Butterfly Skin

by Sergey Kuznetsov

  49

  I’M TRYING TO THINK UP A HAPPY ENDING FOR THIS story – but I’m not getting anywhere.

  Even when I was killing Olga, I didn’t get aroused at all. The first time in my life.

  She was an interesting woman, I used to like working with women like that. Beautiful breasts, eyes filled with sadness, delicate skin on her hands.

  I kissed her on the palm before I chopped off her hands.

  I hacked, burned and sliced, but I didn’t feel a thing. When I killed before, it felt like I was using a woman’s body and my own skill to create genuine works of art. This time I felt like a crude artisan.

  Usually the time passes quickly when I work, but I tired quickly – maybe because Olga failed to arouse any feelings in me – no sympathy, no admiration, no pity.

  She simply did not interest me.

  I took a drink of water, splashed some on my face and went back into the basement. Olga was lying on the table with her hands severed, skin hanging in tatters from her lacerated thighs, her right breast transformed into bloody pulp, blood oozing from her left nipple. Leather straps held her body on the table, her widely parted legs were tied to rings set into the wall: between them I could see a pool of blood. The instruments were scattered in disorder on the table beside her – scalpel, pruning knife, several whips. There was a blowtorch lying on the floor, rope nooses caked with blood hanging from the ceiling. The walls and the floor were covered in blood too – I used to make my prisoners tidy up the basement, but the last couple of times I haven’t bothered with that. There are probably severed body parts still lying around here, forgotten: there’s an oppressive smell of rotting offal. Strange, I’ve only just noticed that.

  Olga was lying on the table, her mouth lacerated by the gag, her eyes closed. She looked like a broken toy dumped on a garbage heap, not a work of art. I thought of how she was Ksenia’s closest friend, a woman whom Ksenia loved. I walked over to the table, took the gag out of her mouth and lay down beside her. It was only then I noticed I was still clutching the hatchet in my hand. I put my arms round Olga and tried to kiss her. Suddenly she jerked her head up and sank her teeth into my lip. I pulled back sharply and hit her in the face with the hatchet.

  My blood gushed out onto my chest. I dashed to the handbasin, and washed the wound, crying.

  I’ve been afraid of pain ever since I was little.

  I didn’t know what to do with Olga after that. My penis was impotently limp, my imagination was exhausted.

  What I really felt like doing was leaving her to die from hunger and her wounds, and collect the dead body after a couple of weeks. But I didn’t want to wait: I had to send a signal to Ksenia.

  I suddenly realized what I should do. I gathered up the instruments, gagged Olga again and set to work. I don’t usually feel tired when the work is approaching its conclusion, but this time I sat down to rest twice. Afterward I realized I’d broken my usual habit and not even checked whether she was still alive or not. So, to be quite honest, I don’t know at what moment Olga died.

  Finally the job was done: I tossed the remnants of the shattered ribs out of the wound, hacked off the scraps of flesh and skin round the edges – and tore out Olga’s heart.

  It was the very death that Ksenia had wished for herself.

  50

  A CLOSED COFFIN, YES, OF COURSE… THEY SAY HER face was disfigured, almost unrecognizable… and is it true what they wrote, her ribcage was broken open and her heart had been removed…? yes of course, it’s him all right, who else…? she made the site about him, didn’t she…? yes, as if she had a premonition, an incredible coincidence… it must have been fated… thirty-five years old, still young, really… I think she’s the first person in our business to be killed… yes, this business we’re in isn’t really serious: the first killing, at this stage…! and even then it’s some psycho, not some adult problem, like restructuring the market…

  The sound of voices, they move from table to table, the official funeral banquet “Olya always loved this restaurant.” Really? I didn’t know that, I never came here with her, well, that doesn’t matter anymore. They walk up, express their condolences, as if she’s the closest relative – a daughter, a sister – as if they really had got married and lived in loving harmony for many years, lived happily for years and years, had children, two girls, with each other. She didn’t need to have the abortion, thinks Ksenia, she wouldn’t have had to raise the child alone anyway, she didn’t need to be afraid. But maybe it’s a good thing there was nothing but clots of blood left in the darkness of her womb. Just imagine what that’s like: dying together with your child, even if it hasn’t been born yet! She can’t imagine it, she can’t even imagine that Olya’s gone, a closed coffin, she didn’t even see her one last time, she can’t imagine, she can’t think about how she died. She always used to say she was afraid of pain, she said: “I’m a terrible coward, I’m so afraid of pain, not like you,” not like me, yes, it would probably have been fairer if it was me, not her.

  Pasha walks up, squeezes her arm just above the elbow: “Ksenia, please accept my condolences, I know that you were very close.” It’s the first time he’s spoken so formally to her, as if Olya’s death has made Ksenia older, as if some of Olya’s years have been transferred to her. She answers: “Thank you, yes, very close.” Not a single tear in two days in Moscow, not a single tear in her whole life.

  She’s a strong girl, thinks Pasha, she won’t break down, I know. Pasha only needs to see a person who has lost dear ones, and he knows all about them. After all, didn’t almost all his childhood friends lose someone? the statistical base is more than adequate. He’s still holding Ksenia’s elbow, he says: “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

  “Yes, of course, but what is it?” They move off into a corner, sit down at an empty table, Pasha glances back over his shoulder, takes a small pistol out of his inside pocket, puts it on the table.

  “There, take it.”

  Ksenia looks at it wearily. “Pasha, what are you thinking of? Why would I want a pistol?”

  He takes no notice, shows her carefully. “Do this, do that, put your finger here and press here. And put it in your purse.” She looks at him blankly. A beautiful girl, thinks Pasha, but she looks a lot weaker this last month, as if she’s grown old, but how can you grow old at twenty-three? You can only grow up. “Take it, take it, it’s a legit shooter, don’t worry. Consider that an order from me, your boss.” She shrugs her skinny shoulders, puts the gun in her purse. “Right, that’s good.” She goes back into the hall, Pasha watches her go, thinks: if anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. I just knew they shouldn’t do that site. I tried to explain, but obviously I didn’t explain clearly enough. It turns out words are just as unreal as advertising, as the rectangular banners on rectangular screens. Inanimate machines are more reliable. A cartridge, a detonator, a trigger mechanism.

  They move from table to table, the sound of voices, the quiet whispering, her mother came from Peter for the funeral, but she didn’t come to the banquet, you can understand that, she’s lost her daughter, it’s terrible when parents bury their own children. Yes, yes, but Krushevnitskaya didn’t have any children herself, if I remember correctly? No, no one. Her only relative in Moscow is her brother, he didn’t get back from India in time, it’s hard to contact him, they wrote, but obviously he doesn’t read his post every day. What a life he has, if I don’t check the inbox at least a couple of times every day, I start going to pieces. Yes, drop everything, go off to India. The sound of voices, from table to table.

  A young man comes up to her. “Can we step outside just for a moment?”

  “Yes, of course, but what is it?” Where has she seen him before, damn it? Her dry eyes don’t want to recognize people anymore. “Ah, sorry, yes, indeed, today I’m, well, you understand.

  “Yes of course, Ksenia Rudolfovna, I understand. We read your correspondence, I regret that we didn’t do it sooner. We contacted Alexander… er,
Sasha, as you suggested. He gave us a description, well, the height, the build… Unfortunately the man was wearing a mask, but nonetheless I’d like to ask you to put a photofit on the site, it’s very important.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Ksenia, “I’ve closed the site. I’m sorry, I really feel very awkward… Why don’t you put it out on Tickertape.ru? They have more traffic.”

  The words freeze on her lips. Traffic, rating, views, clicks, hits, hosts, banners, pop-ups, title sponsorship. Olya, Olya, Olya. She took Ksyusha to Sheremetyevo, kissed her before she checked in, ran her hand through her hair, everything will be all right; it will never be all right now, never again. No riding down slides, no drinking saké in the middle of the night, no chatting on ICQ, no burying your face in the fluffy sweater. Don’t cry. I’m not crying, it’s the snow. Oh, sure, your face is all wet. I never cry. There, you see, you didn’t believe me, but there really isn’t a single tear, even now. You see, I wasn’t lying to you, all my life I’ve believed there’s no point in crying, you have to fight, tears won’t help your grief, crying means admitting you’ve been defeated. Well, and so on. But what could help with this, what could you fight against? If I could at least cry. But even if I wanted to – I can’t. Maybe if I’d seen you dead, I’d finally have believed it, if not for the closed coffin, if I’d touched your hands, kissed you, run my hand through your hair. It will never be all right now, never again. Dry eyes, not a single tear.

  He comes up, takes her by the elbow. “Olya told me so much about you, you’re Ksyusha, aren’t you.” Who’s this now, dark suit, tear-stained face, expensive watch on a broad wrist, holds her elbow like he owns it.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, we haven’t met, I’m Oleg, here’s my card, I thought Olya told you about me, you were her closest friend, she must have spoken about me, yes, what a nightmare, we’d been seeing each other for four years, true love, a terrible blow.” He wipes his eyes, sobs. So he’s crying. What right does he have to cry here? Ksenia thinks angrily. Where was he when Olya aborted his baby? She suddenly remembers: domestic violence and psychotic killers are the two poles of male coercion. She thinks: and somewhere between the two are married men who start convenient affairs that last four years and act like widowers at the funerals of women they used to screw once a week.

  She pulls her hand away and tries to leave, Oleg overtakes her, grabs her elbow, looks into her eyes, sobs. “Ah, Ksyusha, if you only knew how much she meant to me!”

  At the last moment she holds back her raised fist, but she can’t hold back her shout. “How dare you call me Ksyusha, are you fucking stupid, or what? I was only Ksyusha for her, do you hear me? She aborted your child, and you didn’t even notice, didn’t even realize what had happened, you weren’t even surprised when she stopped calling you! Go back to your wife, what are you doing here?” People are looking round, someone’s already bringing water. “No, there’s no need, no, I’m not hysterical, I’ll calm down in a moment.” Dry eyes, not a single tear.

  Marina makes her way through the crowd, black T-shirt, black jeans, puts her arms round Ksenia’s shoulders. “Thanks, thanks, I just flipped, got really furious, I have to get a grip, thanks, Marina, thanks, yes, let’s go.”

  51

  ALEXEI WATCHES THEM GO, POOR LITTLE GIRL, suddenly it’s clear: she really is a little girl, still a child, a lost little girl, like in that Doors song. The most important thing to happen to him in ten years, yes, a real war, a fight in which he thinks he held his ground. Or maybe he didn’t, in that kind of action you never know if you won or lost. But the former delusion has disappeared: she doesn’t exist anymore, the Ksenia whose windows he stood under when the taxi simply took him there, the woman whose name he wants to repeat like a mantra, adding IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. There’s just a twenty-three-year-old little girl who has lost her friend.

  He phoned her the day before, said “I’ll come round,” brought a bottle of Stoli, they drank without clinking glasses. Then they sat in the kitchen without speaking, she only started talking after the third glass, remembered how she first saw her, friendship at first sight, she wanted to be like that herself, in about ten years. Closer to her than anyone else, apart from Mom.

  They sat in the kitchen, drank vodka, not a single tear, dry eyes. Sitting there hugging herself. Poor little girl, tenderness, tenderness and pity, he tries not to touch her unnecessarily, so she won’t think he came for sex. He’s had better sex, to be quite honest, but this – yes, this was love, it was frightening to remember: January, snow swirling across the ground, a huge pencil tracing out spirals on the empty roadway. In the hall, as he was leaving, he took hold of her hand. “Ksenia, I have to tell you, even if it’s not important, but everything I said that time, here, when I came that night, it all really was true… I guess it’s still true even now. And if I can do anything to help…” She forces herself to smile, answers: “You’ve helped me a lot, thanks.” Dry eyes, not a single tear the whole evening, she stands there, leaning against the wall, with her arms round herself, a little girl, a broken little bird, beloved.

  Oxana didn’t even ask where he’d been, instead she just started crying and wailing. “I told you right from the start I didn’t like the idea, you don’t really care a damn for me, do you, always up to your neck in some kind of shit, you didn’t go to Chechnya, so you jumped into it in Moscow instead, what if it’s your turn next?” He lowered himself wearily onto a chair, took hold of her hands, said: “We’ve closed the project, and anyway, Oxana, he doesn’t kill men, he’s strictly heterosexual. I’m perfectly safe.”

  Calming down, she answered: “Well, then he’ll kill me.”

  That night they made love with amazing tenderness, then lay there with their arms round each other, pressing themselves together tightly, in the light of the streetlamp outside the window Oxana’s hair glinted gold and silver, and as he ran his hand over his wife’s head, Alexei thought he knew what project he would do next, he would do it, even if they didn’t give him any money. It would be called Ruined Moscow. Photos of facades with no walls behind them, the gaping windows of gutted buildings filled with the black night air, amateur snapshots transformed into historical records, places where he used to wander in search of fleeting love, in ludicrous attempts to assert the substance of his own reality, places that had been transformed into ruins, as if there really was a war going on here. Using the things he knew how to work with – news, interviews, photos – he would put together a requiem for the Moscow of his youth, a Moscow of hasty infidelities and chance liaisons, basements where water slops, steps where the glass of broken bottles crunches, a requiem for a ruined city that feared neither God nor the devil, not a single tear. Yes, maybe Ksenia will agree to help, but Pasha probably won’t want to tangle with the Moscow authorities, well, never mind, we’ll think of something, and I’ll ask Marina to do the design, she’s good at it, she’s good to work with in general. She has a nice smile, thinks Alexei, innocent and at the same time somehow… And he falls asleep without finding the right word, falls asleep picturing Marina smiling, falls asleep hugging his wife, with his face buried in her hair, gold and silver, gold and silver, ghostly light pouring in through the window.

  52

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE’S GONE,” MARINA REPEATS IN Ksenia’s kitchen, pouring herself the final shot of vodka left in the bottle from yesterday. “I hardly even knew her,” says Marina, but she was so sweet and she loved you very much, you could feel it.

  Ksenia sits there, hugging herself, a huddled bird, repeating over and over: It’s my fault, it’s my fault, stares into empty space, sways from side to side, tousled hair, skinny and small. Yesterday Mom phoned, shouted down the line: “There, I told you it was a crazy thing to do, what if it’s your turn next? Think about me for a change, I didn’t like the idea from the very start, I’m still ashamed to look people in the eyes, I thought my daughter would be the best in the world, but you have some rubbishy ki
nd of job, what kind of profession is a manager – surely you don’t enjoy being up to your neck in all kinds of shit all the time, now look where it’s got you, and anyway, who was this Olga?”

  “Mom, I’ve told you a hundred times: she was my closest friend.”

  “Ah, a friend.” She hung up, now Ksenia’s sitting there, repeating, my fault, my fault.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” replies Marina, “you didn’t know anything, why torment yourself? Why don’t you think about Olya?” says Marina, “you know a martyr’s death is really good for the karma, so think about Olya flying toward a clear light, sitting in a lotus at the feet of the Buddha, remembering nothing about us, or sadness, or suffering, or anguish.”

  “You know,” says Ksenia, shrugging her skinny shoulders, “you know I don’t believe in all that. We just die and afterward nothing happens, don’t try to console me, don’t talk nonsense, there is no clear light.”

  Marina doesn’t say anything, she’s not sure about the martyr’s death herself, maybe she just made it up on the spot. And in general, it’s fine to prattle about karma with the men, pull the wool over their eyes, make herself out to be a girl with a rich inner world. But what’s the point now, when Ksenia just sits on the chair, saying nothing, staring blankly with her dry eyes. I can’t go up to her, take her hand, sit beside her, run my hand over her head, saying over and over, don’t worry, everything will be all right. Marina doesn’t even believe everything will be all right, she doesn’t know how to sit beside Ksenia, saying nothing, holding her hand: she thinks she ought to do something, help in some way, cheer her up, no, shit, not cheer her up, of course, but at least shake her out of it. If Ksenia was a little girl, really little, just a year old or, even better, a little boy, then Marina would know what to do. She’d toss her up in the air and catch her, toss her up and catch her, and Ksenia would start laughing, and there wouldn’t be any sadness or suffering or anguish left. But you couldn’t toss Ksenia up in the air, you couldn’t kiss her little tummy, you couldn’t tickle her, whispering tender words and stupid nicknames.