Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “I’m fine.”

  His mind flew over Leningrad, searching its canals and streets for a safe place. He thought of a small wooded park far from Nevsky Prospekt and the monastery.

  “Meet me at Revolution Square in half an hour. Pull the car up on the north side. I’ll be there.”

  “All right. Revolution Square.”

  “And you’ll leave this very minute?”

  “Da, da. This very moment.” Musya’s voice melted softly. “And Boris… I love you.”

  The receiver pressed to the side of his face, he opened his mouth but he was unable to echo her affection. At a total loss, he slammed down the receiver, slumped against the wall, and sighed in relief. Lara squeezed onto the step next to him and started rubbing his neck.

  “She’ll be all right, Boris.”

  His voice was thin. “I’m sure of it. But I just want to be done with her.”

  “Believe me, I do too. You did just fine, though. Don’t worry.”

  Lara’s thin fingers lovingly kneaded his muscles, his worries. She was so adept at that, calming him, making life livable. Wasn’t that, he thought, one of the reasons he loved her? Yes. The world slowed when they were together. Slowed to a speed that didn’t leave him dizzy.

  He opened his eyes. Mud and blood were smeared across his clothing as if he’d just come from some hedonistic ritual.

  “I can’t go out like this.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Lara rose, lifted the phone from his lap, and scurried down the stairs. So calm, he thought. So smooth. She moved as if she had complete control of the situation. He took solace in that. When she started back up the stairs, he found her eyes like rich magnets, drawing him toward her. He rose, caught her in his arms, and kissed her.

  “Come on, silly,” she said, withdrawing from him.

  Boris followed to her room, where he sat on the edge of her table. His eyes on her hands, he watched her fingers grab at a curtain and throw it open. A closet emerged, and she started digging. A pile of sweaters was tossed aside first, then some white underclothes. At the bottom she reached a plastic bag.

  “Here,” she said. “This was supposed to be your New Year’s present.”

  He tried to catch her but caught the bag instead. The plastic crumpled loudly in his grip, and when he opened it he found a brand new pair of deep-blue pants. Pulling them out, he held them to his waist. The Length was perfect.

  “Jeanzi!” The tags were still attached, with words other than Russian proclaiming the product’s beauty and strength. His smile was quick and for an instant the horror of the night was gone. “Lara, they must have cost a fortune. Where’d you get them?”

  “From a Danish woman. She was studying at the University and wanted some copies of Dostoevsky and Akhmatova. There weren’t any in the stores so I traded her mine.” They’d come from Lara’s huge collection, built from the access she had to books at Dom Knigi. “You know, books for jeanzi. They’re West German. Sorry I couldn’t get American. Now hurry up and change. I don’t have a shirt that’ll fit, but you can take your sweater.”

  The periphery of his vision suddenly throbbed light and dark like some sort of power failure. He grabbed at the edge of the table, felt himself sway.

  “Boris?”

  He blinked once, twice, rubbed his whiskery chin. “I’m… I’m fine.”

  Motionless, he watched as she grabbed at the bottom of the large sweater—his sweater—that she always wore. From beneath the thick wool emerged her stomach, the prized Polish bra that he’d given her and that so nicely cupped her breasts, then a mass of tangled hair. Boris reached to take her in his arms, but Lara instead tossed the piece of clothing in his face. Then she slipped on a plain blouse and crossed to the hot plate, where she put on a kettle of water.

  Dropping the sweater onto the edge of the bed, Boris fumbled with his belt and the buttons of his pants. With his soiled clothing dropped to the floor, he pulled on the stiff pair of jeanzi.

  “They’re perfect,” he said, and then slipped off his shirt.

  From a cold teapot Laura poured a bit of tea concentrate in a tall thin glass. She flicked her hair over shoulder and turned around with her gentle smile. Then her face went blank.

  “Boris, you’re bleeding.”

  He sat on the bed and touched his left arm. Just above the elbow his skin was sticky and warm. He retracted his hand, then rubbed his bloody fingertips together as if to verify the substance. His vision pulsed light and dark again.

  A weak laugh bubbled out of his throat. “I thought I was just tired.”

  His eyes settled shut and he leaned against the iron headboard. She was at his side at once.

  “Oi!” he cried when she pressed the raw skin.

  “Sit still.” She studied the wound. “It’s a deep graze. The skin’s split, but there’s nothing inside.”

  His eyes popped open. There was no time to sit here. He pulled his arm from her.

  “I have to get to Musya, make sure no one hurts her.”

  Her lips touched his cheek and she held him down. “Always worried about others, aren’t you? Just give me a minute to wash and bandage you.”

  For strength, she also insisted that he drink first one glass, then two, of black Georgian tea, each with four spoonfuls of sugar. Glad to be pampered, he sipped at the steaming beverage, the liquid resuscitating him, as she cleansed his arm. By the time she strapped on a bandage, his vision had improved and his muscles were eager to make haste. He pulled on the large sweater. As he swallowed the last of the tea, she dabbed at his face with a clean damp towel.

  “I have to go.” He started to rise but she caught him by the hand.

  “Wait.”

  She hurried to the closet, where she dropped to her knees. Shoes and socks came flying out as she clawed her way down to the floor. A moment later, she grabbed at a floorboard and threw aside a piece of wood. She reached into a hole, then kneeled back, her hands cradling a wad of material.

  “Lara?”

  She glanced at him, reached back into the hole and took out a small box. “Mama gave me this before she moved down to Novgorod. She was worried about my living alone in the city.” Her lips puckered in a frown. “It’s so ancient I’m not sure it works. My grandfather carried it during the Revolution.”

  Boris tried to imagine what value something from the Revolution would be to Lara—and to him tonight. Only one thing from those violent times came to mind.

  “Lara, you don’t mean that’s a…”

  On her knees, she scooted to the table and unfolded an old shirt. First the silvery barrel, then the trigger of a gun emerged.

  “Dyed Sasha—my mother’s father—said this saved his life during the Revolution and he could never part with it. Neither could my mother because it reminded her of him.” She unwrapped two bullets and handed them to Boris. “That’s all there are. Mama threw all of them into the river except these two. She was going to have them converted into cuff links for Papa but she never did.” She looked up at Boris like a puppy begging for affection. “Even if this gun doesn’t work, you have to take it—for luck. It saved my grandfather’s life and it might save yours.”

  Stunned, he looked at her, then back at the pistol. He’d never seen a weapon in anyone’s home before, couldn’t believe she owned one. If the authorities ever learned this, she could be imprisoned….

  Still kneeling before him, she said, “Boris, take it.”

  He rewrapped the gun and took the package in his hands. He’d held a gun in the army, but never since.

  “I’ll take it for good luck. All I want is to return to you.” He kissed Lara on the head. “I love you.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her head in his stomach. “Be careful.”

  He clutched her tightly, wanting part of her spirit to meld into him. Then he wouldn’t be alone when he left.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He kissed the top of her head, rose, a
nd carefully placed the gun in the plastic bag that had held the jeanzi. With a sigh, he made his way to the door. His hand touched the knob. There was no choice but to go, no other method of clearing the way to the future.

  “I’ll never forgive myself if they hurt Musya.”

  Behind him, Lara’s voice was faint. “I understand, Boris. I want you to go. Really, I do. It’s the only way you and I will ever be happy.”

  Gun in hand, he opened the door and headed off to Revolution Square.

  Chapter 17

  Musya’s pudgy fist slammed down the phone. It couldn’t be true. This was impossible. Please, she thought, let me wake up. This nightmare must end. After all their work, she and Kyril deserved a reward. Not punishment. Now what was going to become of the caviar, the cutlets Pojarsky, and the silky sour cream she’d bought for tonight?

  Kyril’s voice hummed over the flow of the kitchen faucet. He was never, never this happy. She’d never even heard him sing before. Against the background of pouring water, she heard his melody rise and fall as he scrubbed up. Musya waited until the water was choked off, and Kyril, rubbing a towel between his hands, stepped into the living room. She hadn’t seen that big white face so elated in months, years.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked blithely.

  His sleeves pushed up, Kyril dried the moisture from his hands and wrists. He hummed a few more bars and glanced back over at his lover. “Ready for some champagne? I’ll go—”

  “Nyet.”

  “Musya?”

  “I… I…”

  Kyril forced a smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No… but I’ve just spoken with one!”

  The smile shrank from his face and the darkness boiled back into his eyes.

  “What?” He cocked his head sideways.

  Not able to bear looking at him, she stared out the window. “We can forget about our feast—our champagne and the cutlets Pojarsky. We can forget about our first night in our new bed, too.” She tapped the phone. “That was Boris.”

  “Nyet!”

  “Da-a-a. He’s alive.”

  “That’s impossible—there were bullets flying everywhere!” He threw the towel to the floor, then started pacing behind the sofa. “With my very own eyes I saw him fall to the ground! Musya, I left him for dead!”

  She screwed up her fiery eyes and shouted, “I tell you that was him! I swear it!”

  “Tfoo—that pig! How did he come out of the water dry? I can’t believe it. I almost got killed myself. He was hit, wasn’t he? Tell me that’s true at least, please!”

  “I… I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Sniffling, she mumbled, “He said something about Sergei, but—”

  “That friend of his? He’s dead, for sure. He just stood there, the flashlights trained on him. He was hit a half-dozen times. But how did that slime of a man escape? Musya, I swear it! I saw Boris fall to the ground.”

  “Well, apparently he wasn’t dead when he fell!”

  Tears pushed at her eyes and her lower lip trembled and swelled out even more. They’d had it all worked out, their night to celebrate. A feast. Hour after hour of lovemaking. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would take the trunk that held Lila Nikolaevna out to the forest and bury it. Such a perfect evening. Ruined. Overcome with self-pity, she turned away from Kyril and wiped her eyes.

  “Just how do you think you’re going to get a residency permit to stay in Leningrad if that worthless fish is swimming around alive? What do you want to do, go back to the village?” A loud wail bubbled from her lungs and she buried her face in her hands.

  “Well, what did he say?” he taunted. “Come on, out with it.”

  She lifted up a piece of paper on which she’d managed to scrawl the message. “Revolution Square. He…he said to leave the apartment because it might be dangerous. He wants to meet there in a half-hour.” She dropped onto the sofa.

  “Meet? You? He still doesn’t think you…?”

  She turned to Kyril, shook her head, and smiled through her tears.

  “Musya, how did you ever marry someone so dumb?”

  “I… I don’t know. How could I have been so dumb to marry someone so dumb?” She pressed her hands to her face, blotted away the tears. “I guess that was a blessing, though. I mean, Kyril, he doesn’t suspect a thing. We could still kill him, couldn’t we?”

  “I should hope so!”

  “Good, and I want to help this time. She slammed the cushion with her fist. “Damn him! How typical! He’s so despicable. He does nothing with his life. He has no ambition, you know? He never takes the initiative, never sets out to accomplish things. He just reacts. And how is this person rewarded, this person who watches the world go by? He always comes out ahead, that’s how! He makes me so mad I… I could just strangle him with my bare hands! Oi, why didn’t I just chop him in two myself this morning! Then we’d have only bones and flesh to be rid of instead of a slimy worm that won’t die!” She squinched up her nose, caught a whiff of death in the air, waved her hand at the trunk. “Ach, and we still have Lila Nikolaevna to dispose of!”

  “Now, now, my love.” He leaned over, wrapped his thick fingers around her shoulders, pressed. “Just relax. We’ll figure out something.”

  She whined, “But how could one person be so hard to kill?”

  “He has the luck of the passive.”

  “But luck is made. That’s what we’re trying to do, you and I. Make our own luck.”

  “Da, da, you’re right. In the end those who try to make order out of chaos receive their just rewards. And we will succeed. We will. Trust me, my love. It’s just that the most simple people—like Boris—are often the most difficult to deal with.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s spent all his life trying not to rock the boat. And what does this person—this creature who’s not even worth an empty egg shell—get for that? A car, a dacha, the finest apartment in Leningrad—everything! He’s incredible. Everything that we want, that we’ve been so patient about and worked so hard for, has always just been dropped in Boris’ lap! That’s what I really hate about him. It’s not fair!”

  “So what did he say?” Kyril asked impatiently. “Tell me everything.”

  “He spoke of some kind of gang war or some such nonsense. Can you believe it? He went to the head of this gang—this leader in the leather jacket—to promise that he’d be a good little boy and wouldn’t spill the beans about the black market. And now he thinks he’s caught between the hammer and the anvil in some sort of rivalry.”

  “It’s a miracle he survived and wasn’t caught by the militsiya.”

  “A miracle? No. it’s kashmar!” A nightmare. “He isn’t the least suspicious. Can you believe I’m married to such a fool?”

  “Not for long. I promise, Musinka, my love. I’d let myself be caught and executed just to be able to kill him for you.”

  “Nyet! Kyril you mustn’t talk like that. We mustn’t let anything—especially Boris—separate us.”

  He moved to her, then took her hand and kissed it. “I already have an idea. Revolution Square, is it?” He kissed each of her knuckles with his rough lips. “And you want to help?”

  Her head bobbed quickly up and down. “Da, da, da!”

  “Then you can be the luscious bait, all right?”

  “Oi, da!”

  He bit at her fingers. She laughed and wrinkled up her pointy nose.

  “Oi,” she sighed. “Shto delat?” What is to be done? “Such is our life, eh, Kyryozhinka? Both of us born in a little stinking village and the only person worth a kopeck is your cousin.” She laughed, thought back over the years. Always they were together, in childhood as friends, then since their mid-teens as eager lovers in a barn. “Look at what we’ve been given and no matter what we try to do, fate is fate.”

  “That’s why we have each other, my love.”

  “Boris, too, unfortunately.” She pulled one of his hands to her mouth and k
issed it. “Come on. Boris wanted me to hurry.”

  She ran into the bedroom for her car keys. Then she dug into a dresser drawer for one of her latest acquisitions: a large T-shirt with English writing on it. She pulled it out and slipped it over her blouse. With a glance in the mirror, she primped herself and rushed out.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked, modeling the shirt.

  Kyril stared at it but couldn’t make out the English phrase. “What’s it say?”

  Using her finger as a guide, with a thick accent Musya read, “I shot J. R.” She translated it for him. “Don’t you love it? It has something to do with a cowboy who was killed in America.”

  “Ah, murder on the streets,” he smiled as he admired it. “Only the Americans would make a game of it.”

  “But it’s perfect for tonight. I traded Nina a pair of gold earrings for it.” She slipped on her rain coat. “Do you have your gun?”

  Kyril nodded, and they were out the door like two mischievous students. Musya locked the door, then paused at the top of the stairs.

  “We won’t have any problem this time, will we?” she asked.

  Kyril kissed her on the check. “Don’t worry, my love. After all, what could be an easier target than an unarmed man in a deserted park?”

  Chapter 18

  For fear of being stopped by the militsiya for driving a damaged car, Boris left Sergei’s Zhiguli in an alley and walked from Lara’s. He was certain he’d be able to catch a taxi either on Sredny Prospekt or on Makarova Embankment. He was wrong, and after a few blocks he was reconciled to arriving as fast as possible on foot. Cutting behind the Peter and Paul Fortress—where there was no road—might even, he thought, be faster than a taxi.

  As he walked, the wind whipped up the Malaya Neva in cold damp swirls, chilling the Finnish granite embankment and everything else it could embrace. Even in the dark Boris could see the river water bent back in tiny waves against its flow. With a touch more rain and wind, the entire river could back up to flood stage. The dark waters would spill over all, pavement and stone houses alike. The city of forcefully tamed rivers and islands would be defeated by nature.