St. Petersburg Noir

by Julia Goumen

  Chelnokov listened greedily. He had the habit of reconstructing other people’s stories and telling them as his own in other company. He was like that.

  Outside the window, everything was white again, except the black water of the Moika River, which had still not succumbed to the icy clutch of winter. Snow lay on the roofs and the glass dome of the atrium. The wings of Hermes’s caduceus on top of the trading house were also covered in a fine web of snowflakes. Yet St. Isaac’s and the spire of the Admiralty shone a bright gold against the gray skies.

  “By the way,” said Chelnokov, apropos of nothing, “another student d-disappeared. A freshman. It happened ten days back but they only began searching a little while ago. Everybody thought he’d gone back home to Slantsy, but it turned out he wasn’t there either. Police inspectors came to see the dean.”

  “This time it’s definitely a UFO.” Tsukatov’s thoughts were still at the bear’s den.

  “And Demyan Ilich inquired about a van yesterday. The stuffed animal was delivered to his place, so it’s ready to be p-picked up. We should ask someone at the garage to drive over there.”

  “Why didn’t he tell Lera?” said Tsukatov.

  “Lera and Demyan Ilich don’t really g-get along very well,” Chelnokov reminded him. “And then again, she’s been so busy with her remodeling: first it was the plumber, then she had to choose the laminated floorboards, then the ceiling. Remodeling,” Chelnokov sighed, remembering the ongoing work in his own office. “That’s no beetle sneeze for you.”

  Tsukatov drew in the corners of his mouth sharply, as a sign that he understood. No, no one could be trusted to do anything in his absence. Throwing his sheepskin coat over his shoulders with the firm step of a man who knows his own worth, Tsukatov headed down to the garage without delay.

  ~ * ~

  Demyan Ilich dreamed that an ostrich nipped him on the finger. He gasped and woke up from the pain. His finger was intact, but somewhere within, underneath the skin, was a memory of that recent ephemeral adventure. The memory, though still pulsing, was quickly melting. It was indeed a most nonsensical dream.

  For some time Demyan Ilich lay still. Then he turned his head to the window. At that instant his neck started throbbing with a burning sensation—the scratch, disturbed by his movement, seemed to be actually on fire. “My, some claws are just too nasty,” Demyan Ilich said aloud, wincing. Nothing would be nipping him now. She would stand there, beautiful, proud, and foolish, and he would stare at her. In the closet, wrapped up tightly, the material was shifting quietly. Demyan Ilich had no plans to give his would-be project away to some third party. Of course, he wouldn’t make any good money on it, but this was a special case. Really special. It wasn’t the first time he passed up the opportunity for profit, but he was pleased that he had decided things for himself.

  Carefully turning his scratched neck, Demyan Ilich examined the room, flooded with light from the streetlamps—pale, cold, no discernible colors. The room was a mess. There were objects strewn everywhere, unrecognizable in the twilight: clothing, tools ... and a mounted stuffed animal in the middle. Baring its teeth, it sat slightly back on its hind legs, leaning on the knuckles of its forepaws. The room seemed like some sort of uninhabited utility space, and looked more like a workshop than a living room.

  “Ahem,” rasped Demyan Ilich. Examining his finger, he thought about the ghostly nature of suffering.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning, in the interests of edification, Tsukatov decided to send Lera, along with two young men from the Student Scientific Society, to Demyan Ilich’s to pick up the stuffed animal. But she wasn’t in the lab assistant’s room, and no one had seen her at the department since yesterday. The van left without her.

  Dismissing the matter from his mind, the chair of the department disappeared into his office and sank his teeth into writing an article full of new ideas about Dirofilaria nematodes—completely unprecedented ideas. Tsukatov had been working on the article for Parasitology for a long time, and the end, it seemed, was now in sight.

  In the middle of the second lecture period, under the guidance of Demyan Ilich, the students brought in a large object, tightly packed in bubble wrap. They worked quickly, like grave-diggers. Demyan Ilich’s neck showed red around the coagulated crust of an angry scratch.

  Having brought the parcel into the museum, they sent for Tsukatov. The chair of the department came in, accompanied by Chelnokov.

  The parcel stood in the passageway by the oak cases housing the primates. In solemn silence, Demyan Ilich cut open the adhesive that held the bubble wrap with a pair of scissors and set about stripping it off the bulky exhibit, taking his time. A minute later the bubble wrap was lying on the floor. Chelnokov threw up his hands in rapture, and the severe wrinkles on Tsukatov’s face relaxed; for he had seen things, but this exceeded all his expectations. The chimpanzee’s fur shone. Each hair seemed to have been combed individually. The figure, frozen in motion, radiated a gush of fury. The teeth gleamed with moisture, the yellow fangs were bared threateningly, the skin of the face seemed alive and warm, the dark lemurlike eyes burned in watchful fury. The ape looked even better, brighter than it could have when it was alive. It seemed as though it wasn’t a stuffed animal at all, but rather a pure idea, the very essence of a new creature, as the Creator had imagined it before giving it life. It looked as fresh, as new, as clean, and as perfect as a beetle that had just emerged from its chrysalis, before having tasted the dung of life.

  Chelnokov regaled it with superlatives. Tsukatov walked around the animal, staring at it, touching it, kneeling beside it, and stroking it. He didn’t try to conceal his satisfaction: exceptional mastery had obviously gone into the making of the piece.

  “Ahem,” Demyan Ilich croaked behind his shoulder. “I have another offer from the same source. Right. A bonus. From the manufacturer.”

  “Oh?” Tsukatov now felt trust and respect for the curator. These were things not inherent in a person, the way having red hair, protruding ears, or a nose like a duck was. One had to keep on earning them, again and again. Having won them, these qualities would begin to melt away. And one had to start all over from the beginning. Now Demyan Ilich had won Tsukatov’s trust and respect, at least for the time being.

  “Ahem. I can get you something special. Right. If you make the decision sometime this week, it should turn out pretty cheap.”

  “Cheap? How cheap?”

  “Ahem. Almost free of charge.”

  “And what is it they’re offering?”

  Demyan Ilich grinned, the scratch on his neck turned crimson, and a chain of indescribable emotions ran across his sallow bony face. He came close to Tsukatov, and uttered in a whisper like a conspirator: “An excellent, ahem, an excellent African ostrich.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  A CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

  by Eugene Kogan

  Kunstkamera

  Translated by Margarita Shalina

  1.

  M ama,” Ilka’s heartbreaking cry rang out. “Ma-a-a-a-ma!”

  Olya bolted to the nursery. She was much too young, skinny as a reed, with long black hair and enormous eyes that seemed to take up half of her face. “What is it, my son?!”

  “Mama, he’s back again.” Ilka sat pressed into a corner of the bed with a blanket he’d gathered into an enormous heap —that heap was supposed to barricade the child from whatever it was that his eyes fixed on.

  “Son, Ilyusha.” Olya sat down on the bed and embraced her child. “There’s no one here.”

  Immediately, Ilka began to wail, pressing himself to his mother.

  ~ * ~

  2.

  Peter Alexeyevich disliked the journey from the very start. The second week of March was well under way by the time the delegation had arrived at Riga, which found itself under Swedish ascendancy. His mood had been ruined by General Erik Jönsson Dahlbergh, the regional governor—who’d refused Peter’s request to visit a fortress and survey t
he construction of fortifications.

  “Damn this place,” muttered the czar as he cast off the city.

  The mighty delegation moved along slowly, and Czar Peter Alexeyevich was traveling incognito. But to not notice him was difficult—his enormous figure stood out among the rest. It was practically impossible for the czar to conceal his own presence.

  ~ * ~

  3.

  Ilka had just turned five. For his birthday, his mother baked him a very beautiful pirog with chocolate filling and she even drizzled it with chocolate icing. Six candles stood atop the tort. Ilka knew how to count to five and was very proud of the fact that he was able to tell everyone about his age. “There was four, and before that three, and before that two, and before that one, and now five,” he declared, laughing at how big and bright he was, and all those around him laughed as well. But the candles turned out to be incomprehensible. Ilka counted up to five and realized in astonishment that something else did indeed come next, but what was a mystery. “Mama,” Ilka looked at Olya questioningly.

  “After the number five comes the number six,” smiled Olya.

  “Six,” repeated Ilka and calmed down. He liked six as well.

  Ilka was small. At a glance, he seemed no more than four years old. He was smart, cheerful, found a common language with other children easily, always shared his toys in the courtyard. When he was three, he gave a shovel and a red plastic bucket as a present to Sveta, the girl next door. But all the neighboring children were taller than him, and Olya worried. Ilka, however, hadn’t yet noticed that he was smaller than everyone else, he didn’t dwell on it—such foolishness is not dwelt upon in childhood.

  ~ * ~

  4.

  By August they’d reached the Rhine and descended to Amsterdam. They didn’t linger there though, and carried on further to Zaandam. The czar spent over a week there under the name Peter Mikhailov, a junior officer of the Preobrazhensky Regiment. In Zaandam, Peter Alexeyevich stayed on Krimp Street in the little house of the nautical blacksmith Herrit Kist, whom he’d become acquainted with back in Russia; the handy Dutchman had been at the wharves of Archangel, sharing his expertise. Now Peter Alexeyevich worked in the Netherlands on the wharves of the East India Company—everything had changed, however he did not share his expertise, but drew from others, attentively observing how the clever Dutch shipbuilders labored at their craft.

  News inevitably spread that the Russian czar himself resided in that unassuming little house belonging to the nautical blacksmith, so visitors from all countries were drawn to Zaandam. Peter Alexeyevich was forced to quickly leave the city behind—beneath the sail of an acquired iceboat he reached Amsterdam in just over three hours and remained in the capital for some time, carrying out excursions to Utrecht, Leiden, and other places.

  ~ * ~

  5.

  Olya dropped out of university when she was in her second year. She was alone, with her small son. At first she’d wanted to continue her education after a year-long maternity leave. She did return, but couldn’t keep up—there wasn’t enough money, work had to be found, the child demanded attention. So, she forgot all about university.

  That first year, Ilka was horrid—he bawled ceaselessly, surpassed all the rest when it came to being sick, anything imaginable, he didn’t sleep nights, refused to eat, and generally created a merry life for Olya. Olya feared that his behavior wouldn’t improve. Her mother helped however she could, but she didn’t have the strength either—who can argue with a job and an ailing heart? And there were no men in the family.

  But later, when Ilka turned one, everything changed. With what seemed a wave of a magic wand, the likes of which Olya occasionally dreamed of when she forgot herself in a restless dream during the breaks between Ilka’s hysterics. Once, in the middle of the night, the child became dreadfully frightened—either he’d dreamt of something horrible, or perhaps he’d seen something, all he did was wail the whole day, finally he couldn’t even wail— he was hoarse. Then he abruptly calmed down and everything changed. Ilka began to sleep, eat with an appetite, and caused a scandal only with good reason—like if he’d painfully knocked against something or lost his favorite toy. Olya was able to exhale in relief.

  ~ * ~

  6.

  In Utrecht, Peter Alexeyevich became acquainted with William of Orange—ruler of the Netherlands and king of England, a vast reformer and navigation enthusiast. Enthralled by shipbuilding, the Russian czar gazed with delight upon the foremost European wharves and scaled one of the whaling vessels himself.

  Then, by accident really, he found himself in the anatomical cabinet of Frederik Ruysch, a botanist and professor of anatomy. A specialist in the embalmment of corpses and proprietor of a renowned anatomical museum, Ruysch stupefied Peter Alexeyevich with his art. Once, upon entering the professor’s laboratory, Peter saw the body of a child on a surgical table—the child was dead, but it looked as though it was alive. The talents of the Dutch professor captivated the Russian czar, and Ruysch was extremely pleased.

  ~ * ~

  7.

  Olya did calm down somewhat, of course, but then she’d regard this change in her child’s character with disbelief all over again. What would cause a one-year-old to exchange rancor for sweetness in a single day? But the weeks passed and Ilka continued to behave himself well, or as well as a child who had just recently turned one could be expected to behave.

  After a month, Olya asked her mother to babysit Ilka and set off to her girlfriend’s—they had drinks, gossiped about everyone, like before when Olya didn’t have a child. A little later, Olya said that she needed a job—it would be ideal to start off working from home, some modest freelancing, then later she could think about something more serious. As things go, money was badly needed. In three days time her girlfriend called and offered her work transcribing text; precisely the kind of work that she was best suited for had fallen into Olya’s lap. Some money began to appear, and life began to improve.

  ~ * ~

  8.

  Under the guidance of Professor Ruysch, Peter Alexeyevich got so carried away with anatomy that he forgot about shipbuilding for a time. Being who he was, or course, he didn’t forget for a second that that the czar of a superpower must spend every minute thinking about vital matters, so he continued to call on fortresses, shipyards, meet with heads of state and engineers, but Peter Alexeyevich’s thoughts were always there, in the anatomical theater.

  In the anatomical theater of Herman Boerhaave in Leiden, Czar Peter participated in the dissection a cadaver, and then another. He was good at it, and he liked it. In his diary he wrote of being struck by the sight of a dissected human body—the heart, lungs, kidneys, the “tendons” of the brain ... There remained one last thing to do—establish something similar at home, in Russia.

  ~ * ~

  9.

  When Ilka turned two Olya found steady work as a typist. She wasn’t paid much, although she supplemented this by freelancing. Plus, the daily trip to the office forced her to take care of herself once again, and interacting with people was really quite pleasant.

  During this time Ilka continued to behave like an angel. He was indeed an angel for the most part, only with dark hair. He and his mother had the same face—thin, with big eyes. He’d attentively monitor the world around him, feeding on information. Because he didn’t know how to speak yet, he would point his fist at whatever interested him and peer up into his mother’s eyes. Olya loved explaining everything to him and couldn’t wait for him to begin asking questions. More than anything in the world she wanted to speak with her son.

  ~ * ~

  10.

  Having purchased several collections from various biologists and anatomists across the border, Peter Alexeyevich returned to Russia with steadfast resolve to establish Kunstkamera in the motherland—a cabinet of curiosities following the example of his new friends in the West. In St. Petersburg it was decided that the collection would be housed at the Summer Palace, and Pete
r personally supervised what went where.

  But the collection kept growing and growing. The last time he set out for Holland, Peter Alexeyevich made the acquaintance of the well-known apothecary and collector Albertus Seba—the very one who drowned in one of the canals some twenty years after meeting the Russian czar. Peter Alexeyevich had the opportunity to purchase an enormous collection—an entire pharmaceutical assemblage—from Seba. The collection was moved to St. Petersburg and it became clear that the Summer Palace alone could not contain it.

  ~ * ~

  11.

  Ilka had a breakthrough as soon as he turned two and a half. He literally spilled everything that had accumulated onto his mother. Everything interested him—a lamp, a door, the wind at the window, the neighbor’s cat, droplets on glass, a mirror, a television, a sandwich with butter and kielbasa, the chamber pot, day and night. He posed hundreds of questions and listened attentively to every answer.