Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  The air blasted through the woolen threads of his sweater, seeming to push right through his pores and chill his bones. His head bent, the plastic bag with the gun clutched to his stomach, he crossed the Malaya Neva. He bent over further as he neared the university’s Dormitory No. 6, the residence of the foreign students; he had to avoid them and any black marketeers that lingered nearby. He had caused enough trouble tonight and he didn’t want his new jeanzi attracting attention. Then he passed the moored sailboat, the Kronverk, that had been converted into a bar, and trotted his way across a wooden bridge and onto Zayachi Island, which was occupied entirely by the Peter and Paul Fortress. Just before the towering defense walls, he cut left and followed a dirt path along the canal. The air was still here, and he saw no one along his way until he reached the wooden bridge at the other end of the island, crossed it, and emerged at the tip of Lenin Park. Revolution Square, dense with tall trees, lay to his right, directly across Kirovsky Prospekt. He slapped his forehead.

  “Musya…”he muttered in frustration.

  There, too, was his Moskvich, parked right out on Kirovsky. He’d told her to go to the north side, wait for him there in a less trafficked place. Here she was, though, on the west edge, the car as obvious as the sun in the sky and, parked directly beneath a street lamp, shining almost as brightly.

  He leaned against a tree. Oi, Musya, he thought, rubbing the tense ridges of his brow. It’s a miracle we lasted this long. You’ve never listened to anything I’ve said.

  As he pushed on, the plastic bag crinkled in his hands. The gun. Oi yoi yoi. He’d forgotten about it. Slava bogu—thank god—he wasn’t going to need the thing. Its metal burned cold right through the plastic, seared its meaning into his soul: death. That was the gun’s aroma. Blood and violence. He’d endured enough of that in the past day to last a lifetime. So just get rid of it, he told himself.

  He turned back toward the embankment. He could hurl the gun like a dead fish out into the Neva, where it would sink to the dark bottom. Lara would understand if he didn’t return with her grandfather’s gun; all that mattered was that the slow return to sanity got underway. Within seconds he could be rid of the pistol, within minutes he could be rid of his wife.

  He stopped. Subtle groans—passionate ones—wafted his way. His blue eyes followed the curved lines of the embankment’s iron railing, passed over the double-headed tsarist eagles so finely crafted. There. Two figures. A couple embraced, lips touching, and their dark figures stood outlined as one against the distant golden dome of St. Isaac’s. Cool love on a damp night.

  He spun on his soles. Just be done with this, he told himself, as he marched back toward Kirovsky. Don’t worry about the gun. Just don’t take it out of the bag. Tell Musya you no longer love her, send her to a friend’s for a few days, then rush back to Lara. She and your baby are waiting for you. They’re the ones who really want you, really need you. Without stopping, he ran through the park, across the empty Kirovsky Prospekt and toward Revolution Square….

  As he drew closer to the Moskvich, he realized something was wrong. Panic rose in his throat. Musya wasn’t in the car. His long legs carried him right up to the tiny vehicle; he smashed against the window.

  “Musya! Musya!”

  He bent over and peered through the windows. Nothing but empty vinyl seats. She wasn’t there, not even curled up sleeping in the back. Gospodi! He ripped open the door. Her black plastic purse was on the floor beneath the steering wheel, its contents strewn everywhere. Something was very wrong. Musya would never leave her money and passport and cosmetics behind.

  He slammed the door. Hunched behind the car he felt the outlines of the gun’s handle through the wrinkled plastic. She had to be here unless… unless those thugs picked her up. Perhaps they caught her at the apartment, forced her to tell her where they could find him. Scanning the streets, though, he saw only a distant tram and sparks from its overhead wires. All decent people were at home with their families.

  He peered over the roof of the car. Tall and thin trees, planted after the war’s destruction, reached to the sky like wooden cornstalks. Off to his left, through the fizzled fall leaves, the double minarets of the pre-Revolutionary mosque poked into the night; outlines that appeared like enormous robots.

  Into the little forest of Revolution Square, he called, “Musya!”

  Nothing but silence. No cars. No busses. No trucks. No pedestrians. Only the quiet hum of a sleeping city. A strong city, secure in itself that—

  “Boris!”

  He lunged out over the car roof. “Musya!”

  No response came. Only silence as penetrating as the dampness. Shuffle. Shuffle. Step. Step. Step. Someone was running.

  “Ai!”

  “Musya!” he shouted.

  It was her. Yes, he was positive. That shrill voice had almost broken his eardrums any number of times, railing at him, going on and on, how she wanted this pair of shoes or that jacket with the writing in English on the back. The pitch was different this time, though. A tight, new cry he’d not heard before but that could only mean one thing: danger.

  He dropped behind the car and pulled open the plastic bag. A bullet. That’s all he needed. A bullet or two from the bottom of the bag, an arrow of death that might ensure him life. His chilled hands fumbled with the tiny pieces of metal, then as awkward as a drunk, he loaded the bullets into the pistol. But would the antique even work? Could a gun from the era of the tsars come awake and actually fire? It had to. Life and death are before you, he told himself; they are waiting in Revolution Square. Concentrate on nothing but here, now.

  He gripped the pistol, but kept it hidden in the bag. Just in case. He wanted to protect himself, yet he didn’t wish to be caught by the militsiya with a firearm. So with the bag aimed in front of him, he started into the small forest. Under the street lamp, where artificial light melted into natural darkness, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Sturdy tree trunks appeared all around. A few bushes. And all the while the robot-like towers of the mosque stared down upon him.

  Step. Swish. Step. Step. Step. There on the right he saw a figure scurry down a path. The hushed noise disappeared. The person faded, indistinguishable from the trunks. Boris edged off the path, continued along the grass, continued aiming the bottom of the bag out in front of him. The unseen danger was there, somewhere.

  Suddenly someone ran crosswise through the center of the forested square. Short and round, the figure was easily identifiable.

  “Musya!”

  “Ai!” she screamed.

  She didn’t stop, didn’t seem to recognize his voice. Just escaping. In some sort of panic, that’s all she apparently wanted. But escape from what? From whom?

  He darted forward. He came to a crosspath, jumped over a low bush, and came down a half-step ahead of himself. One leg started to buckle as he stumbled. His hands flew forward to catch his falling body, and the gun and the bag tumbled out of his hand. He landed on his knees on the far side of the path. He raised his head. No Musya. Instead, only some twenty meters away, he saw a person just as familiar: the man in the leather jacket. In the shadows of night, Boris saw yet a darker object, a black extension of the man’s arm. A gun aimed at him.

  Boris dove to the side and a split-second later heard a crack of gunfire. Almost instantaneously he heard a splattering of lead and damp wood behind him. Then someone running. No—two people running. One toward him. Another away. Musya?

  “Run, Musya!” he shouted.

  Frantic, he lunged across the grass for his bag. Moisture seeped through one knee of his jeanzi. What was it? Water, he told himself. It’s cold water. Not blood. Just get the bag. The bag with the grandfatherly gun and the bullets that were meant to be cuff links. If only… if only…

  He looked up. His assailant was magnified tenfold with each of his lunging steps and a gun like a bayonet stuck out from the shadowy figure. Precious seconds ticked by. Boris feared there was no time to pull his own pistol from the bag.

&nb
sp; From the outside, his fingers groped through folds of plastic, hit hard metal inside. But was that the trigger or the barrel or…? Gospodi. No time! The man in the leather jacket skidded on the wet walk, then steadied his aim. Boris lifted the clumsy bag, then swung the deep end of it toward the heart beneath the leather jacket. He squeezed. That wasn’t the trigger. His finger dug deeper through the outside of the bag, clenched onto something. The trigger clicked, slamming metal against metal, but the antique gun didn’t fire.

  Boris squeezed the lever again and again and again…

  Then finally the two guns—one clutched by Boris and one held by the stranger in the leather jacket—blasted together in deathly harmony.

  Chapter 19

  Long before Kyril’s first shot was fired, Musya had reached the north end of the park. She slowed and looked back over her shoulder as she continued walking. There! A big hulk of a man walked. Such a nice figure, her Kyril’s. Such a masculine figure. So sexy back there in the dark, scouting out Boris. The final kill. At last. At long last. Kyril, she knew, would easily dispatch Boris. Finally she’d be a widow. How exciting, she thought. She’d never have to share a bed again with that peasant of a husband. Ach. How she hated the feel of that body, that clean smell that forever emanated from its pores. There was no excitement.

  Her arms pinning down her large breasts, Musya trotted down a path. Now that she had lured Boris into the depths of the park, her job was to circle around to the car on Kirovsky Prospekt. Then she’d drive back to the north side of the park, pick up Kyril, and they’d take off, following Prospekt Maxim Gorky. She just had to be quick about it. This was a safe city and its citizens were militant about keeping it so. A shot at night would be reported by almost everyone who heard it; the militsiya would be here within minutes.

  She turned the corner, saw her car—da, she thought, scratching her pointy nose, it would be hers within minutes—sitting beneath the street light. She had to keep low here, not attract Boris’s attention before Kyril had a chance to fire. She crouched down, touched some bushes, peered into the trees. Wait for a shot before rushing to the car. That way Boris wouldn’t see her, run to her, perhaps making it more difficult for Kyril to kill him. Soon…

  Soon her new life would begin, the one she’d been longing for. She and Kyril. Full-time lovers. Mates. Husband and wife. There’d be no more of this sneaking around as if she were a prostitute. Actually, that’s what she’d been to Boris. A prostitute. Legal perhaps, but all the same, someone who spread her legs for something besides love. How she hated all that she’d been forced to tolerate. She thought of Boris’ smily face, that curly hair matted on his chest. Oi! How had she ever done it?

  Da, da, she mumbled and pulled a clump of mousy brown hair back over her shoulder. For love. Her and Kyril’s love was a special one that had fed her courage every time she doubted her actions. How wonderful it would all be now…

  The first shot cracked through the night. Deep and loud, it echoed in the stillness like a sonic boom. Sharp and distinct. Perhaps, thought Musya, other citizens might think it was a jet or just a truck—a high-powered foreign truck—backfiring in the night.

  She rose, headed for the Moskvich, a glow of relief seeping through her body. The cruiser Aurora, that during the Revolution had fired “the shot heard around the world,” was moored just down the embankment. For her this shot just fired was an equal symbol of liberation. She was free of her oppressor. A jubilant widow who could…

  Suddenly a small explosion rocked the night. Musya froze as still as a deer. Gospodi. Was that another shot? Or… two guns fired at once, just a millisecond off? What had happened? Had Kyril needed a second and a third bullet to kill Boris? No, her husband couldn’t be that difficult to murder. But…

  “Oi!” she cried, her hand to her mouth when the echo of the gunshots rumbled back off a distant building.

  That couldn’t be Kyril firing alone. Two guns meant there were two people. Either Boris had a gun—but where would that oaf get one?—or there was someone else. Perhaps the militsiya. Nyet, not that.

  She ran for the car. Please, she begged, let Boris be dead. Let Kyril be alive and well.

  She fumbled for the keys in her coat pocket and hurled the car door open. She revved the engine, stabbed the transmission into gear, and set the tires spinning.

  Hurry, she told herself. Hurry! The militsiya will be here any minute, and Kyril might be hurt, Kyril might be dying!

  Chapter 20

  By some miracle, the plastic bag blew apart in Boris’ hands. With a burst of light, a bullet tore out of the gun’s barrel, shredded the plastic, raced toward the man in the leather jacket. The antique’s explosion was so noisy that Boris didn’t even hear his opponent’s gun.

  The moment his gun fired, Boris rolled to the ground, hurling the plastic bag out in front of him. As he ducked, he saw a flash of fire explode from the other gun, and again the bullet streaked past. The leader of the gang, however, was not so fortunate. Smug and overconfident, ready to enjoy a clean kill, he hadn’t foreseen any danger in the crumpled bag that Boris had clutched before him.

  Boris heard a grunt, knew he’d hit the man in the leather jacket. He saw the dark figure cringe in a pained spasm, heard a shocked groan. Then he, the gang leader, raised the gun again in Boris’ direction.

  Boris hugged the earth, ripped at the shredded bag like a drowning man clawing for air. He had to find the pistol in the shreds of material, free it. One bullet left and he couldn’t waste it on a chance shot. Hurry, he screamed at himself, before your brains are splattered like kasha all over the bushes. He was a living target, pinned here to the ground. A man all but tied to a post for execution. He heard steps. Bozhe. I’m dead, he thought. He tore the bag away and grabbed the butt. Then he swung around, tensing to fire at the gang leader and blast him into the sky.

  The man in the jacket wasn’t there. To Boris’ surprise, there was no gun aimed down his throat, no one ready to kill him. Perplexed, he moved forward on his knees. Craning his head, he heard scratchy steps hustling down the walk. There, some thirty meters away, he saw a hunched figure hobbling deeper into the park.

  Boris grabbed the remains of the bag and, gun in hand, scrambled to his feet. He ran to the path, where he spotted the leather-jacketed figure diving into the woods. He charged on, saw no sign of the man, then heard a noise behind him and skidded to a stop. At the far end of the walk, at the western most edge of the park, he saw his car, the Moskvich. A figure was in it, charging the engine as if it were a race car. Just barely could he make out the driver’s profile.

  “Musya!” he screamed.

  She couldn’t hear him over the roar of the motor. His feet spitting bits of gravel behind him, he charged in that direction. She didn’t see him, though, and popped the car in gear and took off in a flash.

  “Tfoo!” he cursed.

  Musya must have realized her mistake, must now be heading to the north side of the park where he’d told her to meet him. Of all the stupid things. Of all the stupid times for her to follow his precise directions. He had to catch her, leap in the car. They both had to flee. The militsiya would soon flood this area with their yellow jeeps and their flashing lights. If the gang didn’t do them in first, then both he and Musya were likely to end up in a cell.

  Though he ran with all his might, he felt as if he were running through mud. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t work his legs fast enough. Sweat-saturated, he reached the western edge of the park, then cut north. Through the trees he saw the glowing of a car’s taillights.

  “Musya!” he gasped.

  But he was too late. As he rounded the corner, he glimpsed his car in the distance. And then it was gone from sight.

  He clopped to a halt. Bending over, he grasped his waist, trying to replenish his oxygen supply. His insides stabbed with pain. He needed to rest.

  But he couldn’t. He glanced up the empty road. Musya. He had to find her, find the wife he so desperately wanted to divorce
and abandon for the rest of his life. She had vanished, however, as cleanly as if a cow had licked her away with its tongue.

  Then, like a great owl raising its voice, he heard the gently arching squeal of tires rise in the night. First one set, then another and another. The militsiya. Gospodi. He spun around and saw dozens of headlights oozing forward. Forward to him. They were coming from all over now. He was caught, caught in a web of lights and noise that was certain to wrap itself around him, imprison him forever.

  Chapter 21

  The tears in Musya’s eyes were so thick that she swerved all over the street like the drunkest of drivers. In her work at the hospital she had seen plenty of blood and death, but neither had ever been so close to her own heart. Kyril was bent over in the passenger seat right next to her, his head on his knees, groaning with pain and clutching his arm. She felt horrified, helpless.

  He sat up and shouted, “Stop looking at me! Watch the road!”

  “Oi, I can’t!”

  She sped through a red light.

  “Look out!” he screamed.

  A yellow bus, long and empty and flying at full speed, raced into the intersection. She jerked the wheel to the right, pressed the gas, then swerved back to the left. As the bus sounded its angry horn, the little Moskvich skirted the front of the huge vehicle like a mouse escaping the claws of a cat. Musya sighed with relief until she saw a militsiya jeep speeding directly toward them, its headlights illuminating her face. She froze—unable to turn the wheel, unable to take her foot off the accelerator—until it sped past them and continued on its way to Revolution Square.

  “Be careful, so they don’t stop us,” he ordered. “Circle around north and head back that way. Get off this main street.”

  She stared at him. “Oi, Kyryozha!”

  “Watch the road!”

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, unable to stop her tears. Her loved one was in pain. And the blackish blood—it was everywhere.