St. Petersburg Noir

by Julia Goumen

  “Upon being introduced into a person’s natural orifice, the pear opens up with the help of the screw mechanism. Just like an iron flower opening its daisy petals. The internal organs pop like balloons. And you know who the first people who used the anal pear were? Lovers of small boys . . .”

  She raised her voice, again addressing the silent mannequins: “And who would have thought, honored gentlemen, that this model family man, the father of two children, by the way, and this close to becoming a legislator ... It’s shameful, Tolik, how painstakingly you’ve hidden from the electorate your love for little-boy ass ... ”

  He closed his eyes. Somehow this witch knows everything about me. Everything ... She’s insane, truly off her rocker, and that means she’s capable ... of anything. But what exactly? What did I ever do to her? What? . . .

  A deadly anguish turned his arms and legs to cotton. Anatoly shuddered a few times on the floor and fell quiet. The pear lay there beside him.

  “Adultery is a mortal sin,” the witch sang out, “but death by pear sometimes comes too quickly. Therefore, we’ll leave the fruit for dessert.”

  She busied herself with something at another display, then walked up to Anatoly and disdainfully touched his small, shriveled member with the tip of her shoe. A blade resembling a table knife gleamed dully in her hand.

  “Spousal betrayal, Tolya, was punished mercilessly, regardless of the defendant’s regalia. I also heard that before you were in state service you used to traffic in young girls, right? So you see, the same fate awaited procurers. Do you understand what I’m talking about? Plain old castration. Point of fact: as autopsies of eunuchs’ corpses have shown, the castrate’s cock was small and underdeveloped. The hair on his body was sparse and absent altogether from his limbs and anus. There was almost no hair in the armpits or on the genitalia.” Suddenly, she winked. “But if they got to you younger, castration might help preserve your luxurious head of hair. The hair on eunuchs’ heads grows beautifully. But now, alas, it’s too late.”

  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 & Ksenla Venglinskaya

  Rybatskoye

  Translated by Marian Schwartz

  T his 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 j
ob 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.

  He had nothing left but his kid. He locked himself in his little house for a couple of days with his best friend—a dog named Voldema—and his secretary Zoyenka, who brought him Jack Daniel’s and ham on rye. Kolyan dispatched his faithful muscle—Arif the Uzbek, and Roman, who was half Chechen—to keep an eye on the street kids who hung out by the metro.

  ~ * ~

  A colorful balloon, a scarlet blow-up heart in the little tramp’s hands ... The muzhik seemed okay, not scary at all. Offered her some khachapuri. “Come with me,” he said.

  He didn’t sound Russian, but had the usual look—broad face, a light stubble up to his eyes, a jersey and tracksuit pants. On the other hand, that babe of his was the ideal for any teenage girl. Miniskirt, black tights (maybe even stockings), a top with rhinestones, the most expensive kind they sell at the market. And, of course, blond. But not straw-dry, just right... an elegant honey color. And made-up. A beauty, in short. A fairy.

  “Don’t be afraid, we’ll go together,” the woman said to her. What was she supposed to be afraid of? It’s not like they were going to cut her. Maybe they’d even give her a bite to eat and a dress or something. She was still young, of course—she wasn’t going to smoke or drink vodka, just Jaguar, like the really cool kids in their crowd. Beer was awfully bitter ... but Shurka had great respect for Jaguar and other drinks in colorful tin cans that opened with that unmistakable, delicious pssh. In short, she agreed to go with the beautiful lady and the black guy.

  But she began to get scared when they drove up to the redbrick house on the edge of the district, practically right under the bridge ... There was a time when she loved walking around here—the pretty, shimmering bridge covered in diverging patterns of light, like a piece of sun—and the river, boats big and small, the barges and passenger ships. Shurka was entranced by the loud music and laughter that came from them, the reflections of bright lights dancing on the water. Then a rumor went around about creepy things going on in the red house, and everyone stopped hanging around near there. A few guys did try to take a look, but they never had any stories to tell afterward. A couple of girls a little older than she was had been there. They never did say what went on, but afterward they had money and they started going somewhere in town “to work.”

  Inside, the house wasn’t at all frightening: in the big living room, to which the kitchen was attached, all four walls were painted a different, very bright color, and there was equally colorful furniture against each wall. In the middle of the room there were tall lamps with big white umbrellas. And the windows had black film over them.

  The pretty woman’s name was Zoyenka, and her companion was Roman. They really did feed her, as promised, and Zoyenka gave her a pretty scarf that was saturated with a yummy tobacco smell and some kind of sweet perfume. From time to time Zoyenka would go into another room, where she would shout at some drunk. Later, Zoyenka brought him into the room. She told Shurka that this was Nikolai…Kolyan. He had a puffy face and inflamed eyes with narrow slits. Nikolai was standing, swaying, and holding his head with his hand. His clothes were clean and crisp—a white jersey with the portrait of some dude, and pressed jeans. He looked around, as if here for the first time, and his glance ran into the towheaded girl sitting on a chair, her hands folded tensely on her pretty little knees. Suddenly he grunted, emitted a drunken roar, and staggered first toward Zoya and then toward Shurka, muttering something unintelligible about “my little girl.” One of his arms, twisted, hung next to his body, but the other bulged with muscles.

  And so Shurka began living in the red house on the bank of the Neva, practically under the sunny bridge. Sometimes she thought she’d acquired an excellent family. Zoyenka showed her how to do her makeup, got her off the Jaguar, explaining it wasn’t chic, and in general treated her like her own daughter, something Shurka had never seen from her mother, who had been lost to the bottle a long time ago. A couple of times, after figuring out where Shurka was living, her mother did come to the house and demand they give back her daughter. She and Nikolai would yell at each other for a long time and then Roman or Arif would lead her away—staggering, smelling nasty, and sobbing for all to hear—to the nearest bar. For a couple of weeks her mother would calm down.

  And there were days when Maxim, a cameraman, would drive over to Kolyan’s (Shurka couldn’t bring herself to call him Papa), and then Zoyenka would take Shurka to the other half of the house and they would sit there all night. They watched television and ate pastries. Maxim always brought something delicious like chocolate “potatoes”—éclairs or bouchées in cardboard boxes—-and talked, trying not to listen to the sounds from the other half of the house. Then, at dawn, once Shurka had drifted off cozily on the sofa, Zoyenka would hurry to move her back to the other side before going to work. The whole next day Kolyan would sleep. His favorite dog Voldemar, fed his fill by Zoyenka, would sleep too. On days like that at Kolyan’s, when morning came, Zoyenka would already have dashed back to make breakfast. Kolyan grumbled that she’d practically moved in there and forgotten all about her own apartment, to which Zoyenka lightly replied that she and Shurochka had found a common language, and she was thinking about renting her little apartment out to someone.

  Shurka never did see Kolyan as drunk as that first day again. When Maxim came, then Kolyan didn’t drink at all, but in all other instances he was usually a little high all day, though never tanked.

  Sometimes, sitting in the living room under the huge plasma screen (this was the best place to watch cartoons), or at the kitchen table, or on the rug by the fireplace, next to a peacefully snoring Voldemar, Shurka would catch the pensive and rather unpleasantly heavy gaze of the master of the house. Then she felt not fear but something truly creepy. But Kolyan never said or did anything, instead just ruffled the dog’s velvety coat with exaggerated gaiety, calling him his “golden boy.” Why Voldemar was “golden,” Shurka could not understand—he was black with rusty spots—until Zoyenka explained to her that this was a very expensive dog and brought his master a lot of money. These evenings always ended with Kolyan falling silent, an awkward quiet hanging over them, and him going to his room, at which point Shurka would calm down and convince herself she’d imagined everything.

  ~ * ~

  It was Thursday. A gentle, sunny, and especially quiet day. Lulled by the soft rays of sunset, Shurka was sitting on the riverbank that lovely evening feeding a roll to the greedily quacking ducks. The grasshoppers were making such a racket that the sound wedged under her skin. Brushing the bread crumbs off her shorts, Shurka started toward the redbrick house, looking
around out of habit—just in case her mama was getting ready to leap out from somewhere and spoil her mood again.

  Maxim’s car was at the house. Shurka as usual thought of cake and pastries and started smiling. The door to the house was locked, but Shurka had taken a key when she left. She opened the door, walked down the hall, and entered the living room. A very bright light blinded her, and the first thing she took in was the sound. Voldemar was whining and yelping in a silly way and a woman was groaning. Then she saw it. She did not throw up and somehow made it to the hall, and she instinctively fled.

  Kolyan bellowed helplessly, “Zoyenka!”

  She heard the clicking of heels, and Zoya’s soft hands kept Shurka from running outside. She led Shurka to the other half of the house, where the TV was turned on and there were pastries— bouchées and éclairs, her very favorite, damn it all to hell.

  “Your papa’s making money ... Don’t take it too hard,” Zoyenka muttered rather guiltily. “We all roll any way we can. And we don’t live badly ... the plasma TV, the éclairs. Hey, your papa’s got his eye on a car for you and now he can even afford a driver. And he’ll buy it for your eighteenth birthday, have no doubts about that. What kind do you like, girly ones or bigger ones? Red or white?”