The man’s small, dark eyes passed over the room. What had once been a nobleman’s home had long ago been divided into more than fifteen residences. This apartment with its corner view, airy living room, two bedrooms, and private kitchen and toilet, was by far the largest in the building. It had never been given over to the masses, he had learned. Instead, it had been handed down through a line of government officials like a noble title assigned to generation after generation. When the last sheeshka—important one—had died, however, this apartment had not been reassigned by the housing authorities. Instead, it had been inherited by a mere truck driver. Tonight, however, the man in the leather jacket was going to change all that.
He wondered what it would be like to live here among the antique armoire and sofa and large, carved dinner table. He imagined himself lounging about, reading Tolstoy, and enjoying the meats and cheeses of Leningrad which were so difficult to obtain elsewhere. He saw himself strolling over to the corner windows and throwing them open. He’d stand on the balcony, gaze over the Fontanka, and watch the busy shoppers and tourists on Nevsky….
A board creaked in the hallway. A second one strained under a person’s weight. Was it an early riser? The first on his or her way to work? No, the steps were heading directly for this door. It was him, returning at last from a long night of work. The intruder’s little ears tensed, perked, and heard the slow, heavy movement. Good, he thought. He’s tired, worn out, unsuspecting. And alone. Behind the door, the intruder raised the cleaver, and his thick muscles and chest tightened into a solid mass. Staring at the door of the dark apartment, his small eyes—eyes that carried a trace of Asian ancestry—dissolved into black dots. His face—broad and hard like his body—was stone-still.
The footsteps trod slower and slower. Finally they stopped just outside the door. The man’s eyes drifted shut as his ears sucked in every noise. Clothes rustled. There was deep, odd breathing, and finally the jangling of keys. Suddenly a burst of coughing shook the air. Good. He was sick, which would only make the deed all the easier.
He heard the key slide into the lock, saw the door knob twist. But silence followed. The person on the other side of the door stood frozen. The intruder felt the cleaver’s handle become damp with sweat. Did his victim know what awaited? Had something tipped him off?
A bolt of light sliced into the apartment. But the shadow thrown from the hall lamp wasn’t that of a tall, curly-haired man. Rather, it was short, round. Suddenly it shook. A spray of saliva shot inside as the person was overcome by another spasm of coughing. And the intruder understood.
It was the old woman he’d been told about. The tenant who the housing authority had assigned to the spare bedroom because the apartment exceeded in size the space allotted for two. Everyone knew the minimum standards: six square meters per person. And this place was big enough for five. Only the previous inhabitant’s high standing in the Communist Party had kept it a single-family dwelling.
To the devil’s mother, he thought. The old lady wasn’t scheduled to be back until tomorrow. She was supposed to be in the country picking mushrooms for at least another day. But now she stood there, a small suitcase hanging from each hand. She was going to ruin everything. His real target would be back any minute. He had to act immediately.
The man kicked the door shut, and the light was sucked out of the room. Raising his cleaver, he saw a scarf-covered head and neck that were thick with age. Full of distrust, the round, wrinkled face stared up at him. She stood firm in her tightly buttoned wool coat, the whites of her eyes swelling in the dark.
“Boris?” she croaked, her voice loud and scratchy.
He shook his head.
“Who is it then?”
He thought a moment, found it amusing that she might know his real name only an instant before her own death.
The man in the leather jacket said: “Kyril.”
“Who?”
He should have killed her by now, but he realized he couldn’t risk blood. Not here, not by the door. That would give it away the next time the door was opened. Slowly, the man known as Kyril brought down his arm, then loosened his fingers. The cleaver landed on the hardwood floor with a thump, and then his two clamp-like hands floated like white ghosts up to their target. She, however, did not move, anchored to the floor by the suitcases hanging from her hands.
“Nyet.”
Hers was an order, a command that was to be obeyed. Kyril grinned, and was upon her that instant. He lunged for her throat, his thick, white fingers sinking into the fat of her neck. But there was so much skin, so many folds, protecting her throat. He squeezed and her double chin squirmed like congealed fat in his hands.
“Nyet… nyet!” she gasped.
At last the two suitcases dropped from her hands and crashed to the floor. One of the worn bags burst open, and hundreds of mushrooms scattered across the herringbone parquet. Though her hands were now free, the old woman didn’t reach up and try to wrestle Kyril away. Instead she jabbed up her chunky leg, and the one bony part of her body—her knee cap—stabbed into Kyril’s crotch. He cried out. A burning shot of pain screamed through his body, the air exploded from his lungs, and his muscular arms turned flaccid. He buckled over, grabbing himself, and saw the old woman throw her body down to the cleaver.
Gathering all his strength, Kyril kicked the weapon out of her reach. He took a deep breath, stuffed the pain in the back of his mind, and lunged. He caught the woman by her arm, but she twisted away.
“Nyet.” she squealed like a stuck pig.
She scrambled out of his hands and charged toward the kitchen. Kyril was surprised by the strength of her will to live. He ran across the living room after her, each of his strides covering two of hers. He chased around an end table, jumped over the sofa, and clawed after her. He caught her, clamped his fingers through the woolen folds of her coat, spun her to the side. The faint, first light of the day glowed through the far window and washed over her jowly face as again his hands encircled her throat.
But she wouldn’t die easily.
Locked in a deathly embrace, Kyril stared down at her and watched the air bubble over her lips. He squeezed with all his concentration, his muscles turning to knotty lumps. Her large body, though, was filled with air, and she refused to die.
“N…ye… nye…t…t…t.”
She scratched out, and Kyril sensed her jagged nails scrape down his fancy leather coat. He bent up his thumbs, caught her chin, and pressed upward. He leaned into her, and under his weight and muscle, her head bent back. Sensing the resistance of bone, he nudged himself further. Then with a sudden dry snap, her neck broke and her body fell into him as if she were a drunken lover.
Kyril didn’t move. With the old woman dead in his arms, he gazed out the arched windows and into the chilly morning. But he was confident. No one could have seen him, nor were there any sounds from the apartment hallway.
Her lifeless body hung heavy as he dragged her back across the living room. Later, he’d seal her death with a thumbprint of blood. Later, too, he’d dispose of the body, perhaps dump it in the Neva. There wasn’t time, though, not now. He just had to get her out of the way, scoop up all the mushrooms, then return to his position by the side of the door. He had to be quick about it, too. There was little time because Boris would be home any minute and he, by all means, was much stronger than the old woman.
This time, though, Kyril would be able to use the cleaver without fear of making a mess.
Chapter 5
Boris continued along the canal almost until he reached Nevsky. Just before the drugstore on the corner, he turned into the small entrance of his building and started up the marble steps, passing from the ground floor to the first. On the second floor landing a door opened and an old man—a tall, proud soldier now defeated by time—stepped out in his bathrobe. A hero of the Great Fatherland War, his once robust health had failed, and he wore his war medals pinned to his robe. In his bony hand was a mound of garbage wrapped in yesterday’s
Pravda.
“Morning, Yuri Gennadiovich.”
“Boris,” gasped the old man. “I thought you were already home.” He raised his cloudy eyes up to Boris’s apartment, which was directly above his. “Heard a little tumbling a little while ago. Thought maybe you and your wife were going to it.”
Boris glanced at his watch. His stroll across the bridge and along the canal had taken longer than he realized. Musya, who usually came home just about now, must have left work early.
“No, I’m just getting home now.” He smiled to make light of the night’s events. “I had a long night—must have been my wife you heard.”
“Yes, and she’ll have a bowl of hot kasha waiting for you.” Yuri Gennadiovich squinted and studied Boris. As if his knowledge were absolute, he said, “You look exhausted, young man, but I can still see it on your face. You can’t fool me. You’re in love. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Well…”
“See, I could tell. My body’s giving away, but it’s all still here,” he said, patting his chest. “It’s good to see young people with a commitment to each other. All this divorce. People moving, switching partners as if life were a simple dance. It’s a disgrace to the Motherland. But you and that lovely Musya, you’re something different. How many years have you been married?”
“Seven.”
“Seven! And still so in love. You should be thinking about children, though. Don’t make the mistake of thinking just of yourselves and possessions. Family, that’s what counts in the end. A big family, too. The more the merrier. And the better for us Russians. Just look at how the population in our Asian republics is growing!” he said with a wink. “Life goes faster than you think. Now go up and have fun. Go to it.” He bent toward Boris, and the war medals on his chest tinkled. “Do some great things for me.”
Boris waved him off. “Da, da, da. But you can be certain we’ll be more quiet from now on. I didn’t know how much you could hear.”
Yuri Gennadiovich wheezed a fit of laughter, then headed downward one slow step at a time with his garbage.
As Boris continued up the broad marble stairs, he thought of Musya, his wife. Things must have been slow at the hospital and she left early, as she sometimes did. Or perhaps she was sick herself. A terrible flu was spreading around Leningrad, aided by the early fall chill in the air.
On the top-floor landing he stopped just outside his door. There was no noise, no movement from within the apartment. Good, he thought. Musya was probably already in bed asleep.
He slipped his long key into the lock and twisted the knob. Easing open the door, he was surprised to see that the light next to the sofa wasn’t on. Musya prided herself on being a good wife. Whenever she arrived home before him, she always made things look warm and cheery. If she went to bed early, she at least turned on the lamp and set out a plate of black bread and cheese for him. Now, though, everything was dark. Only the windows glowed with the first of the morning’s light.
Bozhe, thought Boris. They hadn’t been robbed, had they? He edged open the door and peered into the darkened apartment.
“Musya?”
The apartment was as still as a morgue. In the dim light from the windows, all he could make out was the heavy outline of the furniture. He hesitated, felt silly for doing so—he’d seen too many foreign films lately—then stepped in and reached for the lamp alongside the sofa. He pulled the chain, but nothing happened. Hadn’t he just changed the bulb?
His eyes drifted toward their bedroom.”Musinka, are you here? It’s me, Boris.”
As he moved around the sofa, something squished beneath his right foot. He raised his leg and stared at the bottom of his shoe. His weight had flattened the brownish-gray object, spread it out as if it were nothing but a pressed leaf. Touching it, he sensed moisture. He rubbed his fingers beneath his nose and smelled little. What was this? A mushroom?
He knew what that meant and shook his head. Lila Nikolaevna, their tenant, must have come back early from the country. All this rain must have slowed the start of the mushroom season. Yes, the rain was good to get the fungus started, but you needed sunshine and warmth to have an explosion of growth. Boris had known it was too early, but he was so glad to have Lila Nikolaevna gone for a few days that he had said nothing to stop her. He shook his head. Wherever she went she was carting mushrooms, talking mushrooms, or picking mushrooms. In a few weeks, at the height of the fall season, her room would be strung like a spiderweb with hundreds of strands of drying ones.
He disliked her and her mushrooms because he disliked having a tenant in his apartment. She repelled him all the more because she was smelly and hadn’t bathed since she moved in. Lila Nikolaevna resented the situation too. She had been removed from her apartment of twenty years because her husband had just died and the space was too big for one alone. And so a silent war had developed between them—he hated having her, she hated being there—mushrooms often serving as ammunition. If only she’d disappear, he mused.
He scraped the object from his shoe and started toward her room. They were going to have to have words about this. Just because she’d been assigned to the spare bedroom didn’t mean she could go littering about.
On his way to her bedroom he noticed a swatch of black clothing sticking out of the armoire. Lila Nikolaevna wasn’t supposed to use this, either. The bathroom and kitchen, yes. But not their personal things, which certainly included this cabinet.
Shaking his head, Boris reached for the handle of the armoire. He twisted the key. Without even pulling, the mirrored door burst loose. He braced it with both hands, and glanced up. In the reflecting glass he spotted a figure just behind him, a huge knife raised high.
“Ai!” cried Boris.
He ducked to the side and a cleaver swooped past him and bit deeply into the side of the armoire. At the same time a dark mass tumbled out of the wardrobe and onto the floor. Then he fell back and saw a heavy-set man in a leather jacket.
Gospodi, thought Boris. This wasn’t a robber. That leather coat. He recognized it instantly. It was the man from the gang. Boris had thought he’d escaped. But he hadn’t. Oi! If only he hadn’t emerged from the truck, if only he hadn’t smashed right into this man from the gang. They’d let him go earlier, but now this man was going to kill him so that Boris could never identify him. Sergei was right after all.
Boris leapt over the divan as the man charged. He grabbed a lamp, ripped off its shade. He slammed the tip of a bulb against the table, then pointed the lamp with its broken glass against his assailant.
“Honestly,” pleaded Boris, “I won’t tell anyone. You don’t have to kill me. I won’t tell. You can trust me.”
The man paused for a moment as if thrown off guard. Then he raised the blade again. Boris jumped to the side and ran around the back of a chair. Desperately he swung the jagged tip of the lamp. But all he could think of was writing about this morning’s sunrise. Write. That’s what he really wanted to do with his life.
The assailant jumped out, the cleaver whizzing through the air. Boris blocked the massive knife with the lamp. But it was useless. In a single slice, the lamp was cut in two.
“Oi, mamichka,” muttered Boris. Oi, my little mother.
He heaved the remainder of the lamp at the man and spun. If only he could make it to the door, if only he could make it to the landing. He could cry out for help. The entire building would come to his rescue.
He tore into a run, and the carpet shot out from under him. Boris feet slid back. He tumbled to the floor. He landed on his chest and rolled over. The man in the leather coat was above him, cleaver poised to chop. Then the assailant dove and landed on Boris like a boulder. Boris was certain his ribs and lungs had collapsed.
Gasping, he forced the words out. “Really, I won’t tell… anyone.”
Again the man hesitated, but only for an instant. The next moment the cleaver came flying downward, and Boris twisted to the side. The cleaver skinned his ear, bit into the wood floor. Boris took adva
ntage of the moment and jabbed out his fist. He caught the other on the chin, stunning him.
The assailant was slowed only momentarily, though. He shook his head, grabbed the cleaver with both hands. He jumped up and came crashing down on Boris a second time.
Struggling for air again, Boris closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked up and saw the cleaver ready to chop into his chest. This was it. The end of his life. He’d never expected so violent a death. And who’d ever thought it would be because of some stolen auto parts?
Suddenly the apartment door was thrown open directly behind him. Boris glanced back over his head. Musya stood frozen in disbelief, her wide figure filling the doorway.
“Nyet!” shouted Musya, dropping her packages. “Nyet, nyet!”
Resigned to his fate, Boris managed a weak grin. At least she tried, he thought as he watched her run to his rescue. But he knew she was too late. Within seconds his heart would be carved out of his chest.
He called out his final word. “Musya—”
And then the world disappeared so quickly that he felt no pain.
Chapter 6
Kyril ran out of the apartment and slipped his cleaver into the noose beneath his leather jacket. Not pursued, he ran down the marble stairs. He crossed no one’s path on the way down until he reached the bottom. There, blocking the entrance, was a babushka draped in black. Her back to him, she was bent over the stubby handle of her broom. Kyril slowed as he came upon her, then sunk into the shadows beneath the staircase.
For a full five minutes he watched as the old woman swept slowly toward the front door. Rather surprised that she had not noticed him when he’d come down, he found a broken chunk of marble in the corner. He tossed it just behind her and it crashed and split apart. She did not, however, move. So she was deaf, just as he had guessed. That would make it all the easier.
Blood Russian Page 3
