St. Petersburg Noir

by Julia Goumen

  Doctor Tsukatov, professor of biology, was a parasitologist, and a well-known specialist on nematodes. He saw worms everywhere and in everything. Throughout years of work, nematodes, those tiny creatures, had made nests in his thoughts and had grown to unbelievable proportions. They had gained so much weight that they—his thoughts, that is—sailed heavily along the smooth surface of his consciousness, much like the barges that used to float along Lake Ladoga centuries ago, loaded with travertine for the construction of the then newly-founded city of St. Petersburg, ponderous and inexorable. His thoughts themselves seemed like worms to him, parasitizing their host and forcing him to act according to their own wormy demands.

  “I understand. I’ll rewrite this,” the stately Lera said, fluttering her thick eyelashes, she was in the wrong, but believed that she deserved leniency. She was exhausted by the remodeling that was underway at her home, which she blamed for this little slipup. “Two desiccators, pipettes, test tubes with sixteen-by-eighteen caps, paraffin strips, ethyl acetate, diethyl ether—”

  “No, we don’t need diethyl ether,” Tsukatov corrected her.

  Outside the window of the chair of the Zoology Departments office, the year’s first snow was falling. It powdered the courtyard, stuck to the trees, and swirled above the black waters of the Moika, afraid of touching the twinkling dangerous gloss of the surface. In the summer, the green treetops partially obscured the view, and the water wasn’t visible. Now, before it would be covered in ice, the black water of the river could be seen through the tree branches and the embankment railing, snaking slowly along. Set off by the fresh ocher color of the buildings, the clean snow looked festive, like a childhood memory.

  Farther down, past the Red Bridge, the green Jugendstil steeple of the S. Esders & K. Scheefhals Trading House, topped with a caduceus, could still be discerned through the falling snow. Right behind it the gilded cupola of St. Isaac’s Cathedral shimmered dimly. The boat weathervane on the spire of the Admiralty had vanished—the northwest wind had turned it sideways to the viewer.

  Tsukatov’s eyes were still smoldering, but he himself had already started cooling off—the spirit of righteous anger had left the professor in his usual state of pedantic severity, which did not seek a victim intentionally, and was even kind by nature. Tsukatov was the chair of the department, but he was also a man, still strong and not old, and as a man, he was prepared to forgive a woman her little foibles because of her nice figure.

  “Microscope slides and cover slips, filter paper,” muttered Lera, “smooth tweezers and serrated tweezers, alcohol, diethyl ether—“

  “No diethyl ether, we don’t need that,” Tsukatov corrected her once again.

  The door of the office opened without a knock and Professor Chelnokov appeared. He was stocky and thickset, and despite having long ago entered the sixth decade of his life, he looked youthful and energetic. He had just finished giving a lecture and he was excited by the vivacious spirit that had poured into him. A renowned ornithologist, Professor Chelnokov enjoyed talking to young people, and young people answered him in kind—he had been called Chief Bird by at least four generations of students. Chelnokov could boast of having a fine memory, but with time, the fullness of detail began to fade, and although he remembered many stories from his life and the lives of others, he couldn’t recall to whom and how many times he’d already related these stories.

  In his day, Tsukatov had been Chelnokov’s student, and he too had affectionately called his teacher Chief Bird (though not to his face, of course). Now Tsukatov shared the office of the department chair with him. Their desks stood near each other on a low platform by the window, hedged away from the rest of the space by a bookcase and a short wooden banister. Although obliged to become neighbors due to circumstance—Chelnokov’s office was in a perennial state of reconstruction—they both sincerely enjoyed one another’s company. Besides, Chelnokov himself had recently been the chair of the department, but had to abandon the post due to his advanced age.

  “Y-you know, we don’t have a single decent primate in our m-museum. I mean, an anthropoid,” said Chelnokov, stuttering elegantly, resuming the conversation they had been engaged in before he had gone off to give a lecture. Their discussion was about how to utilize the unexpected funding that had been allotted for the museum’s needs. “We have macaques and other short-tailed monkeys all over the p-place, but not a single gorilla. Or an orangutan, b-beautiful and orange, like a tangerine. It’s just not right.”

  “There are many things we don’t have yet,” said Tsukatov. His personal preference was to augment the reptile collection, and he was considering acquiring a Galapagos tortoise. A thought he shared with all present.

  “Who is the Galápagos tortoise to us, anyway? A son-in-law? A brother?” Chelnokov countered, producing a can of coffee from the bookcase they had adapted into a cupboard. “Now, a ch-chimpanzee is basically family. A distant relative, at the very least.” And then to Lera: “Care for coffee?”

  Tsukatov pursed his lips into a fine line. A supporter of hierarchies, he preferred not to mix ranks, assuming that as long as he remained on formal terms with both his subordinates and his superiors, neither of them would feel emboldened to indulge in chummy manners with him. Especially his superiors. Why on earth should they? Professor Tsukatov wasn’t looking for their approval. He knew what he was worth, and he knew he was worth a great deal. Hence, his deeply held belief was that laboratory assistants ought to drink their coffee back in the laboratory.

  “No,” continued Chelnokov with gusto, “the first thing on our list should be a decent primate…Uh, an anthropoid. Perhaps we could even section off a c-corner as something of an ancestral temple, like a Chinese fanza.” He was playing the buffoon. “My daughter was in Jiangxi. Uh ... in their houses the Chinese have a special c-corner they use as an altar, with the ashen remains of their ancestors where they b-burn incense. And they talk to their ancestors in Chinese about everyday matters. Girls talk about their beaus” —Chelnokov winked at Lera who was stifling her laughter with her palm—”and the paterfamilias might talk about the harvest or consult it on matters of monetary investment.”

  Chelnokov’s arguments were flippant, empty, and unfounded. In fact, it would be unjustified to call them arguments at all. But as Tsukatov listened to his colleague, he felt that in fact he really had nothing against the idea of a stuffed ape, and that perhaps it would be a better idea than getting a tortoise. After all, the vice-chancellor of science had moved to the administrative position from the Department of Biology. While he was still a practicing zoologist, he had participated in some ridiculous project for acclimatizing chimpanzees to the Pskov region. It stood to reason that he would still feel affection toward anthropoids. This also meant that it would be easier to get the paperwork through.

  Ever since the university’s reputation had improved and the Ministry of Education had named it one of the leading institutions in the country, their financial situation had changed for the better. The department’s scientific projects won grant after grant, and they were able to rig up a new laboratory. Some tidbits even trickled down to the museum itself. That was when they realized that they needed a museum curator—a specialist whose obligations, among other things, would include replenishing the museum’s collection, restoring old exhibits and museum furniture, as well as any other matters that came up.

  Demyan Ilich had excellent references and extensive experience working at various institutions, including the Russian Academy of Science’s zoology museum. Tsukatov made a special trip to the spit of Vasilievsky Island to make inquiries about the applicant with the assistant director of the zoology museum, who was an acquaintance of his. The latter attested to the fact that Demyan Ilich was an impressive specialist with a deep understanding of his field, although, as a person, he was a handful: gloomy and unsociable. His coworkers found Demyan Ilich difficult. He had a way of putting people on their guard, which is why he changed jobs frequently. He had his own secret (
albeit quite economical) ways of obtaining materials for exhibits. He could get hold of some of the rarest, most improbable exhibits, and his taxidermy skills were held in high esteem by the museum staff.

  Tsukatov was not put off by the gloomy nature of his future employee. For him, a supporter of hierarchical discipline, warm relations with coworkers meant absolutely nothing. The most important thing to him was how well they did their jobs, and he was certain that he knew how to get them to do their jobs well. Tsukatov was one of those people who didn’t have to play around, gnashing his teeth and crunching the knuckles of his clenched fists. Everyone could see full well that he was a heavyweight. Demyan Ilich’s ability to get hold of whatever was needed was nothing to turn up one’s nose at, either. As a matter of fact, it would prove very useful for replenishing and expanding the museum’s collection. The only problem was that the materials he managed to get hold of—pelts, corpses, and even complete stuffed animals—often lacked the necessary paperwork. But even this did not deter Tsukatov. During the course of his work with the for-profit organizations that delivered the museum its collection of shells of crustaceans, and the glass cube with the display of insects and arachnids from Southeast Asia, their employees had offered, rather unambiguously, to produce the necessary papers for just about anything—any beast, even a diplodocus, hunted in a safari in the swamps of equatorial Africa. For a reasonable fee, naturally. Through their fly-by-night branch offices he could also cash the official funds earmarked for acquiring new museum exhibits, since the suppliers used by Demyan Ilich accepted cash only.

  Since hiring the curator, Professor Tsukatov had already used the services of these fly-by-nights twice. First, when at his request Demyan Ilich obtained a wonderful, brand-new stuffed female alligator so large that they had to set it on the highest shelf, just beneath the ceiling, opposite the Steller sea lion, which had been placed in a similar fashion. The second time was when, on his own initiative, Demyan Ilich suggested that they acquire a new stuffed peacock to replace the old one, which had become tattered and frayed during its hundred years of service.

  Professor Tsukatov went over to the window and gazed out at the snow, the trees that had turned white, the glass dome of the atrium of the trading house behind the Red Bridge, the chains of black footprints made by students trudging through the courtyard, the sky that promised an early twilight, no longer murky, since the downy winter had already spread itself all around. The calm of the snow-covered earth slowly spread within him.

  “Chinese cuisine is also quite p-peculiar,” said Chelnokov, removing the bubbling kettle from its base without interrupting himself. “I’m rather afraid to go to their restaurants. Have you ever noticed how m-many of them live in our cities? Yet they don’t seem to have any cemeteries. Why do you think that is?”

  “Call Demyan Ilich in,” Tsukatov said to Lera, who already knew she’d been forgiven, and was poking about in the cupboard searching for a coffee cup. Then, turning to Chelnokov, he said, “Yes, a chimpanzee. I suppose a chimpanzee would be best after all.”

  ~ * ~

  The untidiness of Demyan Ilich’s abode did not concern its master in the least, and was in fact merely a semblance of disorder—every item here had its place. Just reach out, and the necessary tool was in the palm of your hand. Toss it, and it would fall into position. Joiner and furrier tools, vials with acids, salts, alkali, alums, varnishes, and arsenic solutions, molds for plaster casts of the slim ankle bones (distal limb sections) of some ungulates, piles of glass eyes with hand-painted irises and highlights on the pupils, cans of construction foam, glue, rags, bits or hide, feathers ...

  Demyan Ilich was to the business of taxidermy what Stradivari and Guameri were to the art of violinmaking. He had invented a special solution for preserving fresh materials, a wonderful lotion that worked for pickling bird pelts, and a brilliant tanning solution for animal hides, which changed the qualities of the inner side of the hide, making it flexible and resistant to decay and fungus. He had solved many a riddle of the trade, and he knew quite a few special tricks that were unfathomable to others. Soaking, cleaning the inner side of the hide from any leftover muscle tissues, quill preparation, rinsing and fat removal, pickling, drying, and softening—he had his own secret recipe for every stage of the process. The fur of the hides that he had dressed remained glossy and didn’t wear thin, and the feathers never fell out. The recipes of his shadowy secretive art quickened the dressing process, making it five or ten times faster. No other taxidermist could complete the process so quickly. Assembling a beast or bird with unfinished hide would mean that it would rot, develop a foul odor, and lose its fur and feathers. And if it didn’t rot, then the hide of the stuffed animal would dry up, become deformed, the seams would rip, and the edges of the hide would curl up on the bare mannequin, which then couldn’t be rectified by any number of bandages or clamps. Demyan Ilich was able to get excellent results in a short time: the gloomy bliss of genius had chosen to descend upon him.

  “Involution…Ahem…” The curator’s index finger shot upward. “Involution ... yes. A serpent shall give birth to an angel.”

  He talked to himself when he was in a colorful mood. Demyan Ilich had finally come up with a plan for luring the little devil into his lair. She would come of her own accord. She had all that remodeling going on at home, and he had offhandedly set her up with a ceiling plasterer. The man was a spurious wretch from the joiner’s shop of the museum on the spit, who was greedy and dumb as a cork. He would bring her to Demyan Ilich, as if to show her his work: I did the ceilings over there a few days ago, come and see for yourself what a great a job I did. Demyan Ilich would give the handyman his due later—he’d invite him over to pay him, and then he’d awaken the polecat within.

  ~ * ~

  Lera didn’t like the museum curator, and was even a little afraid of him. Demyan Ilich’s gaze was sharp and piercing, his eyebrows thick and disheveled, his face sallow and bony, his character unsociable and nasty. Once, seeing him in the hall in front of the genetics kitchen, where students in thrall to science brewed porridge for fruit flies, Lera automatically smiled at him with her large mouth and fluttered her eyelashes. Only after she had passed him had she heard him mutter, “Ahem ... Quite an ostrich.” Lera’s ears blushed scarlet and her back became covered in goose bumps. What a weirdo!

  Then Lera studied herself in the mirror. Yes, sue was tall, slim, wide-hipped, and, well, yes, she had a long neck, large mouth, and large eyes beneath her contact lenses. She was young, healthy, beautiful, and lively. In a word, Artemis. What did he mean “an ostrich”? What nonsense!

  Demyan Ilich was in the museum. He answered, “Yes, yes,” from far off, but didn’t open the door right away. He was a long time shuffling behind the closed door. When he finally opened it, he gave her a sullen look. His white lab coat was stale, his hair unkempt, his shoes dusty and worn to the point of indecency.

  Coldly, without hiding her aversion to him, Lera conveyed Tsukatov’s message to the curator. Without waiting for his reply, she turned around haughtily and headed off to the lab assistant’s room, high heels clicking, to rewrite the letter of request for reagents, materials, and laboratory utilities. Her shoulders felt cold from the gaze that followed her from behind.

  “A little flea went walking in the garden, the louse did bow, and that flea did swagger…” Demyan Ilich muttered to Lera’s back. His eyes, which had been sharp as an awl a moment before, were now glazed over ...

  “I need an answer now; will you take this on or not?” Tsukatov was talking to the curator, who looked at the professors with a gray, imperturbable owl-like gaze, as though it was already in the bag. “There’s not much time. We need to spend the money before the end of the year. So we have one month left.”

  There was a long pause. Tsukatov stretched the truth. On several occasions he would submit the paperwork for equipment that had been purchased but hadn’t yet shipped out. It would ship eventually, but no one checked and Tsukatov was c
lean. The chair of the department wasn’t afraid of responsibility—he had made the choice between what was necessary and what was easy once and for all. It didn’t matter how many living beings had to be killed in the name of science to develop an elixir of immortality—he would kill them all without hesitation.

  “Ahem, Demyan Ilich’s voice grated on the ears as though it was an old machine. The curator grimaced, his face clearly unused to smiling, and wriggled his furry brows uncertainly. “I’ll have to look around …”