Daughter from the Dark

by Sergey

  He shouldn’t have fallen apart the night before. He shouldn’t have offered brandy to his neighbor. She may have thought it was an invitation to continue. But she had helped, bringing that medicine for Alyona. And those chats with her helped too, even though he hated to admit it. He was so close to telling her the truth—he almost spilled the whole story. He wondered what she would have done. Calling an ambulance seemed kind of unlikely, because what would she have said? “My neighbor is suffering from acute psychosis . . . or acute hypnosis, more likely.”

  It would have made a great headline: “DJ Aspirin in the Hands of a Band of Hypnotists.” He considered printing that, just for his own public relations’ sake.

  “Alla? Greetings, Alla, here is your task. Are you listening? You are to finish this sentence, but very quickly, no time to waste: The day was dry and rather sunny. I spent the day with my pet . . . All right, Alla, that’s your cue—with my pet . . . ?”

  “Rabbit,” the headphones suggested.

  Aspirin opened his eyes and blinked.

  “I appreciate your sense of humor, Alla. I truly do. Well, the five percent discount for any merchandise at The Tech Station store is yours. Stay on the line, don’t hang up . . .”

  Somewhere in the untidy living room, Alyona lay on the sofa, sipping tea from a thermos.

  Everything passes, Aspirin reminded himself.

  That meant this too shall pass.

  Part II

  September

  On September 2, still pale and weak, Alyona went to her first class at the music school. She returned an hour and a half later carrying a small violin in a shabby black case and a cardboard binder for sheet music. Mishutka’s head stuck out of her backpack.

  “I need more money,” she informed Aspirin. “I have to pay for the rest pad, and buy music notebooks and pencils.”

  “What rest pad?” Aspirin snarled. “Where are you planning to rest?”

  Alyona rolled her eyes and pulled out a black cushion with strings used by violinists. “I understand your pain. We’ve already spent so much money, and now there are notebooks, pencils—all these huge expenses . . .”

  Her sarcasm was very adult in nature, without a hint of a smile. Aspirin pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “Here. Get whatever you need to buy.”

  She went to the living room. Aspirin anticipated a revolting screech of tortured strings, but his fear had been premature. Twenty minutes later Alyona reappeared in the kitchen pressing the violin to her shoulder with her chin, without using her hands. She walked back and forth, deep in thought, looking so bizarre that Aspirin couldn’t help but think of a statue with missing arms.

  He bit his tongue and said nothing.

  “Your girl must’ve settled down,” Vasya mused. “To tell you the truth, I thought you were going to ship her back to mommy. Yet here she is, and with a violin too. What grade is she in?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Oh yeah? I thought she was in fourth.”

  The damn elevator was taking a long time.

  “And looks like she’s quite a helper to you,” Vasya continued. “I see her carrying bags from the market. You couldn’t get my granddaughter to do that . . .”

  “I don’t force her,” Aspirin said. “It’s her decision.”

  “Sure, sure. But, listen—what is up with that bear of hers? I see her going to school—and that bear is in her backpack. I said to her, you are a big girl, other kids carry books in their backpacks, and you have a toy . . .”

  The elevator finally arrived.

  “Good night,” Aspirin said with relief.

  He was perfectly happy with Alyona taking her bear anywhere she went. He would never agree to stay alone with that “toy.”

  Groaning at every floor, the elevator finally crawled up to the fifth floor. Aspirin stepped out; the entrance to his apartment had been swept and the rug looked clean. Alyona was indeed excellent at housekeeping, especially considering she was only eleven.

  There were little caveats to everything she did though. So, for example, she always washed the dishes, but only her own, touching nothing Aspirin may have left in the sink. Once, as an experiment, Aspirin behaved like a total pig for a few days in a row: every single plate and cup he owned eventually made it into the sink, bits of food stuck to the surface. And only when Alyona had nothing to eat her oatmeal from did she pick up one plate with the tips of her fingers, wash and dry it—that single dirty plate.

  Since then she kept that plate in her room, on the shelf with the musical CDs. She ate, washed the plate, dried it, and carried it away. Aspirin’s blood boiled.

  And yes, she went to the store and to the market, she knew what to buy and how much to pay, she could make soup and fry meat. Yet she never even pretended to please Aspirin with her cooking. Everything she did at home—and her responsibilities included wishing Aspirin a good morning and good night—she did frugally and rationally, making sure everything was done well, but never wasting even a single extra drop of her energy. She needed her energy for practicing her music—from the very first lesson. Every minute that Alyona did not spend on household chores she spent practicing her violin.

  For hours she moved her bow over her bent left elbow. She read, rested, listened to the music standing up, the violin pressed against her chin. Endlessly, she pinched the same sequences of sounds; thankfully, she didn’t make too much noise. After a week of practicing, she developed a bloody blister on her chin and unflinchingly treated it with iodine. Aspirin shuddered at that level of fanaticism.

  He tried to stay out as much as he could. He went to parties, drank a lot, hooked up with girls—young, silly ones; older, desperate ones. He brought them home (the trunk of his car was finally repaired). On those nights Alyona did not come out, and for a few blissful hours, it was as if she didn’t exist; the girls walked about naked.

  Occasionally he enjoyed making his roommate uncomfortable and behaving as if his apartment still belonged to him alone and no one else. He threw dirty laundry on top of the washing machine; turned on the television, preventing her from practicing; left his stuff all over the apartment; banged on the door if Alyona stayed in the bathroom longer than five minutes. Alyona endured his impudence stoically, and that angered him even more.

  He considered renting a different apartment. Or moving in with a friend. Even today, he would have gone to the club directly from the studio, but, having a snack at a coffee shop, he spilled some food on his shirt. Rubbing at the spot with his napkin, he felt annoyed, and that annoyance was directed at Alyona. Why the hell couldn’t he just go home, take a shower, and change?

  The key turned in the lock, and the door opened without a sound. Aspirin held it ajar and listened.

  Alyona was playing piano. In Aspirin’s presence she never even dared (or never wanted?) to touch the instrument.

  The same musical phrase was played again and again, in a fast tempo. The combination and sequence of sounds was definitely music and definitely harmonious. Aspirin had no idea how this could be played on such an old piano, especially within two octaves.

  The phrase repeated, and Aspirin suddenly realized it was a request. It was a request for something unknown, directed at an unknown someone, and it was played over and over again, with different intonations, but its meaning remained unchanged . . .

  He came inside and slammed the door. The musical sentence ended abruptly. The lid was lowered immediately. Alyona stood with her back to the instrument as if she’d never touched it. As if she didn’t even care.

  “Who asked you to touch stuff that doesn’t belong to you?”

  She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. She glanced at Aspirin as if he were nothing but a mosquito. Mishutka sat on the sofa by her side, his paws crossed, his eyes indifferent.

  As he did every time they had such a confrontation, Aspirin gave up and went to his room. He made some tea, took a shower, and changed. He had a few hours to kill before his next shift, and he could spend them at some cozy pub
. However, Aspirin would have greatly preferred taking a nap for an hour or so, or just lying down with a book, but there was no rest to be found in his own home.

  A few soft “pinching” sounds came from behind the closed door; then the violin came in in full force. Aspirin had never heard Alyona use her bow, and got up to look. She probably practiced when he wasn’t home. The sound, slightly screechy at times, every now and then grew clear and expressive, surprisingly confident and sonorous. Alyona played an étude.

  She saw him in the door and stopped playing. “What?”

  A second ago he wanted to speak with her. Now, under that contemptuous stare, he only mumbled, “We are out of bread. The butter is almost gone too.”

  Without a word, she untied her rest pad and returned the violin to its case. Full of anger, Aspirin left the room.

  The front door closed.

  He put on his shoes and jacket, hoping the little bitch forgot her keys. When he went down the stairs, though, he saw that Alyona hadn’t left the building. She stood by the entrance to the lobby, clutching Mishutka to her chest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Alyona stared at the floor. “It’s them.”

  “Who?”

  “Them.”

  Aspirin followed her eyes. Two boys, around fourteen or so, stood by the garage, smoking and spitting. At first Aspirin had no idea what the issue was, and only a minute later did it connect for him.

  “At first I lost my voice. And then they covered my mouth . . . with their hands.”

  These guys had truly lousy timing.

  Alyona clutched the bear to her chest. Aspirin wondered whether she would be able to set Mishutka off. Would it work if there was no immediate threat to the bear’s owner, but rather an order?

  “Are you actually afraid of them?” Aspirin asked brightly. “With that by your side?”

  Alyona did not respond.

  “Or have you made a mistake? And it’s not them?”

  Alyona said nothing. Aspirin tried to look into her eyes, but she turned away. Her fingers, worn out with work, hangnails on each tip, dug into the bear’s chocolate fur.

  She was scared and she was disgusted. She was trying to overcome her revulsion, but—right in front of Aspirin—she kept failing. And as much as he loathed her, she was still just a little girl, and the pity—and outrage—welled up inside him.

  He glanced at the teenage smokers again, then back at Alyona. He winced inwardly, then crossed the yard.

  The boys noticed him; they exchanged surprised glances, but didn’t try to run. There was no reason for them to run.

  In the time it took him to cross the yard, he came up with absolutely nothing. No words came to mind. He simply approached the boys and grabbed them by the scruff of their necks.

  One of them managed to pull away, but Aspirin grabbed the other with both hands.

  “What? What the hell, man?”

  “I will tell you what the hell,” he said, the words appearing by themselves, tinged with ice. His internal stupor gave way to the excitement of retribution. “We’re going to the police station. Robbery and an attempted rape. Are you fourteen yet? Jail time.”

  “Who the hell are you . . . ?”

  The one who broke away now ran over to the side, just as the one held by Aspirin started fighting for real, but Aspirin pulled the boy’s elbow behind his back. The act of violence felt unexpectedly good; perhaps that was how the cuddliest, most domesticated predator goes wild at the scent of its victim.

  “Dude, what are you talking about? What robbery? What rape?”

  “In the front entrance. A month ago. The girl recognized you. And someone else will recognize you eventually, you little bastard.”

  The one who’d broken free jumped away a few more steps and picked up a rock. “Let him go!”

  “You are looking at jail time yourself,” Aspirin promised, maneuvering the other kid so that he would most likely take the rock to the face if his friend threw it. “They’ll be coming for you. Will bang down your parents’ door and haul you away. So go ahead, throw the rock, add to your term.”

  The kid dropped the rock and disappeared. Aspirin pushed his prisoner against the wall. He considered taking the kid to the police station, but his outburst of passion was dwindling. And the closest police station was two whole blocks away . . .

  “Tell me your name and your address, or I’ll cut your balls off.”

  “What did I do?” the kid whined.

  “You know what you’ve done. You can’t get away. I will find you. And your friend. Talk!”

  He slammed the boy’s forehead into the garage wall, not too violently, but the wall echoed anyway.

  “Take your money,” the boy screeched. “What if I got nothing to eat! Take it, choke on it, bastard!” And then he started crying, in bitter, heaving, slobbery sobs, and Aspirin became aware of his complete power over this pitiful, nasty, cowardly, and cruel creature, who was bound to spoil everything he touched, bound to stomp on, break, and ruin everything in his way, bound to kill if he could muster up the courage to do so.

  Aspirin wanted to hit him again. He wanted to throw the boy on the ground and kick him with his boots. He wanted to teach this vermin a lesson once and for all. He wanted to destroy the boy, to tar and feather him, to drag him through the mud.

  But as the boy wept, sticky with snot, Aspirin saw himself from a distance: a grown man twisting a teenager’s arms.

  He shuddered, pushed the boy toward the garage wall, and walked away toward his building, wiping his palms on his pants in disgust. “You’re a nasty piece of shit. If you ever come near her again—or if I hear about you coming near any little girl, I will kill you.” Even as he said it the taste of iron slowly dissipated from his lips. His five minutes of courage were used up.

  He found Alyona in the same spot where he’d left her. She was still clutching Mishutka to her chest. Aspirin wanted to take his anger out on her, and he came closer and stood by her side.

  She stood there in silence, shoulders pulled down in her usual manner. She was so small. Thin to the point of transparency. She looked pale and miserable.

  He swallowed. “Let’s go.”

  She followed him into the elevator, then into the apartment. Aspirin rushed to the bathroom; he recalled that night when he hit her, and how long it took for him to feel clean again.

  “It’s not like I could kill him,” he mumbled, desperate to justify his own actions. “And dragging him to the police station would be perfectly useless. No one would deal with him until he grows up and gets caught in a real crime.”

  Alyona was in the living room, and he could hear her uncovering the piano’s keyboard. At the first notes, Aspirin perked up, and for good reason: A new musical phrase hung in the air. It contained a hidden meaning. Aspirin sensed it, but could not understand.

  He went to the living room. “Are you . . . speaking?” he asked.

  She looked up from the keys. “Do you understand me?”

  “No,” Aspirin admitted after a long pause.

  Alyona closed the lid. “And you cannot.”

  “Clearly, I am not worthy,” Aspirin agreed. “Listen . . .”

  They hadn’t spoken for several weeks, unless one counted a few functional words such as “Come over,” “Go get it,” or “Good morning.”

  Aspirin hesitated. Alyona stared at the floor, and it was a good thing: had she bestowed her usual look full of disdain upon him, he would have left without asking any questions.

  “Who are you talking to, if I can’t understand anything?”

  She said nothing for a while, then admitted, “To myself, really. You know, I should have simply kept walking, as if I didn’t even see them. I should have kept walking.”

  Aspirin looked at Mishutka.

  Anger returned to Alyona’s eyes. “What are you staring at him for, like he’s a butcher! He’s not a killer . . . if you don’t provoke him.”

  “Fine,” he said placatingly. “I
just can’t understand how you can be afraid of those little jerks with a bodyguard like him.”

  “You can’t understand anything at all,” she said bitterly. “One of them, if you must know, could be my brother. Any one of them. He may not remember who he is. He may have lost his mind in this world, become part of it—probably even the most heinous part. I think about this all the time, I can’t stop thinking about it . . . he may have drowned in hatred like in a pile of shit, or become a chunk of hatred himself . . . hatred and fear. He may have turned into this, and if I end up killing him, it would be all my fault and I’m trying to find him—so hard to find him—and my fingers, these goddamn fingers, don’t want to obey!”

  With all her might, she slapped the fingers on her left hand with her right, then attempted to do it again, but Aspirin grabbed her hands. “Stop that! Don’t be such a drama queen!”

  She twisted and pulled, but Aspirin was stronger. She gave up, sighed, and pushed him away. “It’s over. Let me go.”

  He let go of her hands. She crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to Mishutka. Belatedly, Aspirin shook with fear: what if that creature had thought of his actions as an act of aggression?

  “Nothing happens overnight,” he said, taking a step back toward the door. “No one can learn how to play a musical instrument in one day. Even a recorder.”

  “Yes. I have to practice,” Alyona said grimly. Aspirin remembered he had a shift at Kuklabuck.

  When he returned—at half past two in the morning—Alyona was still practicing. A very soft, quiet pizzicato.

  “Alexey,” Vasya said, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Aspirin approached the glass window framed by announcements and reminders and leaned on the narrow ledge. “Yes?”

  The concierge was in a foul mood.

  “That daughter of yours was very rude to me today. I only meant to be nice to her and asked how school was going! You know, why she’s not in school in the morning, why she’s always out with that violin of hers at night . . . I asked, does your father know you’re skipping school? And she . . . honestly, if my granddaughter ever said this to me, I’d kill her!”