Daughter from the Dark

by Sergey

  He came to.

  The curtains were gray, the room—different, and there was no lamp on the windowsill. A stripe of light lay under his door.

  Squinting, he stepped into the hallway. The entire apartment smelled of pine. The tree no longer lay on the floor tied with a rope. Its trunk nestled in a large pail in the middle of the living room, the tree was huge and moist, and took up almost half the room.

  Mishutka sat on a rug in the corner of the room, staring at Aspirin.

  “Where do you keep your ornaments?” For the first time in many days Alyona seemed happy. “I mean Christmas ornaments.”

  It was a good question, and it took a while before Aspirin dug up a cardboard box from the depths of his wardrobe. The box had migrated from his parents’ apartment and hadn’t been opened in ten years at least. Alyona wiped the dust off the cover and opened the box. One after another, the ornaments came out and Alyona’s cheeks grew pink with pleasure. She gazed at the shiny bulbs and made faces at her funny reflection; when she came across a red sparkly hat, she put it on Mishutka’s head. Aspirin recalled sitting in front of the same box many years ago, touching the treasures inside, anticipating the holiday joys. And next to him, on the floor, or on the sofa, his mother or father. Or both of them; Aspirin thought—one more second, and the sensation of childhood would reappear. One more second.

  “Did you and Irina have a fight?” Alyona asked out of the blue, and the illusion dissipated, the memories melting away.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I just did.”

  “We didn’t have a fight. It’s just that, you know, sometimes grown-ups have complicated grown-up problems, it has to do with relationships . . .”

  “You slept with her,” Alyona informed him with a patronizing smile. “And both of you enjoyed it. Why did you break up?”

  Aspirin dropped an ornament, and it shattered into tiny pieces. Hissing and swearing, he shuffled to the kitchen for the broom.

  Alyona reacted much faster by bringing out the vacuum cleaner. He watched her vacuum the carpet, then the sofa and the space under the stereo system.

  “Irina and I are strangers,” he said when the vacuum cleaner was finally turned off. “Besides . . .” He fell silent.

  Alyona lifted the piano lid and played a chord. Aspirin flinched.

  “And besides, you’re perfectly happy with the status quo, aren’t you, Alexey? You are cool, fun, popular, confident. You will have women chasing after you until you are old and decrepit—you will never lack money or women to spend it on. Why would you bother plowing, irrigating, weeding, or harvesting, when you can just show up at the carnival and sweet fruits would be handed to you, more than you can eat?”

  Her hands flew over the keys. A melody escaped, like a squirrel—hop, and it’s not there, only the branch swaying behind it.

  “That was quite artistic,” Aspirin managed.

  “But in general, it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t,” she said and shrugged.

  “Then why don’t you shut up?”

  He went to his room once more, boiling over with anger and bitter resentment, like a little boy. Alyona toyed with him, in turn pretending to be a real little girl and provoking his paternal instinct, then ripping off her mask and poking her finger into the most painful spots with a cynical smirk. Why had he ever thought of bringing home that tree . . .

  He glanced at his watch and realized he was late for the club. Rushing out of the house, he promised himself that after his shift he would get absolutely hammered.

  January

  “Yes, Valentina, we are listening! Valentina, you are on the air!”

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, yes, everyone can hear you, and I want to remind you: we’re playing Words, and our topic tonight—love on New Year’s Eve! Valentina, have you met your boyfriend at a New Year’s Eve party?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And what is his name?”

  “Igor . . .”

  “And you would like the holiday to continue, wouldn’t you? You have a chance to win a night at the five-star hotel Flamingo, one night, the memories of which will surpass centuries! All you need to do to win that night for you and Igor is to answer one question, to be assigned a number, and to be entered into this lottery. Are you ready?”

  After work on New Year’s Eve he had returned home around nine in the morning, sober, gloomy, with a dull pain in the back of his head. The courtyard was littered with the burned tips of fireworks; dog owners smoked in the corner, while their charges, a bulldog and a rottweiler, ran circles in the snow like two perpetual-motion mobiles.

  Irina’s windows remained dark.

  He unlocked the front door and peeked into the living room. Alyona slept with her arms around Mishutka. A plate with a half eaten slice of cake, a glass of juice, and the violin in its opened case nestled under the tree.

  Aspirin took off his jacket and shoes. Moaning with pleasure, he slid his feet into a pair of slippers and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of dark beer. Foam gushed over the edge of a faceted mug. Aspirin swallowed the liquid greedily, like a desert camel.

  Happy New Year, he had said to himself when the mug was empty. And many wishes for a wonderful new year.

  Later that day he was back at the station.

  “Are you ready, Valentina?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Listen carefully. Listen carefully: Pentateuch is—a type of computer? A set of holy books? A pen that only writes in German? Your answer?”

  When he had reentered the living room, she was already awake. She lay quietly, hugging her bear, gazing at Aspirin with inflamed blue eyes.

  “Hey,” he had whispered. “Happy new year.”

  “I was thinking,” she said, skipping the polite banalities. “I am not going to have a chance to say good-bye to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled. “When I find my brother, and we leave . . . I won’t have time to stop by and say good-bye.”

  “And are you going to find him soon?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “Last night I played the whole thing correctly. Everything, to the last note. On the regular strings, the normal ones. But that means I can do that with his strings too.”

  Keeping his eye on the bear, Aspirin came closer and cautiously sat down on the far edge of the sofa.

  “Listen,” Alyona had said. “That night you brought me to your place. Why? Why hadn’t you just left me there on the street?”

  He hadn’t had an immediate answer.

  “Valentina, your time is up. Your answer?”

  “A computer?”

  “Not quite. A computer would be Pentium; the Pentateuch is the first five books of the Old Testament. Sorry, Valentina, your answer is wrong, say hello to Igor, and better luck next time! And we have our next contestant, what is your name?”

  “Lena!”

  “Lena! Your voice sounds so cheerful—you are destined to answer my question! Listen: what is the original meaning of the word ‘joystick’? A joystick is a control for commercial pilots, a gaming device, or a sexual term?”

  “A sexual term!”

  “But of course not! Originally, a joystick is a control used by pilots. Who would have thought? And thus the battle for the night of love in a five-star hotel with pools, garden, restaurants, and other pleasures continues, and while you, my friends, are gathering your thoughts for the next round, please do remember the love that descended upon you on New Year’s Eve, and listen to Britney Spears!”

  He had sat on the edge of the sofa with a glass of beer in his hand after her question, dripping foam on his pants, staring at the girl and her bear. Two pairs of eyes stared back demandingly: plastic and human.

  “Are you trying to say that for an asshole like me, it would be more natural to leave a child alone in the street?”

  Alyona said nothing
.

  Aspirin put the glass down on the floor. “Of course, if it weren’t for certain circumstances, I would probably have walked by. I walk by every day. Everyone else does. And not because I am an asshole, or everyone else is. It’s because that’s how life is. Otherwise, people would have to go to a monastery. Or work at a hospice. If we were being honest.”

  Alyona said nothing.

  “I can’t love people in general,” Aspirin said. “I can love a certain individual—for a certain amount of time. And I hate when my personal space is invaded, whether by adults, children, or women . . . This is my privacy. My ecological system. It’s very fragile. I like to keep it safe. I like to keep myself safe, I suppose.”

  “Whom do you love now, Alexey?”

  “Right now—no one,” Aspirin said severely. “Love is not a cake of soap for everyday use.”

  She lowered her eyes and hugged Mishutka to her chest. He raised his glass and took a sip of cold thick beer, feeling a lot better. At least he hadn’t lied to her.

  “. . . we are continuing our conversation about love, about love on New Year’s Eve, and it’s not a secret for anyone that it is quite common for the young and naive to get a taste of this magical ambrosia grown-ups call love on that special night, New Year’s Eve . . . We have a caller, what is your name?”

  “Alyona.”

  “Alyona, welcome, we’re playing a word game . . . Alyona?”

  A second of silence morphed into an abyss on the air, a softly humming cosmos.

  “I have decided it will happen today,” a familiar voice said softly. “I am taking him and leaving myself. Good-bye, Alexey.”

  “Hold on,” he said, staring at the mic in horror. “Wait, hold on, listen to me—”

  Short beeps. Julia the producer broke the connection and waved for Aspirin to continue.

  “You are listening to Radio Sweetheart,” Aspirin said hoarsely. “We are continuing . . . but we need to take a short break and listen to some music. Music!” He scowled at Julia, who was shaking her phone in the air. “The happiest, most cheerful, comforting and friendly music!

  “Right now!”

  The crowds flowed through the dark rectangular pipes of the underground walkway in the same manner as before; mechanical kittens still meowed in their boxes, and the toy soldiers kept shooting their rifles. Aspirin rushed through the throngs of people, bumping into passersby, apologizing (but not really meaning it), well aware that there was no Alyona at the intersection. Not a single sound broke the habitual atmosphere, and nothing could be heard aside from the rustling of steps, the electronic meowing, or the rattle of rifle fire. Perhaps she hadn’t had a chance to start her song yet?

  No one stood by the automatic coffee machine. Aspirin stopped (someone immediately ran into him from behind), but had no time to take a deeper breath: in the dark corner, leaning against the tin panel, was the familiar violin case.

  He ran over. No footsteps were visible on the wet pavement; if it were not for the case, he would have believed that Alyona did not act according to her plan, or that she chose another location for her final concert. Or that she had been late. Or made a joke. Or never showed up.

  The case was empty. Aspirin looked around helplessly. People passed him by, and no one paid him any attention.

  He was too late.

  At first he had to make a scene to get out of his shift on the air. Then he got stuck in traffic. Then he left his car in some courtyard and took the subway, and all trains had been full. Somehow Aspirin managed to miss his station. But that song was supposed to be played for three hours, so he should have been on time anyway!

  He twirled the resin in his fingers imagining how Alyona would play her violin, and her brother would step out of the crowd . . . what would he look like? They would hold hands and step through the walls . . . or where would they go? And now they were back in their world that knew no fear or death. Alyona had achieved what she longed to do, she even had a chance to say good-bye, and he, Aspirin, could console himself and sigh a deep sigh of relief.

  He closed the case and placed it by the coffee machine, then picked it up again. A horrible association slid into his mind: he thought that the case was like a heap of clothes a drowned man leaves on an empty beach. Hesitant to let the last vestige of Alyona’s existence out of his hands, he walked toward a small pharmacy stand.

  “Good afternoon, I am DJ Aspirin. Do you know what’s happened here?”

  “Lots of noise,” the pharmacist shared with gusto. “A fistfight, or something like that. Or a protest. It was hard to see from here. Something always happens here—the gypsies, or boys with guitars, or some crazy girl with a violin.”

  “What about today? Did she play today?”

  “I told you I have no idea. There were tons of people, tons of noise, and my entire stash of Valium was sold out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Half an hour ago. Everyone had just left. You wanted aspirin, and what else?”

  She handed him a pack of pills.

  Holding his newly purchased pack of aspirin, he made it to the exit. An old woman selling roasted sunflower seeds demonstratively ignored two young cops, one tall and one short. The cops looked like winter pigeons, disheveled, grim, and confused.

  “Hey guys,” Aspirin said quickly. “Seen a chick with a violin around here?”

  The tall cop’s eyes were morose, the short one’s—suspicious.

  “Identification,” the tall one said for some reason. Aspirin pulled out his passport.

  “Grimalsky, Alexey. DJ Aspirin.”

  The cops exchanged glances.

  “So, I take it you’ve seen the chick with the violin?”

  “That girl is nuts,” the short cop admitted.

  “Where did she go after? Was she taken away? Who took her, what did they look like?”

  “Try taking that one away.” The short cop avoided Aspirin’s eyes. “She’s got some serious protection. Who are you?”

  “I am her father,” Aspirin said.

  “What?”

  “I am her father.” Aspirin cleared his throat. “I have her birth certificate. She . . . she’s not quite right in the head. Where did they take her? Where am I supposed to go, tell me!”

  “She left,” the tall cop said with a hint of hostility.

  “Where?”

  “Home. Where else would she go?”

  “She is not home!”

  “You should check again,” the short cop said. “It’s not summer anymore, it’s not that easy to bum around the parks. She will get cold, hungry—then she’ll come home. She has no choice. Hey, you, now, get your stuff!”

  The last sentence was not directed at Aspirin, but rather at an old woman selling socks who was setting up her merchandise nearby. The short cop must have had some hypnotic skills of his own, because suddenly Aspirin clearly saw Alyona, tired, chilly, stepping into the apartment with her violin stuffed under her arm. Seriously—would she have any other choice?

  He left the intersection and, leaning against a wet tree trunk, dialed his phone number.

  No one answered.

  “Alyona!”

  Seeing the dark windows, he had hoped that she’d gone to bed and turned off the lights. But the sofa was empty, a blanket folded carefully on top of a pillow. The tree was drying up in the corner. Stacks of discs lay on top of the stereo, and sheet music, mostly xeroxed, on top of the piano.

  He placed the case on the sofa and looked around again, suddenly aware of something very important.

  Mishutka was nowhere to be seen.

  Aspirin searched the apartment. He found the gun on the top shelf. Then he sat on a kitchen stool, put his elbows on the shiny table, and forced himself to think, like during a test.

  She had left forever, taking Mishutka with her.

  But before leaving forever, she had to play his song, from beginning to end. In that underground walkway. No matter what, that would have taken one hundred and seventy-three minut
es.

  And if Mishutka had been with her in the walkway, no one could have hurt her.

  At least they wouldn’t get away with it.

  But there was no puddle of blood or police patrol in the walkway, which meant no one threw themselves at Alyona with umbrellas at the ready.

  Or had she talked the bear into being patient?

  Or maybe Mishutka wasn’t there?

  Aspirin paced around the apartment, then called Whiskas.

  “Hello, Grimalsky,” Victor Somov said, his voice unusually unkind. “So where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is! I was going to ask you!”

  “They failed,” Whiskas said after a pause. “She’s been announced as a missing person. Don’t worry, they will find her.”

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  Whiskas hung up.

  Aspirin stopped in front of the coffee machine once more, dug inside his pockets, pushed the mochaccino button, and, while the machine hummed and winked, tried to find a barely formed thought that kept escaping him.

  “‘. . . we fought over the violin, I stumbled a little and went face-first into that stupid thing, the coffee machine.’”

  Forgetting about his mochaccino, Aspirin stepped forward and looked into the gap between the machine and the wall. He reached inside. A school bag was stuffed into the gap.

  He returned home around midnight. One of his windows was lit up, and Aspirin nearly lost his mind. He couldn’t wait for the elevator and ran upstairs; when he unlocked the door, he realized the apartment was still empty, and he himself had forgotten to turn off the light before he left.

  Alyona’s bag got stuck on something inside the gap between the coffee machine and the wall. Aspirin spent half an hour trying to get it out, in the process provoking the curious stares of the passersby. When he finally got it free, he regretted his actions because the school bag contained nothing but the folded-over and secured-inside Mishutka.

  Aspirin’s knees weakened. He stood next to Alyona’s school bag with the toy bear stuffed inside, slowly, step by step, realizing that she hadn’t gone into the beautiful beyond. The beautiful beyond did not happen and probably did not exist at all. Something else must have happened.