2017

by Olga Slavnikova

  By an effort of will, Krylov stayed where he was. He couldn’t let Viktor Matveyevich whisk back into his den. At the same time, he couldn’t let the spy leave in his Jap car, whose flat rusty butt Krylov saw nearby, in a protected parking lot ringed with torn chain link. Fortunately, the spy displayed no intention of getting behind the wheel. In no hurry, slapping his fat knees, he started walking up to the highway along the gravel-crunching path, to the bus stop. Whistling through his nose, he passed literally a meter from the frozen Krylov, who was sure the bird cherry leaves hiding him, which were already a little papery and not firmly attached, would rustle treacherously from his constrained breathing. On the spy’s round back, on the jacket’s nap, which looked like boar bristle, Krylov saw the traces of something dried—maybe bright oil paint. He waited a little, letting a slow-moving old lady with a torn plastic bag who was noisily scuffling the gravel with her thick boots go ahead of him, and then he cautiously started after his tormenter, trying to figure out the best way to approach him.

  He barely slipped through the hissing doors of the bus, which immediately left the stop with its crushed, many-headed load. The spy skillfully passed from handle to handle, like a spider across a web he personally had woven. On his paw, which stuck way out of his hairy sleeve, was a ring with a cornelian cabochon that looked like a wart. The bus began to gallop downtown, shaking its passengers, and Krylov, afraid of missing his foe, who was looming closer to the front platform, kept near the exit. When at the seventh or possibly the eighth stop the bus doors were burst open by the incoming crush, the spy suddenly wriggled his whole short body and literally plopped out onto the sidewalk. With a moment’s delay, Krylov made the same maneuver, forcing his way through the dense jam of people, dragging with him a large woman who looked like she’d been inflated and was wearing a plastic Panama hat and who obviously had been planning to get on, and he inhaled the cold sharp air of freedom. Meanwhile the scoundrel’s cap was already flickering in the distance, a brown spot. Overcoming his dizziness, Krylov rushed after him.

  Now the city seemed overpopulated to Krylov, as if all the residents who had vanished had returned with another million and a half on top of them. At every step he ran into pedestrians, as if he were pounding into oncoming waves of some impersonal element, trying not to lose sight of the quick-moving brown fleck. Sometimes the oncoming blows were so powerful they nearly snapped off Krylov’s head, inside of which a heavy fledgling was stirring, as if in an egg. In his wake came indignant cries and unflattering words, and once scattered apples rolled underfoot and seemed to multiply among the pointed shoes and fish-pale summer boots.

  All of a sudden the spy vanished, as if he had fallen through the earth. Krylov ran forward a hundred meters and turned back, distraught, stepping in circles as if he were performing a tango without a partner. He was plunged into the deep glass shadow of the mirrored towers of the Economics Center, on which the reflections of multistory clouds passed like a film on a giant plasma screen. Ladies dresses burned in the transparent infinity of the shop windows like tropical butterflies. Suddenly the steps of a noiseless escalator spread out smoothly at his feet; glass elevators entwined with green cascades of water slipped by. You couldn’t tell whether you were standing in a shop window, in an arcade, or under the open sky. Only the puddles on the pink paving stone and the damp strip of washed grass let Krylov feel that he had not yet been drawn into the transparent aquariums where people seemed to be passing through walls. For the first time in his life, transparency seemed like his enemy. The spy could not have found a better place to disappear.

  Nearby the lightweight tables of the summer café were white in the glass twilight. Krylov crashed behind the far one, which tottered under his elbow. The fledgling in his heavy head was pecking away, getting ready to peck through back of his skull. Instantly Krylov was faced with a waitress wearing an ironed tennis skirt with a high cutaway view of her long bronzed hips and carrying a racquet under her arm. The prices on the menu, which was decorated with pictures of Wimbledon and the Kremlin Cup, seemed excessive to Krylov; he had never encountered anything like it in his outings with Tanya.

  “You can get food and alcohol at the bar. It’s cheaper there,” the young woman said sympathetically when she saw her customer’s confusion.

  She was attractive, with a peeling little snub nose and dark freckles that looked like melted flecks of chocolate. Krylov guessed that she liked him, despite his worn clothing and droopy pockets, which were obviously empty. This kind of thing had happened pretty often before he’d met Tanya, and sometimes these kinds of random girls with the mournful eyes gave Krylov a few festive weeks. Now, though, the muscular beauty of the tanned athlete was as alien to him as the beauty of a thoroughbred horse. Automatically obeying the wave of her golden arm, he turned toward the bar and immediately jumped from his chair, which had toppled over.

  The spy was taking tiny steps away from the bar, as if all was well, holding in front of him a disposable cup of red wine, soft from the weight, and whispering to get the liquid not to spill. As if crossing tightly stretched fabric, Krylov approached the scoundrel from behind and grabbed his fat forearm with pleasure. The half-portion splashed the scoundrel’s reddish-brown boots. The spy spun around and through some internal effort made himself twice as heavy, driving his legs into the whole shaken earth.

  “What’s wrong? I don’t understand.” His bloodshot eyes glanced over his shoulder, over the fold of fat between his color and his cap. “Oh, Mr. Krylov! You’re still alive. What pleasant news!”

  “The topic here is you, creep,” Krylov spoke softly into the spy’s dirty ear, which was as hot as a jelly doughnut. Because he was out of breath, it came out too softly, and Krylov added more loudly, with hatred, “If you so much as budge, I’ll kill you.”

  “All right already! Why so harsh today!” the spy protested in a reedy voice. “Let’s sit down. Let’s sit down and hash this out. Isn’t that what you used to say when you were shoplifting at the Oriental? Now they say ‘let’s lash this out.’ And ‘point,’ not ‘topic.’ You’ve got to stay closer to the common people!”

  “Stay right where you are, Linguist.” Once again, Krylov saw the dried yuck on the spy’s shoulder, as if someone had tried to draw in shit on an angel’s wing. The spot was so irritating, Krylov started scratching it off voluptuously. The scoundrel groaned and grimaced, and the jacket on his back turned into wool and smoke. People were looked at them. The snub-nosed waitress was gesturing her frightened objections to the ruddy young security guard, who was anxiously smoothing his sleek hair with both hands, getting ready to act.

  “Care to clean my boots, too, my dear man?” the spy asked innocently, putting one short foot forward after another. On his cracked, reddish-brown, down-at-the-heel shoes the wine spots looked like wet liver. One wrinkled pants leg also had a spill starting at the knee. Clucking with regret, the spy lifted his pants a pinch, and this feminine gesture revealed disgraceful socks that looked more like kitchen rags. The spy’s ability to make Krylov’s hands itch was irresistible. Krylov delivered a light chop to his yellowish neck, which proved rather insensitive, like a sofa bolster.

  The young security guard, flushed to the roots of his hair, which was glued with gel into flat dry ribbons, moved forward indecisively.

  “Everything’s fine, just fine!” the spy exclaimed, halting the guard halfway. “This is my friend! Him threatening to kill me, that’s just his way of joking! He makes jokes like that! By the way, his name is Krylov,” the scoundrel added boastingly, putting his arm around Krylov’s waist. “His wife is the famous Mrs. Tamara Krylova they’re writing about in the newspapers!”

  The scoundrel’s announcement aroused excitement at the little white tables. Well-dressed customers began turning around to look at the odd couple, abandoning their wine and holographic toys, which flickered like flocks of moths. Although newspaper reading had long been considered something the common people did, these people were clearly cau
ght up, evidently foraging for information from more high-tech and respectable sources. One curly head whose hair was like a bouquet of tiny yellow roses and whose nose was the shape of a pencil, quickly changed the attachment on his professional camera. A gentle rustle and a white glaze washed over Krylov, like cold water from a hose. Satisfied, the spy belatedly assumed a dignified air, raising his spattered glass to the health of those present.

  “The on-line magazine Ripheans Illustrated! One more picture, please!” Curly was now aiming at Krylov from below, shifting from knee to knee, completely swathed by his narrow suit into a silvery strip.

  “Stop it! Get out!” Krylov edged him away with his elbow, and the security guard, nodding respectfully, began to advance on the reporter with widespread arms, as if he were trying to catch a chicken.

  “Were you aware of your wife’s crimes? What do you think of her affair with Mitya Dymov? Is it true that Mrs. Krylova preserved the dead for future resurrection?” the pressed reporter shouted, jumping on the guard and raising the camera aloft, where it clicked and flashed in his hands like a madman.

  “Interesting questions, by the way,” the spy noted, taking a sideways view of the poor relative, as he sat down on a free chair. “I read an article like that! How about it? Are you going to sit down, too, or are you going to start beating him up right away? Why don’t we finish our drink and then you can beat him up!”

  Krylov shifted from foot to foot and then sat down opposite him. He saw that the reporter finally saw the good in hopping into his humped little car, slipped out of his parking space, and took his Promethean fire to his own dear editorial office. The scoundrel, sipping his wine, which made his wide mouth the color of sealing wax, looked at Krylov with feigned horror. Something told Krylov that this fake clownish fear concealed genuine fear. That was what he wanted to bring to light.

  “What do you want from me, poor man?” the spy spoke, sighing sadly. “My God you’re good-looking!” This was to the athletic waitress, who had silently put a clean wet ashtray, certainly wet from her tears, in front of Krylov.

  On the waitress’s splendid little face chagrin was battling burning curiosity, which really had moved her light, jeans-gray eyes to tears. Krylov guessed that as she was gazing at him through her clumping eyelashes she was thinking of Tamara, Tamara’s dresses, and Tamara’s intriguing fame. This young woman was like that homeless girl painting her sagging little face in front of the mirror of Tamara’s Porsche. For the umpteenth time, Krylov thought what a magnetic effect Tamara had on women, as if she were playing some invisible instrument for them.

  “Oh ho! She likes you!” the scoundrel chuckled, resting his chest on the tottering table. “Some people have all the luck: a rich wife like a favorite cat and plenty of girls! What on earth do they see in unwashed, unshaven you? If only I had that kind of satisfaction.”

  The spy blinked sweetly, and Krylov noticed that before leaving the house his foe had carefully shaved—probably shaved off an overgrown beard. Not only that, but the scoundrel stank of some noxious cologne, like a freshly crushed insect.

  “And how is your dear uncle’s health?” Krylov inquired politely.

  Unexpectedly, his question hit a sore spot. The spy’s ugly face went through several instantaneous changes from one unhealthy pallor to another, and fear, the real thing, not feigned, danced on the tips of his hard square fingers, which trembled finely on the table.

  “My dear uncle is temporarily on vacation!” the spy nervously informed him. “That’s right! He’s talked a lot about you. A genius, he says! One of a kind! A master! Everyone respects you so much! And for me it’s a great honor—”

  “Shut up,” Krylov interrupted the scoundrel’s word stream, and he immediately shut up, nervously drumming the little table. For some reason the mention of his uncle had made him hysterical, Krylov realized. It was odd. Why had this ugly face seemed so familiar to him before, as if Krylov himself had sculpted it once? “Basically, this is the deal. I don’t really care why you’ve been dragging around after me and the woman I love. What I need from you is her address and telephone number. Tell me and you’re free. I won’t do anything to you no matter how much I want to.”

  “Aha!” The spy’s short eyebrows crept up under his cap. “Why is it she’s so afraid of you? You mean she didn’t even give you her address? If I were you, dear boy, I’d spit on that lab mouse,” the scoundrel said suddenly in an intimate little voice, shifting over toward Krylov along with his hopping chair. “My God, our waitress is a lot prettier! As your good friend, I’m telling you! And what about Mrs. Tamara Krylova! I can’t even imagine what a man could do with that lady except admire her beauty!”

  “Give me the address,” Krylov said wearily. Once again he had the feeling the spy contained some part of himself so that he was dealing with himself, and that made his overtaxed brain even wearier.

  At Krylov’s words the spy took offense, turned sideways, and crossed his legs, displaying his disgraceful sole.

  “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, grimacing. “I wanted to do the right thing by you. Okay, write this down: 18-16 Radishchev Lane.”

  Everything inside Krylov sped up or possibly down, from a tremendous height. And hid in a dark impasse.

  “You’re lying,” he said in a cheerless voice.

  “Now you’re the detective!” the spy said in admiration and even slapped himself on his tight linen knee. “Yes, I’m lying. You know, I’m an honest man. If I happen to tell a lie, then I answer for it. Yes, I say, I lied! Fine, for your quick wits here’s the real address: 130 Prikolnaya Street, block 8, apartment 208.”

  “We don’t have a Prikolnaya Street in this town,” Krylov grinned.

  “Oh, right, you’re the specialist here,” the spy checked himself. “You’ve always got that atlas in your pocket. Evening falls and you’re off on some excursion. Only here’s what I’m going to tell you, dear specialist, if you’re in such a pinch. If that four-eyed lady got her hooks in you and threw you—”

  At this the scoundrel shot an inquiring glance at Krylov, but Krylov restrained himself. Lord, he thought, if You exist, make her be looking for me, too. It felt like he was singing and rasping without making a sound, like a bronze horn aimed at the sky.

  “In short, dear man, let’s talk as one serious man to another,” the scoundrel went on, his bulk sprawled on the little blue chair. “Sometimes very major valuables fall into people’s hands. Then those people start behaving restlessly, which is very easy to spot. At home they hide the valuables with their underwear, or in jars of rice, in the freezer and other clever spots. When I was a kid I had a hamster named Rex and he lived in an aquarium. I called him Rex because I wanted a dog,” the spy clarified, heaving a sentimental sigh. “Basically, the animal hid reserves, because it was smart. It stuffed seeds into its cheeks, dropped them in the corners, and covered them with straw. It thought it was burying things the right way, but I could see his whole treasure through the glass. That’s how people are, my dear. They never suspect that their little hiding places for grain are easily seen by an outside observer. That’s why taking extra valuables away from people for whom they’re too much doesn’t take any particular effort.”

  Krylov understood what kind of grain the scoundrel was talking about. Tamara had been right. Uncle and nephew, two cowardly fatmen, had their sights on the loot from the expedition. It had been a mistake on Anfilogov’s part to sell last year’s stones. Although large finds themselves set bells to booming even if no one pulls the cord. He wondered whether the evil Anfilogov corundums were too much for the fatmen themselves.

  “Now let’s move on to the topic at hand.” The spy held his index finger with its wavy yellow, cockleshell-like nail up significantly. “All of a sudden two participants in our story about the grain, he and she, start to behave improperly. A mutual sympathy develops between them, so to speak, and certain shared plans. This was unforeseen! Is there any chance they’re conspiring to take the grain for themselv
es and build a happy new life? Yes, and quite a substantial one! They need a lot now, and that has to be taken into account. This is why a third person who is already involved and is, let us note, family, has to keep an eye on them. Drag himself all over town without any time for himself! Raising the suspicions of his lawful wife! It’s hard, unpleasant, and troublesome for everyone. But you see we could also reach a civilized agreement! For instance, one of the two, who will certainly get the grain for finishing, makes a quick phone call. They knock very lightly at his entryway. And then he gets not only the lady’s address but an attractive small percentage.”

  “How about a punch in the face for that suggestion?” Krylov interrupted. To him, calling thieves up the way he would a taxi or pizza delivery seemed so crazy he nearly burst out laughing.

  “You all get a real kick out of my face! I know I’m no beauty!” The spy tugged the bill of his stiff cap right over his eyes. “You think I’ll double-cross you? No way. I’m an honest man! You can believe it. They shut me up for four years, and I was more honest than all the people who knocked the confession out of me, tried me, and kept me in the zone put together. Maybe not what I do, but my essence, my human core. You know what I mean? No matter what I had to do, by my nature I’m a good person. Nature is the most important thing! Should I make you another offer?” Without asking, the spy plucked a couple of cigarettes out of Krylov’s pack and bit down on one of them casually with his big yellow incisors, which looked like wood chips, flavoring it with the tall tongue of flame from a fake gold lighter the size of a small flask.