“A beating’s a terrible thing,” said March from somewhere above. “But sometimes it’s the only medicine. You understand, don’t you, Viktor? I’ll wager you’ve handed out a few yourself. What with you being such a badass and all.” He was silent for a couple of ticks. “Polutin assures me you’re a bright lad. And I’m inclined to agree… though I’m not sure I’d go so far as saying you’re a bloody genius. Which is Polutin’s view of the matter. He’s an absolute fan of your mental capacities. If mental capacity was rock and roll he’d be front row at all your concerts, blowing kisses and tossing up his room key wrapped in a pair of knickers.” Another pause. “Am I getting through to you, Viktor?”
Chemayev nodded, a movement that set his cheekbone to throbbing more fiercely.
“That’s good.” March’s legs came into view. “According to Polutin, your talents lie in your ability to organize facts. He tells me you can take a newspaper, the Daily Slobova or whatever rag it is you boys subscribe to, and from the facts you’ve gathered in a single read, you’re able to devise a money-making scheme no one’s thought of before. Now that’s impressive. I’m fucking impressed, and I don’t impress easy. So here’s what I’m asking, Viktor. I’m asking you to marshal that massive talent of yours and organize the facts I’m about to present. Can you handle that?”
“Yes,” said Chemayev, not wanting to risk another nod. His elbow was feeling stronger and he wondered if the fall might not have jammed the bone back info its socket. He shifted his left arm, and though pain returned in force, he seemed to have mobility.
“All right,” said March. “Here we go. First fact. Polutin loves you like a son. That may seem farfetched, considering the crap he rubs in your face. But it’s what he tells me. And it’s for certain fathers have treated sons a great deal worse than he treats you. Love’s too strong a word, perhaps. But there’s definitely paternal feelings involved. Why he’d want a son, now, I’ve no idea. The thought of fathering a child turns my stomach. The little bollocks start out pissing on your hand and wind up spitting in your face and stealing the rent money. But I had a troubled upbringing, so I’m not the best judge of these things.”
He paced off to the side, moving beyond Chemayev’s field of vision. “Second fact. Whatever game you’ve been playing, it’s over. Terminated. Done. And by the way, I’ll be wanting you to tell me exactly what it was. Every last detail. But that can wait till you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Third fact. You’ve made one mistake. You can’t afford another. Are you following me, Viktor? You’re on the brink of oblivion with ten toes over the edge. No more mistakes or you’re going to fall a long, long way and hit the ground screaming.” March’s legs came back into view. “Fact number four. God is dead. The certain hope of the Resurrection is a pile of shite. You have my word on it. I’ve seen to the other side and I know.”
Chemayev found he could make a fist with his left hand. To test his strength he tightened it, fingernails cutting into his palm. March’s voice was stirring up a windy noise inside his head, like the rush of traffic on a highway.
“There you have it, Viktor. Four little facts. Organize away. Turn ’em over in your mind. See if you can come up with a scheme for living.”
Chemayev wanted badly to satisfy March, to avoid further punishment; but the facts with which he had been presented offered little room for scheming. Instead they formed four walls, the walls of the lightless world in which he had been confined before meeting Larissa. It occurred to him that this was exactly what March wished him to conclude, and that he could satisfy him by saying as much. But the thought of Larissa charged him with stubbornness. She was the fifth fact he could not ignore, the fact that had shattered those walls. Thanks to her there was a sixth fact, a seventh, an infinity of fact waiting to be explored.
“It’s no brainbuster, Viktor. I’m not the least gifted when it comes to organization. Fuck, I can’t even balance my checkbook. But even I can figure this one out.”
As if his engine had begun to idle out, Chemayev’s energy lapsed. He grew cold and the cold slowed his thoughts, replaced them with a foggy desire to lie down and sleep. March put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a shake, and pain lanced along his cheekbone. The touch renewed his hatred, and, braced by adrenaline, he let hate empower him.
“C’mon, lad.” March said with a trace of what seemed actual concern in his voice. “Tell me what you know.”
“I understand,” said Chemayev shakily.
“Understand what?”
“I have a… a good situation. A future. I’d be a fool to jeopardize it.”
“Four stars!” said March. “Top of the charts in the single leap! See what I told you, Viktor? A kick in the head can enlighten even the most backward amongst us. It’s a fucking miracle cure.” He kneeled beside Chemayev. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you. Perhaps you’ve been wondering why, with all the rude boys about in Moscow, our Mister Polutin hired in a Mick to do his dirty work. Truth is, Russki muscle is just not suited to subtlety. Those boys get started on you, they won’t stop till the meat’s off the bone. I’m considered something of a specialist. A saver of souls, as it were. You’re not my only project. Far from it! Your country has a great many sinners. But you’re my top priority. I intend to be your conscience. Should temptation rear its ugly head, there I’ll be, popping up over your shoulder. Cautioning you not to stray. Keep that well in mind, Viktor. Make it the marrow of your existence. For that’s what it is, and don’t you go thinking otherwise.” March stood, reached down and took Chemayev’s right arm. “Come on now,” he said. “Let’s get you up.”
Standing, it looked to Chemayev that the stones beneath his feet were miles away, the surface of a lumpy planet seen from space. A shadowy floater cluttered his vision. The white leaves each had a doubled image, and March’s features, rising from the pale seamy ground of his skin, made no sense as a face—like landmarks on a map without referents.
“Can you walk?” March asked.
“I don’t know.”
March positioned himself facing Chemayev and examined him with a critical eye. “We better have you looked at. You might have a spot of concussion.” He adjusted his grip on Chemayev’s shoulders. “I’m going to carry you… just so’s you know I’m not taking liberties. I’ll come back after and get your things.”
He bent at the knees and waist, preparing to pick Chemayev up in a fireman’s carry. Without the least forethought or inkling of intent, acting out of reflex or muscle memory, or perhaps goaded by the sour smell of March’s sweat, Chemayev slipped his right forearm under March’s throat, applying a headlock; then with all his strength he wrenched the Irishman up off his feet. March gurgled, flailed, kicked. And Chemayev, knowing that he only had to hang on a few seconds more, came full into his hatred. He heard himself yelling with effort, with the anticipation of victory, and he dug the grip deeper into March’s throat. Then March kicked out with his legs so that for the merest fraction of a second he was horizontal to the true. When his legs swung down again the momentum carried Chemayev’s upper body down as well, and March’s feet struck the ground. Lithe as an eel, he pushed himself into a backflip, his legs flying over Chemayev’s head, breaking the hold and sending them both sprawling onto the stones.