The older man stared at me, mouth open. Pictures were flashing in his mind of little Svetlana’s suffering, her cheek swollen with periostitis. He realized that the situation could end tragically.
“Jesus Christ, Son of God—” that’s all he managed to utter.
“No, I’m not! I’m not the Son or the Father!”
“Can I go?” the driver asked.
“Godspeed!” I said graciously, now that the exchange had been completed. The tires of the checker-patterned Volga screeched, and it sped into the opaque night. I climbed the stairs to my communal apartment, turned on the light in the entryway, and instantly crashed into Old Lady Morozova, who was sneaking toward the bathroom in her slip.
“Viy!” she pronounced. “It’s a ghost!” She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
“Don’t forget to turn off the light!” I reminded her and went into the room with the bathtub, where, fortunately for me, I did not encounter any of my neighbors. I shed my clothes and examined my face with my one eye. I wasn’t much of a Viy, but I could certainly have passed for a plane crash survivor. All of my front teeth—typically situated in my mouth—were now in my fist. I washed them in the sink and stuck them back in my gums one by one. I washed off all the blood, felt my broken bones, and trudged off toward my room in my underwear. I ran into Old Lady Morozova again in the hallway.
“The cyclops!” she squeaked.
“Don’t you want to wash your hands?” I inquired, then quickly headed to my room without waiting for an answer. As I shut my door, I realized that I had left my street clothes in the bathroom. I didn’t give a damn. I settled into bed posthaste and slept until December.
I woke up to a brisk day with the new year just around the corner, feeling wonderful. The eye they’d gouged out had healed, and now I had the sight of an eagle. My bones had knitted themselves back together perfectly, and every last tooth had taken root. I called again, but there was no answer. Not enough time had gone by.
“Well, well, my dear Mr. Iratov,” I released a decisive sigh. “It’s time I set to work on you in earnest, since you did try to kill me and all … and I offered no resistance, though it was in my power to do so …”
I walked out of my room, and, much to my chagrin, all of my neighbors were at home due to the fact that I had awakened on a Saturday. Someone was frying potatoes with salo, arousing my appetite, and someone else had occupied the bathroom and was apparently playing war in there. Old Lady Morozova was nearby, sitting on a piece of shared furniture in the hallway and observing the bubbling activity of our communal apartment. I passed her on the way to the shower, little towel on my shoulder, when she spoke.
“Boy, you’re made of stern stuff! You just won’t croak!”
“I bid you be well too! Burials are getting so expensive lately, you wouldn’t believe it! Cremation is a lot more affordable!” Then I finally got to shave. The confident face of a hale and hearty man looked back at me from the mirror. I stepped into the kitchen.
“Would you salo enthusiasts care to tell me who absconded with my clothes?”
The fat-bottomed middle-aged ladies didn’t say anything; they just clicked their knives even louder as they cut up their respective ingredients. The smell of salo and potatoes grew even stronger. Only Medvedev, our eligible bachelor, answered, coffeepot in hand.
“What was even left of those clothes? They were all torn and bloody. Did ya kill someone?”
“Well, where are they?”
“Washed ’em and ripped ’em up for rags …”
I went back to my room and put on my athletic clothes. In view of my lack of other footwear, I stuffed my feet into my ski boots, left the apartment, and got down to business. I knew where Iratov had hidden his ill-gotten gains. I walked to Donskoy Monastery and then went into the cemetery. Even before he went to prison, Iratov had bought up several burial plots. Two for his parents, as I understand it, and two in reserve, hopefully for himself—guess he likes to stretch out. He had placed granite plaques at the heads of the graves, but there were no inscriptions, since nobody had died yet. The plaque at plot 432 moved easily, positioned as it was on a wheeled track. This was home to one of Iratov the speculator’s secret stashes.
Once I’d moved the plaque out of the way, I extracted a little bundle wrapped in plastic. I rooted around inside, finding a brick of foreign currency and a transparent stone the size of a dove’s egg. Then I put the now empty bundle back and defecated into the hiding place. Only after the deed was done did I replace the plaque.
I spent a few minutes outside the Shabolovskaya metro station, begging for a two-kopek coin. Some college girl gave it to me and asked me where my skis were.
“My skis are always on the track, Miss!”
“I like skate skiing myself,” the little coed offered, holding out another two-kopek coin. “Here, take this too!”
“May you marry well!” I said gratefully and ducked into the phone booth. I dialed the number and waited for an answer.
“Hello, Mr. Iratov!”
“Hello … who is this?’
“I am the gentleman whom you saw fit to murder a month ago—and in cruel fashion, I might add—rather than help your own son.”
“You lived? Boy, you’re tough!”
“Drop the sentimentality, Mr. Iratov. I warned you that I was privy to certain information. Now I have been forced to take more decisive action. I just visited Donskoy Cemetery, where I took ten thousand dollars and a twenty-karat diamond for the boy.”
“Bastard!”
“Oh, and I almost forgot! I took a shit in the hole, too!” I hung up.
Retaining several hundred for myself, I—naturally—passed the money on to the narrow-eyed Dasha—not directly, but through an anonymous transfer, including a note reading, “So your little son will be happy!”
I exchanged the money at Tishinka and then bought myself some clothes. You can’t really walk around in a ski suit all day, can you? A tail was put on me, but I ditched it neatly by ducking into the metro and blending in with the crowd …
I toiled away in despair, creating several brilliant plans that were meant to chip away at Mr. Iratov’s covert power, to trip up this man who was accelerating to terrible, all-destroying speed like some mighty ship. Sublime thoughts took shape in my head, each more vivid than the next, and I smiled in anticipation of the thunderous downfall of Arseny Iratov.
Two weeks later, I dialed the number of the abovementioned gentleman. I suddenly encountered a feminine timbre, informing me that her precious Arseny wasn’t there.
“When will he be back?”
“Never,” the woman replied, with sorrow in her voice.
“Is he dead?!” I exclaimed, unable to contain myself.
“What? How could you say a thing like that? Surely you walk without the Lord!” As it happens, I was in fact walking with Him.
“Well, what happened, then?”
“My precious Arseny has emigrated …”
“So it follows that you’re his mommy.”
“Yes, I am his mother,” the woman answered proudly. “And who might you be?”
“Where did he emigrate to?”
“Israel.”
“Israel? The Holy Land?”
“For now, yes …”
“But he isn’t Jewish!”
“He found something on his father’s side.”
“So what is it that you are cooking?” I asked. “I smell fish.”
“That’s just it … jellied fish …”
“You love jellied fish, huh?”
“My husband is partial to it … and my precious Arseny loves it …”
“Your precious Arseny loves his belly. If he loved fish, he’d throw them back in the lake, or the river, or whatever!”
“I see what you’re doing!” Iratov’s mommy suddenly sounded strict. “I may be an English teacher, but I have a decent feel for the Russian language, too. You’re using ‘love’ in the Christian sense of the word, lo
ving a person—but it has other meanings, too. You can say you love potatoes with herring, champagne, or even yourself! Why not? But what lake should you throw yourself in?” This lady was far from dumb; she was just lost in a whirlpool of misapprehensions.
“I am not speaking from any sort of Christian position! It is sheer impertinence to say so!”
“Are you a Mussulman?”
“Perish the thought!”
“Then what?”
“That’s the question!” I declared grandly. “Bull’s-eye! Where should a man throw himself back! Your question already contains an error of cosmic import. Man has no right to let himself go anywhere. He is not a horse. Man must force himself to follow a defined path. The clearer and more conscious that path, the more defined his future!”
“I get it. You’re in a cult.”
“Of course!” I agreed, disappointed. “That conclusion follows directly from what I’ve just said, doesn’t it? I won’t keep you. Your fish will dry out if you leave it in the oven too long!”
“Hang on, who are you? Are you one of my son’s comrades? And how did you know I was cooking fi—”
“A tick that can’t make rent in Moscow is a fit comrade for your son!” I hung up.
Hearing Iratov’s mother say that he had emigrated almost took the ground out from under my feet. Due to certain circumstances (my periodic calls), I could not leave Russia, and I would have to postpone hounding Iratov until better days.
For some reason, I trudged off to the barbershop, where Antipatros gave me a shave and a haircut, silent as always, unmoved by the fact that I’d had my tonsorial needs attended to just two days ago. Back so soon? He, too, had to pick up the phone sometimes and listen to the unresponsive cosmos, so he didn’t give a damn how often his clients visited.
I went home pissed off, like a bull who had been prevented from goring a stumbling toreador. Plus, my neighbors stuck their noses into the hallway to give me challenging looks. Old Lady Morozova was peering at me with particular suspicion, as if she would personally be entrusted with shooting me after my sentence was passed.
“Well, what are you gawking at?” I inquired. The apartment community was tongue-tied, shifting from foot to foot, until Medvedev the Bachelor steeled himself for his speech.
“You have lived in our apartment for two years already,” he finally began.
“And?”
“We don’t even know your last name! Not to mention your first name.”
“And?”
Medvedev the Bachelor tried to continue, but Old Lady Morozova beat him to it. “We don’t trust you, hon! We suspect you might be an enemy of the people.”
“Is that a fact? Are you going to hang me now or may I visit the water closet first?”
“We want to write a letter to the authorities about you,” Medvedev the Bachelor continued. “You are a suspicious person! You show up covered in blood! First you’ve got nothing but a ski suit, then you’re dressed to the nines!” he exclaimed with an oratorical sweep of his hands.
“And he doesn’t come out of his den for months on end!” Old Lady Morozova added. “What does he live on?!”
“Yeah, yeah,” whispered the rest of the neighbors, hiding little kids that smelled of dirty diapers behind their mighty backsides.
“Well, what’s the problem, comrades? You can write to anyone you want!”
“But we don’t know your full legal name!” Medvedev the Bachelor persisted. “We don’t know who to report!”
“Pardon me,” I began indignantly. “I have to pay for the electricity, gas, water, and radio just like everybody else. How do you imagine they collect my money with no legal name?” I loomed over Old Lady Morozova with my entire frame. “Don’t you see a little issue here, Grandma Yaga? Or are you accusing me of not paying my bills?”
“No, all of your bills have been paid on time,” Medvedev the Bachelor conceded.
“Well, they have my name on them, smart guy!”
“Now you pardon me!” said the bachelor, increasingly convinced of the rightness of his case. “I have the form right here! You wrote ‘E’ under first name, ‘E’ under patronymic, and ‘E’ under last name! So your full name is, what, EEE?”
“Precisely,” I said with a nod. “Let me take this opportunity to introduce myself to those of you who don’t know me. My name is EEE.”
“There’s no such name!” the old lady wheezed. “EEE! Hully gully!” she screeched.
“That’s right!” every other little Mrs. Communal Apartment and her husband chimed in.
“Shall I show you my ID?”
“Please,” Medvedev agreed. I fished my ID out of my inner pocket and held it out in front of me. Old Lady Morozova was about to grab for it, but the bachelor beat her to it and began to read.
“First name … ‘E,’” he stated. “Patronymic and last name … ‘E’ and ‘E.’”
“It’s a fake!” the old lady wailed.
“Oh shut up, you fucking hag!” Medvedev snapped, then regained his composure and continued studying my ID. “Ethnicity … Altic … I don’t know, maybe they meant to write ‘Baltic’ and they left off a letter?”
“Certainly not, comrades! The people of the Baltic lands belong to numerous different ethnicities, and I will have you know that I am Altic!” I said indignantly.
“What the heck is that?” asked the old lady, showing no sign of shutting up. “Are you Jewish?”
“I’m honored you would think so,” I said with a nod. “But no …”
“So where ya really come from then?” one of the big-bottomed mommies chimed in modestly. I paused theatrically, cast my eyes toward the ceiling, then lowered them to the dirty floor, and answered the common folk just as modestly.
“I am the son of Comandante Che.”
Suddenly, the silence of the grave reigned in that communal corridor. I could hear Old Lady Morozova’s stomach rumbling.
“So your father was … Che Guevara? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Medvedev the Bachelor once he had collected himself again.
“The same.”
“But then what are you doing here?” asked one of the bolder mommies.
“This is where the authorities placed me,” I said, extending my hands. “This is a minor affair …”
“How come they didn’t give you your own apartment?” she asked, trembling with malice.
“Shut up, Irina!” Medvedev the Bachelor commanded. He must’ve actually been living with her in a common-law marriage, so the kid was his bastard. “They’re hiding the guy, don’t you get it? They know what they’re doing!” He examined my ID further. “His official place of residence matches. Watch out, Morozova. When you give up the ghost, Comrade E will get your room!”
“I don’t give two puffs on a guerilla’s pipe what happens after I give up the ghost! Especially what happens to my room! Well, there you have it. Got a comandante living with us!” The old lady was no fool, I had to give her that. I immediately suggested organizing a feast that very evening to celebrate the restoration of harmony in the communal apartment.
“It’ll be my treat, of course!” I added. “And let’s move a few more tables in here, otherwise all the food won’t fit!” The community’s mood changed at this. A free lunch can make the dead rise from their graves and the executioner and his victim switch places.
“Hurrah!” The woman who cohabitated with Medvedev cheered like a young Pioneer.
“Hurrah!” seconded the rest of the neighbors. Only Old Lady Morozova was nervously shifting her dentures around in her mouth.
“Oh, and could I have my ID back?” I asked.
“Of course, of course!” Medvedev handed it to me and added that if we would be enjoying some vodka at our banquet, he just so happened to have a jar of salted milkcap mushrooms that would pair well.
“It’ll all be my treat!”
“What time?”
“I think seven o’clock would be perfect! Sound good, comrades?”
“Sounds good!” my neighbors agreed. I locked myself in my room and, without getting undressed, spent a long time listening to the phone ringing. Nobody picked up. I had no desire to celebrate with my communal apartment neighbors, all those ex-Party members and representatives of the lumpen proletariat. Especially after such a resounding failure with Iratov.
10
Iratov and his darling Vera pulled up to Donskoy Monastery right on time. They bought some flowers there at the gate and walked arm in arm between two rows of trees and up to the Church of the Icon of the Mother of God. Only Vera went in, crossing herself at the entrance and once again in response to voices singing last rites for a departed soul by the name of Zimmerman—probably a convert. Then Vera went to the kiosk, bought forty days of prayer for Iratov, wrote some notes for so-and-so’s health and in so-and-so’s memory. She collected her candles and left two large bills for the lady who worked at the kiosk.
“Whatever is left over is for the church!”
she instructed. She approached the icon and lit her first candle. She asked the Mother of God to intercede for her, to work a miracle and give her a chance to experience the joy of motherhood … The young woman placed some of the flowers in a vase beneath the image, crossed herself, bowed, and then withdrew. She spent some time vacillating about whether or not she should approach the crucifix, but, for some reason, contemplating what the result might be provoked fear in her, so she ran away from Christ and toward Iratov.
“How come all the candles?” he asked.
“You can never have too many. We’ll put them on your parents’ graves.” They spent quite a while trying to find them.
“Everything’s different!’ Iratov said, trying to justify himself, although it had been a long time since anything had changed at the cemetery of Donskoy Monastery. It was a historic place, and there were very few burials, with the exception of laying bodies to rest in or near existing graves when the spots were bought up. Even the crematorium was gone—the black smoke from its chimney was too scary …
The thing is, Iratov had never been to the cemetery where his parents were buried. He had issued all the relevant instructions by telephone from New York, and his people had organized everything and filmed the process. Iratov and Vera had to go to the cemetery director’s office and stand in line. Then they found themselves in the tiny room where the director earned his burial fees. The way he greeted the new arrivals was far from friendly; he even tried to excoriate them for neglecting to pay the monthly fee for maintaining the burial plots, but Iratov thwarted that attempt with one look, making it clear to the director that he was dealing with a personage of colossal significance who could step on him like it was nothing, squash him without even noticing.
The Tool & the Butterflies Page 20