Late at night, people gathered in the kitchens, poured shots of vodka, and talked about the details. Some said that Yulia and Olga had the same number of stab wounds. Some said that the killer had taken each of their ring fingers. Some said that both had been raped and others said that neither had been. There was talk of a serial killer, and a few even speculated about his identity: Anton Solomin, who’d been caught masturbating outside the school a decade earlier; Maxim Grinkov, who never made eye contact; Roman Rochev, who had come back from Chechnya with this shattered look in his eye, who could no longer even manage to lift a hand and say, “Privyet.”
Police cars appeared, sharking around the kommunalkas and the square. They trolled up and down the refinery road, where Yulia’s body had been found. Occasionally, walking home from school, Ilya saw Dmitri in his patrol car, his eyes scanning the horizon like he might happen upon a murder-in-progress, and if Dmitri saw Ilya, he would lift a hand and smile so heartily that it was easy to forget the few minutes Ilya had spent in his car.
The Minutka stocked pepper spray and knives and bullets and padlocks. Those who could afford to had iron bars installed over their wooden doors. Women walked everywhere in pairs. And of course some said that Olga and Yulia were to blame. That they had not been smart, that they had not been sensible. As though of course men with knives were lurking at the fringes of life, waiting for any woman foolish enough to step out of bounds. Even the grown-ups knew, now, of the new drug. It’s called krokodil, they said, because it makes you vicious, makes you violent. Krokodil, because it turns your skin to scales.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The boards were on a Saturday, and the day before, Maria Mikhailovna sent Ilya home early with pelmeni wrapped in foil. It was January, the clouds so low and heavy that the flag outside the school disappeared atop its pole.
Vladimir was leaning against a trash can, in the same spot where he used to meet Ilya for the walk home. He was waiting for Ilya as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the last four months had not happened.
Vladimir pointed at the pelmeni. “A present,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“They’re not for you,” Ilya said. He’d meant to sound cutting, but he sounded childish. “Maria Mikhailovna made them.” He didn’t want to look at Vladimir, so he looked toward the school, hoping that Maria Mikhailovna might come out, but her classroom was aglow. She was still at her desk, grading papers, her fingertips turning white from holding her pen so tightly.
“Of course she did. She still have a thing for you?” Vladimir said.
Ilya shrugged.
“So, America?” Vladimir said. “Were you gonna leave without saying good-bye?” His voice was soft, and when Ilya did look at him, his face was full of some emotion that Ilya had never seen on him before—whether sadness or envy or regret, Ilya wasn’t sure.
“I don’t go until August. If I pass the boards,” Ilya mumbled, and then, because he would hate himself if he didn’t say anything at all, he said, “I thought you’d left.”
“Left where? Berlozhniki? Where the fuck would I go?” Vladimir laughed, which was what he did to break awkward moments and make them better. “Plus I’ve got my hot-ass girlfriend here. I’ve got my man, Ilya. And I’ve got this new place,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Ilya closed his eyes and tried to find the anger that had been so huge in him all winter. It was there, but it was small compared to his relief. You’ve been waiting for this, he thought. You’ve wanted this. He looked up at his brother and smiled. “You still want me to hide you in my suitcase?”
“America is not fucking ready for this!” Vladimir flicked both hands against his chest. “This cannot fit in a suitcase!” He was grinning, and Ilya found himself grinning back. That was Vladimir’s charm: to make you feel like you’d been living in a dark corner, unseen, until his light swept over you.
“Let’s go,” he said. Ilya smiled, feeling a rush inside himself, a melting sort of happiness that stung the back of his eyes and made his throat go narrow. He thought of what Babushka had said about his missing yolk. See, he thought, as he followed Vladimir down the street toward the square. See, he wanted to tell her, nothing’s missing.
Aksinya was waiting in her car outside the Minutka, the beams of her headlights giving up against the snow.
“You found him,” she said to Vladimir. As Ilya climbed in the backseat, she said, “What’s up,” in that dry, angry way of hers that Ilya had learned over time did not actually mean she was angry.
“I have your coat. The one with the fur.” He’d stuffed the coat in the back of his mother’s and Babushka’s closet, and now he saw that it was creepy to have taken it in the first place and to have been imagining ways he might get it back to her. “Maria Mikhailovna was going to throw it out,” he added.
“She’s the worst. She’s hated me since Basic.”
Ilya almost told her that Maria Mikhailovna didn’t hate her and that she’d called her smart, but Aksinya was smiling grimly, like Maria Mikhailovna’s hatred was hard-earned and worth preserving. She had a black stocking hat pulled down over her ears and eyebrows, and it made what was left of her face look stark. It was the first time he’d looked at her and not thought her beautiful. With the dome light shining down, he saw that Vladimir looked like her in the way old people look alike, as if they’ve all shrunk down to fit one final mold. His chin had gone sharp. His arms like birch branches. And he’d rolled the elastic of his warm-up pants at the waist.
Aksinya pressed the gas and the car sprang forward. The snow was dry and thick, the sort of flakes that lived long enough to be examined on your palm. Vladimir produced some Imperia from the footwell and handed it to Ilya, and the rim of the bottle was so cold that it numbed Ilya’s tongue before he could taste the vodka. He took a small sip, thinking of the boards the next day. He had planned nothing for this evening but to go to bed early after a final practice test that he did not need to take. The car sped out of town, shaking to the Kolyan that Vladimir had cranked. At home, Babushka would be beginning dinner while Timofey read aloud to her from the paper. His mother would be waiting for her turn in the shower. Neither knew the boards were the next day. He had not told them, had not wanted them hovering, worrying, feeding him excessively and making him nervous.
Ilya took another small sip and handed Vladimir the bottle. Soon they were past the kommunalkas and across the Pechora, which was nothing but a dip in the snow. The refinery was big and bright, its lights cast long. Looking at it, Ilya felt the same wash of wonder that comes with a spectacular sunset or a moon, huge and full. Like the refinery could trip some primal recognition of beauty, like it could convince him that it had its own gravity.
Vladimir said, “How’s Mama?”
“She’s crazy. She’s on a diet competition with Nadya Radeyeva and they’ve both gained a kilo and gotten bitchy.”
“Typical.”
Aksinya pushed the gas through a patch of ice, and Ilya felt the tires twist under them, then straighten. “You two don’t know a thing about being a woman,” she said.
“I know my way around a woman,” Vladimir said.
“Asshole,” she murmured. She had the bottle between her thighs, and she took a swig. She thrust the bottle toward Ilya again and said, “Cheers.”