The Tool & the Butterflies

by Dmitry Lipskerov

  “What should I do?” he asked, lifting his head from her lap.

  “I don’t know,” Svetlana replied. “I just thought that you should know about your son.”

  “Why are you only telling me now?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed me before. I was never your wife … and why ruin your life? You were a splendid young man …”

  Iratov looked out the window, and, for a moment, he felt like he could see it—the nightgown he had once given her, fluttering on a crooked poplar branch, saturated with the smell of all those bitches who had slept in it after Svetlana, whom he’d banged in it with primal, animal intensity, as if he could eradicate her smell from his nostrils …

  “I don’t want to be in his life,” Iratov stated harshly. “The decision to keep the child was yours. You were living with Gryazev back then! While I was almost dying.” She rose from her armchair. Her expression had not changed.

  “I had to tell you at least. All the best.” She left the room. Embarrassed by his surge of nostalgia, he wasn’t planning on running after her again. That embarrassment had turned into vexation mixed with resentment, and he had to drink a large serving of cognac to expand his blood vessels and neutralize his adrenaline. Vitya reappeared.

  “Your son?” he asked, smiling widely and showing his luxurious white teeth.

  “Go screw yourself!” Iratov growled furiously. His face was contorted with rage his assistant could not comprehend, and his eyes were protruding from their sockets. “Go screw yourself!”

  He stopped remembering. It wasn’t any fun …

  Let it be noted that he later tracked Svetlana down and helped her out with some anonymous bank transfers. He wasn’t driven by a sense of duty; it just seemed like the sensible thing to do.

  Iratov turned off the computer and went into the kitchen, where he made himself three fried eggs with tomatoes in silence. He ate, trying not to dwell on those bad memories, and then drank about two shots’ worth of cognac.

  Mr. Iratov decided not to go into the office that day. Instead, he had to go up to Vera’s apartment and try to sort out how the current state of affairs would affect their relationship. He wanted to play a doubles game at four and then visit the massage therapist … actually, he could forgo the massage for now …

  He was already closing the door behind him when he heard his phone; he’d forgotten it on his desk. He had to go back and answer it. It was his assistant, Vitya, calling, the one he’d chewed out not half an hour ago.

  “What do you want?” he asked somewhat gruffly.

  “May I connect you with downtown, Mr. Iratov?”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “The young man did not introduce himself, but he is being terribly insistent—as if his life were at stake!”

  “Come on, Vitya, somebody’s life is always at stake …”

  “Shall I tell him ‘no’?”

  “No, connect me, if it’s life and death …”

  “Okay …” Iratov heard background music for a few seconds, and then there was a click, followed by an unfamiliar voice. The man it belonged to was apparently quite young indeed.

  “Mr. Iratov?”

  “Yes …” The man didn’t sound nearly as desperate as Vitya had led him to believe. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Yourself …” the voice informed him.

  “I regret to say that I do not have the time to spare for idiotic jokes!” Iratov answered harshly, already planning to give Vitya another tongue-lashing—one more screwup like this and he’d find himself out of work. Mr. Iratov wanted to sever the connection, but then he heard a warning on the other end.

  “Don’t hang up! I’m calling about something very important to you!”

  “Is that right?”

  “I know what happened to you.”

  “I don’t follow …”

  “Have you lost anything important recently?”

  “Start making sense or I will end this call.”

  “Have you lost a certain part of your body recently?”

  “Who was it?” Iratov wondered. “Did that prick Sytin sell me out?” Nobody but him and Vera knew … No doubt about it, they were trying to blackmail him, a mighty man as hard as stone.

  “I don’t give in to blackmail!” Mr. Iratov warned him. “Moreover, I respond to such acts harshly, and, rest assured, you will soon find out how harsh I can be.”

  “I know very well how harsh you can be. More precisely, I know everything about you, down to the most trivial detail … Well, for example, you lost almost fifty million dollars today and made a big bet against the yuan. I know that you personally gave the order for Interlopin to be tortured in prison …”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That petty criminal who once caught you sharking when you were in high school. Then they punched you in the face every day for a month, and so you got the nickname ‘Yakut’ because your face was so swollen. The year before last, when they cornered Interlopin in the Vyatka prison camp and stuck a shank in his liver, they accompanied the deed with the words ‘Remember Yakut?’ You’re Yakut, if I’m not mistaken. No, I’m not mistaken! By the way, while Interlopin was dying, he still couldn’t remember who Yakut was …”

  Iratov didn’t say anything. Powerful legs spread, head down, he looked like a bull enraged by brazen picadors. He wasn’t afraid, but, unlike a bull, he had no target in front of him, which made his belly burn from the inside with crackling fury.

  “What do you want?” he muttered into the phone.

  “Want? Well, nothing at all, really. Perhaps something to eat? I’m hungry.”

  “You want some money for a couple of hot dogs?”

  “Let me visit you. I’ll only need an hour. Meanwhile, you can have Vera whip something up. I’m far from finicky.”

  “Now you listen here—I don’t know your name—” Iratov said with a scowl.

  “Eugene. My name is Eugene.”

  “Well, Eugene, Vera has nothing to do with our …” He wanted to say ‘business’ but he edited his own inclination. “Problems. She can stay right where she is—but you can come see me.”

  “At your apartment?”

  “Precisely.”

  “As a matter of fact, Vera has a great deal to do with our problems,” he said, emphasizing the last two words. “A great deal! I know you’re fuming right now, but please believe me, I am not a toreador, and I have no desire to thrust a sword into your heart!”

  “Fuck! Just get over here, you weasel!”

  When the buzzer went off and Mr. Iratov went over to the door, he’d already regained his composure, his powerful fingers gripping an engraved Makarov pistol. The desire to kill the stranger was so strong that Iratov was afraid he would snap and shoot him right through the forehead instead of in the leg.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Eugene. However, I must ask you to put the weapon away. It has the potential to harm both of us.”

  Iratov raised the hand with the pistol, intending to strike the blackmailer with the butt when he came in while the other hand opened the lock for him. When Mr. Iratov saw the man’s face, he instinctively lurched back. Standing in the door was … him—just thirty years younger. The black-clad youth was smiling, pale, and feeble-looking. Mr. Iratov lowered the pistol.

  “Are you Svetlana’s son?”

  “Whose son? Ah, of course … No. I’m … how to put it … well, don’t blow your top. Let’s not stand here in the doorway, I really am quite hungry …”

  “Follow me!” Mr. Iratov commanded, still holding the pistol, the barrel pointed at the ceiling.

  “Alright …” They went into the kitchen. Mr. Iratov opened the grand refrigerator. “Be my guest!”

  Eugene broke off a third of a baguette, grabbed some sliced pork roast with his hands, and began eating greedily. He took a bite out of a tomato and a red splash painted the wall. A fly—God knows why it had awakened in winter—instantly went for the bloody stain. He drank a bottle o
f Mozhaisk milk and politely released the air he’d swallowed into his clenched fist.

  “You were saying?” Iratov inquired when the young man was finally wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “Yes, of course.” Eugene coughed briefly, clearing his throat. “I am not Svetlana’s son … I am … Well, how should I put it … The flesh and blood of Andrei Iratov and Anna Rymnikova. Your parents …” Iratov felt an overwhelming desire to shoot him. His knuckles went white.

  “Are you trying to say that we’re brothers?”

  “What? What are you talking about? Of course not!”

  “So who are you?” Iratov was losing his composure again.

  “I’ve already told you. Do you really not get it?”

  “I’ll blow your head off!”

  “I am you! What don’t you get?”

  Mr. Iratov went up to the young man and pressed the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. “Start talking. You have twenty seconds!”

  “A short while ago, you lost a body part, a rather important one, under strange circumstances …”

  “Who gave you that information? Sytin?”

  “Oh no, Sytin has his own problems to deal with. May I ask you to move that pistol away from my brain?” Iratov trained it on Eugene’s heart, worrying that Vera may’ve been the one responsible for the leak.

  “Keep going!” he commanded.

  “Your blood pressure is through the roof!”

  “Yours is about to be nothing!”

  “Why are you so dense?” Now Eugene was getting angry. “I’m trying to explain to you that I am the body part you lost! That’s me!”

  Iratov gave the young man a short, sharp blow to the head with the butt of his pistol, and he slid down the wall and on to the floor, staining the silk wallpaper with blood.

  “Bastard!” Iratov barked, but Eugene couldn’t hear him in his newly unconscious state.

  Mr. Iratov settled into an armchair and studied the pale, placid face of this new arrival. His resentful rage had passed, and he was struggling to understand what all of this meant. These events seemed strange, to put it mildly, rather peculiar and theatrical. Iratov tried to systematize this information, starting with the recent past. The loss of his copulative organ, Sytin, the sapphire, the market downturn, his darling Vera … it all interwove into a knot of meaninglessness, but he had the strangest feeling he could see something inside.

  “What nonsense!” Iratov said aloud.

  He kept staring into the new arrival’s pale face, seeing himself as a young speculator. He unexpectedly realized who the injured man was, got up, took a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and dumped half of it over his head. Eugene groaned but opened his eyes almost immediately.

  “You really did hit me!”

  “You really managed to piss me off.”

  “You just aren’t listening to what I’m saying!” The young man touched his head and then looked at his bloody fingers. “Why did you have to go overboard like that? I didn’t ask you for anything. I didn’t do anything to you, and you’re whacking me in the head with a gun …”

  “Are you Vorontsova’s son?”

  “Oh come on! You have a logical brain. I’m barely eighteen, and Alevtina was killed in ’84. So if I were her son, I would be thirty, at the absolute least. Do I look thirty?”

  “No …” Iratov admitted, throwing his guest a kitchen towel. “Clean yourself up.”

  The young man gathered his wits and suggested deferring this conversation, inasmuch as it was going so poorly.

  “Perhaps we should meet in the afternoon, once we’ve all settled down a bit?”

  Mr. Iratov did some figuring. What might the risks be if this young man revealed such compromising information about him? “Well, how do things stack up?” he thought. “Suppose he says I’m missing my sexual organs. Who would believe him? What if he talks about Interlopin? There’s nothing to tie me to some small-fry con getting murdered on the inside—I’m a distinguished citizen. He knows I lost some money. Who gives a damn?” No, he didn’t see anything dangerous about it.

  “Where?”

  “Where will we meet, you mean?”

  “Precisely.”

  “How about the Donskoy Cemetery?”

  “Why a cemetery?”

  “You’ve never been to your parents’ grave before. I hope that being in their presence will make you calm enough to be no danger to me. Would five o’clock be convenient for you?”

  “Sure.”

  Mr. Iratov did finally muster the resolve to go up to Vera’s place. She greeted her husband with a bright-and-early smile, though it was fast approaching noon.

  “How are you?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek.

  Iratov thought back to the events of his day, from hearing that the market had crashed to paying himself a visit—nuts, right? Granted, he was about forty years younger, but still …

  “Everything’s fine, my darling.”

  “Well, that’s marvelous. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes, I got up very early. I’ll have some coffee, though.” Vera smiled her sublime smile and headed into the kitchen. Iratov studied her from behind and thought about how perfect she was: back straight as a ballerina’s, flawlessly cast butt, and legs that made your head spin with their sheer interminability. His eyes filled with tears. Mr. Iratov turned away and hopelessly put one hand between his legs.

  “Lord,” he whispered. “I really do believe in you. And I believe that your acts are always just … ! I give thanks to you, my Lord. May your hallowed name shine through the ages!” He thought of the suffering of Job, comparing it to his own and regained his confidence that instant. Job was the one who really had it rough … The Lord giveth when he sees fit and taketh away when he sees fit. Granted, the angels were the ones who stirred things up this time, but still …

  Vera returned with a tray. She served the coffee and inquired if he would like a newspaper. He thanked her, but since he had already heard the news of the day, he ventured the opinion that it would be far more enjoyable to drink his coffee and look at her.

  “Have you thought of something to do with the sapphire?”

  “No … should I have?”

  “No, not if you weren’t so inclined. Would you like to come to the cemetery with me?”

  “Has someone died?”

  “Oh no. I’d like to visit my parents’ grave …”

  Iratov didn’t know why he had invited Vera. It was like one of those troublemaker angels had pulled him along by the ear. But she was so happy for him she was nearly glowing; he was finally ready to do something he’d never done before, and not doing it for so long must have been weighing on his soul like some great sin. Perhaps now that sin would be forgiven, and his soul would be at peace …

  “Good for you!” she said approvingly. She was also very pleased that he was taking her with him, treating her as the person closest to him, as his wife. In that instant, her desire to become a mother returned very strongly, to have this man’s child and live happily ever after with him. He had seemingly overheard her longing.

  “You do understand that my member is gone, right?” he asked in such a casual, everyday tone that he might have been telling her he’d just had a shave.

  “Yes …” Vera replied, her large eyes downcast.

  “What do you think about a prosthetic?”

  “That’s for you to decide.”

  “Of course …” He finished his coffee, rose from his armchair, and promised his wife that he would come back for her at 4:30. For now, he was off to play doubles, as he did every Tuesday. “I have to sort myself out! I’m either half dead from quitting my meds, or I’m … well …” he said resignedly and then left.

  Stacking the coffee service on the tray again, Vera thought despairingly that things would never be the same … The word “never” was as frightening as a terminal diagnosis. She was scared! Really scared …

  9

  I figured I would move in to
Senescentova’s place. After all, it was a private apartment, not a single room in a communal one like I had, and the deed was in my name. Sometimes it’s good to change your place of residence, especially when you’re drastically improving your living situation. I changed the sheets, got cozy on the old featherbed, and stuffed myself with chocolate-covered marshmallows—she had a strategic reserve of them. How come she bought so many? Then a savings book, marked “payable to bearer” fell out from under the mattress. The account held eighteen million rubles and change. On the first page, written in plain pencil, were the words “to my nephew.” Oh auntie, you sweetheart! This wretched wanderer thanks you for not spending your wealth on yourself and leaving it for your faithful conversation partner to live on! You know how often I’ve found myself in need, and now all of my tribulations have been repaid in one fell swoop!

  Fortunately, Senescentova also had an old rotary landline telephone.

  I went to Sberbank, filled out the paperwork to withdraw a million rubles and handed it to the young teller, her eyes cloudy with sleep.

  “An amount like that has to be requested in advance,” the girl whined.

  “An amount like what?” I asked angrily.

  “Like the one you’ve indicated—”

  “What?! Why on God’s green earth should I have to request my own money?”

  “Those are the rules!”

  “Your manager!” I demanded.

  “Grishechkin!” she called over her shoulder, then yawned cavernously. Was she raised in a barn? In answer to her summons, a pimply windbag of indeterminate age emerged from his glass box of an office, arranged his face into a smile, and came over.

  “He’s demanding a million rubles and my manager!” the girl explained.

  “At your service,” he said with a smile.

  “Are you Grishechkin?”