“I humbly ask your forgiveness,” the master of the dead said, tempering justice with mercy. “I didn’t recognize you!” He extended his tremendously broad hand. “Gleb Aristarkhov!”
Iratov didn’t shake hands; he merely shared what he had observed.
“You have dug your fair share of graves …”
“I worked my way up through the ranks,” the director agreed.
“Which boss did you work for? Back in the nineties, I mean.”
“I don’t follow. How about a spot of tea? It’s awfully cold out there!”
“The Izmailovo gang maybe?”
“Oh well, you know what it was like back then …”
“The Izmailovo gang still has some pull around here …”
“I’m an old hand and this is an old business. Who are you with? Feels like I’ve seen you around …”
“I’m a ‘have gun, will travel’ type. Would you mind showing us the graves, my good man?”
“Not at all!”
Single file, like ducks, they walked down a narrow path in the snow trod by previous visitors, moving farther and farther from the main entrance. They passed the grave of Maya Kristalinskaya, a singer Iratov could remember well from black-and-white TV. The engraved faces of war heroes, distinguished Soviet workers, generals, actors, and artists followed their progress with their sad eyes.
“Almost there,” the director said encouragingly. Vera’s feet were freezing in her thin, elegant boots, but she didn’t show it, just curled her toes to try and get some blood flowing.
“You don’t shovel the snow!” Iratov said irritably. It had gotten into his pant leg and started clumping around his ankle.
“Well, nobody pays, so no shoveling gets done.”
“Fair enough …”
“Here we are. Your graves are on the other side of this wall,” the director informed them. “The walk back will be easier now that you’ve made a path through the snow. There they are, over there!”
Iratov and his darling Vera stood near the fence dividing the graves and looked at the discolored engravings on the stones. The graves themselves had sunk into the fresh snow, and a redbreasted cemetery robin was pecking at the frozen berries on a rowan tree.
“Shall I be on my way?” the director asked.
“Okay.”
“I will be in my office if you need anything.” He took the same path back. Iratov held Vera, and they stood in silence.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Iratov saw the stoop-shouldered figure of Eugene trudging up the path in his black garments. His black hair fluttered in the winter wind, and Iratov found himself involuntarily admiring his copy.
“I’m going to try and find some kind of shovel,” Vera said. “Or a broom, at the very least.” She gave her husband the flowers, saying that they should be put on a clean grave. Eugene approached Iratov as soon as she had walked away.
“I’m not late, am I?” the young man asked. “I don’t have a watch, you see …”
“Right on time,” Mr. Iratov answered.
“They were wonderful people,” Eugene said, bowing his head.
Iratov had difficulty containing his irritation. If it were up to him, he would have blown Eugene’s black-haired head off and stuck his corpse next to Ivan Burygin, a business owner whose bust was gazing at them from the other side of the path with the confidence of a bulldog.
“How’s it going?”
“You’re angry again!”
“How would you like me to feel?”
“Feel some humility! You’ll have to sooner or later!”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll rub you out?”
“Rubbing me out is like shooting yourself—”
“Quit your yapping! This is all gibberish.”
“Do you remember you had this little birthmark on your tool? The one they burned off with liquid nitrogen when you were little?” Iratov glared. “The one that looked like the letter V? Over time, the spot became almost invisible …” Eugene suddenly tossed his coat into the snow and pulled his sweater up to his neck, revealing his back—a pale pink V covered its entire expanse. “Look! Do you see it?”
Iratov looked at Eugene and thought that this was a surreal situation worthy of Dali. Some young man assiduously trying to prove to some personage that he is his sexual organ! Well, the loss of that aforementioned article was already no less absurd than the works of Kafka.
“Put your clothes back on!” Iratov commanded. Eugene pulled on his sweater and slid back into his coat. He was trembling faintly from the cold, but he looked at Iratov questioningly.
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“You handled me well, I have to give you that! You’re a virtuoso, it was like Paganini wielding his violin, the way you—”
“Oh, shut up already!” Vera had appeared from behind the wall, leading two grave keepers—they had the faces of alcoholics, but at least they were armed with shovels. “So, basically, you’re my long-lost son Eugene. I’ve only just met you myself,” Mr. Iratov commanded.
“Got it,” the young man agreed. “There’s no need to befuddle a fainthearted woman.”
At the next plot over, Iratov suddenly saw the face of an old lady. She was somehow familiar. He figured she was probably some Moscow Art Theatre actress. It was only that night that he would remember the legendary Senescentova, who took up residence in the young architect’s first building, where she welcomed him with linden-blossom tea and chocolate-covered marshmallows … When he turned away from the old lady, he saw Vera with such indescribable surprise on her face that his own contorted in response, but Eugene’s expressive, sinful features made Iratov freeze like a statue once again. They did look the same, that was true …
“My son Eugene,” Mr. Iratov said, introducing his copy. “My wife, Vera …”
“Ah … the resemblance is staggering …” She extended her hand in its elegant kidskin glove. Eugene shook it gently, but that “gently” caused instant changes all through Vera’s body, as if every particle of her had changed its charge from minus to plus. Her legs were suddenly warm, and it was like someone was unceremoniously investigating all the most intimate parts of her body, and she was delighting in these manipulations, like the whore of Babylon.
“Well now!” Iratov’s voice wrenched his wife free from the bondage of her illusions. “Time to get the snow off these graves. Get to work, guys.”
“The gal promised we’d be gettin’ five hundred each,” the older grave keeper stated.
“Well, there you have it,” Iratov said with a smile. “Just do it quick!”
“Can’t do it quick,” the younger one objected. “Wouldn’t want to scratch the marble. Gotta do it slow and steady.”
“Well, get going!” The workers proceeded to their objective and began dexterously clearing the snow.
“I’ve never heard of you before,” Vera admitted uneasily.
“Well, I only just found out about him myself,” Mr. Iratov said, patting Eugene on the back. “I thought he was an impostor, but how could I not believe him with that face?”
“The resemblance is striking,” Vera conceded. “Who is your mother?”
“My mother? She’s … dead.”
“Why did you never make yourself known before?”
“The powers that be prevented me from doing so.”
“Well, thank God you’ve joined us now.” Eugene smiled, enjoying Vera’s courteous welcome.
“Should we clean the pictures?” the senior worker inquired.
“With due caution,” Iratov said imperiously. Something about the worker’s face seemed familiar, but then he shifted his focus to his darling Vera’s eyes, to that bright, sunray look that was usually reserved for him. Now all the luxury of her gaze was directed at Eugene. Mr. Iratov wanted to get angry, nip these childish glances in the bud with a harsh growl, but no anger was forthcoming in his breast, no matter how hard he searched.
“Will you be visiting us
for a while?” Vera inquired, her curiosity piqued.
“Well, I was robbed by a rather slick thug on the train. He took my money and ID and for some reason saw fit to bash me upside the head, too. It all worked out, though, since I spent a warm, well-fed night at the hospital …”
“That’s just awful!” Vera said, fluttering her frost-tinged eyelashes. “We’re going to help Eugene, aren’t we?”
“Well …” Iratov said, clearly vacillating.
“You know how hard it is for young people these days. We have to help him get his ID back at least!”
“Thank you,” Eugene said.
“We’ll help him,” Iratov agreed.
“That’s it, chief.” Iratov turned toward the voice and found himself face-to-face with the older grave keeper. “All done. Gimme that thousand!”
“Lyosha?!” Iratov asked, recognizing him at last.
“Yes, I’m Aleksei Ivanov.”
“Lyosha, the bartender! Do you remember the Lira? The way we partied, the stuff we pulled!” The past flared up in his eyes but then burned out.
“No, I don’t remember …”
“What? Come on, you were my currency middleman!”
“You’re confusing me with someone else …”
“Are you Lyosha? Lyosha who bought Zykina’s dacha?”
“Come on, there’s lots of Lyoshas in the world! Right there, my son’s named Lyosha, and we’re upstanding guys. Let’s have that thousand!” Iratov took a hundred-dollar bill out of his fancy wallet.
“We don’t take foreign currency!” Lyosha exclaimed, and his son nodded in agreement.
Now Iratov was angry. He tried to do people a good turn, and they spat in his face!
“Then you can both go screw yourselves!” The worker turned around and started walking, his son in tow. “That’s right, I’m glad you got dragged out of Zykina’s dacha! You’re a sucker and you should live like a sucker! Some Brahman you are!”
“Who was that?” Vera asked, startled to see her husband losing his self-control.
“Oh, just someone from my past …” By then, Iratov’s glands had slowed down their testosterone production by 60 percent. He didn’t know it yet, but his hysterical outburst was actually the result of that process.
The flowers were laid on the Iratovs’ graves, now free of snow. Eugene took his time arranging the bouquet, like he was a president laying a wreath at a photo op.
“Let’s go to Alessandro Italianov’s place,” Vera suggested. “I’m hungry, it’s getting late!”
This time, they ate abundantly. Eugene deftly twirled his spaghetti on his fork and smiled familiarly, as if he had long since adapted to his new circumstances. They had their fill of dessert and wine, then sang “Napoli” with the owner. Vera’s face shone with an extraordinary light; she twittered like a little bird and looked as if she were no older than twenty. Iratov bounced between two feelings: hatred and indifference. There was still some testosterone in his body, albeit an insignificant quantity, and his brain was trying mightily to shore up that hormone and engender the desire to knock the wind out of this handsome carpetbagger Eugene, who had now fully ingratiated himself and was even making her laugh.
“He can eat a dick,” Iratov thought. “But any way you slice it, he’s me …” Mr. Iratov was feeling rather tipsy. He asked the waiters to pour some limoncello in his dessert glass. His thoughts were skipping all over the place, as one would expect of a man in his cups: he was thinking about his darling Vera, his lost sexual organ, and its reappearance in the form of his pseudo-son Eugene … He saw that Vera was talking to him, but her magical voice was somehow coming from far away. He nodded out of sync with what she was saying, trying to keep up the façade of a man who was master of all he surveyed, but his red eyes and his alcohol-twisted face made him nothing but an older guy in a state of deep inebriation … Vera paid the bill herself, and the waiters helped Eugene get Iratov in the car. She tried to remember when her eyes had last beheld her husband in such a shattered state, but couldn’t.
They got out of the elevator and stopped near Mr. Iratov’s door.
“Arseny will take you in,” Vera said with a smile.
“No!” Iratov flatly refused. “I have to work in the morning, and I don’t have a guest bedroom!”
“I’ll spend the night in the train station,” Eugene answered promptly.
“Iratov’s son, sleeping in the train station like a homeless man?!” Vera was indignant. “Stay in my apartment! I’ve never known him to be such a lout!”
Iratov wasn’t feeling too hot. He barely managed to drag himself into his apartment. He sank on to the couch in the hall and thought vacantly that just a few days ago his darling Vera would have nursed him through the night with aspirin and cold compresses, but now …
“Bitch!” Mr. Iratov cursed. “To hell with both of you!”
He fell asleep right there in the hall.
Vera and Eugene sat in the kitchen and drank red wine, trying to draw out their wonderful evening. The flushed Vera, seemingly driven by momentum, continued talking about her husband, about how unique and generous he was.
“Indeed, a worthy man, no doubt about that!”
The young man munched on pistachios, and his eyes gazed into the most secret niches of Vera’s soul. To him, she was an open book, and he could read between the lines most easily. He could see how strong her feelings for Iratov were, how gracious and affectionate she was toward her husband, but, at the same time, the faint chill of dashed hopes was fluttering in her stomach. She was like a tightrope walker crossing an abyss but feeling, down in the depths of her innards, that she was about to fall to her death. Eugene knew that he would be the cause of that fall. He would enjoy these home comforts for another fifteen minutes or so, and then he would take what was rightfully his.
“Just wait here a moment, I’ll get your bed set up in the guest room.”
“Please don’t rush on my account.”
Then Vera offered him a towel and invited him to shower. He washed unhurriedly, enjoying the smell of the expensive shampoo, then walked out barefoot with the towel wrapped around his hips. Looking at his bare torso, Vera tried to modestly lower her eyes to the floor, but her pupils just wouldn’t move. Quite the contrary, they gawked greedily at his young, muscular flesh. Vera had already fallen from her tightrope and into the abyss, but she had yet to realize that she would soon be plunging irretrievably.
She couldn’t fathom how she’d wound up in her bedroom, completely naked, trembling with desire, Iratov’s son pressing his hot lips to her neck, and it was as if those kisses were the confluence of all the amorous secrets of all the world’s Byrons, Casanovas, and Rasputins.
Driven by momentum once again, Vera continued describing how tender her husband was in bed, even as her body, draped in the young man, was melting like butter. She felt his tiny nipples against her breasts—it was like they had been carved from marble. Her armpits were suddenly moist and joined the butterflies fluttering out of her stomach in exuding the smell of the summer haymaking, awakening a startling quantity of pheromones. Eugene replaced the amorous old-world swallowtails inside Vera with himself, which stilled her breathing for a full minute. She exhaled, and for the first time in her life, her body trembled as if from an electrical current. Her legs trembled ever so slightly, and Eugene looked into her wide-open eyes with mild indifference. He knew what he was doing. He possessed Vera masterfully, drawing every trace of other men out of her, filling her with himself. She squeaked in delight like a mouse that had found a whole wheel of cheese, gasped for air again, feeling that she would die from an excess of everything, and then, for an instant, she imagined that her husband was standing in the doorway, lustfully watching their illicit coitus.
“Come join us!” She beckoned. “Come on!”
“There’s nobody there,” Eugene whispered and painfully bit her breast—the smaller one that Iratov loved so much.
Vera shrieked and turned her attent
ion away from the mirages birthed from this tumult of feelings and sexual revolution. She submitted herself to Eugene entirely, bent to his every whim, bared her supple buttocks, then, like an awkward teenager, thanked him with her beautifully defined lips, puckered so as not to mar the young man’s genius with her perfect white teeth.
She was no longer thinking of her husband, even when they took a break and sat in the kitchen, devouring everything that was in the fridge. She was sure that this was Mr. Iratov himself before her; he had simply bathed in the hot milk that had rejuvenated the little humpbacked horse …
Iratov left for the andrology clinic early in the morning without waking Vera. His head was still pounding from the night before when he met Sytin.
“I’ll do it!” he barked from the doorway.
“Just wait a second …”
“Why wait?” It was only then that Iratov noticed the unnatural, deathly pallor of his friend’s face. “Has something happened?”
Doctor Sytin stood up from his desk and removed his white coat. Then he undid his belt with one lightning-fast motion and dropped his pants and underwear.
“See?” Iratov looked—the doctor practically had a pubic mound.
“You too?” Mr. Iratov exclaimed. “It happened to you too?!”
“Let me tell you something else …” Sytin pattered over to Iratov, pants still down. “I’ve had twelve patients like this in the last two days!”
“Put your pants on,” Iratov requested. “And ask your secretary for some coffee!”
“She brought her husband in today,” Sytin whispered conspiratorially, pulling up his pants. “Two coffees!” he shouted.
The Tool & the Butterflies Page 21