The dazed Yevgeny had taken the box. He stepped back to Oleg’s side and opened the box. Inside were small cassette tapes and photographs. Some of the photographs were of Yevgeny in bars, casinos, laughing, looking drunk and red-faced, Yulia at his side. Most of the photographs, however, were of Yevgeny and Yulia in sexual embrace. As Yevgeny went through each photo and Oleg watched, the soccer coach’s initial response was that his friend had no sexual imagination. In all the photographs in which they were engaged, Yevgeny was in the traditional male position, face to face and on top. Oleg was more interested in the look on Yulia’s face. It was almost identical in each picture in which her face could be seen. Her head was turned away. Her eyes were closed. There was no smile on her beautiful face. Apparently, the sexual performance of Yevgeny Pleshkov left a great deal to be desired.
“Those are yours,” the German said. “Keep them. Destroy them. Listen to the tapes. Some of them are difficult to understand. Many of them are of indiscretions on your part, in which you reveal information of a highly sensitive nature about others in the government and secret actions, which I am sure were not meant to be revealed outside of a very small circle in the Kremlin. Some might even say that the sharing of such secret information with a woman would constitute treason.”
“I don’t have money,” Yevgeny said, closing the box with a sudden snap and handing it to Oleg.
“Money,” the German said, running a hand down Yulia’s body. “No, I am not after money. I need your power, your influence. I need to be able to go to business and political sources in other countries and guarantee them certain things from Russian governmental agencies, things which you can arrange.”
Yevgeny had swayed slightly, his eyes on the German. Oleg had no idea what his friend was thinking. Yevgeny cheated on his wife—which, considering his friend’s wife, was completely understandable. Yevgeny was often away from his role in running the fragile government; he gambled away his money and was ever prepared to take offense at a look or a comment. He was easily swayed by a pretty face.
On the other hand, Yevgeny Pleshkov was an honest man who stubbornly held to his own principles in spite of pressure from his own party, from outside lobbies, and sometimes from the press. The people seemed to love him. An honest man in a dishonest world. A compassionate man who was frequently quoted. Once he had said, “To err is divine. To forgive is human.” People who loved Yevgeny and did not know him smiled when they spoke these words. In the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. Yevgeny might well become a political king. Oleg didn’t always agree with what his friend said and stood for, but he admired and respected his courage in saying what he thought, doing what he believed was best for Russia.
Maybe he was thinking about such things as he looked down at the wooden box. And then he looked up and saw the German’s hand move under Yulia’s gown and between her legs. She neither protested, moved, nor indicated in any way that she welcomed being used.
Oleg knew what was coming. He had seen Yevgeny like this before when he had been drinking. Oleg wondered if Yulia had warned the German, and if the German knew some kind of martial art or had a gun, but he was stark naked. There was no place to hide a weapon.
The German stood, working his hand between Yulia’s legs, under her open gown.
Oleg reached for his friend’s arm as Yevgeny strode forward toward the couple and made a deep animal sound. The German spread his legs, amused for a moment, but only a moment. Oleg had no idea what the German had expected, but he certainly didn’t expect to be hit in the face with the wooden box. The German staggered back in surprise and pain. Blood spurted from his nose. A purple welt like a fat worm streaked over his left eyebrow.
Yulia stepped away, watching, no sign of fear or a move to escape the room or step between her lovers. She was, Oleg thought as he rushed quickly forward to restrain his friend, indifferent. She takes drugs, Oleg had thought. A normal person wouldn’t act like this.
Oleg put his arms around Yevgeny, but the drunken man of the people was beyond restraint. He shook Oleg off. The German, his left eye closing quickly, started toward a door that must have been the bedroom. He moved on legs far less steady than the drunken Pleshkov. The German got about five feet before Yevgeny caught him and with a two-handed grip slammed the wooden box against the side of the fleeing man’s head.
The box splintered and came apart at the hinges. Photographs and cassettes sprayed around the room. The German was on his knees now, holding the side of his head. Yevgeny stood over him, breathing heavily, a piece of the shattered box in each hand. The piece in his right hand was a jagged splinter.
Oleg was afraid to tackle his friend again but he knew he had to try. But before he could do so, the German turned on his knees, a dazed look on his face, blood trickling down his lips and into his mouth.
Yevgeny plunged the splinter into the man’s neck.
The German said something like “Ahhggg,” and Yevgeny stepped away, watching the German fall to the floor on his back and attempt to remove the sharp broken wood from his neck. It was useless. He rolled over atop photos and cassettes and died trying to curl up into a ball to escape the pain.
Yevgeny was breathing hard. He looked around as if he did not know where he was. First he looked at the piece of the box in his hand. Then he looked at the German and at Oleg and finally he looked at Yulia, who walked over to the dead German and poured the remains of her drink on his body.
She placed her glass on a small table next to a lamp and took two steps to the bewildered Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“Sit, Yevi,” she said, leading him by the arm to one of the chairs the German had offered him. Pleshkov sat and Yulia took the remains of the box from him and dropped them on the floor.
“Yevgeny,” Oleg said, “let’s get out of here.”
Pleshkov looked at his friend as if surprised to see him there, wherever there might be. Yevgeny did not rise. In fact, he sat back and closed his eyes.
“Help me clean up,” Yulia had said to Oleg.
“The body?” Oleg asked.
“We’ll think of something when we come to that,” she said. “I’ll change into something that won’t be ruined by the blood.”
Oleg got on his knees and began picking up photographs, many of them splattered with blood, and cassettes, some of which had broken and flown across the room, leaving a brown vinyl trail of thin tape. And there were dozens of pieces of wood. In his hurry, Oleg picked up a splinter in the palm of his hand. There was enough visible to pull it out, though his hand was shaking.
Oleg found a wastebasket and was filling it when Yulia reappeared in faded blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt.
“No,” she said, handing Oleg a large green plastic garbage bag. “Fill this. I can dump it in the trash. It will be picked up in the morning. Put in everything.”
The man and woman worked together. Yulia produced a blanket to wrap the German’s body, which they did with surprising ease, though Oleg did his best not to look at the grotesque naked man with the battered face and the sharp piece of wood buried in his neck. Without hesitation, Yulia pulled the wooden stake from the neck of the man who had humiliated her. She wiped it to remove any possible fingerprints and dropped it into the rapidly filling bag. Then she produced two electrical extension wires and used them to tie the top and bottom of the makeshift shroud in which what was once a man was wrapped.
The blood was the most difficult part of the operation. Yulia said, “I’ll be right back. Try to rouse Yevi. We will need his help.”
Oleg did as he was told and tried not to look at the bundle on the floor. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not respond to his entreaties, but he did look into Oleg’s face as if trying to recognize him. Oleg gave up and resumed his cleanup, wondering if Yulia would suddenly appear with armed policemen and point her finger at the scene, denouncing Oleg and Yevgeny.
She did reappear with a bucket containing a variety of plastic cleaning items, a pair of brushes, and some towels.
&nbs
p; “Took them from the storage closet on the next floor,” she explained. “I will have to get them back soon. Let’s put the body by the door. See if he is leaking through first.”
Again, Oleg did as he was told. The blood did not seem to be spreading, at least not yet. Together they moved the wrapped corpse near the door.
Cleaning up the blood took almost half an hour and left the thin carpet wet.
“We can do no better,” Yulia had announced, surveying the room. “I’ll rearrange the furniture later to cover the spot. It will look fine. Now we get rid of the bag and the body.”
“How?”
“I’ll take the bag,” she said. “I’ll carry it to the park and drop it in the trash there.”
“Burn it,” Yevgeny suddenly said in a monotone, without looking at the others. “No one must find those photographs, those tapes.”
“All right, I will burn the bag,” she said.
“I want to watch,” said Yevgeny.
“You don’t trust me,” Yulia said with a smile.
“No.”
Yulia gave a raspy, deep laugh which sent an icicle down Oleg’s back. “Then you shall watch,” she said.
“The originals,” said Yevgeny, slowly coming to life and rubbing his eyes.
Yulia shook her head. “I will protect you, Yevi. I will burn these photographs and tapes. I will help get rid of the body. The three of us, if the police get close, and they are looking for you, must never vary from the story that Jurgen was attacking me, that he had a gun, that you bravely overcame him and had to kill him to protect yourself. As for the body, you panicked and to protect me again wrapped him up, and we, you and I, took him to the place I have in mind. Your friend Oleg need not be involved.”
Yevgeny nodded in agreement.
“I have the originals of the photos and the tapes safely hidden,” she said. “And so they will stay. I ask you for nothing in exchange. They are my insurance that the two of you will not betray me. I like you, Yevi. You have never hurt me. You have been generous and undemanding. And now you’ve rid me of my beast. No, that is a cliché. You’ve rid me of something that looked like a human, something with an insatiable lust, who enjoyed the anguish of others. He is the only person I have ever known who simply enjoyed being evil. One time I asked him if he was the devil. He said he was.”
Yevgeny finally stirred and stood. “Let us do it,” he said.
The rest was a frightening nightmare for Oleg, who was grateful that Yulia was clearly in charge and knew what she was doing and that Yevgeny was participating. She carried the bulging garbage bag through which shards of wood from the broken box now jutted like angry little spikes, while Oleg and Yevgeny carried the awkward and heavy dead German. Yulia also held a two-liter plastic bottle. Yulia had surveyed the hallway and, assured that no one was in sight, led the two men carrying the body to the service steps. Oleg started to head down but Yulia said, “No. Up.”
Oleg was in no state to challenge anything she said, and Yevgeny had lapsed back into a near-somnambulistic state.
They struggled up two flights, where Yulia opened the door to the roof and put down bottle and bag to open the door with a key.
“Jurgen had the key made,” she explained. “I was never sure why. Now I have a reason.”
They struggled onto the roof. Yulia led the way to a ribbed metal shed whose door was open.
There wasn’t much inside the shed: a few paint cans, a pile of rags, something that looked like a radio with its electrical intestines showing. The shed was dark, and no light came from the moon and stars covered by clouds. But there was enough, just enough, light coming from Kalinin Street below so that Oleg saw where Yulia pointed. He guided Yevgeny and the body to the spot she had indicated and they put their burden down.
“Back,” said Yulia, pouring the contents of the bottle she had been carrying over the body and the garbage bag she had placed atop it.
Oleg led Yevgeny several steps away from the shed. There was a sudden flare of flames as Yulia joined them.
“Someone will see,” Oleg said. “Someone will report a fire on the roof. The police …”
Yulia stepped to Yevgeny’s right and took his arm.
“No one will see. No one will report. No one will discover perhaps for days, and no one will be able to identify the corpse. The evidence will be gone. It will remain a mystery. I have seen such things happen. Yevi can stay with me tonight. Tomorrow … I don’t know.”
“It looks like rain,” Oleg said as the sky rumbled above them.
“It has for days,” she said, “but the shed will keep it from our work. Even a deluge won’t stop that fire.”
They stood watching for a few minutes, just to be sure the body and the bag were on fire and not likely to go out.
“Go home, Oleg,” Yulia said.
Oleg was hypnotized by the flames, the smell of tape and flesh. He stood transfixed.
“Go home, Oleg Kisolev,” she said firmly.
And, finally, he did.
Oleg had made his way home and now lay in his bed next to Dmitri, trying to convince himself first that the whole thing had not happened. He failed. Then he tried to convince himself that he was safe, that the body of the German would burn beyond recognition, that the green garbage bag and its contents would also be burned without leaving a trace, aside from ashes.
Oleg put the Olympic history book down and reached over to turn off the light. His hand hesitated and he realized that he did not want to be in darkness. He adjusted his pillow and slid down under the covers, turning to put his arms around Dmitri, who made a slight sound of childish pleasure.
Maybe, thought Oleg, maybe I can sleep like this. Maybe.
Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin, Leon Moiseyevitch, the doctor, sat at the piano beside the cellist and oboe player with whom he had performed for almost five years. They specialized in standard works, Bach and Mozart particularly, and Leon found that he could lose himself in the music, that rehearsal after rehearsal, concert after concert, brought him closer to the magical state in which he could simply let his fingers and body perform while he listened.
It was late, but the small hall which held seventy-five was full and the trio had played for more than two hours.
Some nights Leon played with a jazz group at a nightclub called Hot Apples, a short walk from the Kremlin walls.
It had been a nightmare of a day in his office, a nightmare from which he tried to distance himself emotionally, and from which he knew he could partially cleanse himself through music. When he was finished, he would go home, kiss his sleeping son, and go to his bedroom.
Leon was financially comfortable. His reputation was secure among both the newly rich and the old powerful Communists who had managed to make the transition to new power by renouncing the crumbled party and embracing the sham of democracy. Leon was secure.
To help cleanse his conscience, he put in a dozen hours a week at the public hospital, treating whoever came into the emergency room and charging nothing.
The past week had been typical. He had treated one woman who had been struck by a piece of falling concrete from a crumbling building. The woman had died from massive head wounds, as Leon had known she would when she was brought in. It was amazing that she had stayed alive long enough to be brought to the emergency room. About one hundred Muscovites died each year after being struck by falling bricks and concrete. Another dozen died annually after being crushed by huge icicles as they walked down the street. Leon had treated people who had stepped into holes in the sidewalk and suffered broken limbs, people who had drunk contaminated tap water, people who had received deadly shocks of electricity while riding trolley buses, people who had been poisoned by bootlegged vodka, people who had been struck by automobiles driven by motorists who routinely ignored the yellow painted lanes and drove madly, ignoring pedestrians.
Then there were the more bizarre cases he had seen over the past year: the two little boys aged six and five, who had found a hand grena
de in Gorky Park and had died of injuries when it exploded while they were playing with it; and the bespectacled young businessman on the way home from work who spotted an odd white Styrofoam box on the ground next to a metal-mesh garbage container. The man had picked up the box to deposit it in the trash, and lifted the lid. The contents of the box were two soft, green claylike masses, the size of small melons. The suspicious and conscientious young businessman, who had a wife and a three-year-old daughter, had brought the Styrofoam box and its contents to the hospital emergency room where Leon was on duty. Leon had told the young man to place the container on a small stainless steel table with rubber-covered wheels. The container proved to be emitting a high level of radiation. The man had been exposed to the radiation when he opened the box to examine its contents and when he carried it the half mile to the hospital. The man was still being treated half a year later and not doing particularly well. And the police still did not have the slightest idea who might have placed the white Styrofoam box near the trash container.
Leon had come to a passage that always pleased him. It was flowing, beautiful, a moment of salvation in a world of madness.
In his music, in Bach, Mozart, Schumann, and sometimes Brahms, Leon could stop being the confident, wise, supportive physician whom he had made himself into, and inside of whom existed an angry and sometimes frightened man.
Even in the hospital the people of Moscow were not safe. A woman had recently bled to death while giving birth because the power company had, without warning, turned off the hospital’s electricity in a dispute over nonpayment of bills.
The trio was coming to the end of the piece and the end of the concert. Leon did not want it to end. Given the slightest encouragement from the audience, Leon would be willing to give encore after encore throughout the night. He was sure his fellow musicians felt the same.
The horrors would not stop even during the most delicate of passages.
Leon remembered helping to treat the victims of a utility company blunder in which a high-pressure gas line had been attached to a residential neighborhood instead of the industrial plant for which it was intended. Fifteen homes had burst into flames. Fortunately, it happened in the early afternoon, which kept the number of burn victims down.
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