St. Petersburg Noir

by Julia Goumen

  They went on foot, the writer thought, didn’t even call a taxi; they were economizing.

  He cursed softly and dove into the nearest café.

  His wife liked noisy crowds. Business over, she wouldn’t go to the hotel to shorten the long evening away from home. Why should she if she was surrounded by a big, handsome city, with all its theaters and restaurants?

  The writer drank his coffee and two shots of brandy. He would have to wait.

  For some reason he’d thought he could simply peer in the windows, watch her coming out of the hotel or going into it— and immediately know. And if he got a look at her friends, he would know especially. He would pick up on the signals, waves, impulses. If there’s a connection between two people, the careful observer will scope it out immediately.

  Now he was sitting there shivering, almost sober, and angry at himself, the way he’d been angry sometimes in his youth when two or three days of nonstop surveillance of some oaf was yielding no result, or, rather, a negative result: the oaf who’d borrowed a large sum of money was not visiting casinos and strip clubs or wearing a shiny new jacket, wasn’t chowing down at expensive restaurants, wasn’t blowing the dust off his vintage Ferrari hidden in some secret garage; he was just dragging out his sad philistine existence. What he had done with the money was unclear. He so wanted to go back to the client paying for the surveillance and say, “I’ve got it! He’s living a double life! He’s secretly building his own brick factory ... ”

  At the time the writer was twenty-two and hadn’t written anything yet, but his writerly imagination was already playing nasty jokes on him.

  He thought people lived interesting, vivid, stormy, full lives. Whereas they actually lived boring, languid ones.

  He didn’t believe it. He spent fifteen years trying to find people who lived interesting lives and as a result discovered that the most interesting person he’d met in a decade and a half of continuous searching was himself.

  Downing another shot, he turned his anger on his wife now, not himself. Had she bounced out of the hotel doors, beaming and laughing, wearing heels and expensive stones, arm in arm with someone powerful with square shoulders and white teeth, then he, her husband, would have felt pain but also admiration. This way, all he felt was irritation. Once again, nothing was happening. Once again, nothing was clear. Only shadows behind curtains, only vague suspicions.

  He ate very slowly, and killed nearly an hour and a half. Killing time is a great sin, but sometimes a murderer simply has no other option.

  He came out on Nevsky and was going to start wandering around, gawking like a Western tourist at the ponderous granite façades, but all of a sudden he got scared he might run into his wife by accident; he turned onto a side street and hid in the first bar he came to.

  The city was gray, chilly, and indifferent, created not for people but for the sake of a great idea, though there were plenty of establishments for every taste and pocketbook. As a small boy, the writer had come here twice with his parents—to visit the museums and soak up some culture—and even then he’d noticed the abundance of cafés and snack bars. In answer to his question, his mother had shrugged and said, “They lived through the blockade. People starved to death. The fear of famine must have etched itself into their memory forever. They’re led by fear. It makes them open little restaurants in every suitable half-cellar ... ”

  Even then, actually, the writer thought the people of the city lacked all fear. Constructed of massive stone, the city felt solid. And now, thirty years later, the local residents resembled calm Europeans; naturally, it wasn’t fear that had compelled them to create so many restaurants and bars but healthy Baltic hospitality.

  The writer pulled out his laptop, but he didn’t turn it on. His vexation had the better of him. There was no possibility of actually working. It was stupid. Very stupid. A jealous man had come to follow his wife but had taken along his computer so as not to waste time. Stupid, bizarre, and ridiculous. That’s how jealous men always behave.

  Go to hell, he told himself. Jealous men are all different and they behave in different ways. Are you such a specialist in jealousy? You aren’t jealous at all. You just want to know. You think it’s important to know whether anything happened or not. The very fact. . .

  The bar was stuffy and bleak. It had begun to rain outside. People quickly packed the narrow space and the writer found himself trapped. He could get up and leave—outside it was cold and windy. If you didn’t find a nicer place you’d come back and your table’d be taken. He could stay—and breathe the sour smells and listen to Finnish, German, and English. The writer didn’t know any other languages and was now ashamed of his lack of education.

  He asked for another dose of brandy and decided to relax.

  It was easy. The writer never forgot that he’d been created, begat, by cheap, smoke-filled dives just like this. He’d spent half his conscious life in smoky, dim establishments where customers from the lower-middle class went to unwind in the evening. He’d eaten, worked, and held meetings in smoke and liquor fumes. He’d smoked a lot. And drank; sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. He’d always eaten very little. And written a lot.

  At some point—it might have been three years ago—he realized his wife was tired of that life. She didn’t understand him. She’d ask him to go to Rome, Prague, Barcelona. He’d agree, but a couple of days into their stay in any European capital he would find a smoke-filled dive, and once he had, he would calm down. And when he had calmed down, he would realize that European dives were much more boring than Russian dives.

  The rain stopped and he stepped out under the low sky.

  He was considered an interesting man, and his books were full of interesting stories. Only his wife knew that in fact the writer was a taciturn, boring creature and all his entertainment boiled down to television. He drew his plots from his salad days; so much had happened that now he could write his whole life without getting distracted by anything else. But his wife grew weary, and one day he realized she had another man.

  Not realized—suspected.

  ~ * ~

  Surveillance requires a car. When dark fell, the writer hailed a cab. Finding himself in an oddly clean car, he asked whether he might smoke. “As you wish,” the driver replied in an even voice; it was immediately clear that this guy would not do for today’s purposes. The writer had to laugh. Usually cab drivers irritated him with their informality, dirty sock smell, and rudimentary musical tastes, but here was rare good luck—behind the wheel was a true intellectual. And so? That’s not what he needed. He needed your typical rogue, a worker reeking of gasoline. A proletarian of the pedals. It’s always that way with intellectuals, the writer thought. They always show up at the wrong time.

  He asked to be let off at the corner of Nevsky and Marat. After paying he realized he had to reallocate his money. He took a few bills out of his wad and put those in his pants pocket and the rest in his jacket, next to his heart. Laughing at himself, he crossed the street and caught another cab, this time quite successfully. The cabbie was young and smirky and looked like a lazy scoundrel. The writer liked scoundrels, he’d spent many years among scoundrels and knew how to behave in their society. He showed his money and explained what he needed to do. The cabbie’s gray eye and gold tooth flashed gamely. He was taking no risk. Better to stand around than drive. Better to do nothing than something. Naturally, given a previously agreed upon payment; money up front.

  They idled across the street where they could see both the room windows and the hotel entrance. The wait could take hours; the writer relaxed and lowered his seat back slightly.

  Bored, the cabbie inevitably struck up the usual, fairly pointless conversation, but the writer immediately interrupted him and started talking himself, and it was a monologue. He had long known that you could calm any idle chatterer if you immediately sucked up all the air. And forced him to listen to you. The writer had a few monologues at the ready, each of which could be made to last as lon
g as needed. The total corruption, war, gas prices in Europe and Asia, weapons, prison, the outrages of traffic cops, air travel, games of chance, cars and motorcycles. Once I was in Barcelona; and once I was in Amsterdam. Generalities were not advisable—the chatterer would interrupt you right away. You needed concrete stories fashioned in keeping with the rules of dramaturgy, with a beginning, middle, and end. Mentions of large sums of money go down well. One time, there I was giving someone fifty thousand German marks—that was before the euro came in—and the man arrived for the meeting with a rubber belt under his shirt to hide his riches on his person, and he was amazed when he saw a thin stack instead of lots of raggedy bills; he didn’t know there were thousand-mark bills ... And so on. The stories leapt out of the writer by themselves, one led to another, the episodes were recast in decisive criminal slang, rough curses, and minimal gestures.

  Thus passed nearly four hours. The driver was tired— chatterers don’t know how to listen—and had smoked all the cigarettes the man had given him. And then the writer saw his wife.

  Basically, the earlier arrangement was repeated, only in reverse. First, in lively conversation and even with little explosions of carefree laughter, the three persons of the female persuasion passed by; the male person, by now tieless, coat flapping open, was bringing up the rear of the procession. His left arm dragged a solidly filled package bearing the logo of a cheap supermarket. Tensing, the writer managed to make out his perfectly ordinary face in the light of the streetlamp. The heavy cheeks of a thirty-year-old not inclined to adventures, moderately charming, inoffensive. The writer managed to glimpse the gentleman checking out his female companions’ figures. He’s choosing, the writer thought angrily. Three of them, one of him, and the whole night ahead ... But if it’s her and him, that’s a disaster. He’s boring. He has boring hair, boring ears, boring boots. What’s he got in that package? Kefir?

  The windows lit up, and again vague shadowy patches began to move behind the curtains. The writer got out. After the stuffy car the air seemed prickly and sweet. He took out his phone and called.

  “Everything’s fine,” his wife said matter-of-factly. “I just got back, I’m tired, and I’m going to bed. What are you doing?”

  They lobbed a number of everyday questions and answers at each other and said goodbye. The writer paced back and forth. A car passing through a puddle gave him a good, stiff splashing.

  The light in the room went out, and the curtains were lit up blue from the inside. She’d turned on the television, the writer realized. Or had she? A television masks noise well. For instance, in prison, if you had to break some idiot’s bones, first you turned up the volume on the television and only then called the idiot in for a chat.

  Who is the idiot now? the writer asked himself. Me, naturally. On the other side of that wall, in their room, they’re watching television. They have a blanket, pillows, and tea. Maybe even wine. Actually, his wife barely drank. Whereas I have a heavy sky, icy damp creeping under my collar, and next to me a greedy fool with yellow nails on his short fingers.

  The light went out, eleven o’clock—what should he do? Where should he go? Tomorrow afternoon she’d return home. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t understood anything.

  He went back to the car and immediately caught a familiar whiff that called up a number of the most varied associations. The driver was looking in his direction.

  “I could go for a joint myself,” the writer declared. “Got anything?”

  “Not on me.”

  They quickly came to an agreement and drove off. In the process of making the deal they’d had to find out something about each other. The driver’s name was Peter.

  “Bear in mind, I’m not the pusher,” Peter warned. “But I can introduce you. It’s nearby. Liteyny Prospect.”

  The apartment—huge, in an old building—turned out to be something between a squat and a lair. The young guy who led the guests in looked like Jesus gone to drink. A lump of gray ash hung in his beard. While the writer was considering whether to take off his boots, a petite young woman in an alcoholic’s tank top and outsize camo pants emerged from the depths of a dark hallway on her way to the kitchen, holding onto the wall, which was covered with pieces of different-colored paper instead of wallpaper; her left arm was adorned with a badly wrapped gray bandage. The writer decided to keep his boots on.

  Entering this place, the driver was subtly transformed and became both looser and cruder. He curtly reproached Jesus for being hammered again and looked at the girl with undisguised hatred. The writer picked up on this immediately and tensed. He himself had not experienced hatred for many years and hoped never to experience it again.

  “For you,” Peter told Jesus, and he nodded at the writer, who straightened the strap on his backpack, making it clear he was a guest, a stranger, he’d come on business and would leave right away, as soon as he got what he needed.

  “Follow me,” Jesus responded in English, and he smiled at the writer and stepped into the hallway’s dimness. He moved slowly and smoothly. He threw back a blanket covered in large fuchsia flowers that served as a door and led the writer and driver into a room hung solid with watercolors of flowers, eyes, and clouds in various combinations and even symbioses: some flowers had pupils and lashes, while the clouds looked like blossoms with partly opened petals. The illustrator didn’t have much talent but was obviously a very passionate creature, and the writer chuckled to himself; he himself wrote books that had passion but not much talent.

  “I’m not the pusher,” Peter repeated, flashing his tooth. “Talk to him.” And he pointed to Jesus.

  Jesus smiled again, calmly and shyly.

  The writer didn’t like dealers; he silently pulled out a large bill and set it on the edge of the table, which was covered with dirty glasses and cups. Jesus nodded and left the room.

  “This is my pad,” Peter announced carelessly, moving the clothes off the couch and taking a seat. “Well, nearly mine. Two rooms out of five. My granny dies, I’ll have three rooms. Some businessman already bought the other two. Granny dies, I’ll sell him the third. My sister and I’ll be left with a room apiece. We’ll split the money”—he snapped his fingers—”and I’ll buy a boat. In the summer I’ll take tourists around, and in the winter I’ll go where it’s warm. Rostov, Sochi . . .” He fell silent, then added, “But Granny isn’t dying.”

  “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 d
oubts—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. . .