Daughter from the Dark

by Sergey

“I could bring some brandy.”

  “No, Alexey. Wait. Let’s just sit here.”

  She looked as white as a sheet, yet very focused.

  “What did you call it? A hole in the universe?”

  Aspirin was taken aback. “You remember?”

  She forced the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Of course I do.” She looked off into the distance, then quietly said, “He flew head-on into the opposite traffic lane half an hour after our conversation.”

  Aspirin was silent. He hated listening to the outpouring of other people’s emotions; even when on long journeys, he avoided talking to strangers at all costs. He realized that Irina had to get a lot off her chest, that it would be long and painful, and that tomorrow she would try to avoid his eyes in shame and embarrassment. He knew all that—but was ready to fulfill his mission to the end anyway. To pay her back what he owed? No, he didn’t really feel like he owed her anything. He just knew he was supposed to be here, with her.

  “I didn’t bear him any ill will,” Irina said. “Honestly. And look what happened—‘If I can’t have you, no one else will,’” she said, quoting the great Ostrovsky.

  “It’s not your fault,” Aspirin said.

  “I know. Yet . . . it still feels that way. Strange, no?” The wrinkle between her eyebrows softened a little. “How is your girl? I see her with her violin . . . Looks like you found common ground?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you fixed your car. See, at least the hole in your universe has healed.”

  “I wish,” Aspirin almost said, but he was fighting hard to control his big mouth. It wasn’t easy, and he longed to blurt out something clever and yet almost certainly insensitive. He had come here to listen, though, and that’s what he would do.

  “Hasn’t it?” Irina gazed into his eyes. “Hasn’t it healed?”

  “It grew wider,” Aspirin said heavily. “But I’ve gotten used to it.”

  Alyona slept on her side, one arm under her head, the other by her side, clutching her teddy bear. Aspirin stopped in the middle of the room.

  It was five in the morning. He felt dizzy.

  “Hey.”

  He decided: If she doesn’t wake up, he is not going to try. He will turn around and leave. He will wait until morning, although it would be tough.

  But she woke up. No turning from side to side, no stretching—she simply opened her eyes. A professional intelligence officer rather than a little girl.

  “Listen,” Aspirin said. “I have . . . When am I going to die? Do you know?”

  “Not today.” She rubbed her eyes. “Is that why you woke me up?”

  “You don’t think it’s a valid reason?”

  “Perhaps.” She turned on her back. “Depends on one’s point of view.”

  He swallowed a glob of saliva.

  “Umm . . . listen,” he said again. “How long am I going to live?”

  “How would I know?”

  “How do I know what you do know and what you don’t know?”

  Alyona sat up and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Was she crying?”

  “No. She’d actually broken up with him for good. And then he went ahead and got himself smashed into pieces. She’s afraid it’s her fault . . . like she cursed him or something.”

  “Childish nonsense,” Alyona said. “Cursed . . . that’s ridiculous. Please tell me you calmed her down?”

  “As well as I could. In this case, being calm is somewhat subjective.”

  “At least she wasn’t alone.” Alyona picked her nose. “Why did they break up?”

  “Well, supposedly he was going to marry her, but he already had a family, and he lied about it. When it was discovered, they still stayed together for a while because she couldn’t let him go even though he was a total asshole. And then she decided to end this bullshit, but he was sure she would still crawl to him on her knees, because what else would she do without him . . . something like that. Or maybe not—I am not an idiot, I’m not going to press a woman for such details. Especially on a night like this.”

  “That might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “Very nice.” Something came to him then. “What about yourself? Do you know when you’re going to die?”

  Alyona gave him a reproachful look and lay back down, pulling the blanket up to her nose.

  “You said”—Aspirin was still standing in the middle of the room, weary of getting too close to the sofa and Mishutka—“that you will never die. Is that a figure of speech?”

  “No, it’s not a figure of speech. I will live, and live . . . and you will get old. You may have children, then grandchildren. And then you’ll die. And I will live and not get old. I will never become an adult. I will never have children. I will have nothing aside from one single goal—to find my brother and lead him out of here. I will roam this world for a thousand years if I have to . . .”

  “I see,” Aspirin’s voice suddenly became hoarse. “It’s mankind’s dream—eternal life without old age. Perhaps even eternal childhood like Peter Pan’s.”

  “A dream?” Alyona repeated bitterly. “That’s because you’re all so stupid.”

  She pulled the blanket over her head.

  October

  The phone rang. The voice was dry, businesslike.

  “Alexey Igorevich? This is Svetlana Nikolaevna, Alyona’s teacher. I need to speak with you urgently.”

  “I’m sorry, but I am very busy—”

  “I am in your neighborhood, very close to your house. Don’t you have fifteen minutes to discuss your daughter’s future?”

  “What’s going on with my daughter?”

  “Could you just come over to the café on the corner near the subway station? I am not going to insist that you come to school . . . but this is of the utmost importance.”

  Aspirin rolled his eyes. He considered telling her to go to hell—that would probably prevent her from calling again. But how would Alyona react?

  Besides, he had to admit he was now curious.

  “Fine,” he said. “But I only have fifteen minutes. Not a second more.”

  The café on the corner was new, opened only a month ago. Aspirin immediately saw the teacher: she sat in the far corner, a cup of tea in front of her. Another empty cup was placed on the edge of the table along with a dessert plate.

  The teacher was rail thin, dry, and fidgety.

  “Alexey Igorevich? Good afternoon.”

  He sat down. A girl in an apron ran over and pointed her pencil at a notepad, as if expecting Aspirin to order dinner for twelve.

  “Coffee,” Aspirin said.

  “Turkish? Espresso? Cappuccino?”

  “Espresso.”

  “Pastry? An appetizer?”

  “No. Just coffee.”

  The girl fluttered away. While Aspirin ordered, the fidgety woman studied him. She almost sniffed him—at least, her nostrils definitely quivered.

  “Alexey Igorevich”—she didn’t wait until he got his coffee—no small talk for this one—“Alyona has some serious issues.”

  That piqued his interest. Of course Alyona had issues. He wondered what she’d done to make that clear to her teacher.

  “What kind of issues?”

  “She apparently knows what she needs. She chooses her études. We start learning one piece in class—and she prepares a totally different piece at home. But that’s not even the most important thing. We have an annual recital, a tradition. The first years don’t normally play at this recital—they are usually not ready at this time. But Alyona is different. I wanted to show her off. Do you understand? She’s a unique case—such tremendous results after only two months of lessons. But she refused! She said she doesn’t want to waste time on preparing for the recital. Do you know what she said to me? ‘I take lessons to learn how to play one single piece. I need to master second and third positions, and vibrato.’ Vibrato! After six weeks!”

  “She sets challenging
goals for herself,” Aspirin said carefully. “What exactly is the problem?”

  The teacher stared at him, her eyes burning with disdain.

  “Her head is getting too big,” she said finally. “She started missing chorus and solfège. If she continues in this manner, her enormous talent is going to be wasted. She is not going to succeed. Ever.”

  Aspirin glanced at his watch. The teacher noticed, and her nostrils flared even further.

  “I will speak with Alyona,” Aspirin said placatingly. “But you shouldn’t pressure her. She is having a difficult childhood.”

  He paid for his coffee and left without drinking it.

  It rained. Uncharacteristically, Alyona took a break from practicing; she stood by the window, tracing the path of the raindrops on the glass.

  “Why wouldn’t you perform at this recital?” Aspirin asked as soon as he entered.

  “I knew she was going to complain to you,” Alyona said without turning her head. “Called for the heavy artillery. Asking Daddy for help.”

  “It’s not an unreasonable request. You are her pride and joy. She wants to show you off. What do you have to lose?”

  He bit his tongue. If an outsider heard their conversation, it would sound like a perfectly normal conversation between a father and a daughter on a perfectly normal topic of important school issues . . . and that scared him. Had they settled into their parts? Was it easier for them to function this way?

  “Sometimes I think I will never learn it.” Alyona continued to gaze at the rain. “I practice and practice . . . Everything hurts. And still, I am as far away from his song as I am from the sky. No, more like from . . . It doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ve got all the time in the world. Within a thousand years you’ll definitely get the hang of it.”

  She turned to look at him, and he instantly felt guilty about his joke. He flinched at her glare. “Why are you looking at me like that? Anyone standing over my shoulder?”

  “I am tired of you. If you only knew how tired of you I am.”

  “Oh—you’re tired of me? Do you think I feel any differently?”

  She made a face. “Good morning, my loves, DJ Aspirin is here with you, you can relax, we have many wonderful cozy hours in the soft cuddly arms of Radio Sweetheart . . .”

  “Such an excellent impression of me. I’m entirely wounded.” Having heard such sarcasm from her, he was positive she caught it from him this time.

  He went to his room.

  He had an article due at Macho last Friday—today was Monday. Aspirin turned on his laptop meaning to get some work done, but instead he surfed the Web for an hour and a half.

  Alyona spent that time practicing. Aspirin listened to the endless, exhausting repetitions of the same measures. By the end of the second hour, the piece sounded perfect; Aspirin had to admit that, aside from a light, easy touch, there was expression in Alyona’s style. She played a simple dance melody with as much temperament as if it were the “Ride of the Valkyries.” He went to the living room.

  “Nice job.”

  She looked at him askance.

  “I am sure you will get really good sooner than a thousand years,” he said, trying to ingratiate himself. “I give you a couple of weeks—you’ll probably play it then. Is it complicated, that song?”

  “Not really. It does take people outside the limits of this world. Occasionally, it raises the dead. Otherwise, it’s nothing special. Just a simple tune.”

  Yes—quite simple.

  “Good morning, my doves! And now Tuesday is finally here, and DJ Aspirin is here again to spend a few cozy hours with you in the soft arms of . . .”

  He nearly choked on his words, as if a bone was stuck in his throat, preventing him from pushing the words out.

  “. . . of Radio Sweetheart,” he managed. “Some of you listen to us at home, and some of you listen to us at work. There is even a very stubborn little girl who listens to us—and thinks that easy music is a bad thing. We know that people sang at work since the birth of time; they cut grass and sang . . . milked cows and sang . . . what did they sing about? Simple songs, about love and about their heavy fate . . . or perhaps about their lucky stars. And why wouldn’t we do the same? Open your ears—today with us we have a special guest, Valeria!”

  He couldn’t shake off the thought that Alyona was sitting in the kitchen in front of the radio, an expression of disdain on her face. He’d never told her where he worked, which station and how to find it. She’d found it on her own. She needed to, for some reason.

  (“And at the club—do you do the same thing?” she asked casually, her face demonstrating how little she cared about his answer.

  “At the club,” Aspirin declared, “I exercise my creativity.”

  “Slap someone else’s tracks together—that’s what you call creativity?”

  Aspirin silently counted to ten.)

  “. . . And what is our life, my darlings? No, not a game. And not a dame either. Our life is the constant struggle between our predestination, determined by the forces beyond our existence, and the necessity for daily bread . . . preferably with a pat of butter. We love to live! Why should we be ashamed of it? We want to enjoy things, we want to eat well, we want to follow fashion, we want to love! For those of us who are in love—half an hour of love on Radio Sweetheart!”

  He imagined Alyona turning off the radio and felt better.

  Wednesday was the day of the Hat Party. Aspirin had forgotten all about it, but his current girl, Zhenya, took care of him and unearthed a plaid Arab keffiyeh. Hanging around cowboy hats, Korean caps, feathered and deplumed toppers, Aspirin felt bored and awkward. A crisp young reporter turned up, aiming an old mic at Aspirin; had she been homely, he’d have allowed himself to be rude. However, the girl was fresh-faced and curvy, with not a single red spot marring the perfectly clear whites of her naive eyes; Zhenya, who’d found the plaid head covering for Aspirin in the first place, acted jealous.

  The dance floor buzzed under dozens of feet. The lights flickered. Aspirin thought the Phantom Club had a bit of a problem with its style—the atmosphere reeked of a village dance. So at an opportune time, Aspirin slipped away, avoiding both Zhenya and the other one, whatever her name was. His desire to finish the evening in bed with one—or both—women was replaced by a simple wish for peace and quiet.

  It was raining.

  Leaving the club, Aspirin remembered that Alyona was at the philharmonic, which happened to be a hop, skip, and a jump from Phantom. The concert was supposed to end five or ten minutes ago, and so he drove over to see if she was just getting out.

  He was right.

  The dignified audience was just leaving; black umbrellas sparkled, spreading wet membranes like Dracula’s wings. A girl in a cheap jacket stood under an awning by the entrance, clutching Mishutka to her chest.

  He’d forgotten about Mishutka. How could he forget? He just did. But he couldn’t turn around and leave.

  He drove up to the entrance.

  “Get in. Quickly. It’s a tow zone.”

  She dived into the backseat.

  “Thank you.” She sounded sincere. “This rain . . . and it’s late.”

  In silence they drove through the brightly lit center, still alive with crowds. The closer to their house, the darker the streets grew, and the duller the shop windows looked.

  “How was the Schnittke?”

  She was silent, and Aspirin didn’t think she was going to respond.

  “You know,” the girl said when he stopped under the blinking yellow light, “when I listen to the music written by humans . . . mankind seems so beautiful. Noble. Why is that?”

  Aspirin passed the intersection and gained some speed.

  “Maybe it is beautiful and noble.”

  As if illustrating his words, a red Ford cut them off. Aspirin slammed on the brakes. Alyona was thrown backward, while Aspirin sucked in his breath from the crushing safety belt.

  Three doors on the Ford opene
d at once.

  “Go!” Alyona shouted. “Drive!”

  The other car blocked their path. Aspirin looked behind him, only to see an old BMW skid up to his bumper.

  The driver’s-side window cracked. Sharp fragments flew all over the car, landing on the floor and on the seats. Aspirin’s door was jerked open. He was pulled out of the car.

  “Get out!”

  He punched a hard, hairy mug. He didn’t have a chance to land the second punch.

  “Asshole!”

  A fist in his own face made everything unbearably bright, but he couldn’t see anything anyway. Alyona shrieked.

  “Bastards! She’s a child!”

  But she wasn’t really a child.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  He heard a low, almost at the audible limit, roar of an enormous beast.

  Shadows flew in the mirror. A man shrieked—a high, piercing sound, like a wounded hare. Something scraped on the asphalt, and though Aspirin couldn’t see clearly, he could feel a presence straightening to its full height, and the silhouette was gigantic. Something was thrown up like a rag doll, flew about thirty feet in the air, and slammed into the ground with the sound of a rotten melon smashing into a brick wall.

  Feet running away in a panic echoed in Aspirin’s ears. Tires screeched, attempting to move faster than the earthly laws of physics would allow. His vision clearing, he noticed the road was now clear as well—as if the red Ford had never been there.

  Aspirin found himself lying on his belly, head down, half in the car, half out of the car. Broken glass crunched under his palms.

  A dozen steps away from him a very large man lay very still. He looked like a dead hippopotamus or a sumo wrestler down for the count. Above was the yellow streetlight, and below a dark puddle grew under him.

  The BMW backed up quickly.

  “Go!” someone screamed into Aspirin’s ear. “What are you lying here for—get up, let’s go, now!”

  He pulled himself back into the car and slammed the door, forcing shards of broken glass to rain down. He attempted to turn the key with his shaking hand; the third time was the charm. Rare streetlights and dimly lit windows swam backward.