by Sergey
“Did she swear at you?” Aspirin asked.
Vasya frowned. “Well, no. If only she had. She uses these words . . . worse than swearing, I am telling you. And the way she looks at me—like I am dirt. Worse than dirt!”
“I will deal with it,” Aspirin promised.
But Alyona was not home. In the fridge he found a pot of chicken stew, put some in a bowl, and warmed it up in the microwave. He wondered if Vasya could be Alyona’s brother. Purely theoretically. Could he, metaphorically speaking, be a fallen angel who didn’t remember himself?
“And the way she looks at me—like I am dirt. Worse than dirt!”
Aspirin knew from personal experience the way Alyona looked at the concierge. She’d looked at Aspirin this way many times.
He was chewing the last piece of chicken when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon.” He didn’t recognize the voice. “May I speak with Alexey Igorevich?”
“Yes, this is him.”
“Hello again. I am Alyona’s teacher from the music school. My name is Svetlana Nikolaevna. I would like to speak with you. Preferably in person, but if you are busy . . .”
“I am very busy.”
“We can do it over the phone, then,” the voice said. “I have fifteen years of experience as a music teacher, and I have never, ever had a student like your daughter. Of course, she started rather late, but she’s extremely talented. And more important, she is devoted to music. She undoubtedly has an enormous future ahead of her, enormous—”
“How may I help you?” Aspirin cut her off.
The voice continued, undisturbed by the interruption. “Here is what I wanted to tell you: you will receive various offers.”
“What sort of offers?”
“For the ten-year professional program, of course. You may be given all sorts of promises, and you will be pushed to change teachers. It is your decision, obviously, but I would strongly suggest taking your time. Four of my students graduated from the music institute with honors. One girl was admitted into the conservatory. But the ten-year professional program is a conveyor, where children are frequently abused, psychologically crippled . . . I wouldn’t want someone with Alyona’s gift to . . . to serve as a tool for someone’s ambitions.”
“I see,” Aspirin said with relief. “But it’s not my decision. She applied to your school, she decides where she is going to study. Talk to her, not me.”
“But surely as her father, you have the final say.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Just think about it, please. I insist.”
“I will think about it. Good-bye.”
The key turned in the lock. Alyona stood at the door, grim and red-faced.
“Another fight with Vasya?” Aspirin asked.
“What’s he bothering me for?” Alyona shook her head. “There are no laws to make me go to his stupid school, are there?”
“I don’t know,” Aspirin admitted. “The laws probably do exist, but to implement them is a different matter.”
“To hell with that.” Alyona made a surprisingly morose, grown-up face. She pulled off her old sneakers (the striped socks no longer looked clean) and walked toward her room in bare feet.
“Your teacher called me,” Aspirin said.
Alyona turned to look at him. “What did she want?”
“She’s afraid someone will steal you from under her nose. You’re such a treasure, apparently.” Aspirin giggled.
Alyona stared at him coldly, and he stopped laughing.
The door closed behind her.
“Hello,” Aspirin’s mom said, her voice sounding strangely tense. “Alexey dear?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“How are you? Are you feeling well?”
“Perfectly well.”
“And how’s your job?”
“Just fine, as usual.”
“Alexey”—Mom’s voice grew stern—“who is that child living with you now? Whose child is that?”
Aspirin had expected this phone call for days. Way too many people wanting to know about his business, and someone had clearly—and finally—contacted his mother.
There was no point in denying it—at least, not when the truth would upset his mother even more when she discovered he’d gone mad. “She’s my daughter. From Pervomaysk.”
A pause. Aspirin imagined his mother sitting in silence, in London, on the other end of the line. He nearly choked.
“It just happened,” he said apologetically. “She’s going back to her mother soon. It just happened this way.”
“You are going to be the death of me,” Mom said, and her voice did sound like it came from beyond the grave.
“What’s the big deal, Mom? She’s a good girl. She’s not spoiled. And she’s leaving soon.”
“How old is she?”
“El . . . eleven.”
“Alexey.” Mom must have pressed her lips together sternly. “Are you lying to me?”
“No,” he said as beatifically as he could manage.
As in most cases during his life, Mom did not buy it.
The end of September turned cold. Leaning against the kitchen window, Aspirin watched Alyona leave for music lessons: the collar of her jacket raised against the chill, head pulled into her shoulders, violin case pressed against her chest like a weapon of retaliation, Mishutka packed into her backpack.
He imagined Sveta kvetching over the girl: “Where is your hat, Alyona dear? Where is your scarf? It’s going to rain, and you don’t even have an umbrella!”
It wasn’t the money—everything could be purchased easily. A hat, a scarf, a cheap kid’s umbrella. Even a coat. But what was one supposed to do about a kid choosing not to attend goddamned middle school? It wasn’t like he lived in a village where everyone knew each other, but still—yesterday he got a visit from a cop.
When Aspirin went to the juvenile detention center, they treated him like a vile idiot. But as soon as Alyona had gained a certain, albeit shaky, status, their cohabitation sparked an immediate interest from the law enforcement agents. A local police inspector, a middle-aged man in plainclothes (a rather elegant trench coat, which conflicted with Aspirin’s concept of a modern police inspector), came by another day to inquire as to whether an eleven-year-old girl lived in his apartment, and if she did, how she was related to Aspirin.
With a crooked smile, Aspirin presented Alyona’s birth certificate. Yes, his daughter. Yes, from Pervomaysk. No, she will not need to be registered. She’s registered in her home, in Pervomaysk. She’s a gifted violinist, she came in search of a bright future. Why wasn’t she at school? Because she was applying for the ten-year professional music school for gifted children. She was preparing for auditions. Any more questions?
There were no further questions. Much more relaxed at this point, the inspector wished Alyona success and good luck, suggested she got her musical talent from her father, admitted his love for Radio Sweetheart, and finally departed.
Aspirin locked the door behind him and for some reason felt for the gun on the top shelf. The gun was exactly where he’d left it—within reach. Aspirin moved it under the shoe stand.
Lies were a curious thing—they were so easy to believe in, especially for someone used to lying. Aspirin wondered what would happen if Alyona was actually accepted to the ten-year professional school. He wondered if it was a boarding school.
Then she wouldn’t need Aspirin any longer.
A month ago he’d be pleased with the idea. Now he felt a touch of sadness, but mostly fear—what if, upon leaving, she’d seek retribution?
They made their way to the closest store and bought a jacket for Alyona—a warm one, with a hood, and the first one that fit. Alyona had no interest in fashion, and Aspirin could care less about looking through the rows of cheap rags. They found one, they bought it. The hood eliminated the need for a hat. On the way back they picked up a blue scarf and a blue flowery umbrella.
Aspirin
insisted that Alyona put on all her new things, allegedly to prevent a cold. In reality, he wanted to ensure that his fatherly duties had been observed by the general public as represented by Sveta the concierge.
In the lobby they ran into Irina, the downstairs neighbor who had been so helpful during Alyona’s sickness. They had seen each other a few times since their last conversation in Aspirin’s kitchen, and exchanged hellos here and there, but nothing further. It had taken Aspirin a moment to even remember her name.
And now she stood by the entrance, visibly upset. The usual calm of her pale narrow face looked like a mask, about to melt off at any second.
A man stood next to her; he was tall, corpulent, clad in a long unbuttoned coat over a business suit. The man smiled and said something, adding another point, Aspirin thought. The last straw, so to speak.
Irina saw Aspirin and Alyona and smiled with exaggerated joy; she seemed rushed, almost fidgety.
“Hello,” Alyona said politely and looked at the man in the overcoat.
Her eyes went cold.
Aspirin could have sworn she had seen that man before, and under rather complicated circumstances.
“Good afternoon,” Aspirin said, instinctively drawing Irina’s (and the man’s) attention to himself. “We are just coming back from the market. We bought this warm jacket for Alyona.”
He had no idea how this sudden chatty behavior would fly with Irina, a near stranger, but these few seconds of babbling were enough for Alyona to get her bearings and stop staring. Like a nice, well-mannered child, she looked down and nodded. “I really like it.”
“Please forgive us,” Aspirin said sincerely. “Have a fabulous day!”
He closed the door; out of the corner of his eye, he caught the man in the long coat wave good-bye and get behind the wheel of a large black BMW.
Luckily, the elevator was already down on the first floor, otherwise, they would have to talk to Irina, which was something he wasn’t in the mood for at the moment. Slipping by Sveta (“Oh, a new jacket! So pretty!”), Aspirin pulled the compliant, obedient Alyona by the hand into the elevator and jabbed his finger into the fifth-floor button.
When the door closed, he asked, “Where have you seen him before? Do you know each other?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“You love arguing, don’t you.” She sounded like an exhausted adult. “I swear in my brother’s name that I have never seen this man before. And he’s never seen me.”
Aspirin took a while to process the information.
“Why did you stare at him then?”
He unlocked the door into his apartment and let the girl in.
“I wasn’t staring at him.”
“Then who? Tell me!”
He turned her to face the light. He had to admit to himself that the child looked neither happy, nor healthy. Pale face, sunken cheeks, dark circles under her eyes. And her eyes . . . they were sad. Sad and old.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, letting go of her shoulders.
“Nothing. Do you know him?”
“No.” He was confused. “Why?”
“He is going to die.”
“We are all going to die.” Aspirin reacted automatically, knowing beforehand what Alyona was about to say, that knowledge making his blood chill in his veins.
“Yes, but he will die before all of us. Before the sunset.”
Aspirin glanced at his watch. Five minutes after five. When does the sun set in September?
“Are you pulling my leg?” Aspirin asked hopelessly.
With deliberate care, she hung up her new jacket, folded her scarf on the shelf, and placed her umbrella in the corner.
“Thank you. I really was very cold.”
She couldn’t have been nearly as cold as he was right now.
Aspirin went into the kitchen—he wanted tea. No, what he really wanted was a drink. He reached for a bottle of brandy, and then froze—should he tell Irina? He realized that he didn’t know her phone number, though, or her apartment number—or even her floor. Was it three or four?
A single musical phrase floated from the living room. A fragment of a melody. Another cold shiver went down Aspirin’s spine, perhaps from the music, perhaps from this new sensation of “a hole in the universe.” As if a thin film quivered slightly, and beyond that thin film was absolute chaos.
“Do you know where Irina lives? The neighbor? The one with the medicine, you know? That one?”
“Fourth floor. I remember taking the elevator with her.”
“What’s her apartment number?”
“Ask Sveta. She knows.”
“But how do I explain why I need it?”
“Why would you need to explain? You are such a child.”
Alyona was right, of course.
Not bothering with the elevator, he ran down the stairs. A moment later, he ran up the same stairs to the fourth floor. He reached for the doorbell, then paused, holding his breath, and lowered his hand. He ran back to his apartment, grabbed his jacket, ran down the street to the drugstore. He bought cough syrup, and a handful of the most expensive pills and supplements, then tossed the receipt. A few minutes later, he was back at Irina’s door.
He rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Alexey. Your neighbor.”
“One minute . . .”
She must have taken a moment to compose herself. At least, when she opened the door—only an actual minute later—her face looked calm and even peaceful, and only her inflamed, bloodshot eyes spoiled the overall impression somewhat.
“I brought you some pills,” Aspirin babbled. “Because I have been such a jerk—you helped us, probably emptied all your stash, and now it’s flu season, and you should always have something available at home just in case.” He almost added: “My dear listeners, we need to take care of ourselves, as no one loves us more than we do, so let us all march down to the nearest drugstore, replenish our medicine cabinet, the Department of Public Health wants you to . . .” But he bit his tongue just in time.
“Thank you,” Irina said. “But you shouldn’t have. I didn’t lend it to you.”
An awkward pause hung in the air. Aspirin stepped from foot to foot.
“Would you like to come in?” Irina said without a hint of hospitality.
“No, thank you. I am only here for a second. That very nice man you were talking to . . . I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere. Is he a local official, by any chance?”
“No,” Irina sighed. “It was my husband. An ex-husband. A never-has-been, really.”
“It’s her husband. An ex-husband. A never-has-been, really. I am not sure I understood it.”
“Does she love him?”
“Who the hell knows. I have no idea,” Aspirin admitted.
The sun went down.
“Tell me you made it all up, please?”
“I made it all up.” Alyona dangled her legs under the table. Steam from a cup of tea in front of her pretended to be a tiny tornado.
Aspirin, not believing her, took a sip from his cup and burned his mouth.
As soon as the burning subsided, he demanded: “Tell me what you saw.”
Alyona said nothing.
“Was it the Grim Reaper over his left shoulder? Was that it?”
“What do you think,” Alyona asked, very businesslike, as if she’d never heard his question. “Will they tell her right away? Or later?”
“How do I know? I’ve never had an ex-husband. Or a never-has-been one for that matter.”
Alyona carried her cup to the sink, washed it, and placed it carefully on the dish tray.
“I have to practice,” she said sternly.
“How much are you going to practice? You’ve got violin marks on your face, like someone busted your jaw. I wonder what the neighbors will think of me . . .”
“Do you really care what the neighbors will think of you?”
Alyona left the kitchen and
once more picked up her violin. Aspirin listened: she played scales, the sounds coming fast and clean, then an étude, then another one, repeating it over and over again, aiming for absolute perfection. A pause hung in the air; quickly, as if afraid of changing her mind, she played a sequence of notes, the beginning of a melody that made Aspirin’s entire body break out in shivers.
He forced himself to finish his tea.
Alyona went to bed at half past ten, Mishutka nestled by her side. Aspirin stayed at the kitchen table. The neighbors above turned on their stereo, and Aspirin cringed for ten minutes, listening to the cacophony (it was a shallow sound, with an arrogant bass that drowned out the vocals), then banged on the ceiling. The neighbors stalled for three minutes, then all went quiet.
Aspirin made more tea.
At half past twelve he put on his jacket and went outside. A couple of dog owners shared a late smoke, while their pets—a bulldog and a rottweiler—circled both sides of a playground demonstratively ignoring each other. Aspirin patted his pockets—he’d left his cigarettes on the kitchen table.
Irina’s window, right below Aspirin’s kitchen window, was still lit. Aspirin went home.
At half past one he went outside again. Vasya the concierge had dozed off in his booth, but at the sound of the door he jumped up and forced his sleepy face into a mask of true vigilance.
“Alexey! Coming from the club?”
Aspirin was wearing a plaid shirt and pajama pants.
“Nah. Just a walk.”
Vasya looked surprised.
Aspirin stopped at the entrance and threw his head back, staring at the sleepy façade of his building. It was nearly all dark, with a few dim lights here and there, and only Irina’s apartment—Aspirin shivered—was fully illuminated.
He walked up to the fourth floor and rang the doorbell.
“I don’t even have anything to drink in his memory. No wine, no vodka.”