“His name is Mokho.”
“Mokho,” the man spoke. He frowned — then he smiled.
Brothers and Sisters
Borenboim opened his eyes.
He was sitting in a triangular bathtub. Warm streams of water flowed pleasantly around his body. Two naked women sat opposite him.
Ar: 31 years old, plump, blond, blue eyes, large breasts, round fleshy shoulders, a simple smiling peasant face.
Ekos: 48, small, slender, blond, blue eyes, an attentive intelligent face.
The light in the spacious bathroom was dim. Just three fat blue candles burned on the edges of the tub.
“Hello, Mokho,” smiled the plump woman. “I’m Ar, your sister.”
Borenboim wiped the moisture from his face. He looked around. He gazed at the candle.
“And I’m Borenboim, Boris Borisovich. My only sister, Anna Borisovna Borenboim-Vikers, died in a car accident in 1992. Near the city of Los Angeles.”
“Now you will have many sisters and brothers,” said Ekos.
“I doubt it.” Borenboim touched the large bruise on his chest. “My mother is in the other world as well. My father is in the hospital following a stroke. The likelihood that he will gladden me with a brother or sister is about zero.”
“Blood isn’t the only form of brotherhood.”
“Of course. There are also brothers in misfortune.” Borenboim nodded. “When they put you in a common grave together alive.”
“There is a brotherhood of the heart,” Ar said softly.
“Is that when a person sells one of his heart valves? And has an artificial one put in its place? I’ve heard about that. Not a bad business.”
“Mokho, your cynicism is boring.” Ekos took his left hand in hers. Ar took the right one.
“I’m really a very boring person. That’s why I live alone. As for cynicism — it’s the only thing that saves me. Rather, that saved me. Up until March 2nd.”
“Why only until March 2nd?” Ekos asked, stroking his wrist under the water.
“Because I made a bad decision on March 2nd. I decided to drive only with the driver, and not to take my bodyguard. To loan him to Rita Soloukhina. Who needed a driver. Why? She burned her hand. When? She was making fondue. With soft cheese, with — ”
“Do you regret helping her?” asked Ar, stroking his other hand.
“I regret that I betrayed my cynicism for a moment.”
“You felt sorry for her?”
“Not exactly...I just like her legs. And she’s a good worker.”
“Mokho, that’s a rather cynical argument.”
“No it isn’t. If it were truly cynical, I wouldn’t have ended up as a chump who gets taken with bare hands.”
“Weren’t they wearing gloves?” asked Ekos, raising her slender eyebrows. She and Ar laughed.
“Yes,” said Borenboim seriously, biting his lips, “the bastards were wearing gloves. By the way, girls, where are my glasses?”
“Do you take a bath in your glasses?”
“Sometimes.”
“They fog up.”
“That doesn’t get in the way.”
“Of seeing?”
“Of thinking. Where are they?”
“Behind you.”
He turned around. Next to his head on a marble stand lay his glasses and his watch. On the watch: 23:55.
He put on his glasses. He began putting on his watch.
A naked girl walked through the open door: 12 years old, a thin angular body, hairless pubis, short strawberry-blond hair, large blue eyes, a calm kind face.
“Hi, Mokho.”
Borenboim looked at her darkly.
“I’m Ip.”
Borenboim was about to say something, but he noticed a large white scar on the girl’s chest. He looked at his bruise.
“May I put my hand on your chest?” the girl asked.
Borenboim looked at her scar, then he looked at the women. Each of them had scars in the center of her chest.
“They...you, too?” He straightened his glasses.
The women nodded, smiling.
“They hit me on the chest with the ice ax sixteen times.” Ar rose to her knees. “Look.”
He saw the scars of healed welts on her chest.
“I lost consciousness three times. Until my heart spoke and pronounced my true name: Ar. After that they carried me to the bathhouse, washed me, and bandaged my wounds. And then one of the brothers pressed his chest to mine. And his heart spoke with my heart. And I cried. For the first time in my life, I cried from happiness.”
“I was hit seven times,” Ekos spoke up. “Here...you see...there’s one big scar and two small ones. I was completely covered with blood. They took me at the dacha. Tied me to an oak. And hit me with the ice ax. But my heart was silent. It didn’t want to speak. It didn’t want to awake. It wanted to sleep until death. To rot in the grave, asleep, like billions of people...My skin is very delicate. The ice broke it right away. There was a lot of blood. The hammer was soaked in blood. But when my heart finally spoke and pronounced my true name — Ekos — the man who wielded the ax kissed me. On the lips. That was my first brotherly kiss.”
“Kissed you?”
“Yes.”
“The one who struck you?”
“The one who struck me.”
“You mean the guy who set you up and knocked you out?” Borenboim laughed nervously, looking into the girl’s big eyes.
“Put it that way, if you like,” Ekos answered calmly.
“Your cynicism — is a kind of armor. Your only defense against sincerity. Which has always frightened you,” said Ar, stroking his hand.
“As soon as that defense crumbles, not only will you be happy, you will understand what genuine freedom is,” added Ekos.
The girl was still on her knees. She looked at Borenboim with a childlike, questioning look.
“Hmm, yeah...probably...” He had trouble tearing his eyes from the girl. “But the one who knocked me out didn’t kiss me. Too bad.”
He straightened his glasses decisively and, without warning, stood up. Water splashed on the women.
“Here’s the thing, girls. I’m not in the mood for underwater massage right now. So we’re not going to relax. I don’t have the time. Call in your muscle. Let them tell me in plain Russian: how much, where, and when.”
“There isn’t any ‘muscle’ here,” said Ekos, wiping her face with her palm.
“There’s only us and a servant.” Ar smiled.
“And the cat,” said the girl. “But she’s asleep in the basket right now. She’s going to have kittens soon. May I put my hand on your chest?”
“What for?” asked Borenboim.
“To speak with your heart.”
Borenboim got out of the bath. He took a towel and wiped his glasses. He began drying himself. He winced from the pain.
“So the muscle is outside. Got it.”
“Outside?” Ekos stroked her shoulder. “There isn’t anyone there either. Only birch trees.”
“And snow. But it’s already dirty,” added the girl.
Borenboim glanced at her sullenly. He tied the towel around his thin torso.
“Where are my clothes?”
“In the bedroom.”
He left the bathroom. He found himself in a spacious house with many rooms. It was richly decorated: rugs, expensive furniture, crystal chandeliers, old-master paintings. Mozart playing softly somewhere.
He walked over to a window. Pulled back the green velvet drapes. Looked out on the birch forest at night, white patches of leftover snow glowing in the half dark. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
“What you like to chink?” It was a woman’s voice, heavily accented.
He turned around.
A Thai woman stood a ways off: 42 years old, short, rather ugly, heavy, in a gray leisure suit, blue flip-flops with sequins on swarthy bare feet with lilac toenails.
“Where is the bedroom?” Borenboim looked a
t her feet squeamishly.
“Heyah it is.” She turned around and walked off.
He followed her.
She led him to a room. Pointed with a wrinkled hand.
The bedroom was small, its walls covered in Indian linen in a yellow-green pattern. There was a mirror with a small table under it, an Indian brocade hassock, two large bronze vases in the corners, a double bed covered with an Indian bedspread. On the bed lay Borenboim’s clothes in a neat pile.
He went over to them and picked them up. He checked the pockets: his wallet, keys. The cell phone was in his briefcase.
He put on his underwear and trousers. His torn undershirt had been replaced with a new one.
“Efficient...” He grinned.
He put on the undershirt, his shirt, the vest. He began tying his tie.
“May I speak to your heart?” came the sound of the girl’s voice.
He looked around: Ip stood naked in the door of the bedroom. Drops of water shone on her child’s body.
He knotted his tie, put on his boots and his jacket. He buttoned the two bottom buttons of his jacket.
He glanced at himself in the mirror. He walked out of the room, brushing against Ip’s wet shoulder.
“What you like to chink?” The Thai woman stood in the middle of the living room.
“Chink,” he grimaced. “Aspen tree juice?”
“Apsen tea what?” she said, not understanding.
“Aspen juice. Or birch milk, at least?”
“Burr-uch?” she said, her small forehead creasing.
“Forget it,” Borenboim said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Where’s the exit?”
“Ovah heyah.” The woman obediently set off.
She went into the foyer. She opened a white door into a covered entrance. She put on a large pair of felt boots with galoshes, right over her flip-flops. She wrapped a gray wool scarf around her head, opened the front door, and walked down the marble steps.
Borenboim walked out of the house. The yard, and the house itself, were brightly lit. A thick birch forest surrounded the house.
The servant walked down a wide paved road toward steel gates set in a high brick wall. The felt boots shuffled along.
Borenboim looked around. He raised the collar of his jacket and inhaled the raw night air. He followed the servant tensely.
She walked up to the gates, put the key in the lock, and turned it.
The gates slid back.
“May I talk to your heart?” said the voice behind him.
Borenboim looked back at the house. Two stories, white walls, gray roof tiling, two chimneys, decorative grates on the windows, a copper sun over the door. Against the illuminated background of the house stood a barely distinguishable naked figure. She approached silently. In the gloom Ip’s eyes seemed even larger.
There was no one in the half-dark windows of the house.
“May I?” Ip took his hand in her damp hands.
Borenboim looked through the open gates: beyond them was an empty night street. Puddles. A post. A chipped fence. A normal dacha village.
“You’ll catch cold,” he said.
“No,” Ip answered seriously. “Please, may I? Then you can go home.”
“Okay,” he said with a businesslike nod. “Only make it quick.”
She looked around, looked at the swings near a gazebo, and pulled him by the hand.
“Let’s go over there.”
Borenboim went. Then he stopped.
“No. We’re not going there.”
He looked at the gates.
“We’ll go over there.”
“All right,” she said, pulling him toward the gates.
They walked outside the gates. Ip pulled Borenboim to an icy snowbank on the side of the road. He followed her. Ice crunched under his boots. Ip moved silently and easily on her bare feet.
“An angel, damnit...” Borenboim thought. He said, “Only quickly, half a minute. I’m serious.”
The small Thai woman in the felt boots stood orphaned at the open gates. The suburban Moscow wind fluttered the ends of her wool scarf.
Ip led Borenboim to the snowbank. She climbed up on him. Her face was on the same level as Borenboim’s face. His glasses gleamed in the dark.
The girl carefully embraced him with thin but long arms and pressed her chest to his. He didn’t resist. Their cheeks touched.
“Okay.” He turned slightly, moving his face away.
He looked at the illuminated house. He sang out in a low voice in English, “‘Darling, stop confusing me with your’...”
Suddenly, his entire body shuddered. He was rooted to the spot.
Ip was, too.
They stood motionless.
The Thai woman watched them.
Twenty-three minutes passed. The girl released her hands. Borenboim fell weakly on the icy road. Ip slid onto the snowbank. She sniffled, pulling air through her clenched teeth, gulping for air. The streetlamp faintly lit her fragile white body.
Borenboim moved. He cried out feebly. He sat up. Moaned. Then fell again, stretching out. He breathed greedily. Opened his eyes. In the black sky, between the flocked clouds, stars twinkled dimly.
The girl got up off the snowbank, barely causing the snow to crack. She walked to the gates and went inside. A faint hum could be heard, and the gates closed.
Borenboim turned over. The snow made a crunching sound. He got up on all fours. Crawled. He pushed his hands against the earth and rose to his feet slowly. Unsteady, he straightened up.
“Ooooo...no.”
He looked at the street. At the snowbank.
“Not...oh, my god...” He shook his head.
He went up to the gates. He began banging them with his dirty hands.
“Hey, hey...come on...hey...”
He listened. Everything was quiet on the other side.
Borenboim threw himself at the gates. He beat on them with his hands and feet. His glasses flew off.
He listened. Silence.
He wailed, pressing himself against the gates. He slipped to the ground and began to cry. Then he got up, took several steps back, and with his legs bent, took a running leap, kicking the gates.
He listened. No answer.
He inhaled more air and cried out as loud as he could.
An echo carried the cry all around.
A dog began to bark somewhere far away. Then another.
“Please, I beg of you...I’m begging you!” Borenboim shouted, banging on the gates. “I’m begging you! I’m begging you! I’m begging!!! Damnit, I’m begging!!!”
His heartrending cry broke off in a wheeze. He fell silent. He licked his lips.
The moon sailed out from behind the clouds. Two dogs barked reluctantly.
“No...you can’t do this...” Borenboim stepped back from the fence, his glasses crunching under his feet. He leaned over and picked them up. The left lens was cracked, but it hadn’t fallen out.
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses. Put them on. He threw the handkerchief in a puddle. Sniffling, he sighed. He wandered along the street.
He made it to an intersection, turned, reached another intersection, almost ran into a car. A red Niva jeep braked sharply. The puddle splashed him.
The driver opened the door: 47 years old, a thin wrinkled face, sunken cheeks, steel teeth, a leather cap.
“You outta your fuckin’ mind?”
“Sorry, pal.” Borenboim leaned his arms against the hood. He exhaled with exhaustion. “Take me to the police. I was attacked.”
“What?” The driver screwed up his eyes nastily.
“Take me there, I’ll pay...” Borenboim wiped the drops of water from his face. He dug in his inside pocket. Took out his wallet and opened it. Held it up to the dirty headlight: all four credit cards were in place. But, as always, not a single ruble. And? Another card: a Visa Electron. In his name. He’d never had one of those. He had a Visa Gold. He turned the new card over.
“What the fuck?” he said in English.
In the corner of the card he made out a handwritten PIN code: 6969.
“Well, are we gonna stand around a long time?” the driver asked.
“Just a minute, just a minute...Listen...what station are we at?”
“Kratovo.”
“Kratovo?” Borenboim looked at the driver’s hat. “Novoriazansk Highway...Take me into Moscow, pal. A hundred bucks.”
“That’s it. Get away from the car,” the driver replied angrily.
“Or to the police...I mean, to the highway...to Riazanka!”
The driver slammed the door. The Niva zoomed off. Borenboim jumped back.
The jeep turned the corner.
Borenboim looked at the card.
“Shit...gifts of the magi...with a PIN code, no less! Nonsense, utter nonsense.”
He returned the card to his wallet and stuck the wallet in his pocket. He walked down the street past the fences and darkened dachas. He shivered. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.
There was a light on in the window of one dacha.
Right next to the solid gates in the wall was a little wicket gate. Borenboim went over to it and tugged. The gate was locked.
“Anyone home?” he shouted.
A dog began barking in the house.
Borenboim waited. No one responded. He shouted again. And again. The dog barked.
He dug out a handful of wet snow and made a snowball. He threw it at the window of the porch.
The dog kept on barking. No one came out.
“‘And neither wake the prince...nor the dinosaur,’ as the poet said...shit.” Borenboim spat. He walked along the dark street, which narrowed to a muddy path. Green and gray fences squeezed in on either side.
Borenboim walked along. A thin layer of ice crunched under his feet.
Suddenly the path broke off. Ahead was a steep descent, muddy with melted water and snow. He could dimly make out a small river. Black. Occasional chunks of ice.
“‘The ball is over, the candle is out, I’ll fuck you slowly’...”
Borenboim stood there for a minute. He shivered and turned around. Walked back. He came to the house with the light in the window and made a snowball. He threw it in the air. He kicked it. Suddenly, he sobbed out loud like a child, defenselessly. He ran down the street, sobbing. He screamed. Then he stopped.
“No...not like that...Oooo. Mama...! You asshole...fucking asshole...oooo! It’s just...just...you asshole...”
Ice Trilogy Page 33
