him—hook up—go to a café—go to bed. Love? Who cared about love? As long as he had a fat wallet and a generous nature. Maybe that’s why Yulia hadn’t been through any emotional upheavals before Oleg. She hooked up and split up with a cold heart and a clear head. Like a chekist. But here was Oleg. An artist. A creator. Someone from another world where they don’t hammer nails but drink to Brüderschaft with God almighty… Yulia saw him in the gallery and fell hard. Her heart broke off and slowly dropped to the pit of her stomach.
Yulia went out on the balcony. The lights of New Arbat spread out right there in front of her. Here was a huge building with a web of lights like an open book. Here was a casino in the shape of a ship; here was another casino, and another. Expensive cars, lots of people. Sometimes Yulia dreamed of flying from her window and landing right on that ship burning with blue lights—and then sailing off to distant lands, where she and Oleg would live together in a cabin and have three children.
Jacob climbed onto the stepladder and tried to hang his mama’s head on the Christmas star, but the star was so fragile, and his mama’s head was so heavy, that… The words raced through her mind again and Yulia mechanically finished up: that the boy couldn’t hold it there and the head came crashing down, cracking loudly on the parquet floor. Yulia didn’t feel so good. Usually she didn’t remember all the words to the texts she proofread, and now there was this flood. I’ll ask them to give me a different novel, she thought. And I’ll give this one to Mikhail Ivanich… Damn, he’s gone… Everyone’s gone…
Yulia let out another sigh and looked at the clock. She had approximately an hour and a half until Oleg’s arrival. She went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Then the refrigerator, and then the cabinets over the sink. The old fairy tale about Roly-Poly came to mind. I’ll scrape the bottom of the barrel, Yulia chuckled to herself. Her soul was being torn to shreds.
Her search was crowned with a near-empty bottle of sunflower oil, a piece of dried-out French bread, and an almost full bottle of vodka—Yulia gave Barsik vodka compresses when he was sick. She mechanically twisted off the tight lid and sipped some vodka straight from the bottle.
Jacob sat down on the chair and looked at her intently. His blue eyes said, Come on. It’s so easy. Easy as pie. Anna fidgeted. “Maybe we can leave Thomas alone?” she asked. “Do you want to spoil the whole game?” Jacob scowled. He fiddled with the cord of his checkered shorts. “No,” Anna answered in fear. “Then stand up and do it,” Jacob said gently. “And don’t forget this.”
Compresses for Barsik.
Barsik.
Anna went over to Thomas’s crib. He was looking at his mobile. “Jake, I can’t get to him,” she said. “The crib’s too high.” “I’ll bring a chair!” Jacob responded. A minute later Anna was climbing onto the chair and looking down at Thomas. “So pretty,” she said softly. “Of course he’s pretty,” Jacob agreed. “But that’s completely beside the point.” “Yes,” Anna said. “Is the water hot enough?” Jacob inquired. “You understand what I mean when I ask if the water’s hot enough, right?” “Yes, Jake. It’s boiling.” Anna raised the kettle, screwed up her eyes, and upended it on Thomas. A piercing shriek filled the nursery.
Yulia shook her head, driving out the terrible thoughts, and took another swig of vodka. The thoughts returned.
What’s the big deal? Yulia thought. The big deal is that I would never survive Oleg leaving me.
She gave herself a good shake and stumbled into the bathroom on wobbly legs. A second later she came out clutching a mop.
“Puss puss puss,” Yulia called faintly, glancing around the room.
Barsik jumped out from behind the couch. Yulia caught him in her arms and moved out to the balcony. There she lay the cat on the tile floor. Barsik stayed there obediently, watching her with his slanted little blue eyes.
“I’m proud of you,” said Jacob. “Don’t howl.” “I can’t not howl. This is Thomas after all. He’s still little and it hurts,” Anna said, weeping. Jacob hugged his sister. He glanced at his little brother screaming in anguish in his crib with a piece of red meat where his face had been. “You see, Anna, he shouldn’t suffer. We’re going to save him.” Jacob moved away from his sister and took the screaming Thomas out of his crib. He put him on the rug. “Did you bring what I said?” “Yes,” Anna answered obediently. Jacob took the golf club from her hands. He stepped back a little and took aim. He raised the club high over his head, then lowered it with a whistle at Thomas’s head, which cracked like a watermelon.
Yulia placed the mop handle against Barsik’s neck. Then she held onto the railing and jumped with all her might on the handle. There was a crunch and Barsik’s eyes popped out of their sockets and a wheeze tore from his throat. His little pink tongue jutted out to the side.
Yulia exhaled violently and nearly ran to the kitchen to crush the grief inside her with vodka. The firewater lashed her throat. She was sobbing.
“Don’t cry, Anna,” Jacob said calmly. “They’ll buy another rug, and I tell you, they aren’t going to yell at you. Now it’s your turn.” “Jackie, let’s watch television,” Anna said. “I don’t like playing with you anymore.”
Out the window, the ship-casino was bathed in blue lights. In the kitchen, Yulia skinned the carcass convulsively, tossing the fur onto an opened newspaper.
Oleg arrived at 9 o’clock. By that time Yulia had washed, made herself up again, and put on a red dress. She was a little unsteady from all she’d drunk, but Oleg didn’t notice.
He lifted his nose, inhaling the aroma of the roasted meat.
He slipped off his jacket, ran a handkerchief over his bald spot to wipe away the sweat, and as a final gesture smoothed his beard.
“What’s for supper?” he asked cheerfully, giving Yulia a pat on the cheek.
“R-rabbit,” she hiccupped.
“Excellent!” Oleg rubbed his hands and hurried into the kitchen. He sat down on a stool.
Yulia served him pieces and he ate it, crunching the bones and smiling contentedly, like a cat. The oil ran down his beard. Yulia sat across from him.
“Do you know which painting I sold?” he asked triumphantly, nodding at his briefcase.
“Which?”
“Rusty Evening!”
Yulia shuddered. Rusty Evening had been painted in blood. Oleg was so proud of his conceit—to create a painting two by two meters using only blood. He had bought syringes at the pharmacy and Yulia had given him blood in a skin ointment tube. It had made her head spin, but Oleg had been so pleased. “It’s all right,” he’d said. “You can take a break tomorrow. I have my mom and sister too.” His sister was all of twelve. Oleg was very proud of the fact that the picture had “virgin blood.” He drew human figures with it.
And now some “rich wuss,” as Oleg put it, had bought their blood.
“Listen,” Yulia groveled through her embarrassment, “since you got paid so well, can you lend me a little money?”
Oleg frowned. “I see,” he said nastily. “The female wiles are here. I know these crass women. They need money, not love.” He stood abruptly from the stool.
“No!” Yulia cried. “I’m not like that! I just… I just… They held back our pay. The crisis…”
“You have to be thriftier, Yulia,” Oleg preached, dropping back down on the stool. “Let this be a lesson to you. I can’t pay for your mistakes, understand? You have to save for a rainy day.”
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