The knife clattered next to the metal pear. Anatoly whimpered, slowly shaking his head.
“I’m tired,” she confided, resting her hand on his big head, “but you and I will be done soon. How would you like to conclude our graphic tour, after the practical part is over, with our trial of the pear and a couple of other things? The stake? The noose? The ax? Forgive me, the axes here are props, so we have at our disposal only two options. Although, wait… I’ve got an idea of how we can combine it all! We’ll start with impaling. Look what I have here! Every bit as good as a spike.”
The candidate for deputy looked with horror at the fat black dildo in her fingers. Zlata took her time pulling out a tube of lubricant and squeezed a generous stream on the plastic.
“You now have a real chance of finding out what Havana whores experience in their thankless work… Don’t squirm, please. You’re making it hard for me… There we go . .
A muffled squeal ripped from under the bloodied tape.
“Hello, Stas? The deed is done. Where we agreed… Yeah, he’s lying there half-dead. Awaiting his promised death… Yes. Gather those hacks of yours, the TV guys, and any other gawkers you can find, and hurry over to the scene of the crime. You’ve got the duplicate key and the cash as agreed?”
She turned off her cell phone and pulled out the battery and SIM card. She locked the museum door, turned her face into the cold night wind, and dove into the dark alleys.
The order had been fulfilled: one down. He was a candidate— and now he was fucked. Not a bad performance. That monster was going to be sinning on the down-low now. It had been worked out so precisely. True, it was too bad about the bribed museum guard. On the other hand, why sell yourself out for a case of vodka? That’s cheap… And now he was going to be looking for you. A wild goose chase. Hah! I’m hard to track down; I never repeat myself. Never. Remember that, my fine friends. Past and future candidates…
She came out on a small square by the favorite church of Rodion Raskolnikov’s father. She stopped, looking at the cupolas’ black kernels hovering above the earth. Their crosses scratched the night’s low clouds, but you couldn’t hear them sliding across the dark sky. She shut her eyes and listened closely, just like when she was a child and someone seemed to be walking around up there, in the sky. All you have to do is squint and be perfectly still—and you’ll hear steps …
It was quiet in the sky. She chuckled and opened her eyes. She had to get out of town and be quick about it. She could milk the cash she’d made for a good six months—until the next election. Somewhere in the Far East. Or Kostroma. Oh, fuck it.
The fact is, everyone makes a living as best he can.
Your work should bring you satisfaction.
PART II
A WATERY GRAVE
PEAU DE CHAGRIN
By Natalia Kurchatova & Ksenia Venglinskaya
Rybatskoye
Translated by Marian Schwartz
This story began when Kolyan, who lived in a redbrick house right under the Vantovy Bridge, found out that the homeless little towhead by the Rybatskoye metro station, where mainly unemployed punks, gypsies, and profiteers collected, was his own daughter Shurka.
In case you don’t know, in his younger days Kolyan was the king of the neighborhood lowlife. Later, by means fair or foul, through an inheritance or a grab, he acquired a small structure right on the Neva, where it still hadn’t been hemmed in by embankments and flowed freely alongside the weed willows, poplars, and mountains of beer cans leftover from the freewheeling picnics of the local proletariat. At one time on this spot there had stood the village of Rybatskoye, whose inhabitants had been given a stela by Empress Catherine the Great in gratitude for voluntarily providing recruits for one of her Swedish campaigns. That’s what the whole district had been called ever since— Rybatskoye.
Kolyan’s little red house was one of the few structures that had survived on the riverbank when the new Vantovy Bridge went up. Unlike older bridges, it had enough clearance to let vessels under, so the Vantovy was never raised. It was also linked by interchanges with the ring road and Obukhov Defense Avenue and formed the basis for an entire transport system. On top of that, it was very beautiful at daybreak, when from the east, from the direction of Lake Ladoga, fluffy peach-colored clouds sailed in; and when they didn’t it wasn’t half bad either. To this day, Kolyan’s little redbrick house clings to the sloping bank, facing the belly of the Vantovy Bridge, which bounces under the transport stream, one of the first in the city to meet the barges going into the gulf from Ladoga, lining up to proceed along the river on a summer’s eve.
Ever since he glimpsed Shurka among the grimy Tajiks and Gypsy kids, Kolyan had become despondent. The thing is, Kolyan hadn’t seen his wife (Had she ever been his wife? Not likely!) for years, and had every reason to believe her dead. More than likely that was the case—but a shadow of doubt lingered. Kolya and Nastya got together in their teens; she was barely fifteen and he had six months until he went into the army. Young and stupid, Nastya got knocked up pretty quick; her mom and granny threw her out and said they’d throttle the baby. Soon after that, Kolyan was called up, and there he had some luck. He didn’t serve in the war but was sent to the Southern Federal District, with the same black guys he’d been beating up on his own turf. Well, he hit the jackpot, raked it in big time, and came back an invalid, with a withered left arm, because he wouldn’t stoop over for the Dags.
He came back and tried to check in with Nastya, naturally. His homeys said that after he left she’d started shooting up and went out in a blaze of heroin. Died of an overdose, crapped-out in a ditch. She’d been living a crummy life, going from one dump to the next, lying down under anyone for a hit. The usual fairy tale in these parts.
Kolyan didn’t grieve for long. Why should he? There was plenty of ass around, and you had to live. He did some driving, did the odd job for a gang, tried all kinds of things, and now, at thirty, found himself the owner of a small redbrick house and his own business.
And then—Shurka. She’d flashed by like a vision in front of the metro station—a skinny teen with grimy knees, torn jeans, and a bright crown of hair. Hair like her mother’s—flaxen curls, a rare breed these days.
To confirm his suspicions, he walked up to Auntie Alla, a Gypsy who sold weed near the station and who knew everyone. “Whose is she?” he asked.
“Oh, that one,” she replied, “that’s Nastya’s daughter, the one who works at the wheelchair factory.”
“Where can I find this Nastya?” he said.
“I won’t tell you the address,” Alla toyed with him, “but you go on Friday, Kolyan dear, to the old textile institute dorm. They sell booze at the entrance, and Nastya’s always there on weekends tricking for cheap.”
Kolyan got the picture, but on Friday he still went to the dorm—a yellow building with windows so narrow that the fat weavers couldn’t jump out to end it all. The freak parade was already starting, but slender Nastya with the flaxen curls didn’t seem to be among them.
“Nastya!” Kolyan shouted on an off-chance.
There was a rustling in the line. A skinny female croaked back at him: “Whaddaya want?”
Kolyan threw his crushed pack of cigarettes on the ground and started back home, under the Vantovy Bridge.