Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but you. All I need is you—and a few books.”

  He clasped her hand to his chest. “What a couple we’ll make. You and your books, me and my writing.” He shook his head. “You know, I don’t care about the apartment either. I’ve lived my whole life there, but it’s not important to me. I might have to give her Papa’s car. But I don’t care about that either. The only thing I really want is the dacha. That’s what’s special to me, that funny little log cabin. That’ll be ours together.” He thought of the wonderful experiences he had had there. Now there’d be many more. “Maybe we could even go out to Zarekino next week. I want to start on my novel. The birches are beautiful this time of year and…”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  He laughed. “Now that it’s come time to tell Musya, I’m not even dreading it. In fact, I’m excited. I can’t wait.”

  All too easily he could picture Musya collapsing on the floor. She’d kick, scream, plead. He knew how much she loved him—he could never satisfy her lust for him—and he knew how much she’d beg him not to go. But he would.

  Boris shook his head. “I hope it’s not too bad. I really don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Boris, stop it.” Lara sat up. “Honestly, you spend eighty percent of your time anticipating other people’s feelings—really, how you’re going to make them feel—and eighty percent of the time you’re wrong.”

  He nodded. “Maybe that’s why I’m so tired.”

  She took his hand and pulled him. “Sit up.”

  “What?”

  “Sit up. I have something important to tell you.”

  Boris’ muscles became knot-hard. He shot up. Maybe she didn’t like his plan. Maybe…

  “Boris, relax. I have very good news for both of us. I don’t have the flu.”

  “Good. You look fine.”

  She ran her hand through her thick hair. “Boris, I’m not sick at all…I’m pregnant.”

  He stared at her. “Wh—what?”

  “I’m pregnant.” Lara clasped Boris’s hand and placed it gently on her stomach. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  He blinked, pointed to himself.

  “Of course you’re the father!” she said. “There’s never been anyone else.”

  “Oi!”

  Boris plopped back on the bed. He couldn’t believe it. Him, a father. He shot back up, looked at Lara, touched her stomach.

  “Oi!” He fell back down.

  “Boris, I’m going to have this baby. I won’t have an abortion. Just tell me the truth. Do you still want me?” She touched her stomach. “I mean, do you still want us?”

  He sat back up and his eyes were teary. “Lara… Lara! I love you. I want you!” He burrowed both hands into his curly hair, tugged, then reached out and embraced her. “A baby!”

  “You’re happy?” she asked in disbelief.

  “What? Of course I am!”

  He jumped up and started walking around the room. His whole life was going to change. He was about to leave so much behind. Soon he’d be free of Musya. No longer would he have to pretend he loved her. Within hours he’d be out of his parents’ apartment, the only place except Zarekino he’d ever called home.

  Thank God, he thought. This was all he’d ever hoped for. A woman he loved. The opportunity to pursue writing. A child. Yes, a family. That’s what he wanted. He hadn’t really known how much until now. There’d never been even a chance before. Musya had aborted all of his hopes.

  Boris stopped pacing and leaned against the bookcase. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good.

  “Lara, you know what?” he said, staring at his hands, examining his own body. “For the first time in years I… I feel like I’m not dying.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “We’re going to have a child. Part of you… and part of me is going to keep on living after we’re gone.”

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?” she said, delighted at his swell of emotion.

  He nodded and wiped away that tear and another. Laughing, he said, “Can’t you see us—the three of us—out at the dacha on a summer day?”

  Her eyes drifted shut and she inhaled as if she were breathing the aroma of an entire forest.

  “The meadows, the birch forest… I can see it all, smell it all. Is there anything more beautiful than our countryside? Anything better for health and happiness?” She gazed over at him and reached out for his hand. “Once I dreamed of being this happy and it made me depressed for weeks. I never thought life could be so good.”

  “From now on our lives will always be wonderful. You and I—we’re berries from the same field.”

  He crossed to her and, standing above her, held her close to his stomach. He massaged her head, winding her hair around his fingers.

  “Just a few things to do,” he said, “and we’ll be free. From here I’ll go tell Musya that I’m leaving her. Then I’ll go directly to the gang and tell them I’m out.”

  She looked up at him. “Boris, if someone tried to kill you before, shouldn’t you go to the militsiya? Oi, Borinka, I…”

  “I can’t go to the militsiya, Lara, or I’ll get arrested. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Wait and see.”

  She grabbed him around the waist and held him tight. “Just be careful, all right? Be very careful.”

  “Of course I will. I’ve never been so close to happiness before—and I don’t want to lose it.”

  He eased himself down on the bed and their mouths drifted together. He felt her soft skin press against his parched lips and something stirred deep within him. Lara did that to him, aroused him so much more than Musya.

  “Can we toast to our child?” he asked.

  “Vodka? Now?”

  He bent her back, lying on top of her. “That’s not quite the toast I had in mind.”

  She understood and worked her hand to the top button of her blouse. “A toast of love. Oi, Boris.” She kissed him on the nose. “Promise me you’ll always stay young in your heart.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who makes me so. You give me hope.”

  As was their fashion in their afternoon meetings, Lara pulled the curtain over the window and they shed the outer world. A shirt, her cotton blouse, his socks dropped to the floor. When all of their clothing was removed, Lara lifted aside the covers. Boris slipped into the sandwich of soft sheets and reached out. In the muted, yellow light seeping through the curtain he watched the pointed tips of her breasts swing over him, then felt her skin burn into his. He kissed her and his hands glided down her back to the tip of her spine and beyond.

  Holding her firmly, he tipped her to the side, then rolled her on her back. All at once he knelt, then disappeared beneath the covers. He rested his head in the valley between her breasts, then kissed her long and slow. He slipped down further and laid his cheek on her stomach that was so full of life. How he loved the creaminess of her skin.

  “Hello, you little peanut in there,” he whispered, and kissed her belly.

  She laughed, and said, “I love being hidden away up here, but someday can we go far away and make love outside? Just you and me and nature.”

  “Sure.”

  “Naked under the stars… it sounds so delicious.”

  He kissed her more, heard her sighs, and felt her hands grasp his curly hair. Then she pulled him up, ran her lips over his ears. Chills filled his body as she rubbed him, and all at once a great stone fell from his heart never to return.

  “Ya tebya lubloo.” I love you, he said.

  And they held each other so closely that not even water could split them apart.

  Chapter 12

  When Musya looked at the clock in the corner of the living room, she realized she had to leave. Time was running out, and everything would be ruined if she didn’t hurry.

  Quickly, she pushed herself out of the squishy couch and bustled into the bathroom. In front of the mirror, she dabbed on fresh lipstick, brushed her hair, and studied her face. Like a fas
hion model, she cocked her head sideways, batted her eyes, and stuck out her breasts. She was beautiful and this was a glorious night.

  Gospodi, dear lord, she was excited. With a little laugh, she practically flew out of the bathroom. She stopped briefly at the dining room table, took a pen and paper and wrote in large letters:

  Borinka, darling!

  Tanya called from work. The boots are in and they’re putting them on the shelves tonight. I’m so excited—I’ve been waiting months for these! Sorry to rush off, but she’s sure there’ll still be a pair if I can get there within the hour. We’ll talk later. Hope there’s no line! Back soon!

  Love and kisses,

  Your Musinka

  She laid the note on the table where he couldn’t miss it, then dashed for her raincoat. Boris wouldn’t be happy that she’d be gone by the time he returned. But that didn’t matter. This was far more important.

  As she fastened the buttons of her coat over her large body, though, she couldn’t help but reflect on Boris’ anxiety. He was always blabbering about something without really saying anything. Still…

  “Oi,” she said, shaking her head and banishing the thoughts.

  She flicked off the living room lamp and hurried to the door. From an antique trunk—which now served as a table for mail—she scooped up her keys. Her hand on the lightswitch, she gazed back into the apartment. It was so beautiful and she was so lucky to have it all—the furniture, the color TV, and, best of all, the location right in the heart of Leningrad. Oi, life was being good to her at last.

  Except that smell—a heavy, rotten odor emanating from near the front door. Later. She’d take care of it later. For now she just had to go, be on her way, because…

  She froze. Just outside the door she heard faint steps. Could Boris have returned already? No. Now she heard nothing. But…

  She flicked off the light, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.

  “Boris?”

  And suddenly the thick arm of a leather jacket was thrown over her mouth.

  Chapter 13

  Boris called Sergei before he left Lara’s. Everything was arranged, his friend assured him. The man in the leather jacket, the gang leader, had agreed to a meeting at six-thirty that evening. Boris was simply to proceed to the end of Nevsky Prospekt and look for a red Zhiguli parked near the walls of the monastery. Sergei would lead the way from there.

  Leaving Lara’s bed wasn’t easy. He lingered longer than he should have, in the end allowing as little time as possible to break the news to Musya. Just the mention of a divorce would make her fall apart, of that he was sure, and while he was eager to tell her, he also wanted a solid excuse to leave. The ruffian in the leather jacket was as good as he’d ever have.

  Shortly after five, Boris paused outside his apartment door. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t back down now. He had to tell Musya that he didn’t love her, that he wanted a divorce as soon as possible. He had to tell her for Lara’s sake. For the baby’s sake. He smiled. He was going to be a father.

  He pulled at his curly hair, then knocked. When he realized what he had done, he laughed out loud. There, he told himself, you see. You’ve already moved out. In your mind you no longer live here. He knocked louder. Perhaps that’s how the conversation would start. Musya would open up and ask what in the world was he doing knocking at his own front door. He’d hand her his keys and say it wasn’t his door. It was hers. He was giving the apartment to her. All he wanted were his clothes and a divorce.

  There was, however, no movement from inside. No hello, no heavy footsteps. His brow began to tighten as he reached for the door handle. When he twisted it, nothing happened.

  “Musya?”

  From his pocket he took a long thin key, twisted the lock, and opened the door. The apartment was as dark as the late afternoon sky. Not a single lamp burned. Only the lights of Nevsky filtered in through the large windows, bringing the shadows to life. Could Musya be asleep? That was it. She’d worked all night last night and now she was just trying to catch up.

  Sleep, he thought. He’d forgotten all about that and just the idea made his body ache. He leaned against the wall, unable to recall when he’d last closed his eyes. Ach, how wonderful life would be when this unhappy episode was over. The excitement alone had carried him this far, but…

  Boris froze, then threw himself up against the wall. He must be more tired than he realized. The last time he’d entered this darkened room someone had been waiting to kill him. Could the man in the leather jacket have returned? Could he have harmed Musya? Was he now waiting for Boris in the shadows of the apartment?

  His eyes scanned the low, puffy shape of the sofa. Up there on the right was the tall armoire. Were those feet protruding from beneath it? No. Nothing by the windows, either. Only framed night lights of the city.

  “Musya?” he whispered. “Musya, are you here?”

  He heard traffic outside, but nothing from within. Could she be dead? No. Please no, he thought, and lunged to the wall by the armoire. He hit a switch. A naked bulb illuminated the middle of the living room.

  “Musya!”

  Terror bubbled in his stomach and he ran to the bedroom, his heart racing ahead of his feet.

  “Musya!” he cried.

  He flung open the door and hit the switch with his fist. The overhead light exploded with life in a deadly still room. But Musya wasn’t there. The wide bed lay flat and smooth, not even the white bedspread was wrinkled.

  He heard something behind him, spun around.

  Bozhe. The closet. This time he wasn’t going to wait for anyone to leap out at him. He flung open the door ready to attack. A broom fell, striking him on the shoulder. He kicked it aside. Then he heard the rattling again. Someone was in there, charging out. Whoosh! Something streaked out toward him.

  “Ai!”

  He ducked as it flew past, a dark shot out of nowhere. With radar-like precision, it skimmed past but didn’t try to hurt him. He turned. A small brown bat whizzed back and forth across the room. Not waiting a second, Boris grabbed the broom from the floor and charged. He swung once and missed. He brought the broom back and waited for the creature to charge. Then he swung again. He hit the bat, flung it across the room, and on the same stroke smashed the bulb. Shards of glass along with the tiny body dropped onto the wood floor. Boris stared for just a moment at the sparkling glass and at the redness of the bat seeping into the cracks of the oak. Then broom in hand, he ran out.

  “Musya!”

  He scrambled into the living room and into the second bedroom. He kicked open the door and ripped open the closets. Lila Nikolaevna’s clothes and belongings were, however, in complete order. He turned, tripped over something. A shoe went flying out of the room before him and he charged out after it. He paused by the armoire, glanced down at the shoe. The bathroom! His mind flooded with visions of finding her bloody body stuffed in a corner. God! He should never have left her. What a fool he was. He should have warned her not to open the door for anyone. He should have hustled her out, hidden her in a friend’s apartment.

  Holding the broom up in defense, he yanked open the door to the small water closet. There before him stood a sink, a toilet, and torn newspaper tacked to the wall for toilet paper. But no wife. He stepped back into the living room. A car outside honked. He spun around. The large room was empty.

  The balcony!

  He jumped over the couch and tore open the doors. A cold breeze flew over him. The white lights of Nevsky struck his eyes, the bustle of traffic filled his ears. He glanced down at the crowds swarming past the statues of the Anichkov Bridge.

  Knives! The kitchen. How could he be so stupid. He spun around, broom still in hand, and ran toward the kitchen. He pushed a dining room chair out of his way. In his frenzy he almost missed the note laid carefully on the dinner table. The large, florid writing was recognizable in an instant, and he dropped the broom. As he read, rage like a sudden fever overtook him and the paper shook in his hand until
it rattled. Then bit by bit he slowly crumpled the note in a single fist, wadded it into a ball, and threw it on the parquet floor.

  “Boots!” he cried out.

  Dresses and jean skirts and nylons and, yes, boots. Cosmetics, too. Those were all she thought of, all she wanted out of life. How had their marriage lasted this long? Had he been crazy, too? What a fool he’d been to marry her, what a bastard to tolerate her foolishness this long.

  Cursing himself, he lumbered over to the sofa and dropped himself onto it. The thick cushions bounced up, then hissed as they softened. He should have left her years ago. Actually he never should have married her. His father was right. The old man, the conservative Communist, had recognized Musya’s worth from the start, found her taste for Western fashion and personal consumption appalling. She won’t spur you on to greater things, Arkady Yakovich had said. She won’t make your life rich and satisfying. She’ll suck the life from you, waste the precious sands of time. He constantly reiterated that she was only after what Boris possessed—by virtue of being the son of Arkady Yakovich: the car, the dacha, the apartment on Nevsky. Yet the more Arkady Yakovich persisted, the more determined Boris became. He was certain that Musya, with her sweet kisses and smothering embraces, truly loved him. She wanted sex until Boris ached, till he could hardly stand in the morning. Musya was fun, vivacious, exciting. And Boris was determined to make up his own mind. That, in truth, was how he’d resolved to marry her: to do something his meddlesome father was entirely opposed to.

  With his head slumped back against the sofa, Boris stared up at the naked bulb. How depressing, he thought. The one and only time he’d openly defied his father and used his own judgment was a complete mistake. His feelings for Musya had never, not even then, had anything to do with love. There had been too many issues—primarily, how a Party official’s son was wasting his life—to see the circumstances simply. Now at least he knew what to do.

  He sat up. There was no use stewing in his own juices. With Musya away, well, he’d have to straighten things out with the gang first, then return to face her.