St. Petersburg Noir

by Julia Goumen

  Another pause. The silence in the curator’s presence was so heavy that it took on an almost physical weight, producing an effect that was even more intolerable than conversation itself. When he was silent, it was as though he became all-powerful. There was no doubt about it: if you asked that man to get you a platypus, he’d get a platypus. Never mind the platypus, he could even summon out of nonexistence the extinct red macaw.

  “Well?” If Tsukatov deemed a matter important, he could be patient.

  “Ahem. It’s not really enough money.” Demyan Ilich’s brows undulated nice two furry caterpillars. “Yes, well, I can ask around. Maybe something will turn up.” His nostrils flared as though he had already caught the scent of his prey, hiding nearby.

  “How soon will you know?”

  “I’ll get back to you in two or three days.”

  When the door closed behind the curator, Professor Chelnokov exhaled as though he had just surfaced from a murky darkness, where he would surely have suffocated had he hesitated for even one more moment. He had a hard time dealing with forced silence. Chelnokov felt that when he was silent he no longer existed. And even if he did still exist, he was becoming ever smaller and more insignificant, like a devaluing currency.

  “Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth!” Tsukatov said testily. “A very difficult fellow,” Chelnokov agreed, taking a sip of his coffee, already grown cold. “I’m dumbfounded. If one were to believe Lombroso’s anthropological c-criminology, he’d be nothing less than a serial killer. Those students of ours—could that be his handiwork?”

  Two years prior, a female student had disappeared, and half a year later a male student went missing. The latter, however, was from the Physics Department, which had some of its classrooms on the same floor as the Biology Department, in the right wing, opposite the Genetics kitchen. At the time there were numerous rumors floating around—that a cannibal maniac was on the loose, or that the victims had been sold into sexual slavery, or that they had been butchered by surgeons dealing in human organs. For a while the chancellor’s office was full of police operatives who questioned teachers and students; but soon things quieted down. The victims weren’t found. In fact, it never became clear exactly when and where they had disappeared—at the university or off the premises, somewhere in the city.

  “Being difficult isn’t a crime.” When Tsukatov deemed someone useful, he became lenient. “It’s not like we’re getting married to the guy.”

  “Him?” Chelnokov cried indignantly. “What do you mean married? I’d be afraid to turn my b-back to him. He’d just as soon b-b-brain you!”

  ~ * ~

  People don’t talk about things that are important; things that are important are felt. Those feelings burn the heart, and the heart tosses and turns like a rose chafer beetle inside a closed fist. Demyan Ilich knew his materials and was rarely mistaken. That kid was definitely suited for the job. Of course, it would take a lot of work, pressing, crushing, and occasionally giving him a good shake to awaken his true nature, forcing the sleeping essence to hatch and crawl out of its eggshell... But he looked very promising. To himself, with his distinctive brand or humor, the curator referred to this process as awakening the beast.

  Demyan Ilich stopped him in an empty hallway. Lectures had already begun, and the fellow, it seemed, had arrived late, or had perhaps shown up earlier than necessary. He was an ordinary student, with loose pants hanging from his buttocks, a sweatshirt with a hood, and a bag hanging across his stomach. He had a backpack, and his movements were loose, as though his joints had too much play. He had dark fuzz on his upper lip, pimples, and shifty eyes. The curator asked him to help bring the reagents for the laboratory class. The fellow agreed. Why not? Demyan Ilich let the boy go into the open storage room ahead of him, closed the door, and click-click, he turned the key, locking them both inside.

  One moment there were two people in the hallway, the next moment there was no one at all.

  ~ * ~

  After the third class had let out, Lera took the key to room 452 and went off to rescue the wild boar’s head. A hunter, a general who was an acquaintance of Tsukatov’s, had given his hunting trophy to the department a year ago. It was the excellently dressed head of an enormous male boar with terrifying fangs. There wasn’t enough room for it in the museum, so they hung the head in the lecture room. From that time on, unable to rely on the vigilance of instructors, Lera was responsible for unlocking room 452 before class and locking it after class was over. Otherwise, the students, due to someone’s forgetfulness and/or lack of supervision, might give way to their curiosity.

  Lera locked the room, plowed her way through a crowd of vociferous sophomore girls, passed the wide stairwell that veered off sideways, and went into the laboratory, where she picked up the IKEA catalog she shared with her friend, a graduate student. They chatted briefly about this and that, the trouble and inconvenience of the remodeling and so on, before she headed back to the lab assistant’s room. As she passed the storage room of that loathsome Demyan Ilich, above the noise in the hallway she seemed to hear a muffled voice coming from behind the door. That was unusual, since the curator never let anyone into his lair. Lera stopped, hesitated a moment, and then carefully put her ear to the crack between the door and the frame. The door was well fitted, but what if ... yes. That is, no—she couldn’t have been mistaken.

  “We’re gonna friggin’ acquire some new habits now.” The custodian’s muttering growl came through the closed door, almost indiscernible, as though from underwater. “We’re gonna do it one friggin’ step at a time. Ahem. First were gonna make a real guy out of you. Then ... Sure you are. What did you think? I’m gonna grab your throat and hold it like that a little, and then you will... What was that? How’s about I kick your balls? And your Adams apple? Don’t bitch, out on me. Ahem. Yeah, that’s the lesson were gonna learn now—were gonna have a little talk and learn how to behave. Yeah. And eat sunflower seeds too. It’s called the hairy Sutra Awakening. Ever heard of it?”

  Lera recoiled from the door, her ear burning. What was this nonsense? She could only hear one voice coming from inside. Even if there was someone answering the curator, that voice was inaudible. And who could be in there? No one. No one could stand Demyan Ilich here ... Suddenly Lera’s thoughts stood on end like iron shavings on a magnet: Why, he’s a maniac! He can’t even be trusted with a fork! My goodness, he’s really lost it. He’s talking to himself...

  But unable to stifle her own curiosity, Lera put her head to the door one more time.

  “Are you gonna make trouble? Don’t just stand here, sit down on the floor. Ahem ... No, damnit, not like that! Not on your ass, you moron. That’s for our next lesson. Squat down ... Yep, now were talkin’. Tuck your knees below your underarms and let your arms just hang ... Good. Now spit. Spit between your legs ... No, not that much. Count to seven and then spit. Ahem ... Good boy. You’re almost a real man now. Now, let’s eat sunflower seeds ... No, who told you you could get up? Stay put. Here’s your seeds. Wait! Gotta learn how to eat them right. Empty the whole bag into your pocket. That’s right. Now grab a fistful... Okay. You take a seed from your fist with your thumb, and use your nail to stick it between your teeth. Like this, see? Now, snap it open with your teeth. And keep your nose to the grindstone. Say if you’re at a watercolor exhibit, or the subway, or at somebody’s house or whatever, and you can’t spit the husks on the floor, you’re gonna have to put them into your other hand. But if you see that no one cares, you spit them anywhere you want to ...”

  Lera thought that the voice was getting closer, she sprang away from the door of the storage room and hurried away, clicking her high heels and glancing back over her trembling shoulder all the while, then rushed into the lab assistant’s room. Jesus! There was a whirlwind of thoughts in her head. He needs to be locked up! What is Tsukatov thinking? I’m scared to work with him!

  There are usually two paths for man to choose from: the path of truth and the path of lies.
Lera had always preferred the third path: somewhere in-between. The chair of the department wasn’t in that day. It was time to renew his hunting rifle license, so he had gone off to see the license inspector. That was too bad. Lera was desperate to report what she’d heard. It was no use telling the Chief Bird—he was spineless and just as scared of the curator as she was.

  ~ * ~

  The snow that had fallen the day before hadn’t stayed. The Baltic wind had licked it clean with its rough tongue. First from the roofs and cupolas, then from the ground. There wasn’t even any slush left, except perhaps on the asphalt of the courtyard and on the Moika Embankment, where a few damp dark lines could still be seen. It wasn’t uncommon for the green grass to still linger and buds to come out on the trees around New Year’s. The boat weather vane on the golden spire of the Admiralty sailed bravely through the turbulent skies over the Neva River. The southwest wind had turned it ninety degrees.

  Three days passed and Professor Tsukatov called Demyan Ilich into his office again. Lera, the impressionable lab assistant, first made another blunder with the request form and then started imagining things. The girl seemed to have gotten entirely carried away. Shivering uncontrollably, she wrapped a light scarf around her shoulders, and demonstratively drank a few drops of herbal sedative. Instead of the sedative, thought Tsukatov roughly, you should have a hot water bottle on you from head to toe. To calm Lera down, Tsukatov had to promise her that he would personally test the curator’s sanity. It just so happened his acquaintance, the hunting general, had invited him to go on a bear hunt. Tsukatov had never hunted bears before, and he needed a consultation on how to skin prey in the field, just in case. Down there in Vologda, where the general had invited him, everything was covered in snow, and had been for some time. The bears were hibernating, and the huntsman had found a den.

  “Ahem. If the skin is for a rug, then you need to take it off in one layer,” croaked Demyan Ilich, and his thick brows stirred. “First you cut it straight from the chin to the scrotum. And if it’s a female, then take it down to her privates. Start from the jaw, about a palm’s length from the edge of the lower lip, and cut down. Make sure you start all cuts from the underside of the hide so you don’t mess up the fur. Ahem. Well, you’re a hunter yourself, you know what I’m talking about. Right, then the paws.”

  Tsukatov seated Demyan Ilich at the large desk in the middle of the office, and sat across from him. He listened carefully, occasionally jotting something down on a piece of paper. Chelnokov, who was at his desk in a nook separated from them by a bookcase and the wooden banister, put on his glasses and pretended to be reading an article in the Journal of Ornithology.

  “Ahem. The cuts on the paws all have to come together in the same spot by your main cut.” The curator made a gesture with the nail of his protruding thumb from his throat to his belly. “And you finish coming out at a straight angle. The front paws, from the palm callouses to the elbows and then across the armpits…” To illustrate the point, Demyan Ilich pointed out where to cut on himself. “Right. The hind legs you cut from the heel callouses to the knees, and then from the inside of the hip to here.” He got up from his seat, bent over, and demonstrated. Then he sat down again. “Ahem. If you’re taking the hide to a taxidermist right away, you can snip the paws off right at the carpals, and you don’t have to skin the head—just chop it off at the last vertabra and you’re good. Ahem. But if the hide is going to be lying around for a while, then you cut the callouses from three sides and take the paw out. Just leave the last phalanxes of the toes. Right. And the head ... you’ll have to take the hide off the head too.” Demyan Ilich fell silent in yet another unnecessary pause. “Then you salt the hide thoroughly. Where there are muscles and fat, make incisions and rub in some salt. Then fold it, the inner sides facing in on themselves, roll it up, and hang it on a stick so the brine can drip off. Ahem. It’s best to freeze it.”

  “What if I want it mounted? Full-size?” said Tsukatov, “How do I go about it then?”

  The curator went silent—as usual, for longer than was comfortable.

  “Then you’re not going to want to take it off as a single layer. Ahem. You make a cut from the back. Then the seam on the belly won’t show. There’s usually not much fur on the belly. It’s hard to hide the seam. Right.” Demyan Ilich spoke weightily, as though he was moving rocks, but Tsukatov listened without prompting him. “And it’s best to take the beast’s measurements if you want to stuff and mount it. From the tip of the nose to the corners of the eyes, and from the tip of the nose to the base of the tail. One more thing: once you’ve skinned the bear, measure the girth of the neck—behind the ears—and the chest, right here, around the stomach. You need the measurements so the taxidermist knows the right proportions.” As before, Demyan Ilich indicated on himself where exactly the bear’s stomach was. “So, we cut along the spine from the tail to the back of the head. Right. And the paws, from the callouses to the elbows and knees. Ahem. Then you skin it. Right.”

  “I’m not quite clear on the head,” said Tsukatov. “I’ve never had to take the hide off a head before.”

  “Now that’s tricky. Right, first you make a deep cut where the lips and jaws meet. You pull the lip back with one hand and cut with the other, so that the knife slides right along the jaw-line. Right up against the jaw. Ahem. If you don’t do that, you’ll rip the lips when you remove the skin from the head.” As Demyan Ilich spoke, he became more and more excited, which was unusual—for three years everyone at the faculty had known him as a gloomy, silent man. “Ahem. Cut the auditory canals as close to the scalp as you can, and make sure you slice the skin around the eyes right up to the sockets, so you don’t damage it. You’d be better off with a scalpel instead of a knife. Right. Cut the nose off whole, along the cartilage. Ahem. Next, the ears. The ears will be difficult.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and then simulated some careful handiwork. “From the back of the ears you separate the skin from the cartilage, slowly turning the ear inside out. Then, of course, you salt it. Make incisions in the lips and the nose and rub salt in.”

  “What about the tail?” asked Tsukatov, jotting down the instructions. “Do I dissect the tail too?”

  “Naturally. Ahem. Open it up along the inner side, starting a little ways down from the hole, and pull out the vertebrae. And then you salt the inside again.”

  “Thank you, Demyan Ilich.” Tsukatov was pleased. “Now what about our ape? The chimpanzee. Any news?”

  Demyan Ilich went dead silent. “You’ll get it,” the curator finally said in a Spartan manner. “Money up front.”

  When Tsukatov and Chelnokov were left alone in the office, Chelnokov tossed his Journal of Ornithology aside and popped out of his nook as quick as a flash. Of course he had listened to the entire conversation, and of course he was tormented by the silence.

  “The girl is just imagining things,” Tsukatov said, surprised. “He’s all right, damnit!”

  “As healthy as the goat-legged Pan,” Chelnokov agreed. ‘Although, if you think about it, we all have our idiosyncrasies. The Chinese, for example, they have no interest in b-bear hide. They only take the spleen, and the paws for some reason. P-peculiar p-people they are. By the way, do you know why there are no Chinese cemeteries here?”

  “You already said they serve their dead in their restaurants.” Normally Tsukatov listened politely to Chelnokov’s stories over and over again, but today he didn’t have the patience. “Lera is the one who should get checked. I once brought my dog to the department, and she got so scared she nearly jumped up on the table.”

  “As a rule, women are more wary of d-dogs than men are,” Chelnokov said. “And there’s a reason for it: women are cats at heart.”

  ~ * ~

  Three weeks later, Tsukatov, who had just returned from his vacation in Vologda, was telling the story of the bear hunt in Chelnokov’s office. The story was colorful, adventurous, epic, and unbelievable, like the Iliad. The synopsis of his tale is as
follows:

  They approached the bear’s den on skis. Tsukatov stood behind a tree, not more than a dozen paces from the entrance. Behind him was the hunter, with two huskies on a leash. The general moved cautiously counterclockwise around the den, to get an idea of the surroundings. If you didn’t kill it right away, the bear would attack the dogs and run around his den from the entrance in the direction of the sun. So the general set out, and Tsukatov took off his skis and began packing down the snow beneath him with his feet—when you’re near a bear’s den, you want to feel solid ground beneath you. The bear must have heard them approaching—perhaps it was sleeping lightly, though the hunter had taken care to tread quietly and keep downwind. The hunter hadn’t even had time to let the dogs loose, when suddenly the bear emerged. He was shaggy and enormous, his head pressed to the ground, his chest hidden. Even if you shot, you wouldn’t kill him with the first bullet, and Tsukatov didn’t even have his rifle cocked. Fortunately, the bear didn’t attack them, but instead followed the general’s ski tracks. The hunter let the dogs loose, and Tsukatov finally fired his rifle, although the bear was already escaping. As it turned out later, the bullet hit the bear in the behind. Then the huskies got in on the action, nipping the bear in the haunches. The bear was enraged. The general didn’t let them down: he fired the fatal shot. Tsukatov had brought bear meat back with him, and the hide went to the sharpshooter as trophy.