Daughter from the Dark

by Sergey

  “She was hungry,” Aspirin mumbled apologetically.

  “Not at all,” the girl said softly. “We are just having a cup of tea. With Mishutka.”

  She petted the bear, nearly making the toy’s heavy head dip into the scalding liquid.

  Whiskas looked at Aspirin. Aspirin looked away, his expression signaling yes, he was an idiot, and he knew it.

  “What is your name?” Whiskas asked the girl.

  She hunched over the saucer; a single blond hair fell from behind her ear and snaked along the surface of the tea.

  “What is her name?” Whiskas addressed Aspirin. Aspirin shrugged. “What, haven’t you learned her name?”

  “I haven’t had a chance.”

  Whiskas looked incredulous. “Not enough time?”

  “Not quite . . .” Not sure how to answer, Aspirin picked a cookie from the platter and devoured it with abandon.

  “All right, finish your tea,” Whiskas said to the girl. “We’re going to the juvie.”

  “Where?”

  “If you don’t tell me immediately who your parents are and where you live, I will take you to the juvenile detention center, and you will have to speak to the specialists.” Whiskas smiled unpleasantly as he said this.

  “I don’t live here,” the girl said softly.

  “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Whiskas said in a high, reedy voice. “Then you will be sent home. If you have any money. Come on, bottoms up.”

  “If you need money for a ticket, I can give you money,” Aspirin offered. Whiskas groaned and glanced at him without a hint of respect.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? She’ll happily leech off you, and all you need right now is someone pestering you.”

  “I won’t,” the girl said, even more softly. “I don’t need anything from him. I just want him to admit he’s my father.”

  Aspirin choked on his cookie and bent over in a violent fit of coughing.

  Whiskas straddled a chair. For a while he watched the girl sip her tea. Eventually his eyes moved toward Aspirin. Aspirin still couldn’t talk—the cookie stuck in his throat.

  No one tried to help him.

  “What was that again?” Whiskas said, eyes steady on the girl’s face.

  “I am his daughter.” The girl sat up proudly. “He and my mom—they broke up. I wasn’t born yet. Ask him—he remembers Luba from Pervomaysk, he must remember her . . .”

  “What Luba?” Aspirin coughed out, finally regaining the gift of speech. “What do you mean, Pervomaysk?”

  “Luba Kalchenko. You vacationed together in Crimea.”

  “Crimea? Victor, this is a nightmare, she’s lying, it’s all lies . . .”

  Whiskas’s professionally steely eyes grew colder.

  “Alexey Igorevich.” The girl’s voice sounded thin and pitiful. “I don’t need anything from you. We are going to make it. Mom has disability benefits, because of that hazardous industry job she had, and she has diabetes. And Grandma has her pension . . . I don’t need any money! I just wanted to come and see . . .”

  “Victor, she’s lying,” Aspirin said, laughing nervously. “It’s simply ludicrous. A real circus, that’s what this is.”

  But it was clear his friend wasn’t buying the girl’s words anyway. Whiskas’s wide face twisted in disgust.

  “Anyone can come and claim whatever they want,” he informed the girl through gritted teeth. “Maybe you are my daughter. Or the pope’s.”

  Tears rolled down the girl’s face. She reached for her back pocket, pulled out a small black-and-white photo, and slapped it down on the table like a trump card. Whiskas and Aspirin bent over the photo in unison. At one time glossy, but now frayed and faded, the snapshot showed a couple embracing. The woman’s face was clearly seen in the image; she was a brunette of about twenty, not quite beautiful, but pleasant-looking. The man’s face was blurry—he must have turned his head when the camera clicked. The sea frothed in the background.

  “That’s him,” the girl said, licking a huge tear from the corner of her mouth.

  “It’s completely impossible to tell who that is!” Aspirin yelled. “Plus,” he said a tad less aggressively, “people hug each other all the time. That’s not proof.”

  Whiskas studied the photo. His steely eyes bore no expression whatsoever.

  “What do you want from me?” Aspirin took a step back to the window. “Money? How much can I give you to make you leave?”

  “I don’t want any money,” the girl said firmly.

  “Alexey,” Whiskas rose. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “What—”

  “Now.”

  Aspirin followed him into the hallway, confused when it seemed like they were just about to make headway with the girl.

  “What the hell?” Whiskas inquired.

  “What do you mean, ‘What the hell?’ She’s lying,” Aspirin whispered. “I swear. There was no Luba from Pervomaysk. I’m not sure I even know where that is, let alone gone there.”

  “As if you would remember them all,” Whiskas murmured. “How did she get into your apartment?”

  “I told you—I brought her in.”

  “Well, if you brought her in, you can take her out,” Whiskas said, turning to leave. “Your family problems are your own responsibility. See you.”

  Before Aspirin could even protest, the door was shutting behind him.

  “What the hell,” he said.

  In the kitchen the silver bell rang—the note A, as the girl pointed out.

  Aspirin shuffled into the living room and stretched out on the sofa.

  How had he managed to get himself into this idiotic situation?

  His mother always said that one’s personality defines one’s fate. All it takes is to show a sign of weakness once; all sorts of disasters flow into that crack. All his life Aspirin would avoid old women begging on the street; he simply excluded them from his line of vision. Perfectly undisturbed, Aspirin would eat his lunch in full view of a hungry runaway. So why now? How could this happen to him after decades of casual disregard? How did he manage to bring someone else’s child into his home, his fortress, which no strangers were ever allowed to enter?

  And what did he do when his friend took the word of this random little girl over his?

  He had asked Victor for help, but—somehow—it had made things worse. Because Victor didn’t believe him, and now he was stuck with this child. Somebody else’s child. Insolent. Ill-mannered. Hungry. Dirty. Well, clean at this point, but that was temporary.

  Aspirin lay for a few minutes, then got up. A boil must be lacerated while it’s fresh, as unpleasant as it might be—he knew that much. The problem must be solved without delay. And he, Alexey Igorevich Grimalsky, was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

  Especially when there was no one else he could ask for help.

  He went back to the kitchen. The girl sat on the same chair, cuddling her teddy bear and staring out of the window. Aspirin took a closer look and realized that the blurry young man in the photo had nothing in common with Aspirin himself—whatever familiar features brought out by Whiskas’s probing eyes had been nothing but an illusion, a hypnosis perhaps, or—who knows—it was quite possible that the confident voice of that little witch brought out a false sense of guilt in Aspirin.

  “It’s not that bad, you know,” the girl said, still staring out of the window.

  “Let’s go,” Aspirin said, taking her elbow. He felt her thin arm, so warm, so smooth, tense slightly under his fingers.

  “I am staying here.” She turned her head, but remained seated. “There is a law. If you spend the first night under someone’s roof, that’s where you stay. We are connected now. And neither you nor I can break that connection.”

  What nonsense. “We’ll see about that.” He pulled her by the arm, about to jerk her up and drag her into the hallway. And then he let go because a deep, throaty snarl filled the kitchen. Aspirin’s fingers sla
ckened before he remembered where he’d heard that sound before.

  “Quiet, sh-hhhh.” The girl hugged the toy closer to her chest, caressing its fur. “Do not be afraid, Mishutka. It’s going to be all right.”

  Aspirin backed away, convinced the girl was mad—and that he was going quite mad himself. He watched them for a few minutes, then picked up the bottle of brandy from the shelf and an unfinished cup of tea from the table, and retired to the living room.

  A clap of thunder woke him up.

  In his dream he heard snarling, piercing shrieks of people being torn in half, saw shadows dancing on a dirty wall covered with graffiti . . .

  He woke up and knew it was nothing but a thunderstorm. Outside the air was gray and rain battered the glass; the curtain stayed still—someone had thoughtfully shut the window. A lamp glowed softly.

  Aspirin lay on the sofa, heavy and doughy, like a dying jellyfish. A tray was placed on the coffee table. Aspirin smelled food and sat up.

  Steam rose from a thick chicken cutlet. Three fat slices of tomato stared back at him. A large mug was filled with coffee.

  “Eat,” a disembodied voice said from the darkness. “You skipped breakfast.”

  “What time is it?” Aspirin asked hoarsely.

  “Almost five.”

  “How long was I asleep for?”

  There was no answer. Aspirin sat up, wincing. An empty bottle of brandy leaned timidly against the side of the sofa.

  He picked up the knife and fork. The chicken cutlet was tender, with just the right amount of salt and pepper, crispy on the outside and perfectly lovely.

  “I see you’re a fully baked housewife,” he said chewing with gusto. “Can you sew? How about knitting? How old are you?”

  His questions were met with silence. The girl sat on the floor, legs crossed, Mishutka pressed against her chest.

  “And what is your name, by the way?” He thought about something else. “And where did you get the chicken? I know I didn’t have any in the refrigerator.”

  “You didn’t have any vegetables either,” the girl said. “Or potatoes. I bought it. At the market near the subway.”

  “Right,” Aspirin said and reached for the coffee. “Did you also stop to pick up a roofie, by any chance?”

  “Stop to pick up a roofie,” the girl repeated, as if fully appreciating the scope of his joke. “Why would I bother? You slept all day without any help. Is that your way of avoiding problems?”

  Aspirin swallowed the insult along with a huge gulp of coffee. It must be noted that Aspirin’s favorite beverage was beyond all compliments—Aspirin definitely couldn’t make coffee as excellent as this.

  Lightning flashed, followed by a bark of thunder, and spooked automobiles howled in different voices. Aspirin put the mug back on the tray.

  “And what else have you been doing?”

  “I read. I found all sorts of magazines here.”

  Aspirin looked down and saw two issues of Macho and three issues of Lolly-Lady, pages spread widely and most indecently. Had she really been looking at those pictures?

  “Doctor Aspirin—that’s your byline, isn’t it?” the girl asked solemnly.

  Aspirin groaned—this was much worse than he thought. He switched positions and fluffed the pillow under his head.

  “I figured it out,” the girl said sunnily. “‘One hundred recipes for healthy intercourse.’ ‘How to meet a blonde.’ ‘How to break up with a blonde without heartache.’”

  He groaned again. “Who sent you?”

  “No one. I came on my own. You found me, remember? But . . . I need you.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t do anything by myself. I don’t know anything. I am scared of everything.”

  “I noticed,” Aspirin murmured through gritted teeth.

  “It’s true,” the girl sighed. “I have no one. Except for Mishutka.”

  The girl approached, and Aspirin flinched, thinking she was bringing the bear closer to him, but she just picked up the tray with the dirty dishes and moved toward the kitchen.

  “Hold on!” Aspirin yelled to her back. “What is your name, anyway?”

  Another clap of thunder followed a flash of lightning that illuminated the dark room: a Japanese calendar on the wall, book spines on the shelves, and the girl’s pale face.

  “Alyona,” she said gingerly, like someone who had just come up with a name and was not sure it actually fit.

  “Liar,” Aspirin said.

  The girl shrugged and walked out of the room.

  Aspirin shook his head. The hallucination continues, then, he thought. Gusts of wind made the windowpanes tremble. In the kitchen the dishes clinked delicately.

  How could he have fallen asleep? He just dropped everything and got himself wasted. She could have brought people into his apartment—her masters, or whoever sent her here.

  “Hey,” Aspirin yelled hoarsely, hoping to be heard in the kitchen. “Where did you get the keys?”

  “In the pocket of your jacket,” the girl answered serenely. “In the hallway.”

  He rose, fighting off nausea.

  “And now where are my keys?”

  “Same place. I put them back.”

  The sound of running water, the sound of a fork dropped into the metal sink.

  “For your information,” Aspirin said, “I am changing the locks—tomorrow. Both of them. And the alarm will be on, and you don’t know the code. And the money? Where did you get the money?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “‘Forty-five’ what?”

  “Your code is forty-five. You left it punched in, and never put it back to zeroes. And the money—I took it from your jacket and put the change back in your pocket. But since it was to buy you food, it’s not really stealing, is it?”

  The logic was irrefutable—and infuriating.

  The sound of running water stopped. Aspirin forced himself off the couch and went into the kitchen. The girl stood in front of an empty, sparkling sink, drying her hands with a towel.

  “A different concierge was on duty today—her name is Sveta,” she said. “I told her I was your daughter from Pervomaysk. She looked very surprised.”

  “I have no doubt.” Aspirin’s voice was low and hard. “And now you’re going to leave.”

  “Where? In the rain? In the thunderstorm? Don’t be silly.”

  “Don’t call me silly! Stop condescending to me! I’m the adult here, and I don’t care if there is a monsoon outside: you’re still going.”

  Alyona smiled. “You have a nice large apartment. Some people stay in communal apartments all their lives, four people per room. Yet you’re too greedy to let an orphaned child stay with you. Even though you live alone and have plenty of space.”

  “Who took you in last night? Gave you a place to stay? Who protected you from those thugs and their dog?”

  “Mishutka protected me,” she said, almost as if she was confused by the question.

  “That’s it. I am calling the police.” Aspirin turned to leave.

  “Go ahead, call them,” Alyona said to his back, her voice icy. “It will be interesting when they come. I will tell them you made me walk around naked. And that you made me stand in different poses. And you wouldn’t feed me unless I complied. And also—”

  He slapped her face, so hard that the little bitch flew off, slamming her back into the sink. It had been gutting, hearing her words. Hearing how easily those accusations could be thrown out, and knowing how easily they would work against him. Victor hadn’t believed him; the police wouldn’t believe him. No longer able to comprehend words—his or hers or anyone’s—and no longer seeing anything with clarity, Aspirin ran into the bathroom and turned the hot water to the maximum, trying to wash off the feeling of her face on the palm of his hand.

  He wondered if he could get it hot enough to wash her completely out of his life.

  To wash off the stain that was spreading on his soul.

  Hands red and raw, he
turned off the faucet. With the noise of rushing water and faulty plumbing no longer filling his ears, silence was everywhere. Not a single sound came from the kitchen. Outside, the rain banged on the metal awnings. Aspirin grabbed a towel from the hook.

  “You . . . you deserved it,” he said, knowing it was a lie. Knowing that more lies were coming. “And if you don’t leave this minute, there is plenty more where that came from!”

  He reached the kitchen, and the girl remained in the same spot. Large drops of blood from her nose fell onto the T-shirt with the inscription krakow. learning to fly, followed by nearly invisible tears.

  And that’s how they catch us idiots, Aspirin mused. They sit in subway stations holding their babies. They send over innocent-looking little girls, and you, allegedly so damn clever, find yourself to be a complete and utter and despicable moron . . .

  Another thunderclap forced the cars parked outside to shriek in unison.

  “What do you want from me?” Aspirin barked, trying to replace all his various emotions with a single one—extreme anger. “A daughter of mine, are you? From Luba in Pervomaysk? How dare you! You’re an evil, nasty bitch! Get the hell out of my apartment!”

  “Fine.” The girl’s voice was hoarse from crying. “If you say so. I am going to tell Sveta that you got drunk, beat me up, and kicked me out. Maybe she’ll let me sleep in her room tonight.”

  The floor swayed under Aspirin’s feet. For a few seconds he watched her pale blood-and-tear-stained face, and then he went into the bedroom and picked up his phone.

  Could he call someone? But whom? What would he say?

  The apartment was dark, as if it were very late at night. Just as Aspirin gathered enough courage to call the police, yet another clash of thunder was followed by the doorbell.

  Did Whiskas decide to come back?

  And of course, Alyona was in the kitchen, crying, her nose bleeding onto her shirt . . .

  What if this wasn’t Whiskas, but the girl’s owners, the ones who’d sent her over?

  Aspirin darted to the door and pushed the dead bolt into place. Even if they had a drill, or a copy of his keys, or a welding tool—he’d have time to dial the police and reach for the gun. Let them come.