“Why do you think so?”
He sighed, and spoke up. “Because if that wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be so upset right now, would you?”
Neither of them said a word.
“Masha. Listen, forgive me, but I need to talk to you about your friend’s death.”
Masha frowned. “What do you mean?”
Andrey heaved another sigh. “Katya’s death wasn’t an accident, Karavay. The autopsy didn’t reveal anything conclusive, but it raised a lot of questions. Then we examined the vehicle and found things that confirmed our suspicions.”
Masha said nothing.
“Your friend was murdered.”
In a flash, Masha thought she must have been plunged underwater like that unlucky bastard Yelnik. She couldn’t breathe. All she could feel was her own dark blood pumping in melodramatic slow motion through her veins, and coming to pound like mad in her ears.
“Masha!”
Yakovlev’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“Via Dolorosa,” Masha whispered. Then the darkness engulfed her.
She woke up on the ground by the bench, a painful cramp in her neck. She pushed herself up and tried, with a moan, to turn her head. Her eyes fell on a pair of blue jeans which smelled faintly of tobacco.
“Feeling better?” She heard her boss’s voice above her. “I gave you a couple of slaps on the cheek. Sorry.”
Masha put one hand to her face and felt the burning. Yakovlev propped her up slowly, one arm around her waist.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated hoarsely. “This isn’t how a professional is supposed to treat his intern, but when you passed out, I thought I’d better—”
“No. It’s okay,” Masha said automatically.
“Masha,” he said, “listen to me, please. Katya’s death was not your fault. But at the same time, we can’t rule out the possibility that her accident was connected, somehow, with the killer we’re investigating, the one I wasn’t convinced actually existed.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I think you were right—your theory. Though I guess that won’t make you very happy, given the circumstances. You said something before you fainted, by the way.”
“I’ve never fainted before,” Masha said pensively.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Yakovlev replied. “But what did you say? Do you remember?”
“Via Dolorosa. Do you remember, Captain—”
“Look, just call me Andrey, all right? I mean, I slapped you, so we’re friends now,” Andrey tried to joke.
“Andrey, remember how we talked about Jerusalem and how it maps onto Moscow? Nikolskaya Street, according to Innokenty, corresponds with the Via Dolorosa.”
“Oh,” said Andrey, blinking.
“There’s something else, too. But this is really nuts.” Masha looked up at him. “The thing is, Katya was wearing my clothes.”
“I know,” said Andrey, nodding. He took her hand in his. The gesture seemed so natural that Masha didn’t pull back. Instead, she squeezed his hand tight.
“Katya used to borrow clothes from me all the time. But this time, everything she had on was mine—even her underwear! You have to agree that’s weird. And—” Masha faltered.
“You can tell me.”
“The only things she was wearing that belonged to her were these ten bracelets.” Masha held out her arm, and the bracelets jingled quietly. Andrey tossed a distracted glance at them. “And another strange thing: she took a couple of pieces of jewelry from my mother. These.” Masha fished around in her purse. “It’s another bracelet, and a ring. Nothing too special. My mom never even noticed they were gone—but that’s not the point. They don’t match.”
“What?”
“They don’t match, Andrey, and Katya paid very close attention to things like that. White gold doesn’t go with yellow gold, your earrings should match your ring, and so on. I even made fun of her sometimes for it, but she always told me that since I never wore jewelry, I wouldn’t understand. But, on a basic level, anyway, I get it.”
Andrey raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“White metal. Silver. Does not match gold. Which is yellow.”
“Huh,” said Andrey.
“And then,” Masha fiddled with the bracelets, thinking, “Katya’s mom confirmed what I remembered: Katya bought these her first year in college.” Masha raised her eyes to look at Andrey. “Now there are ten of them. But . . . there used to be more.”
ANDREY
Andrey sat on his porch, in an old chair he had liberated from the dump, reading. It was a book Innokenty had recommended, by the historian Mikhail Petrovich Kudriavtsev, about the architecture of old Moscow. He trudged painfully through the text, motivated more by professional obligation than aesthetic interest. The practically unintelligible prose was painful enough, but Andrey’s chronic exhaustion and the weak porch light also tested both his worn-out brain and his tired eyes.
Of course, Marilyn Monroe could also have been to blame. The mutt was lying in the corner tossing him dramatic, pleading glances. He must have caught a whiff of the cheap sausages Andrey had brought home with him. It was time for dinner, but despite the growling in Andrey’s stomach and Marilyn’s silent reproach, he didn’t have the strength to get up out of his chair. When he finally tore himself away from the pictures—which, thank God, there were plenty of in that damn book—he stared absentmindedly through the dusty latticework of his porch out into the yard.
It was August now, and getting dark earlier. The night was milky with stars. Leaves rustled in the summer breeze, and an owl hooted. Andrey sighed and fought his way to his feet. Marilyn Monroe instantly leaped up, too, and hurried after him to the refrigerator. The fridge was so old it shook, and the door opened with a sound like a noisy kiss. Andrey spent a few seconds examining its inner chamber. His examination yielded the following: one sausage—the soft pink Soviet kind called Doktorskaya, a pair of hot dogs, puckered with age, a piece of hard-as-rock cheese, and a few expired yogurts from that time he had tried to start eating healthier. He should probably throw them out, but Andrey hated wasting food, so usually he waited till the food in question was in a very advanced stage of decay. That way nobody, not even his own conscience, could think any less of him.
Andrey pushed the obnoxious beast out of the way with one foot, took out the hot dogs and the sausage, and set a pot on the stove. While the water boiled, he sliced some bread and greased each piece with a thick slab of butter. Andrey tossed the wizened old hot dogs into the boiling water and allowed himself a first bite of bread. Marilyn Monroe had transformed into a slobber machine, and if looks from pushy strays could kill, Andrey would have been long gone. That look said, What do you think you’re doing, scumbag? so clear it might as well have been written in all caps in Kudriavtsev’s book. Andrey knew that nobody else was going to teach Marilyn Monroe to behave, and a dog ought to obey and respect its master, who, by the way, had every right to sink his teeth into a nice slice of buttered bread after a hard day’s work. He clung to his pedagogical principles for nearly a minute before tossing the beggar a heavenly smelling pink disc of cooked sausage. The hot dogs were nearly ready, and Andrey was nice enough to share those, too.
At first Marilyn Monroe eyed the hot dog suspiciously, but when Andrey downed his own serving with one fluent gesture, Marilyn decided to have faith, and he chewed up the ancient specimen happily enough. After that, they went on sharing sausage chunks until it was gone. Once there were no new meaty issues to worry about, the dog went to lie down in the corner again, and Andrey made himself some tea.
He drank it straight up, and with a pleasantly heavy feeling in his stomach, Andrey settled onto the broken couch and thought about what Masha must be doing right now. Probably dining on a salad made from—what was that stuff called? Arugula? Maybe with that fancy boyfriend of hers. Drinking a little wine, he thought, as his eyes started to close. A sauvignon, or something. Listening to live music. String quartet, or something. Andrey drifted off to
sleep without even noticing.
He dreamed of a ballroom, like the ones he remembered seeing on school trips to old palaces. Couples spun by in an endlessly repeating waltz, and Andrey realized that Masha and Innokenty were among them. Masha was wearing a low-cut light-blue silk dress that reflected the light, and her hair was arranged artfully in a bun at her neck. Swept up in the dance, she was laughing and laughing, never taking her eyes off her partner. Andrey looked at the other couples, getting more and more nervous, because although he was sure that he was there at the ball, too, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find himself. Now every woman there had Masha’s face, and she twirled around, her head flung back in rapture, now dressed in scarlet, now in navy blue, now in deep-black satin.
Finally Andrey spotted himself standing by the door, and a footman lurking on the other side of the room winked at him. That’s when Andrey realized he was not there to dance. He was a servant. He raised his hand, alarmed, and felt the rough hair of a cheap powdered wig.
Andrey’s eyes shot open in horror. The rough hair under his fingers belonged to Marilyn Monroe, who had crept over for a snuggle.
“What the hell!” Andrey said out loud, wincing. He turned his head to stretch his stiff neck, and shooed away some annoying little thought about Freud and the subconscious. Then he got up, intent on finding a nicer, more horizontal environment for sleeping.
And you, Karavay, he thought, as he kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, you may know people in high places, but you’re no fool. We could even say the opposite is the case.
With that vague pronouncement, Andrey fell asleep. This time without dreams.
MASHA
Masha was sitting in the kitchen surrounded by books. She had only a very vague idea of where to look, but she wasn’t the type to be deterred. First, the Bible. Then some of the old Russian philosophers, Berdyaev and Losev, and Daniil Andreyev’s mystical tome The Rose of the World, and maybe even Gogol’s Dead Souls. It felt cozier, somehow, to work in the kitchen at night than in her room. Next to the thick volume of Gogol was a bowl of crackers. Without looking, Masha fished another cracker out of the dish and crunched into it.
Heavenly Russia, she read, concentrating on the Andreyev, is an emblematic image: a pink-and-white, onion-domed city on the high banks of the blue bend in the river . . . Heavenly Russia, or Holy Russia, is geographically situated within an area that approximately coincides with the borders of our country today. Several cities are major centers; between them are regions where nature flourishes in all its wonder. The largest of these centers is the Heavenly Kremlin, standing tall over Moscow. Its holy sanctuary gleams an unearthly gold and white . . .
Close, thought Masha, but not quite.
Her stepfather walked into the kitchen, where he took in the sight of the books piled on the table. He spent a few seconds examining the titles on the spines, grunted softly in admiration, and put on the tea kettle. Masha’s attention wavered, and at that instant she felt as if some important clue had slipped from her fingers. She went back to the same passage, annoyed. The largest of these centers is the Heavenly Kremlin, standing tall over Moscow. Her stepfather took a cup out of the cabinet and shut the door with a small thump. Masha jumped, then picked up the books and left the kitchen.
“Am I bothering you?” he called after her, too late.
“No,” she answered flatly from her room. “I’m just getting tired.”
Masha was in bed, still reading, when the doorbell sounded. She looked at the clock: it was eleven. Who could be visiting them at this hour? Indistinct voices came from the front hall—Natasha’s, and somebody with a deep baritone. When they passed her room, Masha recognized the voice: the visitor was Nick-Nick.
“Sorry to come by so late. I’ve been slammed with work, as always.”
“Oh, no, it’s not too late. I’m sorry to bother you, I’m just so worried about—” The kitchen door closed, and Masha couldn’t make out what came next. But she was certain it was her name.
So that’s what’s going on, she thought. Mama’s calling in the heavy artillery.
In the kitchen, Natasha made some fresh tea and pulled out a box of candy given to her by a grateful patient, then sat down across from Nick-Nick. He looked at her, his eyes smiling under his expansive eyebrows, which were just beginning to go gray.
“You’re more beautiful all the time,” he said softly, and Natasha, just like in the old days, laughed quickly and slapped him on the arm.
“You’re such a joker.”
“No.” Nick-Nick laughed with her. “I’m not joking. What’s going on with Masha?”
“Well . . . Her friend died. She’s had to cope with that along with working at this internship you set up for her at Petrovka. Nick, could you find her something else? Please.”
Katyshev looked at her in surprise. “Would you really want me to? She’s been working so long to get where she is—”
“Exactly!” Natasha interrupted him. “So long! Ever since Fyodor died! And I want it to stop. I was waiting and waiting for her to turn into a normal, happy college kid! Now she’s almost ready to graduate, and all she’s thinking about is serial killers! And your internship is encouraging it! I’m scared, Nick! Do you get that?”
“Natashenka,” Katyshev said, pronouncing her pet name exactly the way Fyodor used to. “You have to understand, she’s suffering. Her past is festering inside her. To pop the blister, Masha needs to find a killer. She needs to save somebody’s life, even if it’s not her father’s. The sooner that happens, the better. Then she can move on, focus on other things. And this obsession of hers gives her a leg up, even compared to seasoned professionals. So give her the chance to finish the internship. Then, later, you can push her toward something more suitable.”
Masha’s mother said nothing, and there was no indication that she noticed how Nick-Nick was carefully, gently, touching her hand, one finger at a time.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and smiling tiredly. “Thank you, though.” She patiently pulled her hand away. “You’ve always been such a good friend to us.” The tea kettle had gone cold, and she went to turn the burner on again.
“Don’t bother.” Katyshev, tall and gaunt, was already on his feet. His face was impenetrable. “It’s long past time for me to get home. And you should get some rest, too.”
She nodded morosely, and brushed Katyshev’s shoulder in a quick, fluttering caress, as if flicking away some invisible speck of dirt.
Katyshev gave her a wry smile and walked quickly back down the hall to the door, pausing, just for a second, in front of Masha’s room.
INNOKENTY
Innokenty sat obediently and listened as the pale young woman told her story all over again. Two months ago, her husband had been found whipped to death, and she apparently considered that only fair. His photos portrayed him clearly as the stern Siberian type, with a nose like a duck’s bill and deep-set blue eyes. For a good long while, he had doted on his wife, Larisa.
“He was very kind and considerate at first,” she whimpered. “Then he started misbehaving . . . Well, you know how men are.”
But Innokenty belonged to that small percentage of the Russian population who would define “misbehaving” as creative sexual practices, or, perhaps, having a little something on the side. How could that warrant such a brutal death? Apparently, his confusion showed on his face, because Larisa bowed her head and explained in a strident whisper.
“He started to beat me! I had my daughter from my first marriage, she was twelve years old at the time, and we’re not from here, so where could we go? I kept begging him, ‘At least don’t hit me in front of my girl!’ It was terrible. Any time he was in a bad mood, his fists came out. I was a chief accountant. I brought home more money than he did! And every day I had to cover up my black eyes to go in to work—I even thought up a new hairstyle, like a shaggy little dog, so that nobody could see my forehead or my neck. He beat me like he was a boxer and I was
his punching bag. And I’d ask him, ‘Sergey, why are you doing this?’ And when he was sober, he used to say, very logically, ‘Larisa, I’m not a bad man—you know that! I just have a bad temper! I can’t fight back my anger, it possesses me, like a demon!’”
She looked briefly at Innokenty, but when she saw his eyes full of horror and sympathy, she lowered her gaze again.
“Happens a lot,” she said with a forced shrug. “They say you should be patient at first, that maybe he’ll stop. And I loved him, too. So I put up with it. Then one time it was so bad, I called the police. They took one look at my bloody face and said, ‘You two work it out, lady. We’re not getting involved.’
“After that he got smarter about how he hit me. In the stomach, on the chest, places where nobody could see it. So I thought maybe if I had a baby, that would calm him down. I got pregnant. And it worked. He was much gentler, and our son was born. But he was a fussy baby, cried all night, never let me sleep, and we had a very small apartment, so there was nowhere to hide. He got tired of it, and he started hitting me again, and I couldn’t even scream, because I didn’t want to wake up the baby.” Larisa was speaking quickly now, as if trying to get through the story as fast as she could.
“One time he beat me up and I bled a lot. It’s terrible, but I think it must have been a miscarriage. Now I realize maybe that was for the best, better to lose a baby early. How could another little one have survived in that nightmare? But then—one day I left him alone with our son in the bath. I left all the toys, so my husband didn’t have to do anything but sit there. I went into the kitchen to make dinner, and—”
Larisa hesitated, and dropped her head even lower. “Just a minute.” She pulled out a handkerchief and held it to her mouth.
“Are you all right?” Innokenty rose and bent over her.
The Sin Collector (Masha Karavai Detective Series) Page 14