by Sergey
Aspirin said nothing.
“She was reported as missing by the institution at the end of May,” Whiskas went on. “She was still missing as of September first. The great-grandmother had no answers, but what could they have asked of an old woman? And when did the girl show up at your place?”
“In August. August thirteenth.”
“Mm-hmm. So, for two and a half months she had been roaming around somewhere. In the summer, vagrants like to be outside.”
“Victor, she came to me in a clean T-shirt and very clean socks. She’s a bit obsessed with personal hygiene. What vagrants are we talking about here?”
Whiskas blew out a cloud of malodorous smoke, just like a small chemical plant.
“Let me play along for a second. What kind of hypnosis are we talking about?” Aspirin spoke louder than he meant to; it was a good thing the café was nearly empty. “Who ripped that dog in half? Or did someone hypnotize the dog to the point where it just cracked in two all by itself?”
“The dog was not hypnotized,” Whiskas said softly. “You were. You saw it being ripped in half. Or did you? Because, in reality, those juvenile delinquents simply called it away. Or there were no teenagers at all.”
“Abel,” Aspirin said.
“What?”
“The dog’s name was Abel. I remember that.”
“Good for you,” Whiskas said. “You know, I owe you an apology. When you called me that first time, I believed her, not you. Even though I’ve known you for a long time, and have never met her before. That girl is damn good.”
Aspirin wasn’t to be deterred, though. “Who cut up the thugs in my apartment? I saw it with my own—”
“They were made to believe that a monster attacked them. They may have wounded each other trying to defend themselves. Or maybe . . . Have you heard of those cases when a cold iron was placed against someone’s skin and, believing the iron was hot, the person would get a burn? And those cases when under the influence of a hypnotist, people’s scars disappeared, and their gray hair went dark again?”
Aspirin held his head in his hands. The ends of the chain from the handcuffs swung in front of his face.
“Jesus,” Whiskas said. “You still have those on?”
“Of course I do. Apparently you can’t hypnotize handcuffs off, I guess.”
“You’re so dramatic—”
“What about hypnotizing a whole crowd in literally one second, to attract the attention of an entire throng of people who don’t care for you . . . enough to make a normal, decent woman attack you? Why would she do that? Hypnotize a stranger to attack her, hmm?”
Whiskas frowned. “When was that?”
Aspirin told him. Whiskas lit another cigarette, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“Wow, that girl is something. She could be doing sold-out shows, full stadiums. Have you ever seen a stadium full of zombies? I have.”
“Why did you say I was lucky?” Aspirin asked hoarsely.
“Because your case is now closed.”
“What? Was there a case?”
“Of course there was. The cops don’t just arrest people for no reason,” Whiskas said, smiling beatifically. “Tax evasion on a large scale, manslaughter, something else . . . I had nothing to do with it, don’t look at me like that. On the contrary, I did everything I could to get you off.”
“Off manslaughter? Why was I even accused of that?”
“I told you, it’s been closed.”
Aspirin fell silent, trying to process Whiskas’s words.
“It may be for the best,” Whiskas said thoughtfully. “That time underground—I think she was provoked to show her power in front of witnesses. To leave no doubt what she is capable of.”
“A panic attack,” Aspirin said, incredulous, “but where she’s attacking with panic?”
Whiskas nodded: “Your Alyona is a walking psychotropic weapon. And the thing is—someone must have trained her in those two months between the time she ran away from the institution and showed up on your doorstep. It must have been that weirdo you wrote about in your article, ‘whose stare made the mirrors frost over.’”
Aspirin felt a pang of shame for writing that stupid article.
“When’s the next time she’s going to play at that intersection?” Whiskas was all business now.
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, Alexey. When you see her going somewhere without her bear, call me.”
“Why would I do that? And wait . . . why without the bear? Do you actually believe that bear is a monster?”
“She believes it, that’s the problem. We can’t be an easy target. Her powers of hypnosis must be tremendous if it squeezed large adult males like kittens.”
“And if those powers didn’t squeeze them like kittens?” Aspirin asked. “What if they had gotten me? Speaking of which, where was I supposed to be taken?”
“Never mind,” Whiskas inhaled. “Bygones.”
Aspirin lowered his head. Whiskas’s smug complacency annoyed him, and the news of an instant case against him—and the just as instant dismissal—did not elicit any trust. Was it a bluff? A fairy tale?
“She made up a fairy tale,” Whiskas murmured. “About this world she’s from, about her brother she must save . . . The kid wants a brother, that’s all. She needs a good psychiatrist, and for what it’s worth, this institution in Pervomaysk is quite a dump.”
Aspirin met Whiskas’s eyes; he saw sympathy and understanding.
“Wait a second,” Aspirin said. “I still don’t get it—is she my daughter or not?”
The rain stopped. Aspirin shuffled along back roads.
Here was that archway covered with graffiti. Here was where “Alyona Alexeyevna” stood when she was placed in Aspirin’s way. Aspirin always took the same road from the garage to his building.
At least, that’s what he used to do, before the dog incident.
He passed the archway, holding his breath (it stank of urine), then proceeded to the next corner. The trash barrel remained in the same spot; a mangy cat stood sentinel on its edge.
Aspirin walked toward the playground. At this hour it was empty; a puddle sat in the middle of a soggy sandpit, and a wet flyer was stuck to the bench.
Aspirin slowed down, then stopped. What did he expect? That they stayed here, months later, waiting to be interrogated?
A street cleaner, a middle-aged, exhausted-looking woman with henna-colored hair, gathered rotten leaves into a pile.
“Excuse me.”
The woman turned.
“Does anyone in this building own a pit bull?”
“Did someone get hurt again?” the woman asked with interest. “It happens all the time. Twenty dogs in each building, and three or four pit bulls. Last month a little kid had to get stitches. Those bastards, the owners, they just do whatever they want. We’ve collected signatures, gone to the police, and every time the police show up, they are not home. They take the dogs to the country, then bring them back, and they tell the cops the dogs died . . .”
The woman droned on and on. The leaves under her rake looked like chocolate.
“If those dogs bit you, you should go to the cops right away. Every time I talk to the owner, she just cusses at me, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” Aspirin said, walking away.
The front door opened behind him.
“Abel, halt!” the familiar voice said. Aspirin froze.
An animal resembling a pale stuffed sausage flew by Aspirin across the courtyard, paying him no attention. The cat on top of the trash barrel disappeared without a trace.
It must have melted into thin air.
“What happened?” Alyona asked.
She was practicing when he got home. The little cushion hung around her neck as usual.
“Nothing.”
“Were you attacked? Threatened?”
“No.”
“But you managed to get the handcuffs off?”
He glanced at his hands.
By pure chance, Whiskas had the correct key in his pocket. He must have always carried it with him.
“She needs a good doctor,” Whiskas had told him. “Whether she’s your daughter or not, you can’t just drop her like this, leaving things as they are. She needs a doctor, and with the correct treatment, she will relax and tell you who sent her and why. And maybe no one sent her; maybe her mother always told her that she had a father, Alexey Igorevich Grimalsky, and it was easy enough to find this Grimalsky in the phone book. After all, she is lonely, an orphan if you think about it, plus she’s got issues. She is talented, she is phenomenal, really, no question about that, but what does it matter if she refuses to study? And that violin is not going to lead to anything serious—in a week she may decide she needs another way to look for her brother, singing mantras, or whatever. No, Alexey, she needs a specialist.”
The hole in the universe was being repaired. It was being sewn shut, with white thread, with rough stitches, but an ugly seam was better than an endless void. He, Aspirin, was not crazy.
“I remember!” he yelled suddenly as he and Whiskas were saying a terse good-bye. “She predicted the death of this guy, a stranger, actually, but she predicted his death!”
He told Whiskas about the untimely demise of Irina’s ex, or rather, might-have-been husband.
“Right,” Whiskas said, nodding sagely. “I am telling you, she’s a phenomenon. She must have felt something. Maybe the guy had a fight with that broad, got all discombobulated, got behind the wheel, wishing to be dead. Or maybe there is really such a thing as a damaged aura that a powerful psychic can see.”
“What are you saying?” Aspirin was shocked. “If you believe in a damaged aura, why not believe that Alyona is a fallen angel who came down to our sinful earth to look for another angel, her brother?”
“Apples and oranges,” Whiskas pointed out. “They study psychics in special institutes, you know. But angels and demons—that’s bullshit. Are you coming to the club today?”
They said good-bye.
And now he stood in front of Alyona, studying his bruised wrists. Nothing was left of this morning’s courage, glee, and healthy, devil-may-care attitude.
Apples and oranges . . .
“Something must have happened,” Alyona said quietly.
“You know what—why don’t you leave me alone.”
He went into the kitchen, but there was no more brandy left in the cupboard.
Alyona was playing a scale, slowly, subtly, as if tasting every note, as if looking through the round notes like children looking at the sun through colored glass.
Aspirin made a cup of tea. What was happening right now—was it hypnosis?
He went into the living room.
“Listen.”
She lowered the violin.
“Have you ever been at the Pervomaysk Institute for children with intellectual deficiencies?”
She frowned.
“I may have been. I’ve spent so long in this world that by now I am growing a history. Roots. A long train of sorts.”
He perched on the arm of a chair. Alyona gazed at him, her eyes serious and calm.
“And the fact that you are my daughter—is that a train as well?”
“I have to be someone’s daughter,” she smiled. “But don’t worry. When I find my brother and finally get him out of here, my local roots will pale, dissolve, and then disappear entirely. Like stitches,” she touched the top of her head. “And then you will be absolutely sure you don’t have—and have never had—a daughter.”
The bandage on top of her head had darkened a little, but overall it remained relatively clean.
“Let’s go to the clinic.” Aspirin got up.
“What for?”
“They did tell us to get your wound looked at in a few days. The bandage may have to come off, plus you’ll need ointment, and whatever else. Come on, hurry up.”
The doctor at the clinic said Alyona’s wound had healed perfectly; he insisted that she needed a medical file, which would require filling out a questionnaire. “Where are her immunization records? Where are any of her medical records? It’s like the girl fell off the moon.”
“Shall we take care of the questionnaire now?” Aspirin asked the girl.
“It’s a waste of time,” Alyona said indifferently. She did not seem to be affected by the doctor’s presence. Unlike her, Aspirin remembered his childhood fear of white coats and still preferred suffering to being poked and prodded by doctors.
The doctor looked at him as if he was crazy to be asking his daughter for permission.
Aspirin shrugged.
Now they were on their way home. It was six o’clock, time to start getting ready for Kuklabuck, but at the thought of tonight’s shift, Aspirin nearly threw up. Controlling the urge, he asked her, “How are you feeling, anyway?”
“I am fine.”
When they reached an intersection, he held her hand. He wasn’t sure why—she was perfectly independent—doing the shopping, going to school, taking the subway on a regular basis—and could probably walk across town all by herself. But he just felt the need to have physical contact with her at that moment.
“That dog is alive,” Aspirin said. “The pit bull. Abel. Or maybe it was a different dog . . .”
“Maybe it was,” Alyona said. “Why do you bring it up?”
Aspirin sighed. “You really think I am not a very nice person?”
She squeezed his fingers. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I care what my daughter thinks of me.”
She laughed, cheerfully, and without a trace of sarcasm.
“Alyona,” he forced the words to come out. “How did you get to that corner under the archway? Who brought you there?”
“I don’t remember.” She was no longer laughing. “I came over, and found myself in the alley, under the streetlight, with Mishutka. People passed me by, none were looking at me, they were all dead. I stood there, for about an hour, and just couldn’t move—I thought I would get some sort of a sign, a hint, or that my brother would feel me and come get me right away. But nothing happened. And then I realized he came for me, and I decided to hide in the dark. And found a hiding place. That’s what happened.”
Aspirin thought how much better it would have been if she were an angel. It would have been so much better if everything she said always turned out to be the truth. On the other hand . . . if she was simply a crazy little psychic, a runaway resident of an institution for children with intellectual deficiencies . . . if she—whether by accident or forced by someone else’s will—ran away from her previous life and came here, to live with her father . . .
With her father.
Aspirin stumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Alyona asked.
He held her hand tighter.
November
“And now let us put our heads together. How can we help this child?”
Aspirin sat in a spacious, well-furnished room, strikingly different from the shabby offices of his local clinic. And yet, this elegant place had something to do with medicine, according to Whiskas.
“At this point we’re trying to locate her mother. To be honest, that woman is not exactly a poster parent, but a mother is a mother, don’t you agree?”
Aspirin nodded like a bobblehead. The man he was speaking to nodded back, adjusting the white lab coat he wore over a gray business suit.
“The search may take a while, since the girl’s relatives are currently overseas. Of course, as a father, you feel responsible—it is your daughter, your parental duty, et cetera. But children with this sort of disability require supervision by a specialist, twenty-four seven.”
“She doesn’t have any disabilities,” Aspirin said grimly.
The man in the white coat narrowed his eyes: “Is that a fact? Are you sure?”
Aspirin looked away.
“That’s what I mean.” The man sighed a little. “This is a very complex child, a very difficult case.”
“But she wants to live with me. And she isn’t causing any problems!”
“Again: are you sure? That aside, we do try to take the children’s wishes into consideration. However, an eleven-year-old girl with a psychological disorder cannot decide her own fate, don’t you agree?”
The man waited for an answer. Under his expectant gaze, Aspirin felt a sudden bout of despondence.
“What am I supposed to do?” he blurted out.
The man nodded with satisfaction: “Alexey Igorevich . . .”
Aspirin immediately thought of Alyona’s barefoot mentor with his eyes resembling drill bits. He too called Aspirin by his full name.
“Alexey Igorevich, please make an appointment for a home visit.”
“A home visit?”
“Yes. A doctor will come to your place, say, between nine and twelve to examine Alyona.”
“She is perfectly healthy.”
“Is she? Two months ago she had bronchitis, and just recently she suffered a head trauma. See, Alexey Igorevich—your attitude toward her health leaves a lot to be desired.”
Aspirin had nothing to say to that.
That night it snowed for the first time this year.
Aspirin had been at his laptop, working on the story for Lolly-Lady. Many years of working for glossy magazines meant that he did not need to think much about what he was writing; it was as if a fully functioning robot inside him produced other people’s confessions by request. On this occasion, he was writing the story of a forty-year-old woman who lost her husband to a younger woman; the deserted wife did not plunge into despair, but instead went to work on herself—esthetician, gym, sauna, solarium . . . (Aspirin sighed and scratched his nose). And very soon the woman met a guy, completely out of the blue, in the middle of the street, and this guy turned out to be the head of a large trading corporation. They fell in love. Meanwhile, her ex-husband became very ill, his young girlfriend dumped him, and he returned to his ex-wife. “I imagined this very scene so many times, when he would crawl back to me on his belly like a dog . . . And here he was, crawling back, begging me to forgive him, forgive his, as he put it, ‘mistake.’ And I watched him and couldn’t help but feel pity for him—I loved this man for many years, I gave him my youth, he was the father of my . . .”