by Sergey
He left and came back. He didn’t know what to do with the bag and the . . . monster? . . . stuck inside. But really, it was just a plush toy. Here, in this walkway, smelling of cigarettes, dampness, and that specific subway scent of urine, garbage, diesel, and ozone, Alyona and Aspirin’s true story seemed a particularly insane type of hallucination. What lay ahead was not the beautiful beyond, but the Pervomaysk Institute for children with intellectual deficiencies, a distribution center for juvenile delinquents, and in the worst-case scenario—a pedophile den.
“How could you have left her alone?” Aspirin whispered to the bear. Of course, the bear did not answer.
Of course Alyona would not have left Mishutka of her own volition. That meant someone else had made the rules, someone powerful and unkind.
He remembered the barefoot man in a gray sweater and camouflage pants. Aspirin wondered if he walked around barefoot in the winter.
The crowds flowed by. Shoes rustled on the pavement. Aspirin stood frozen on a spot, feeling the time running out. Somewhere—and now he was sure of it—Alyona was in trouble.
He called Whiskas but heard nothing but cursing.
“They are searching for her!” Whiskas yelled. “Looking for her, do you understand?”
Aspirin picked up the bag. Mishutka did not weigh much. This time Aspirin did not give himself any time to think. He wanted to go home.
He put the bag under the tree. Mishutka did not look at him. Mishutka was a toy, fabric and stuffing, an inanimate object. Aspirin moved the bag closer to the wall with his foot.
The hands on the clock came together and stopped. The pendulum slowed down, swaying with shorter amplitude.
It was twelve o’clock. Midnight.
“Hello.”
“Hello . . . good evening. It’s Alexey.”
A pause.
“What happened?”
“Alyona left. She . . . she’s lost. Something has . . . she’s nowhere to be found. I thought she might be with you.”
A pause.
“No. I haven’t seen her in a while. Wait. What could have happened to her? When did she leave?”
“This afternoon. She called Radio Sweetheart when I was on the air and said she was leaving for good and wanted to say good-bye. She left her violin case, school bag, and . . . Mishutka. She’d never parted with him before.”
“Have you called the police?”
“I have! They told me to come over tomorrow morning, fill out an application, and bring a picture. Irina, I don’t have any pictures of her! Not a single one!”
“Wait. I will be right over.”
“And here it’s death everywhere, yellow leaves falling . . . dead . . .”
What if she had lost her memory and no longer remembered Aspirin, or his address? What if she had once again appeared out of nowhere, fell out of the sky, and found herself on a street corner, but this time without Mishutka?
It was the longest, darkest, coldest night in his life.
What had happened before Alyona showed up at that street corner where he first met her? Where did her little socks come from, so clean, so new? Who gave her a T-shirt with the krakow. learn to fly picture? He doubted a mental institution would outfit patients in this style.
Perhaps she had a family—not the fake one from Pervomaysk, with a fake mother called “Luba,” but a family whose members had been looking for her for the last six months, calling hospitals and morgues, bothering the police, putting pictures into newspapers . . . Assuming, of course, those people had been lucky and actually had some of Alyona’s pictures in their possession, which he did not.
Was Alyona even her name?
“Here,” Irina handed him a pill.
“What is that?”
“Valium.”
“Thanks.”
He took the pill, and his fingers touched her palm for a split second. He recalled a snowstorm, her window with the soft green light—recalled and immediately forgot it again.
It was past six in the morning, the fifth hour of his dispiriting search. Irina stuck by his side the entire time, accompanying him to the stuffy police station, a cold morgue, out on the snowy wet streets, to the hospital waiting rooms.
“What exactly did she say? Did you have a fight?”
“We didn’t have a fight. She’d been planning on leaving for a while. I just didn’t think she could.”
“What didn’t you believe? She was going to leave—wait, why?”
The words repeated over and over again, the conversation went in circles, and, strangely enough, Aspirin found some comfort in that. He needed Irina to sit by his side and ask him inherently idiotic questions.
That night was populated by doctors and nurses, their drunk, bloodied patients, cops, security guards, prostitutes, and the homeless—but no one had seen Alyona or knew where she was. It was probably for the best; Aspirin shuddered at the thought of Alyona meeting one of these people.
“Does she have any friends? Not a single one?”
“No. No one she mentioned, at least. She didn’t even go to school—just went to her violin lessons. And she’d stopped that recently too.”
“This is so terrible, Alexey. It’s a disaster. Why did she leave?”
At nine in the morning Aspirin made a long-distance call from a hospital, but no one at the Pervomaysk Institute for children with intellectual deficiencies picked up the phone. He wasn’t even sure it was a real number to a real place.
“You were going to tell me how she came to live with you,” Irina reminded him gently.
He shook his head. “Not now. Later.”
He called his apartment, but, as he expected, no one picked up the phone either.
“What if she’d lost her keys?” he wondered without much conviction when they got to the car and started driving. “She could be standing by the locked door . . .”
Irina shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
The sun came up slowly. It started to rain, mixed with wet snow. Aspirin turned on the windshield wipers.
“Should I take you home?”
“What about you?”
“I will keep searching. You know what could be helpful? Do you think you could stay in my apartment for a bit, just in case she calls? Or in case anyone calls my home number?”
Irina hesitated.
“You have to work, don’t you,” Aspirin realized.
“It’s fine,” Irina said. “Don’t worry about it, I will figure it out. Let’s go.”
The apartment remained in the same condition. The violin case, the school bag under the tree, the head of a stuffed bear sticking out from under the top flap. Aspirin didn’t get a chance to say anything before Irina bent down and picked up Mishutka. She fluffed up the fur on his face.
“You poor thing. Be patient. She will return.”
Aspirin swallowed, worried for her safety. But the toy remained a toy.
“I’m going to go. If anyone calls, let me know—on my cell, all right?”
She nodded and then pressed Mishutka to her chest, just like Alyona.
Aspirin left. He smoked a cigarette sitting in his car and glancing at his own windows. Something bothered him, like a grain of sand in his eye, or a pebble in his shoe. Irina, Mishutka . . . Irina.
He smashed the cigarette in the ashtray and went back up to the fifth floor.
“Sorry. Let me take the bear.”
Irina did not seem surprised.
“Here,” she said solemnly. “For good luck.”
Awkwardly, he picked up the bear by its front paw.
“No funny stuff,” he whispered to Mishutka once they were inside the elevator. “No funny stuff, you . . .”
He winced at his own idiotic behavior.
It was Thursday, a regular working day, but no one answered the phone at the Pervomaysk Institute. Aspirin was about to assume that the number was wrong when someone finally picked up at half past eleven. The shrill woman on the other end of the line had trouble understandi
ng what Aspirin wanted from her. She called someone else, couldn’t find who she wanted, demanded he call back; she butchered Alyona’s last name (Glimansky? Imansky?) and finally announced that only the director could answer Aspirin’s question, and he wouldn’t be in until Monday.
Hanging up, he no longer experienced disappointment, only exhaustion.
He went to McDonald’s, as many locations as he could cover. He looked into the patrons’ faces. He vaguely remembered Alyona liking McDonald’s.
She didn’t have any money . . .
But she had her violin! She could have earned some cash at least for a bread roll. On the other hand, Aspirin couldn’t force himself to imagine Alyona wandering around the city, playing at intersections, eating at McDonald’s, refusing to go home at least for Mishutka’s sake . . .
Had she truly forgotten everything?
He went down the stairs into the underground walkway and almost immediately heard “Melodie” by Gluck.
He pushed through the crowd. He didn’t know whether to hug her or hit her. Or pretend that nothing had happened?
He turned the corner and stopped. A girl of about twenty played indifferently and steadily. In front of her in an open violin case Aspirin saw a few coins and a stack of discs with a photo on the cover. For a few minutes Aspirin stood near her, trying to catch his breath. A curly-haired young man with a pleasant, slightly saccharine smile sauntered over.
“Would you like to purchase a CD?”
Aspirin said no.
Twenty-four hours had passed since Alyona called him on the air. It felt as if years had gone by. Aspirin had a cup of coffee at an underground café, ate a sandwich, and smoked a cigarette.
He tossed the empty cigarette pack into the trash.
Whiskas called after midnight.
“Good news—she is still alive. At least she’s not among the dead bodies that had been found and accounted for in the last twenty-four hours. There had been no major accidents, and she hasn’t been part of any criminal episodes. That bitch is hiding somewhere. Or she’s on her way back to the institute. Let’s hope she’ll be located tomorrow.”
“What should I do now?” Aspirin asked.
“Go home, get some sleep,” Whiskas advised. “Your convulsions are not doing anyone any good.”
Aspirin parked the car in the courtyard. All the windows were dark, in both his and Irina’s apartments.
He unlocked the apartment door. Irina slept on the sofa, curled into a ball. She sat up and blinked, squinting at the hallway light.
“So?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s good,” Irina yawned spasmodically. “No news is good news, isn’t it?”
Aspirin had no energy to respond. He nodded.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes. Has anyone called?”
“A lady named Zhenya who was shocked by the fact that I answered your phone. The editor of Macho magazine. That’s it.”
“Thanks.” Aspirin leaned against the wall. “What if we never find her?”
“We will find her,” Irina said without conviction. Then she repeated firmly, “We will keep looking until we find her.”
He woke up not quite aware of where he was and what was happening. Then, remembering, he sat up in bed.
It was the middle of the night. The building and the courtyard were asleep, the moon, half hidden behind a cloud, hung outside. The door to his bedroom was open, and the kitchen lights were on. Aspirin looked at the clock: it was 3:30.
He had slept for only about forty minutes.
Why did he wake up? He had a very distinct feeling of something happening. Right this minute. Could it be something with Alyona?
He jerked the cord of the table lamp, squinted, turned his head; his eyes met Mishutka’s plastic gaze. The toy bear sat on the nightstand by the bed, his head leaning to his shoulder, staring at Aspirin.
Aspirin swore. He rubbed his eyes and swore again: where did he . . . Oh God! He couldn’t remember if he had brought Mishutka home, or left him on the backseat. He wasn’t quite himself when he came home. But was it possible that he would bring the bear home and place him on the nightstand, a few inches away from his face? Seeing how much he hated the thing, it seemed unlikely.
He recalled locking the door behind Irina when she went back to her place. She’d had a rough night as well.
So who’d brought the bear into his bedroom?
“Alyona!” Aspirin yelled.
He ran into the kitchen, turned on the lights in the living room, peeked into the bathroom, knowing full well that it was empty. The front door was locked. Alyona hadn’t come back.
The bear was still sitting on the nightstand. His eyes glimmered in the light of the lamp. Aspirin faced him. The bear stared back, dull as plastic.
“Where is she?” Aspirin whispered.
The bear did not answer.
“What kind of a beast are you? You,” Aspirin reached for Mishutka. “Stuffing. Plush. A rag . . .”
He jerked the bear up by the front paw. Mishutka hung passively, making no attempt to free himself. Aspirin grunted and threw the toy against the wall with brute force. A soft impact; the toy fell on the floor. Aspirin looked down and only then saw by the foot of the bed a handful of discs, a cell phone charger, a recorder box, a newspaper—everything that lay on the nightstand before the bear made himself comfortable. As if someone had thrown everything on the floor to free up some space.
“Bloody hell,” Aspirin murmured, realizing he’d never be able to fall asleep again.
He drove through the city without a plan.
It was four in the morning. The lights at intersections blinked yellow. At the last moment Aspirin worried about leaving Mishutka at home, so he’d brought the bear along for the ride. The bear sprawled on the front seat, his eyes reflecting the lights floating by.
They drove by locked stores, lowered window blinds, a random cab at an intersection, fir trees with leftover ornaments, the symbol of a lingering holiday. A thin layer of ice formed on the road, and Aspirin’s car skidded a few times.
He made it to downtown, passed it, and realized that he was driving in a certain direction, as if led by an instinct. He had a clear notion of what was expected of him at the end of the road—a dark, sharply angled street and a nine-story building, number 2-14.
Why?
He hit the gas pedal only to immediately slow down. The icy street made the car practically unmanageable. The road went downhill. Aspirin crawled, maneuvering, braking gingerly, working the clutch. The descent was replaced by a climb, the tires squealed, the car skidded. Aspirin backed up, accelerated, and shot forward; the air filled with the stink of exhaust. The car crept forward like a fly on a glass surface. As soon as Aspirin reached the top, the lights on the other side of the street came into view. Aspirin took a deep breath and saw building number 2-14.
A wrought-iron lantern glowed above the front door. An old car with deflated tires, long unused, covered with snow up to its roof, blocked the entrance. The light of the lantern fell on the sign: a dormitory of a technical college, the official name of which was hidden by obscene graffiti.
Aspirin returned to his car. He raised his head: a few windows were lit; he heard distant laughter and sounds of music. The building was clearly inhabited—an ugly gray box, a parody of a normal human abode. What was Aspirin doing there? Why did he come to this place?
He was cold. He got back into the car, turned on the heat (the engine hadn’t had time to cool), and smoked a cigarette. Mishutka lay on the front seat, spreading his paws in a demonstrative gesture of peace.
“What the hell?” Aspirin muttered.
He climbed out onto the dirty snow, stuck the bear under his arm, locked the car and turned on the alarm system.
The front door squeaked. Aspirin entered the lobby, empty and dismal, with the remains of a decrepit telephone booth stuck in the corner. A naked bulb hung on a long cord, throwing a dim light onto the deserted concier
ge booth with a broken window.
Adjusting the bear under his arm, Aspirin walked up to the second floor and found himself in a dark hallway among a row of identical wooden doors. He heard music and voices—the sounds of forced, almost hysterical, mirth.
Again he thought, What am I doing here?
Holding the bear tighter, he took a few steps down the corridor, following a strip of light oozing from a door left ajar.
An ancient refrigerator purred right behind the door. A guy with bleached dreads leaned against it, holding his head and swaying, exhibiting clear signs of an intense inner existence.
Aspirin passed him by.
He saw a multitude of them, and every one of them appeared busy; no one paid Aspirin any attention. They smoked, ate out of cans, drank beer and vodka, chopped onions on a wooden plank, talked about relationships. (“Where is my accordion?” a girl of about seventeen demanded of a pale, sleepy-looking guy who shook his head in denial.) Aspirin waded through, trying not to step on random arms and legs, looking around like a scuba diver in deep waters.
“Dude, who are you looking for?” a teenage girl with blue circles under her eyes asked him. “Are you looking for Svetlana?”
Aspirin made a vague gesture with his fingers.
“What have you got there, man? Is that a bear? Lemme hold ’im.”
“In a minute,” Aspirin said. “Have you seen a girl here? Her name is Alyona. Do you know where she is?”
The girl shrugged.
“The rugrat? No clue. Ask Dergach, I don’t know anything. Listen, you’re not a cop, are you?”
No longer listening, Aspirin stepped through the bodies sitting and lying on the floor (there were very few pieces of furniture and quite a few people) toward the door into the next room. He only just now noticed it as the door was nearly fully covered with fragments of old newspapers. He pushed it, but the door did not budge. He pulled; the room was dark, someone snored in the corner, someone breathed heavily right by Aspirin’s side. Aspirin pulled the door open farther. The floor was covered with old mattresses, littered with random junk and sleeping bodies; in the far corner of the room he saw a little girl with her knees pulled up to her chin.