by Sergey
“You don’t like animals, do you?”
“I am a busy man. I feel compassion for living creatures, and I don’t want to lock anyone in an empty apartment.” Aspirin rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t understand this, though—I pay monthly dues for the concierge . . . why wasn’t he watching? How’d these guys get into the building?”
“Could have posed as delivery guys. Just buzzed at random until someone let them in. Happens enough. But that’s why you use a personal security system,” the senior officer said, reproach in his voice.
“This one guy put a security system on his car,” the younger officer said, reminiscing, “and if there was an unauthorized start of the engine, a four-inch steel spike popped out of the driver’s seat. And this one time, this kid broke the lock, got into the car, started the engine—”
“Why are you telling me this? You caught the men, so why don’t you look for their ‘monster,’” Aspirin snarled. “Fur flying all over the place. Paw prints. Maybe my neighbors saw something, or the concierge noticed a beast running around. Damn it, I have this disaster on my hands—my apartment was broken into, I feel violated—and you’re blaming me?”
“No one is blaming you,” the senior officer mumbled.
The younger one looked away.
“I refuse to believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because the moment I allow for the possibility of a toy teddy bear killing a dog on a street corner, and then slicing up a couple of thugs, then I might as well believe anything. Witches, psychics, Harry Potter, Father Frost . . .”
“No one is asking you to believe in Father Frost,” Alyona said. “That’s just silly. May I have something to eat? I only had two chocolates from the concierge since this morning.”
Aspirin dug up a package of pelmeni from the freezer and put a pot of water on the stove. He noticed how clean the table was. It was sparkling. Aspirin himself never cleaned that thoroughly.
“May I have some more honey?” Alyona asked shyly.
“For Mishutka?” Aspirin said. “To help him disembowel people?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Alyona looked down. “If they hadn’t locked themselves up in the bedroom, he would have disemboweled them for sure. He’s got an instinct.”
“It’s a miracle that he didn’t attack the police.” Aspirin tossed the pelmeni into the boiling water. “Does he have that much respect for the authorities?”
“I was there when they entered the apartment,” Alyona said. “And I yelled for him not to be afraid.”
“For him not to be afraid?”
“I know he looks big and scary, but he really is a gentle bear.” Aspirin couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of this animal being afraid.
She sniffed. “I know it’s funny to you . . .”
“Funny? This whole thing is absurd!”
“Not what happened today,” she said with disdain. “That’s just a bear acting like a bear, yet you have trouble believing in an incident as common as this was. Meanwhile, the real miracle that had happened right in front of your eyes—that you didn’t even notice. And it didn’t surprise you in the least. It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t take me back with him. He let me go. He let me stay here. And he gave me strings! It is a miracle. And it’s a miracle of kindness.”
Both of them fell silent.
It was late. An hour ago the door had closed behind the policemen, who had taken their sweet time with the investigation (doing what, exactly, Aspirin couldn’t fathom, other than preventing him from cleaning up). Finally Aspirin signed the report and was allowed to get the blood off his floors—which, of course, had dried and set. Alyona volunteered to help; she handled the broom and mop (and, eventually, a sponge on her hands and knees) silently and efficiently. The hallway and the living room eventually stopped resembling a butcher shop. Aspirin rolled up the rug and carried it into the hall. He had no idea what to do with the sofa, but Alyona managed to pull off the cushion covers and stuff them into the washing machine. Set to heavy duty, the washing machine chewed the red fabric viciously, rinsed, and chewed it again. It’s ruined anyway, Aspirin thought, listening to the muffled squelching of the wet material.
“I am so tired I can’t even enjoy it,” Alyona murmured, and Aspirin found himself agreeing with her.
He fished the pelmeni out of the boiling water, found the butter in the fridge, and dropped a yellow slice over the steaming globs of dough: “Eat.”
“Thank you.” Her nostrils trembled—she must have been starving. “What about you?”
“I’d rather vomit,” he said.
Alyona chose not to ask any questions, for which he was grateful. She leaned over the bowl and blew vigorously. A dozen of the pelmeni disappeared before they had a chance to cool.
“Aren’t you in the least bit afraid of blood?” Aspirin asked her softly.
The girl shook her head.
“Why not?” Aspirin planted his elbows on the table.
“Because I am not in the least bit afraid of death,” Alyona said calmly. “What did you think?”
Aspirin was silent for a few minutes. Alyona had enough time to get a slice of bread and wipe the plate clean.
The way she answered made him feel that there was something she knew that he didn’t—and wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He wasn’t even sure how she could possibly know what was inside him, but in this moment, it was clear she possessed that knowledge as surely as she had devoured the pelmeni. And he was compelled to hear the answer anyway.
“Am I afraid of death?” he asked in a mere whisper.
“Of course.” Alyona leaned back on her chair and sighed contentedly. “You are afraid of it. Here, everyone is afraid of death. Almost everyone. The ones who know they’re going to die, at least.”
“And you?”
“I am not going to die,” Alyona said with a smile. “I know that everyone is alive. Everything is alive. And there is no death. There is no death anywhere.”
Aspirin’s mind was whirling, and his words came out in a jumble. “Who told you that? Tell me more. What do you mean when you say ‘here’? Are you—and your buddies—waiting for the end of the world? And are you waiting for some sort of passage to a different world?
“How can you be so sure about death?”
Alyona was no longer smiling. She picked up her bowl, carried it to the sink, then wiped the crumbs off the table.
“You’ve got lots of CDs,” she said, turning on the hot water faucet. “I saw them when I was cleaning. Do you listen to music a lot?”
“It is considered polite to answer when grown-ups are asking you a question,” Aspirin advised. “Don’t change the subject. Who is that ‘not human’ of yours? Is he your sensei? Your teacher? A spiritual leader? He’s clearly not your father. So what right does he have to take you or to let you go in the first place? And what language—damn you to hell—what language were you speaking?”
Alyona washed her bowl. She picked up a jar of honey and placed it on the table. “I am going to get Mishutka.”
“Don’t you dare,” Aspirin blurted out.
Alyona stopped in the doorway: “What?”
“He’s . . . he’s all bloody.” It sounded lame to Aspirin even as he said it.
“He’s clean. Not a spot on him. You saw it yourself.”
“Fine! I’m scared of him. Happy? And I don’t want to see him ever again,” Aspirin said. “Make sure he never gets in my line of vision. Ever. Otherwise, I am going to toss him straight into the trash compactor.”
Alyona did not respond. She picked up the jar of honey, found a spoon in the drawer, threw a reproachful glance at Aspirin, and left the kitchen.
Feeling powerless from one of her wordless looks once more, Aspirin turned on the television set. The news anchor was talking rubbish; Aspirin switched to the music channel, turned up the sound, and felt better immediately.
The band playing on the music channel at this hour was very familiar to As
pirin. They had a tough time breaking through, because their leader went for the alternative angle and looked for inspiration in the most unusual places. But that’s one of the reasons Aspirin respected them. They played ethnic tunes on a clay whistle while the heavy metal background gave them nearly symphonic depth. It was a strange combination, but the energy pouring from the stage into the mosh pit drowned the audience in ecstasy. The band did well at Kuklabuck, but only once. They said the owner, after having a grand old time that night, decided the next morning they were more suited for marginal audiences. Aspirin disagreed, but disagreeing with the owner didn’t pay the bills.
Obviously, then, they were not suited for prime time. It was past midnight, though, a perfect time for marginal audiences.
The neighbors knocked on the wall. Aspirin counted to ten and turned down the sound. He lowered his head into his hands, feeling the physical weight of everything that had happened to him the last couple of days pushing down on the base of his spine.
Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d brought Alyona into his home. The newly born Alyona Alexeyevna, the moniker bestowed upon her by her barefoot mentor.
(One of the police officers had asked him where his child’s room was. Aspirin explained that the girl lived with her mother and came for a short visit; the officer admitted he was surprised by the lack of toys, children’s books, clothes, or anything at all. Aspirin responded by saying maybe the monster took them.)
Aspirin had to admit—he was his own worst enemy. He’d brought it on himself: the first time when he did not leave the girl alone where she was, and the second time when he refused to give her back to his camo-clad guest.
That guest whose stare made the mirrors frost over.
All of a sudden, the living room filled with music. The sounds of Carmina Burana made the neighbors bang on the wall with renewed abandon.
“Turn it off,” Aspirin yelled, but got no reaction. Grunting, he went to the living room (he was very proud of his audio system—even at this insane volume it projected a clear, clean sound) and pressed Stop.
Alyona sat in the chair feeding her bear honey from the jar.
The neighbors continued to bang on the wall. Aspirin wondered if they were going to ring the doorbell. Then the phone rang.
“Pick up the phone,” Aspirin said to Alyona.
Alyona reached for the receiver: “Hello? No, this is the right number. It’s his daughter. What? Yes, I turned on the music. Yes, he’s home. No, he was not asleep. That’s fine. I will tell him. Good night.”
She hung up.
“Angry, aren’t they,” she mumbled to herself.
“Do you realize what time it is?”
“You turned on the television, didn’t you?”
She always had a smart answer. He wanted to be angry, but she sat there with Mishutka.
The bear lay in her lap, so small, so fluffy, soft and sweet.
Aspirin went to bed.
Wednesday
Aspirin was woken up by a garbage truck that roared, growled, toppled over the barrels, and missed the target as usual. The sounds of grinding metal and the howling of the engine brought to mind a battlefield. Aspirin glanced at the clock: 5:45. He groaned.
Last morning gave him a gift of ten happy seconds when he believed the girl was merely a dream. This morning he was not so lucky; as he opened his eyes, he knew everything and understood everything and liked nothing.
The truck drove away, leaving a trail of fumes in its wake. Aspirin stayed in bed, listening to the wind, distant barking, the sounds of a house waking up. He heard movement in the living room, sounds of breathing, and soft steps on the laminate. Aspirin peeked through the crack.
Clad only in a T-shirt and underwear, a set of headphones on her head, Alyona walked around the room, moving in a rhythm Aspirin could not detect. She lowered herself onto the floor, then stretched to the ceiling, then started dancing silently, her feet flying up above her head. Aspirin thought she must have taken gymnastics. Eventually Alyona sat down on her heels, pressed her forehead to the floor and froze.
Aspirin waited a minute or two, then walked into the living room, looking askance at the teddy bear nestled in the chair among a handful of CDs. He turned off the audio.
Alyona remained still.
A pile of CDs lay on the floor: Grieg and Wagner, Prokofiev and Mozart. The CD Alyona had chosen was Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony.
“Hey,” Aspirin said.
The girl sat up and pulled off her headphones.
“Good morning to you,” Aspirin said.
“You are up early,” Alyona said.
She didn’t look all that well—pale, thin, and haggard. When Aspirin found her on the street, the girl had looked decidedly healthier.
“You must be hungry again.”
She blinked, and he realized she was about to cry.
“Hey,” he said, regretting calling to her and getting out of bed in general. “What’s wrong?”
She held it together for a few seconds; then she pressed her hands to her face, and her fingers immediately became wet.
“Hey, hey.” He came over meaning to pat her on the back, but changed his mind. He went to the kitchen and made coffee. No sound came from the living room.
He drank his coffee, counted to one hundred, then again to one hundred, then he washed his cup and went back to the living room. He found the girl in the same pose, still sobbing in silent despair.
He lowered himself onto the floor next to her.
“What are you crying about? Are you sad? I am! I am very sad and miserable—because of you. But I am not crying, am I?”
“I want to g-go back,” the girl said, choking on her tears.
“That’s awesome.” Aspirin brightened. “I will drive you. Where are we going?”
She howled louder.
“It’s great that you are finally thinking straight.” Aspirin had by now gathered enough courage to pat her on the back. He was almost surprised that his hand had connected with solid flesh, her words and actions so ethereal at times. “Are you scared? You shouldn’t be. There are people out there whose job it is to help little girls in trouble. Do you understand? They get paid for helping you. Your sensei will go to prison, and you will go back to your parents. Or your grandmother. Whoever you have out there—you do have someone, don’t you?”
“You sound like a broken record,” the girl said, smearing her tears all over her cheeks. “Same thing over and over again. You have seen him. You heard what he said. And yet you keep saying the same thing over and over again. And here it’s death everywhere, yellow leaves falling . . . dead. And dead people. And you speak as if you’re dead yourself. I hate it!”
I hate it too!
Aspirin got up and went to the kitchen.
Today he had the twelve-to-six shift. And that night, a job at the Green Fairy. And people around him continued to exist, work, go for walks, sleep with women . . .
He nearly burned his teakettle, forgetting to fill it with water. He swore, then turned it off. He reached for something on the shelf and spilled a bag of ground coffee, took out two eggs and dropped one. He decided it was time to pull himself together.
“Alyona,” he called in the most ordinary voice he could muster. “Breakfast is ready.”
He didn’t think she was going to respond and was very surprised when she stood at the threshold, face flushed and wet, the bear pressed to her chest, her eyes empty and withdrawn.
“Put on some pants,” Aspirin advised. “Do you even realize that it’s bad manners to show up at breakfast dressed like that? And wash your face and brush your hair.”
Calmly, like a good host, he made some eggs sunny-side up, cut up two tomatoes and an onion, and set the table. Alyona returned, washed up and a little less red in the face, the bear still under her arm.
“So,” Aspirin said when the breakfast moved into the tea-drinking phase, “I am going to listen, and you are going to tell me everything. Where did you co
me from? Why? What don’t you like here? What can I do to help you? You are going to tell me everything because I must—finally—understand you. Does that sound good?”
Smiling, he switched on the recorder nestled in his lap.
The girl was silent.
“You said there is no death where you come from,” Aspirin prompted her softly. “Is that true?”
“Everything is different there,” the girl said, stirring her tea. “There is no fear.”
“How can there be no fear?”
She thought about it for a second. Then, “Take your music—you like it because it carries a little spark, right? You all can feel it—even if you don’t understand it. That’s why you like music in which there is a spark, a reflection. Well, that spark is a reflection of the world I came from—and only just barely at that.”
“Not everyone likes this sort of music,” Aspirin said, surprised. “But where you’re from, they not only like it, but revere it?”
“We don’t revere it. We live it. We are it.”
Aspirin tried to grasp what she was saying. “You keep saying that you came from another place. What other place? Pervomaysk?”
A tomcat, meeting a rival underneath the window, yowled.
She shook her head.
“Then where? Where do you want to go back to?”
“It doesn’t matter,” the girl mumbled. “I can’t go back there.”
“Why not?”
“I ran away.”
“Why did you run away if it’s so much better there than here?”
“Because I have to find someone.” Alyona stared through Aspirin as if calculating dates on the calendar behind his back. “My brother. He fell.”
“Where?”
“You won’t understand,” she said, suddenly irritated. “My brother . . . he’s lost. He can be led back, though. They gave me strings to lead him. But now I have to learn how to play. I have to learn to play the violin. And then I will be able to find my brother. And I will be able to lead him out of here.”
“That place you came from,” Aspirin said, suddenly enlightened. “Is it Paradise by any chance?”