“That’s all right,” the writer said. “She will.”
Jesus came back and set a baggie on the table with a delicate motion. “Hydroponic,” he explained quietly. “Organic, made in the European Union.”
The writer opened the baggie, sniffed, and handed it back to Jesus.
“Fire one up. Let’s see about this European Union.”
Jesus shrugged; the motion was brief and helplessly bohemian. Great dealer I’ve got me, the writer thought contemptuously, but then he glanced at the psychedelic watercolors and decided not to judge the stranger. There are a hundred reasons why a talented young man suddenly drops from the level of artist to drug dealer. Don’t judge, the writer repeated to himself, accepting the joint from Jesus’s dirty fingers. Don’t even try.
He pulled the smoke into his lungs, making sure not to produce a coughing fit. He handed it to Peter, who took it readily.
Suddenly, on the other side of the wall, they heard the crash of something breaking, something small and solid, like a sugar bowl or cut glass; Peter whispered a curse, entrusted the joint to Jesus, and went out.
“Yours?” the writer asked, nodding at the watercolors.
“Hers,” Jesus replied. “I work in oils.”
There were muffled cries. Jesus neatly placed the roach on the edge of the table and headed for the sound of the scuffle. The writer started to wonder whether he ought to remain alone in the room or put his buy in his pocket and retreat, dispensing with formalities; or, on the contrary, was the right thing to wait for Jesus’s return and close the deal and only then clear out? At that moment he understood that his doubts—excessively philosophical—were the result of the marijuana’s effect and that the drug itself, naturally, had to be left right here. And he had to disappear immediately.
He finished off the joint in two drags, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and made tracks.
Through the kitchen door he saw Peter sitting on the floor; he was holding his side with one hand and examining his other— bloody—hand. Jesus was standing over him scratching his greasy head. The girl, her legs tucked under her on the stool and her face covered with her open palms, was moaning softly and peeking out through her fingers wild-eyed. Right there on the floor, in a pile of white shards, lay a paring knife.
The writer walked up to it and bent over.
“Where are you going?” Peter asked, turning swiftly pale.
He’s about to pass out, the writer thought. I’m sure they don’t have smelling salts. If I slap him they won’t understand. Especially the girl. She’ll immediately think I’m starting a fight…
He sat down, took Peter by the shoulders, and cautiously lay him on the floor. He pulled the driver’s shirt out of his pants and turned it up—after that came a dirty undershirt and below that a shallow cut.
The wounded man was emitting muffled groans and cursing incoherently. The writer looked at Jesus and said, “A cut. Nothing serious. You can stitch it up right here. Or take him to an emergency room. But bear in mind—it’s a knife wound and the doctors might call the cops…”
“I hope he croaks!” the girl hollered, squeezing her knees to her chest.
“Your decision,” the writer said, shifting his gaze from Jesus to Peter.
“Well…” Jesus said. “I don’t know… Are you a doctor?”
“Nearly,” the writer answered, taking off his pack. “Bring vodka, a clean cloth, and a needle and thread. Quickly.”
“I hope he croaks, the bastard!” the girl shouted.
Jesus went into the hallway.
In principle, it doesn’t have to be sewn, the writer thought. It could be cauterized. But he would scream.
“Sit,” he ordered Peter. “And undress. It’s nothing, a scratch.”
“Did it nick my liver?” the wounded man rasped.
“Your liver’s on the other side,” the writer said. “Come on, off with it.”
Peter slowly raised his hands and with clumsy fingers started unbuttoning.
Jesus came back and held out a sewing needle and towel. “There isn’t any thread.”
“Pull some out of something.”
The author of psychedelic watercolors looked at him uncomprehendingly. The writer told him to undress the victim. He went out into the hallway, quickly studied the garments hanging on the coat rack, found an old coat with a shabby fur collar—obviously belonging to the old woman who didn’t want to die—and neatly pulled threads from the lining. The thread was rotten, but folded twice it would do just fine.
There was no vodka to be found either, but there was brandy. The writer told Jesus to calm the girl and neatly closed the wound with two stitches. Peter—he had a gray body with thick rolls of fat at his waist—moaned faintly and writhed.
The writer poured half the bottle into Peter’s mouth and half on his bare flesh. He wanted a sip himself, but judging from the smell, the brandy was some wretched fake.
The girl spoiled the operation’s conclusion. Breaking out of Jesus’s weak arms, she leapt up—the shards crunching—and tried to kick the wounded man. He bared his teeth and floridly promised his attacker a speedy and agonizing death.
The writer stood up.
Peter means stone, he remembered.
He found the bathroom at the end of the hall. He liked it—large, good acoustics, a window with a broad sill. The writer thought that it would be nice to immerse himself in water here on a warm summer’s day, say, up to his chest, and turn his wet face and shoulders to the fresh street breeze.
He washed the blood off his hands and carefully examined his fingers and nails. He could only hope the wounded man didn’t have hepatitis or something similar. He looked at himself in the mirror. Suddenly he felt a chill. The adrenaline’s washed out, he thought. Or the drug’s kicking in. In Moscow they sell southern grass, from Kazakhstan or Tajikistan, but here it’s the north, Europe; damn if I know where they get it. Maybe it really is from Holland. Or they grow it themselves…
He buttoned his jacket as he walked, now in the hallway; he checked his pockets. He turned by the door. Peter was leaning against the wall, and Jesus was stroking the sobbing girl’s head. A thin blue flame was burning peacefully under the iron kettle.
“Go to the pharmacy,” the writer said as he turned the door handle. “Buy a bandage. And antibiotics. Bandage him up.”
“Fuck yourself!” the girl shouted, pushing Jesus away and rolling her eyes, white with rage.
The writer nodded in agreement. The advice was perfectly sensible.
On the stairs he checked his pockets and the contents of his backpack one more time; his money and documents were where they were supposed to be.
Barely a drop, he thought, letting go of the massive door and plunging into the rain.
The wind was strolling down Liteyny Prospect. The streetcar rails glinted like dagger blades. The writer remembered the paring knife among the china shards. It was a foolish shiv, no good for killing or even seriously injuring someone. He saw the lit windows of the twenty-four-hour store and headed for that.
He didn’t like to warm up with alcohol. He considered the method lowbrow. But sometimes, in lowbrow circumstances, lowbrow acts were exactly what he needed. The writer bought a flask of whiskey, raked the change, a few coins (he had never respected copper money), into his palm, turned into the very first entryway, and downed half.