by Sergey
Shots rang out in the distance. Fireworks exploded over the street in yellow, green, blue lights. How much time has passed? Aspirin wondered, breathing heavily through his mouth. Ten minutes, an hour?
The balcony emptied. Expensive wine bottles stood sentinel over the banquet table, corpulent brandy bottles showed off their glossy, honey-colored sides, a single shot glass lay on its side—the middle-aged ham eater had long ago left the battlefield. The maître d’ had escaped as well. The street below was now empty; all that was left was broken glass in the cracks between the cobblestones, a pair of glasses, a lost purse, and the man who had fallen off the balcony, abandoned. Alyona played—for no one. Mishutka pressed his face against the glass, his eyes cruel and demanding.
Aspirin bit his lip, fighting panic. Fighting the urge to run as far as his legs could carry him.
“If you get too frightened . . .”
Alyona played.
He took one step back. Then another. Holding on to the railing, he walked down the stairs. Do not run. Just do not run. Slowly, slowly, slowly.
The coatroom was empty. Leather coats and pastel-colored spring furs hung without supervision, and so did a cheap child’s jacket. The door was wide open.
Aspirin knew that sooner or later he would give in to the music. Grabbing the curtains, backs of chairs, door frames, he fought his panic not for victory, but for a dignified step, the one before the last. And one more.
He made it out to the street and looked up. Alyona stood straight as an arrow, her bow rising, then plummeting. Aspirin thought he saw lights on a controller, little green frequency indicators rising and falling.
He stepped back, stumbled, and fell into a mud puddle. Making no effort to get up, he looked at Alyona and thought she was looking back at him from the distant ledge.
The melody ended abruptly.
Aspirin groped the wet cobblestones, trying to get up, distinctly aware that he had lost his hearing. He was deaf!
Only a few seconds later he realized that the melody had continued, it was simply of a different quality. It had flown to another orbital, like an electron.
Everything had changed.
Alyona played.
The hidden meaning of music, the one that Aspirin had only guessed at before, now came to the surface. To be alive—that was what it meant. To fear death. To experience joy. To live.
Death is when the music stops.
Aspirin raised his head. He imagined an enormous orchestra standing behind Alyona’s back, thousands of bows rising and falling—up to the horizon.
The street was no longer empty. People emerged from dark corners and brightly lit streets. They moved without fear or commotion, as if they had an appointment for that particular time, and they had waited patiently and now the time had finally came. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, in tightly packed clusters, and only a spot by the entrance to the restaurant, right under Alyona’s feet, remained empty, flooded by the sharp white glow of a streetlight.
Aspirin got up. The melody grew harsh. Aspirin read it like a written text. Alyona no longer called and cajoled, she demanded someone to appear that very second, to step out of the crowd, to enter the glowing circle. People stood mesmerized. No one had the guts to step toward Alyona, toward the strange white light.
Alyona played.
The violin sounded louder, the call grew sharper and more demanding. Aspirin gave in and looked around—where was he? Where was the person for whom it was all done? The runaway from paradise, the hapless creator?
People remained motionless. The crowd became denser, but no one entered the white circle.
The violin roared . . . only for the roar to snap in a sharp metal sound. A broken string curled around Alyona’s pale face like a grapevine, but Alyona continued playing without stopping, carrying the melody forward, carrying it on three remaining strings, and Aspirin had no idea which strings were ordinary and which were his. Or if any of that mattered at all.
People listened silently, but still no one came to her call.
Aspirin looked back and forth, pushing people out of the way, getting closer and closer to the ledge. She was going to fall, she was going to fall.
Another sound of a broken string. Someone gasped.
Alyona went on playing on two strings. The song ripped, false notes wove into the melody. No one entered the circle. Alyona played, broken strings curling around her arm, and the melody was no longer mesmerizing; it was not even a melody, it was a challenge, a furious challenge . . .
The third and fourth strings broke almost at once. It became very quiet. The girl on the ledge stood for a second like a statue, then gently leaned forward, like a statue pushed off its pedestal.
Aspirin made it just in time.
He carried her home in his arms. He took off her clothes and gave her a sponge bath, adding some vinegar to the water just in case, and made her comfortable on the sofa. Mishutka sat on the floor with a vacant expression on his face. The violin was left on the cobblestones in front of the restaurant.
Alyona’s hands hung lifelessly, but she did not seem lost or crushed. On the contrary, she was smiling.
“Do you want tea?”
“No, Alexey. There is no need.”
“There is definitely a need—you must be thirsty.”
“I am not. I am dying.”
“Stop it! You yourself said you cannot die.”
“I can now. He would have come, Alexey. I only needed two more minutes.”
“I saw . . .”
“I know. I would have led him out, that was definite. The door had already opened . . . But he did not come. I failed.”
“You didn’t fail.” Aspirin practically forced the tea down her throat. “You did it. You played two strings!”
Alyona laughed softly.
“This world . . . It’s so fragile. I made a window, a window in its shell. A wound, really, if I’m being honest. And it fought back. It resisted, it broke my strings. Your world. It must have hurt. I knew I wasn’t going to last very long.”
Aspirin picked up the phone and put it back down. Whom would he call?
“You need to rest. And then you can try again.”
“No, I can’t. I lost. I did my best, but I lost, Alexey. I don’t have any more strings.”
“So what,” he asked hesitantly, “now you will be simply—my daughter? Right?”
She closed her eyes.
“I am sorry. There is no point for me in living. I won’t be anyone anymore.”
He held her shoulders.
“Listen to me. I don’t care. You are my daughter, the rest does not matter. Your stepfather will never hurt you again, and your crazy mother—”
The doorbell rang.
“I am going to throw her down the stairs,” Aspirin said through gritted teeth. “And let her complain as much as she wants to whomever she wants.”
He took a few wide, decisive steps toward the hallway and threw the door open, not bothering to check the spyhole.
“Good evening, Alexey Igorevich.”
A whoosh of cold air. An icy, wintry chill. Aspirin froze on the spot, his mouth opened, staring into the corkscrew eyes, greenish-blue, serene and merciless.
Aspirin’s Adam’s apple jerked up and down; he lowered his gaze. His guest was barefoot, camouflage pants rolled up, long narrow feet clean and white, as if made of alabaster.
“I am here for Alyona.”
“I didn’t invite you,” Aspirin said hoarsely, not moving.
The guest smiled thinly.
“Well, Alexey Igorevich, sometimes I show up without an invitation.”
He stepped over the threshold. Aspirin took a step back. His knees weakened.
Not a single sound came from the living room.
“Wait,” Aspirin said quickly. “One minute.”
The guest turned his head.
“Yes?”
“I need to speak with you.” Aspirin forced the words out. “Let’s go int
o the kitchen, I have, um, some wonderful brandy . . .”
The guest smiled wider and shook his head.
“No, Alexey Igorevich. Not today.”
He entered the living room.
Aspirin ran after him, moving along the walls of the living room, nearly toppling a case of CDs in the process, and finally inserting himself between Alyona and the guest.
“Hey there, little one,” the barefoot man said, paying Aspirin no attention.
Slowly, Alyona opened her eyes, and, to Aspirin’s horror and surprise, suddenly smiled.
“You came.”
“But of course.”
“You didn’t desert me.”
“Of course not.”
“You were right,” Alyona lowered her eyelashes. “I failed. I couldn’t do it.”
A pause hung in the air. Aspirin tensed up like a goalie. He expected the barefoot man to try to approach Alyona, and he wasn’t sure he would be brave enough to try to stop him, but still waited, trying to control his shaking knees.
The barefoot man said something then, a short, sonorous sentence.
Alyona shuddered and opened her eyes.
“What did you say?”
The guest repeated his sentence. He paused and said it again, and this time Aspirin understood:
“You did it. He heard you. He regained consciousness. He remembered who he was.”
It was very quiet. Alyona took a deep breath, and her pale greenish cheeks suddenly blushed, as if someone splashed her with pink paint.
“It is his choice,” the barefoot man said softly.
Alyona exhaled and shook her head.
“I am tired.”
“I know. Let’s go.”
The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a long leather case. When he opened it, white metal flashed in the light of the lamp, and Aspirin thought he saw shiny surgical instruments.
“No!” Aspirin took a step toward the sofa, shielding the girl.
“Alexey,” Alyona said weakly.
“You cannot . . . get out!”
The guest took out two parts of a flute, put them together and inserted the mouthpiece.
“Give us a chance to talk,” Alyona said quickly.
The barefoot man shrugged. “Whatever you want. Talk as much as you need.”
“Alexey.” Alyona’s eyes were as clear as on the day they first met. “Give me Mishutka.”
Aspirin hesitated, then reached for the bear, picked him up—so light and fluffy—and handed him to Alyona.
“You see,” she said, pressing Mishutka to her chest. “I have to go.”
“I don’t see! Where?”
She smiled. “Home. I wanted to go back anyway. This is the right thing. This is good. Don’t worry about me, I did everything I could. And I succeeded.”
“Is your brother staying?” Aspirin said blankly.
She frowned this time. “Yes. See, the thing is . . . it turns out I didn’t come to lead him out. At least, that wasn’t the only reason. Remember I told you that my brother had forgotten who he was? He couldn’t do anything at all.”
“And now he remembers?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he come?”
Alyona smiled again.
“Because he . . . he is a creator. He needs to live in an imperfect world.”
Aspirin shook his head trying to process her words. He looked back at the barefoot man. His guest sat on the arm of a chair, polishing the flute with a chamois cloth.
“Is he taking you?”
“Yes. But it’s a good thing, don’t worry!”
“What if I don’t want him to? I don’t want him to! Can I not let you go?”
Without interrupting his polishing, the barefoot man looked up at him with interest.
“There are some things that cannot be changed,” Alyona said softly. “I am . . . I am guilty. I have hurt you. Forgive me.”
The guest got up, gracefully and soundlessly, nearly reaching the ceiling with the top of his head.
“Alexey Igorevich, why don’t you go into the kitchen for a bit?”
“No! What are you going to do with her?”
“I will take her back and then return for a few words. She will not be hurt—quite the opposite. I promise. Sound good?”
Aspirin looked at Alyona. The girl was smiling, but was also looking a little tense.
“No,” Aspirin said feeling his lips tremble. “I don’t trust you.”
“Pity,” the guest stepped forward, bending down to avoid hitting the chandelier. “It’s a shame I didn’t earn your trust.”
“Alexey,” Alyona whispered. “Forgive me, but I simply cannot stay.”
She propped herself up on her elbow and reached for him with her right hand, the one that so recently had held a bow.
Her palm was so cold that Aspirin nearly burned himself.
“Thank you, Alexey. Thank you. Try to . . .”
She didn’t finish. Her hand slid out of Aspirin’s fingers like a thin, icy snake. Alyona leaned back on her pillow, clutching Mishutka to her chest.
“Go,” the barefoot man ordered.
That word was a compulsion. Aspirin walked out backward.
The door to the living room closed behind him.
Aspirin didn’t remember how he got to the kitchen. He pulled a cork out of a brandy bottle with his teeth and took a big gulp.
He found a loading clip in his secret drawer, pulled the gun from behind the shoe shelf, and loaded it.
The sounds of a flute came from the living room, barely audible, as if they were coming through a thick layer of foam. Chills ran down Aspirin’s spine.
The flute went silent. Aspirin straightened up and took a step toward the living room.
The door opened before he could touch it. The barefoot man stepped back. Holding a gun by his side, Aspirin burst into the living room, knowing in advance what he was about to see.
He saw nothing.
A flattened pillow. A blanket. His piano. A case of CDs. There was no place to hide, but Alyona was not there. Not a trace.
Aspirin looked behind the sofa, threw off the blanket, then turned and pointed the gun.
The guest stood in front of him with his arms by his sides. The shaking barrel of the gun almost touched his high yellowish forehead.
“Where is she?” Aspirin asked hoarsely.
The barefoot man glanced at the gun.
“This gun was used in the year two thousand to kill a cop. Today . . . well, no, tomorrow, when it gets dark, tie a brick to it and drown it somewhere in some pond. Only an idiot would keep this kind of shit in his apartment.”
Aspirin gritted his teeth. The gun kept dropping until the hand that held it hung weakly by Aspirin’s side.
“Where is her birth certificate?” the barefoot man asked quietly.
Aspirin did not respond.
“In the desk drawer,” the guest answered himself. “Bring it over.”
Still holding the gun, Aspirin went to his office and pulled out a drawer. Alyona’s birth certificate lay on top of the other papers, and when Aspirin picked it up, it suddenly broke in two.
Aspirin dropped the gun.
The laminated paper, hard, nearly invincible, melted in his hands. The two halves turned transparent, the sharp corners became smooth, dust flew. “Grima . . . ona . . . Alexe.”
Aspirin stared at his hands. They were empty.
“You have nothing to worry about,” the guest said behind his back. “Everyone who saw her will forget. By tomorrow no one will remember.”
Aspirin turned:
“Her mother?”
“And her mother too, of course. Although the mother should be the least of your concerns. All the daily stuff, the concierges, neighbors, teachers . . . those stupid chasers of anomalies . . .”
“What about me?” Aspirin asked softly.
The barefoot man raised an eyebrow. Without answering, he turned and walked toward the door.
&n
bsp; Aspirin remained standing, watching him leave.
The guest stopped, glancing over his shoulder:
“Alexey Igorevich, please come closer.”
His knees buckling, Aspirin approached.
“You neighbor Irina is three months pregnant. It’s yours. She hasn’t told you yet—my apologies, but you were not ready to listen. She will have a girl. If you care.”
Aspirin’s jaw dropped.
“And don’t be afraid of anything,” his guest said softly. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Good-bye.”
He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him. Aspirin stood still for a while, pressing his forehead into the cool surface of the front door.
He left his apartment, walked one floor down, and rang her doorbell.
Acknowledgments
From the Authors
Our deepest thanks:
To our friends and family, for being with us always, in joy and in sorrow.
To Julia Meitov Hersey, our translator and friend; sometimes we think she understands our books better than we do ourselves.
To the magnificent Josh Getzler, who continues to pave our way into American literature.
To David Pomerico, a brilliant editor, a professional of the highest caliber, and his wonderful team at Harper Voyager, especially Vicky Leech, Natasha Bardon, and Mireya Chiriboga.
To our HSG family, especially Jonathan Cobb, Soumeya Roberts, Julia Kardon, and Ellen Goff.
To Marina Lvovna Lyubimova, for the gift of her friendship and for the authors’ photo.
To the readers of our novel Vita Nostra, whose kind words and heartfelt reviews support and inspire us every day.
From the Translator
I am immensely grateful:
To Marina and Sergey, for allowing me more artistic freedom with this book than a translator should have;
To David Pomerico, for his guidance and his contagious love for well-written stories;
To Josh Getzler, for being an advocate, a cheerleader, an advisor, a psychotherapist, a friend, and everything in between;
To Jon Cobb, for always having my back;
To Matthew Sciarappa, for the most brilliant book reviews and the best Twitter chats ever;