Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

“Boris, stop it.”

  She shook her head, then cut right in front of him, blocking his access to the cabinet. She screwed up her eyes, stared at him as if he were deranged.

  “Foo! What’s the matter with you?”

  “I want—”

  “Boris, there’s nothing in here,” she said, interrupting.

  In an impulsive movement, she grabbed the armoire’s door and twisted the key. Expecting a body to tumble out, Boris flinched as she swung open the door. But it was empty. He pushed Musya aside and touched the inside walls of the cabinet. There wasn’t even any blood. Only coats and boots.

  “See?” said Musya, “Nothing.”

  He shook his head, touched the cut. “What a strange dream I had.”

  She reached over his shoulder and lifted his jacket from a hook inside. “Go if you must, but are you sure you’re all right?”

  He stepped away and took his jacket from her. But that dream. It was so real.

  “I’m… fine.”

  He started for the door, walking as if he were in a deep trance.

  “Are you sure?” Musya hurried her large body after him.

  “What? M-m-da” he said hesitantly.

  “At least promise that you’ll come back soon. Promise, please?”

  He stared past his wife at the empty armoire. None of this made any sense.

  “Yes, Musya. I promise. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” He rubbed his wrinkled forehead. “We… I… have some things to… to tell you. Just wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He walked out of the apartment and pulled the door tight behind him. He hadn’t even reached the stairs, though, when he spotted several small objects on the floor. He reached down, took them in his hand.

  They were mushrooms. Fresh ones.

  Chapter 9

  Sergei made a sound like a rusty zipper as he drew his finger across his throat.

  “Don’t do that!” pleaded Boris. “You’re always fooling around.”

  Early afternoon sun streamed into the living room of Sergei’s highrise apartment. Boris watched as his friend turned back to the convertible couch and pulled up a wad of sheets, tossed them aside, then flipped back the bed on which he and his wife slept. In seconds a couch appeared and Boris dropped himself onto it. No sooner had his little friend sat next to him than he slit his finger across his throat a second time.

  “You’re a dead man, Boris. A very soon-to-be one. I told you to stay in the truck. I told you to keep away from them.”

  “Tfoo!” Boris’ blue eyes gazed out the window of the ninth floor apartment. “I had to take a leak.”

  “Well, you should’ve peed in the truck. You shouldn’t have jumped out. Who do you think these thugs are, a bunch of Pioneers out working for Uncle Lenin?”

  “I… I…”

  He turned to his friend, a small-framed, balding man with frizzy hair. Why, thought Boris, had he let Sergei outtalk him? Why did he always allow Sergei to push him into things? It had been so for all the twenty-some years they’d been friends. Boris was always the one who suffered, too.

  “This is serious business, man.” Sergei rubbed his narrow, pale face. “About as serious as you can get. Those guys are a bunch of crazy Georgians. Who knows, they might even be cousins of Stalin. They’re rich, too, and they have every intention of staying that way.”

  In a daze, Boris shook his head. “I didn’t even hear them coming. So I got out—but just for a minute. Then I saw this car and I ran back. That’s when I smashed into him, that man in the leather jacket.”

  “They probably didn’t kill you then because you still had the truck.” Sergei jumped to his feet and crossed to the hall that lead to the kitchen. “Mama, bring us a cold bottle!”

  Boris watched as his friend took two tall glasses from a shiny sideboard. The next moment, a hand holding a bottle extended into the living room. Sergei took the chilled vodka from the unseen woman and returned to Boris.

  Once he was certain his mother couldn’t overhear, Sergei lowered his voice and continued.

  “They probably didn’t finish you off because if you were found dead near the truck the militsiya would have connected it with smuggling. So they let you go, figuring they could take care of you later. Less danger for them.”

  Boris stared out the window at a phalanx of dwellings identical to the one he sat in. The white nights were long gone, those safe summer days when the sun never surrendered its power. The northern light was growing more and more frail every day, and this was just the beginning of fall. The damp, dark winter—the sun rising at ten and setting before three—would be upon them in a matter of weeks. Would he even live until the first snowfall?

  “It all makes sense. Bozhe, how could I be so stupid?” said Boris, rubbing the ridges of his forehead. “You know what I told him? I told him I wanted out.”

  “You’ve really done it this time, you fool.”

  “So there he was, waiting for me when I got home. All set to kill me. If Musya hadn’t come home just then…”

  Sergei twisted open the vodka bottle. “He must’ve wanted to keep it quiet.”

  Boris raised his head. “So what do I do?”

  Sergei poured almost a full glass of vodka for each of them. “Well, you can’t go to the militsiya or we’ll all wind up in Siberia—or dead.”

  “It’s hopeless.”

  “Maybe.” He handed Boris a glass. “Here. It’s Samaogon.” Home brew. “My uncle in the country makes it from sugar beets.”

  Boris lifted the drink and studied the cloudy liquid. This was a libation that made you want to give up vodka.

  “Go on,” said Sergei. “Drink it. All of it. It doesn’t taste the greatest, but it’s as full as a cossack with life.”

  Boris exhaled, then tipped the glass into his wide-open mouth. The liquid seemed harmless at first, then started burning until it finally exploded in his stomach. His eyes became like a rabbit’s, red and teary.

  “Ai!” gasped Boris. “This isn’t vodka. It’s turpentine.”

  “Shut up and drink. It works the same as the finest wheat vodka.” He poured more. “Drink!”

  Boris took the second glass and downed it with one quick toss of the wrist. He tried to speak, but a rush of air hissed out instead.

  “What?” asked Sergei, his face a puzzled frown.

  Still unable to speak, Boris tapped his chest, then his friend’s wrist. “What… what are we going to do?”

  “We?” Sergei screwed his eyes up and pulled away.

  “You’re the one who talked me into this in the first place. Besides, you’re the contact person and you’re in for some money, too.”

  “Well, I would have jumped at the chance to do it alone if they’d wanted something on my route. And I wouldn’t have messed things up like you, either.” His face puckered up and he turned away. “I just don’t know what we can do, how to get you out of this. Boris, don’t you see what kind of people we’re dealing with? If we go sniffing around, we’ll have our heads chopped off!”

  “Well, that’s better than doing nothing and having my heart axed out of my chest!”

  Sergei sighed and leaned back. His eyes drifted shut and he rubbed his balding forehead with the heels of his palms. Then he sat forward, and poured them each another glass of vodka. The short man nodded and looked at Boris as if he wished he’d never met him.

  “You know, people like you are the most dangerous friends to have. You don’t know what it takes to get through life. I shouldn’t help you, but I will.”

  “Oi, Seryozha, you are a friend.” He bent over and kissed him on both cheeks. “The best of friends. I’ll never forget you.”

  “Don’t talk like that. We’re not dead—yet.”

  Boris sat back, raised his glass. “A toast.” He clinked his glass against Sergei’s. “But a toast to what? How about to my new life? All these years I’ve been struggling, beating against the ice like a fish. But tonight I’m going to straighten everyth
ing out.”

  “Congratulations,” said Sergei reluctantly. With one hand he scratched his frizzy hair, with the other he raised his glass. “Your mother would be very proud.”

  They clinked glasses. With a professional toss, they downed their vodka, the coarse home brew careening down their throats and crashing in their stomachs.

  Boris gasped. “So what’s the plan?”

  Sergei set down his glass. “I’ll call this friend of yours, the one in the leather jacket. He’s the leader. I’ll ask him to meet us tonight. How’s that?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Good. Then we can clear the whole thing. You know, maybe you really should go to your dacha for awhile.”

  “Da, da. I’d be out of everyone’s way at Zarekino. And what harm could I do there? I just want to write.”

  “Well, then that’s how we’ll explain it—you’re leaving town. We won’t tell them where, but I’ll promise them everything will be all right.” He looked toward the hallway, and shouted, “Mama! Mama!”

  In the distance Boris heard the sizzling of frying meats and the continuous striking of a knife against wood. There was, however, no break in the work.

  Sergei pushed himself to his feet, stumbled, and said, “We need some food. A little lunch.”

  Boris slapped his forehead. “Oi. I have to call Musya. I told her I’d be right back.”

  While his friend went to the kitchen for food, Boris stretched to a side table and grabbed the phone. He set it in his lap and dialed home. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hello, Musya. It’s me, Boris.”

  “Of course it’s you, golubchik moi.” My little pigeon. “Are you cleaning up your great mess?”

  “Yes, and everything’s wonderful. Sergei’s going to set matters right. We’re going to meet with those men tonight. But you and I need to talk.”

  Musya voice hushed on the line. “Is… is something bothering you?”

  He cleared his throat, tried to lie. He couldn’t, though. Smiling, he knew things had already begun to change. There was no holding it back now.

  “Yes. Actually something’s very wrong.” He caught himself, reined himself in. With the vodka swelling his head, he wanted to explain right now. But he stopped. He at least had to tell her face to face. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I’ve finally figured out something. Will you be there? Can we talk?”

  Her voice was weak and cautious. “M-m-da. Boris, dusha moya.” My soul. “Yes… yes, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here for you. But—”

  “Good. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

  Not letting her say another word, he hung up. He stared at the cradled phone, a wide grin across his face. He was going to do it, really going to do it.

  “A little zakooski!” proclaimed Sergei, carrying several plates of appetizers. “There’ll be borscht in a few minutes.”

  On a table he set a loaf of black bread and a plate of cheese, pickles, and vobla, dried fish.

  Boris reached for a shriveled fish, and with a smile smeared across his face, said, “Things just haven’t been right between Musya and me. She loves me so much. But… but…”

  “Tsk, tsk. Always the martyr, Boris. Still playing along with her?”

  “Well, not for much longer. I’m going to level with her.”

  He stood, but Sergei caught his hand.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  Boris said, “I have to leave. There’s something I must do before tonight.”

  “But the bottle’s open and just look at all this food! You can’t leave before we finish it all.”

  “Sergei, I’ve got to. You sure our friend in the leather jacket will meet us?”

  His eyelids heavy, Sergei blinked. “Haven’t I always fixed things for you? Don’t worry, I’ll call him and try to set something up for six or seven. Call me later and I’ll tell you where.”

  “Da, da. And my thanks to you. Listen, I have somewhere to go, then I’ll be back at the apartment. Sergei, my friend, I haven’t felt this good… ever!” He took a deep breath. “At last I’m going to straighten out my life!”

  He turned and grabbed his coat. He rushed out, eager to check on Lara. And to tell her the splendid news.

  Chapter 10

  Even though a chilling mist began to fall by late afternoon, people were packed on Nevsky like herring in a barrel. A meat store sunk in a basement had a long line wiggling out of it, the customers huddled together for warmth and covered by a bubbling canopy of bright umbrellas. Farther down, past the Aurora Theater, Kyril noted men and women of every age being sucked into Gastronom No. 1, the Yeliseyev, for some new shipment.

  As the early darkness settled upon the crowded street, Kyril—his cleaver hanging in the cotton loop beneath his jacket—made his way across town. His head bowed, he crossed Nevsky, hurried past the Pushkin Theater, wove in and out of bundled shoppers, and turned left on Sadovaya Street. He passed block after block of five and six story apartment houses and crossed through Peace Square, the old Hay Market Square where Raskolnikov was often found. He hurried on, not even bothering to stop at a line of some hundred people leading up to a parked truck; a young man and woman in white robes were selling bottled chicken. And even though it was a favorite of his and he hadn’t seen it in years, there just wasn’t time. He had to obtain the gun before this evening’s meeting with Boris Volkov.

  He wasn’t pleased with what he had to do, but time left him no alternative. Knife or cleaver would be of no use tonight in the dark. Only a gun would do, would kill quickly and surely at such a distance. Not long ago he’d received word that Boris Ankadievich had requested a meeting for tonight, and because there was so little time until the rendezvous, Kyril couldn’t leave town, obtain a pistol from one of his sources out in the country. So he was forced to follow up on a name given to him, that of an old war veteran, who was reputed to have many artifacts left from the days of Nazis and Fascists. Still, Kyril would take every precaution. Over the phone he hadn’t told the old man what he really wanted. And Kyril had decided, too, that he would leave no possible trail for the militsiya to follow.

  Several blocks later he came to one of the granite embankments of the Griboyodov Canal, a narrow strip of water famous for the frivolous cast iron bridges over it. He slowed and gazed across the channel of water that lay as still as black pavement. There before him rose a dark four-story building, plaster peeling from its face. The structure hung flat and plain as if it had been cut out, then pasted back into the city.

  This was where Pavel Semyonovich lived and had lived ever since the Blockade when his family had died there. Kyril had also been told the old man lived all alone in the building, which was now mostly used for storage. That would make it much easier for Kyril to slip in and out.

  In silence, he crossed the canal on a narrow pedestrian bridge, hugged the shadows, then headed through the building’s low, arched passage. He swerved around stacks of crates, a handful of steel drums, and penetrated the building’s heart, a tiny courtyard. Slowing, he studied the building for any sign of life and found none.

  The courtyard had been heavily damaged during the war and was still not fully repaired. Where the cobblestones were loose, weeds sprang forth. A heap of wooden wheels filled an entire corner. Crumbling over the entire area were great scabs of plaster peeled from the surrounding walls. There were only two sources of light—one from the circle of dim sky way above, the other from a small window. Pavel Semyonovich’s window.

  Quickly, a torn cotton curtain was pulled aside and a whiskery face appeared. His short, ruffled crop of white hair and his sunken face were a beeswax yellow in the light of his single lamp. His small eyes pierced the night like a partisan scouting a forest.

  Good, he’s alone, thought Kyril. Slipping on a pair of gloves, though, he knew he had to be careful. Stories were told of the thousands of fascists Pavel Semyonovich had killed with his bare hands.

  Being quite obvious
, Kyril headed directly to the door. He knocked and waited patiently. Several minutes passed before he rapped again.

  Pavel Semyonovich appeared, four rows of hero’s medals freshly pinned to his undershirt.

  Peering through the door’s glass pane, he squinted and said, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Kyril Aleksandrovich.”

  The old man’s face puffed then sank in a mass of wrinkles.

  “I spoke to you in regard to my father,” Kyril reminded him.

  The weathered face before him remained blank.

  “My father, the partisan.”

  Instantly Pavel Semyonovich lifted the hook and pushed open the door.

  “Your father—he was a good partisan? A good Communist, too?”

  “Yes, he was a great blessing to the Fatherland. He helped fight off the Hitlerites.”

  Pavel Semyonovich’s eyes settled on Kyril. He studied the face, the shape of the body. The war had taught him that truths were to be seen, not spoken, and his eyes, though cloudy, were as sharp as if the war had ended only yesterday.

  Pavel Semyonovich stared at him. “So what is it you want from an old man like me?”

  “My father is very sick now and I’d like to give him a present. A souvenir.”

  Before the other man could say anything, Kyril reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of rubles. He held it upright between his thumb and forefingers, and Pavel Semyonovich stared at it in silence. Finally, he pulled open the door and allowed him entry. Still without a word, he started up a half-flight of stairs. After disappearing for a moment into his apartment, Pavel Semyonovich reappeared with an oil lamp, then continued upward.

  With the old man in the lead, Kyril headed up the steep wooden steps. He twisted around and around, floor after floor, until finally there were no more stairs.

  Without looking back, the older man said, “Follow me exactly.”

  Steadying the cleaver beneath his leather coat, Kyril carefully passed over a series of planks lying on the rafters.

  “Ten times more people were killed in Leningrad than in Hiroshima,” said Pavel Semyonovich up ahead. “More people died in our hero city than in any other in modern times.”