Borenboim stood up sharply. He picked up his jacket from the floor. Went into the foyer.
“Give me some rubles for a taxi.”
Savva rose with difficulty. He followed him.
“Listen, Bor,” he said, placing a heavy hand on Borenboim’s thin shoulder, “I really recommend that you — ”
“Give me some rubles for a taxi!” Borenboim interrupted.
“Bor. If you want, I’ll call Mishkarik at the FSB, okay? They’ll definitely be able to tell you something — ”
“Give me some rubles for a taxi!”
Savva sighed. He disappeared into darkened rooms.
Borenboim put on his jacket and hit the wall with his palm. He clenched his fists and exhaled with a hiss.
Savva returned with a packet of hundred-ruble notes.
“Put my coat on. You’ll be cold like that.”
Borenboim pulled two hundred-ruble notes out of the pack. He fished the two crumpled hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket and forced them into Savva’s hand.
“Thanks a lot, honey child,” he said in English.
He opened the door. He left.
Rat Heart
6 Tverskaya Street
Borenboim unlocked the door of his apartment. He entered and turned on the light.
The music started up: Leonard Cohen as usual.
Borenboim stood at the half-open door.
He looked into the apartment. Everything was as it had been.
He closed the door. He walked through the rooms, looked into the bathroom, the kitchen.
No one.
His briefcase, cell phone, and lighter were lying on the low table in the Japanese living room.
He looked at the walls. All three scrolls hung in their previous places. He walked over to them. He moved the left scroll aside. The hole from the spike had been carefully filled. The water-based paint hadn’t dried yet. The second hole under the other scroll had also been repaired.
“Holy shit...” Borenboim muttered, shaking his head. “No-waste production. This is a serious outfit.”
He chuckled.
He opened his briefcase and leafed through the papers: everything was in place. He got out his pipe. He filled it with tobacco, lit up, and began to smoke. He walked over to the aquarium shaped like a half circle. He whistled. The fish grew excited. They swam up to the surface.
He retrieved a covered Chinese cup from a niche in the wall. Opened it. The cup contained fish food. He tapped bits of food into the aquarium.
“My poor starving...”
The fish gobbled the food.
Borenboim closed the cup. He put it back in the niche.
He turned off the music. Taking a bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey from the Japanese cabinet, he poured half a glass and drank it. He sat down. He picked up his cell phone, put it back on the table, stood up, and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator.
It was empty except for four identical containers of salad on the second shelf. Wrapped in plastic.
He took out a container of beet salad. He put it on the table, got out a spoon, and sat down. He began to devour the salad.
He ate everything.
He put the empty container in the sink and wiped his lips with a napkin.
Back into the Japanese room: he picked up the telephone and punched in a number. He listened, then changed his mind.
“Shut the fuck up!” he exclaimed in English.
He tossed the phone on the table. Poured some more whiskey. Drank. He knocked the ashes out of the extinguished pipe and started to fill it again. He stopped. Got up. Walked back to the aquarium.
“‘Darling, stop confusing me with your wishful thinking...’” he sang. He sighed. His thin lips contorted in a sad grimace. He tapped the thick glass.
The fish swam toward him.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. He placed the glass of whiskey on the edge of the tub. Undressed. Looked at himself in the mirror. Touched the bruise on his chest.
“Speak, heart...speak, mitral valve....Bastards!”
He laughed a worn-out laugh.
He got into the bath.
He drank the rest of the whiskey.
He turned off the water.
He leaned his head back against the cold depression of the headrest.
He sighed in relief.
He slept.
He dreamed a dream: he was a teenager, at his stepfather’s dacha in Sosenki, standing at the gate and looking out at the street. Vitka, Karas, and Gera were walking down the street toward him. They were supposed to go together to the Salarevsky dump. The guys were approaching. They held sticks for poking around in the garbage. His stick stood next to the fence. He picked it up and walked toward them. They walked quickly and happily down the street. It was early in the morning, midsummer, the weather dry and cool. He was enjoying himself and his step was light. They came to the dump. It was enormous, stretching to the very horizon.
“We’re going to go through and turn it up from south to north,” said Karas. “There are turbines in there.”
They picked through the garbage. Borenboim sank in to his waist. Sank even lower. There was an underground vault. An intolerable stench. The heavy, sticky trash quivered like quicksand. Borenboim cried out in fear.
“Don’t be chicken,” Gera giggled, grabbing him by the feet.
“These are positive catacombs,” Vitka explained. “This is where the parent accelerators live.”
People walked through the catacombs. Odd, fearsome machines passed by.
“I have to find the computer dough, then at home I’ll make traveling boots for super-powered diesel locomotives,” Borenboim thought to himself. He kept picking through the trash.
All sorts of objects turned up. Suddenly Karas and Gera broke through a wall with their sticks. A gloomy din emerged from the opening. “It’s the turbines,” Borenboim realized. He looked into the opening and saw a huge cave with bluish turbines rising in the center. They produced a dismal roar: smoke spread from them, stinging the eyes.
“Let’s get out of here before we’re squashed!” Vitka advised.
They ran along a twisting path, getting bogged down in sticky, squelching garbage. Borenboim bumped into a piece of computer dough. A silvery-lilac color, it smelled like gasoline and lilac. He pulled the dough from the heaps of trash.
“Mold it in the form, or else it will come unsoldered,” said Karas.
Suddenly, a rat jumped out of the computer dough.
“Bastard, he ate the computer program!” Vitka shouted.
Vitka, Gera, and Karas began to beat the rat with their sticks. Its gray body shook with the blows, and it squeaked pitifully. Borenboim looked at the rat. He felt its palpitating heart. It was a tender little bundle which sent waves of the subtlest vibrations across the whole world, sublime waves of love. And the most remarkable thing — they were in no way connected to the death throes and horror of the dying rat, they existed all by themselves. They penetrated Borenboim’s body. His heart contracted from a powerful attack of tenderness, joy, and delight. He pushed the guys aside and lifted the bloody rat. He bent over it and sobbed. The rat’s moist eyes closed. Its heart quivered, sending its last farewell waves of love. Borenboim caught them with his heart. He understood the language of hearts. It was untranslatable. Sublime. Borenboim sobbed from happiness and pity. The rat’s heart shuddered for the last time. And stopped: FOREVER! The horror of losing this tiny heart seized Borenboim. He pressed the bloody little body to his chest. He sobbed aloud, as he had in childhood. Sobbed helplessly on and on.
Borenboim woke up.
His naked body shuddered in the water. Tears poured down his cheeks. He lifted his head with great difficulty and winced: his chest and neck hurt even more. He sat up in the cold water. Wiped away his tears. Sighed. He looked at his watch: he had slept for one hour and twenty-one minutes.
“Ooo la la...” He got out of the bath painfully and pulled a towel from the snake-sha
ped towel hanger. He wiped himself off, hung the towel in place, and turned toward the mirror. He moved closer, studying his blue eyes. The black pupils reminded him of the rat’s moist eyes.
“It ate computer dough...” he muttered. A sob escaped him. “It ate...ate and ate...The bastards...”
His face was distorted by a spasm. Tears burst from his eyes.
Smithereens
00:44, Point Club
The group Leningrad was wrapping up its concert. The singer, Shnur, sang:
In the black-black city on black-black nights,
Doctors and ambulances blackened by the lights,
Drive merrily along while they sing a song of lies,
In the black-black city, people die like flies!
But I don’t give a flying...fuck!...
Shnur sent the microphone into the audience. About three hundred young people were standing around and dancing. The audience shouted: “...I’m made — of meat!!!”
Everyone jumped and sang.
Lapin jumped and sang with them.
Ilona, nearby, was doing the same: 17 years old, tall, thin, with a lively laughing face, leather pants, platform shoes, a white top.
“Farewell, Point!” Shnur shouted. The audience whistled.
“Awesome, right?” Ilona nudged Lapin in the side with her fist.
“Let’s get drinks before everyone lines up!” he shouted in her ear.
“Okay.”
They went over to the bar.
“A bottle of champagne,” said Lapin, handing the barman some money.
The barman opened the bottle and gave him two glasses.
“Let’s go over there, in the corner.” Ilona tugged on Lapin.
In the corner, the edge of a rough, wooden table was free. They sat down at the table. Lapin poured the champagne into the glasses. Two guys and a girl sat nearby.
“Well, then, master?” Ilona raised her glass. “What should we drink to?”
“Let’s drink — to being together.” They clinked glasses.
“Maybe to Shnur?”
“Let’s drink to Shnur.”
They drank.
“Is this the first time you’ve heard them?” Ilona asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Live — yeah.”
“A recording’s not the same. You don’t get the high. Wow!” she wailed. “Awesome, man, awesome. Aargh...Wish I had a joint.”
“You want one?” asked Lapin, emptying his glass.
“Uh-huh. I always want weed when I’m having a blast.”
“Well...can’t...we get some here?” Lapin looked around.
“It’s only the second time I’ve been here. I don’t know anyone.”
“It’s my first time.”
“Really? So you really came just for Leningrad, right?”
“Uh-huh. I found out by accident that they had a gig here. So I came.”
Lapin lit a cigarette.
“Not a bad place, is it?” said Ilona, looking around. She was quickly getting tipsy.
“It’s a big space.” Lapin rubbed his chest.
“Really cool, huh? Damn, I really want some weed. Listen, you have any dough?”
“Sort of.”
“Let’s go to this place I know. They’ve always got it. Lots of things. Only it’s not close.”
“Where?”
“In Sokolniki.”
“What is it?”
“Just a rented crash pad. Some friends live there.”
“Well, why not, let’s go.”
“Fare thee well to our fair...Olympic Teddy Bear.”
Ilona stood up and stretched. Lapin took the half-drunk bottle. They headed for the exit through the dancing crowd.
They got their coats at the coat check and stepped out into a dimly lit passageway with walls welded together from sheets of steel. Occasional figures appeared in the distance.
“Whoa! It’s cold...” Ilona shivered. Lapin embraced her. He pulled her to him roughly and awkwardly.
“Cuddles?” Ilona asked.
Lapin began to kiss her thin, cold lips. She responded. With his free hand he squeezed her breast. The bottle slipped out of his other hand. It shattered at their feet.
“Damn...” Lapin flinched.
“Ouch!” Ilona looked down.
Lapin laughed.
“Glass in the plural...not just smashed, but smashed to smithereens — Russian style.”
“Out on the town, are we?” some guy asked. He was squatting next to the wall. Smoking.
“Let’s get another one, okay?” Lapin breathed into her ear.
“Basta!” Ilona smashed the shards with her dark blue platform shoe. The glass crunched.
She took Lapin by the hand. Pulled him toward the exit.
“Champagne is — great. But there’ll be stronger stuff there.”
Lapin held her back.
“Wait...”
“What is it?” She stopped.
He embraced her. He froze, holding her to him. They stood for a minute.
“It’s cold.” Ilona giggled quietly.
“Wait...” Lapin’s voice trembled.
She grew quiet. Lapin pressed against her and shuddered.
“What’s wrong?” She licked a tear from his cheek.
“Just...” he whispered.
“What is it, are you crashing?”
He shook his head. Sniffed.
“It’s just...things are fucked up.”
“Then let’s go.” She took his hand decisively.
Liubka
23:59, Andrei’s apartment, 17 Kutuzov Prospect
A bedroom with pale lilac walls. A wide, low bed. Muted music. Dim lighting.
A naked Nikolaeva was sitting on top of a naked Andrei. She rocked rhythmically. Nikolaeva’s upper chest was wrapped in a silk scarf, with both of her breasts left free.
Andrei was smoking: 52 years old, heavy, round-faced, bald spots, a hairy chest, a tattooed shoulder, and short pudgy fingers.
“Don’t rush, don’t rush...” he murmured.
“The boss is king,” said Nikolaeva, slowing down.
“You have fabulous breasts.”
“Like them?”
“You didn’t do anything to them?”
“They’re all mine. Ooooo...what a sweet dick...”
“Does it reach your guts?”
“Oof...and how...oy...Too bad we can’t do it in the bottom today...”
“Why?”
“A boo-boo.”
“Hemorrhoids?”
“Uh, not exactly...oy...the, uh, consequences...oy...of an accident...”
“How did you manage to aim like that? To get run over by a car...oy, shit...that was smart...I look both ways four times before I...oy...cross...not so fast...”
“Ohhhh...wow...great...ooo...Andriusha...ooooo...aaahhh!”
“Not so fast, I said.”
Nikolaeva held her hips. She lowered her head. Shook her hair. Cautiously moved her rear end. Then some more. And some more.
Andrei frowned.
“Oy, oh, shit...I’m already...Alka, you bitch...I said...don’t...rush! It’s gonna spray! No! Push, push right there! Damnit! Get off! Come on, why the fuck did you go and ruin it like that?”
Nikolaeva jumped off him immediately. With one hand she grabbed his condom-covered penis. With the other she pushed on the space between his anus and his testicles.
“I’m sorry, Sash...I mean...Andriush...”
“Harder, push harder!”
She pushed harder. He moaned. Jerked his head.
“Now distract me, goddamnit...”
“What, how Andriushenka?”
“Come on, tell me something...”
“What?”
“Umm, something funny...come on, come on, come on...”
“Like a joke?”
“Something...oy, shit...come on, come on...”
“I can’t remember jokes...” Nikolaeva scratched her shaved pubis. “Oh, I know! Here’s
an unfuckingbelievable story Sula told me. When she was fifteen, some guy took her home with him, wanted to screw her, but she wouldn’t let him, like — she was a virgin and all that stuff. The guy messes around with her in bed, spends all this time with her, like almost two hours, his dick is smoking, and she still won’t spread her legs. Then he says, ‘Let me screw you in the butt.’ ‘Well, okay,’ she says. She sticks it up for him. As soon as he gets it in he comes — couldn’t wait anymore. And like there was so much fucking sperm! It just poured inside like they were giving her an enema. He rolls off her. And Sula, can you believe it? She gets up, squats, and takes a dump right on his Persian rug! While he’s sitting there with his mouth open, can’t believe his eyes, she gets dressed and off she goes!”
“Oy, shit...Alya, come on...I can’t stand it anymore anyway...”
“Right away, hon,” she said, and sat on him. She directed his penis into her vagina. Began moving quickly. Took his balls in her hand.
“Yeah...yeah...that’s it...” Andrei murmured. He froze. Squeezed his fists. Cried out. Began pounding Nikolaeva’s sides with his fists. “Yes, yes, yes!”
She covered herself with her arms. Moved up and down. Squealed.
Andrei stopped hitting. His arms fell helplessly on the bed.
“Oh, shit...” He reached for the ashtray. Picked up a stubbed-out cigarette.
“How was it?” Nikolaeva licked his pink, hairy nipple.
“Oy...” He stretched. “Like sparks were coming out of my eyes...”
Ice Trilogy Page 35
