He could wait no more. He could not risk being seen by a single person in this building. Not yet, anyway. Reaching into his leather jacket for the cleaver, Kyril knew he had to be quick. His fingers tightened around the smooth wooden handle and lifted. This would be simple. He could carve anything with his cleaver.
Kyril slipped partway out and saw the babushka—half as wide as she was tall—step backward. She stared down, amazed to see the bits of broken marble. Shaking her head, she bent over and brushed at it, her black garb dancing from side to side as she moved.
Kyril glanced at the stairs, discerned no one, and edged over to the deaf woman, who was entirely focused on her sweeping. Raising the cleaver, Kyril eyed the white curls that poked out beneath her scarf. A strike at that point would mean instant death.
Within three large strides, he was behind her. He pulled his arm back, ready to swing. Just then, though, she spotted a dry crumb of mud off to the side. The air heaving in and out of her, the babushka turned and started at once for it. Kyril took a step after her when suddenly he heard a door open and close. He glanced upward. Someone was coming down.
The woman turned again, leaving the way open to the door. Certain at least that the woman hadn’t seen him, Kyril carefully slipped the cleaver back into his jacket and reached for the door. He pushed it open and slipped out.
He was struck at once by the faint morning light and the dampness of the cool air. He glanced across the still waters of the Fontanka and turned right toward the Anichkov Bridge. When he reached Nevsky, he turned right again, and within seconds was engulfed by an early morning crowd bundled in wool clothes.
Kyril continued on Nevsky until he came to Tolmachov Street. He turned, stopped at a bread store, bought a roll and returned to the small room he was renting unofficially. Breakfast and a little rest would follow, he decided. Then he’d return to the apartment at the corner of Nevsky Prospekt and the Fontanka Canal.
Kyril, after all, was determined that Boris Arkadievich Volkov would not live to see tomorrow’s light.
Chapter 7
Boris was floating in a luxurious pool of black water. Warm, soothing black water. And she was showering him with kisses. On his forehead, his cheeks, his chest. He felt her soft lips touching him everywhere. God, he wanted to wake up just to be with her. She was the only person he really loved. She was so beautiful, so wonderful. He reached out into the blackness and his hand descended on a large thigh.
His eyes popped open and his smile disappeared.
“Musya…”
“Boris, darling, I was so worried!” said his wife. “I love you so much and… and…”
She sat next to him on the edge of the sofa, her big face filling his vision. With a thin, pointed nose and high, meaty cheekbones that pushed her eyes into slightly almond shapes, she looked very much a woman born on the steppes between Asia and Europe. However, something was quite wrong—one cheek was all bruised and puffy. Yet before he could say anything, her thick lips puckered in a hard kiss and dove into him. Boris lay there as cold as an empty vodka bottle as her mouth dragged across his forehead.
“What happened?” he asked.
Lying on the sofa, he gazed about. The morning sun streamed through the windows, filling the large living room with vibrant light. So he wasn’t dead. Just knocked out. But for how long?
“Are you serious?” she said.
He sensed something under his arm and realized that his shirt was open. Reaching over, he felt a large flat thermometer stuck neatly in his armpit. Musya, ever the domineering nurse, pushed his hand aside and slipped out the glass gauge. Her eyebrows pinched together as she studied it.
“Thirty-six-point-six. Absolutely normal!” She laughed, scooped him in her arms, and squeezed him until her bones hit his. “Slava bogu.” Thank god. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Though much shorter and a few years younger, Musya was almost as heavy as Boris, and her presence on top of him was crushing. The springs of the couch beneath dug into his back. Boris squirmed, tried to protect himself. At the same time, her thin, mousy brown hair dragged across his face and his nose twitched.
“Musya,” he said, pushing her off him, “what… what happened?”
Her almond eyes grew large and she brushed back a wisp of thin hair. With her fingers barely touching her black and blue right cheek, she didn’t know what to say.
“You… you really don’t remember?”
“No.”
Incredulous, her eyes skipped from the dining room table to the carpet to the front door. She simply didn’t know where to begin. Her shoulders rose and her cheeks puffed up even more.
“There… there was a burglar, Boris. Oi, love, it was awful. Just look at my cheek. Do you see how swollen it is?” He nodded, and she clasped his right hand and raised it to his own temple. “Well, feel this.”
Boris felt a foreign lump of soft material on his head. In the center of it was a dot of warm moisture. Blood? So something really had happened.
“The burglar hit you, Boris, and knocked you out. He… he almost killed you, and then… he came after me!”
Boris turned his head to the side, resting his cheek on the sofa’s cushion. He gazed at the pattern of the carpet, at the white light caught by the crystal bowl on the dinner table. Out the window was a velvety blue sky.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“A little after ten.”
It was dawn when he’d come home; he knew that much. He’d walked part of the way. Over a bridge, along the Fontanka. It had been so tranquil. Then he recalled coming into the building, up the stairs. He’d talked to someone, hadn’t he? When he reached the apartment, he’d found it dark. But not empty. Someone was there. Someone he didn’t know.
“Yes… yes, I remember.”
“Boris, I love you so much.”
She started kissing him again and her full body melted over him like butter over hot potatoes. He lay there motionless as her wet lips ran up his cheeks and her subtle moans filled his ears. He struggled to push her away.
“Yes, I was attacked,” he said, his arms held defensively over his chest. As his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he began to remember. “I came in and someone jumped out at me. A big man. He came at me and then he pinned me down.”
“Right, that’s when I came in,” murmured Musya between kisses.
“Sure.” He saw the clear image of his wife in the doorway. “I was held down and I looked over my forehead and you seemed upside down.” He frowned, took Musya by the shoulders, and pushed her up. “The burglar had a knife or something, didn’t he?”
Musya wiped her lips and nodded. A child’s sad, frightened look gripped her wide face. She quivered as she relived the scene.
“Boris, it was terrible. He was about to chop you in two. I saw that cleaver and I screamed. I was certain you were a dead man.”
The memory of her words screeched through his ears. “Nyet!” He stared up at her. “That’s what you screamed, wasn’t it?”
“Da, da!” Her head bobbed up and down. “I saw that horrible cleaver and I was so afraid. I screamed out and I grabbed the letter opener by the front door and charged him.”
Boris studied the sofa and the table nearby as he tried to recall the entire incident. He stared down at the little pieces of parquet, then looked up at Musya’s pointy nose. His mind was as empty as the expression on her face.
“I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Of course you don’t.”
She sat back, licked her lips. Her dark eyes bounced from side to side as she struggled to recount the episode. Then it came to her with a gasp, she tugged her blouse over her breasts, and began.
“The burglar saw me coming and he knocked you in the side of the head with his fist. Then he jumped up. I was crazy, you know. I was so worried about you. He had that cleaver, but I didn’t care. I slashed out at him with the letter opener and screamed. He just caught my wrist with one hand and with the other he…
he hit me.” She touched her cheek where it was a dark gray. “He hit me right here and then I fell down and passed out. When I woke up, the burglar was gone.”
“A burglar?” But the door had been locked, hadn’t it? “How did he get in?”
“I don’t know. But I suppose we’re lucky he didn’t kill both of us. I woke up about a half hour ago and he was gone and you were just lying there. I rolled over and touched you but you didn’t move. Boris, at first I thought you were dead and I was so afraid. But you were breathing and so I just hugged you and rocked you. Then I carried you up on the couch and nursed you. Lucky for us I had my medical kit with these bandages. Oi, Boris, I love you so much!”
He stared up at her, touched her cheek as lightly as he could. What would have happened had she not come home that instant?”
“You saved my life.”
Her eyes bulged with happiness. “Did I? Did I really?” She laughed, entirely pleased with herself. “Then what a wonderful thing I’ve done.”
She dropped onto him again, her chest squishing into him. As she planted kiss after kiss on his forehead and face, Boris brought his arms around her and tried to return her affection. But he could hardly move. Drunk on love, Musya was smothering him.
“Musya… Musya,” he managed to say beneath her. “You’re so good to me. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I… I love you.”
She raised herself up so that her nose was only a few centimeters from his. “Of course you do, Boris. I do a lot for you, don’t I? I’m a good wife, aren’t I?”
There was only one answer he could give, the one she wanted. “The… best.”
“Thank you, golubchik moi.” My little pigeon. She sat back and smoothed the wrinkles across his forehead. “Just relax. Relax because I’m here. And without me you wouldn’t be as happy. I make you happy, don’t I? I cook for you. And clean. I take good care of you.”
He gently touched her on the cheek where she’d been bruised. “You’re the best wife anyone could want. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Da, da. Like I always told you: ‘Marry me,’ I said that night you proposed to me. ‘Marry me and you’ll be happy for the rest of your life.’”
He nodded. That’s exactly how she’d expressed it after hinting at marriage for over a month. She promised, too, that she’d always be fun, that their lives would be awash with the best that life could offer. Yes, she swore. She had a lot of ambition—jeanzi, kosmetiki, furs, restaurants. Ambition that would rub off on him and help him abandon truck driving and pursue another more profitable career. Boris had drunk it all in, too, and flown high on her fast pace and her insatiable sexual desires. Boris came to believe it as well. Yes. She would lead him on to bigger and brighter things.
From the start, however, Boris’ father had seen in Musya something quite different than his son’s salvation. An opportunist, that’s what he called her when he tried to forbid the romance. Musya was uncommitted, he had shouted. The worst of a spoiled generation that had gone soft, that wanted everything and wanted it this moment. He’d disliked Musya from the start and had barely even spoken to her after the wedding when she moved in. He didn’t care that she might be able to improve his son’s lot. He simply never trusted her.
Boris pushed away the memory of his father’s rage—rage that had never dissipated but only gone unspoken. But what would the old man say about Musya’s selfless actions today?
“Thank you, Musya. Thank you for saving my life.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now let’s see what damage was done.”
Musya scooted out of the way, and Boris edged himself up. He grabbed the edge of the sofa with one hand and with the other held his head. His vision was a rolling sea, gray and wavy.
“That guy really hit me, didn’t he?” He felt like he was waking up after a long binge, still drunk and unable to stop his head from spinning.
“Yes, my love.” She stood, rubbed her pointy noise, and started for the kitchen. “Should I make some tea? How about some nice hot borscht?”
“In a minute. Was anything stolen?”
“I don’t think so. I looked around but couldn’t think of anything missing. Maybe I frightened him away.”
A tidal wave of pain flooded through his head as he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. His eyes shut; he gripped his head. If only everything would stop floating around in there.
“Oi yoi yoi.”
“Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes, blinked. The room seemed fairly stable. He pulled the bandage from his head and studied the dark brown blot of dried blood. Remembering the size of the cleaver, he was thankful the wound was so small.
“I guess so.” He tried to shake his head in disgust but couldn’t. “What’s the world coming to, Musya? What if you’d arrived first? Maybe that burglar would have raped you.”
“Boris!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I mean it. This city used to be so safe. It still should be. That’s what a government’s for, isn’t it, protecting us, taking care of us? We both work at night. And we should be able to come home anytime along safe streets to a safe home. And here we could have been killed! We have a right to better protection. Control is growing slack in Leningrad. Musya, did you say you called the militsiya yet?”
“No… no I was so—”
“Well, we have to!” he said in an authoritative voice that was quite similar to his father’s. “They must catch that criminal, put a stop to this sort of thing.” He tried to stand. “I’m going to call them right now.” He teetered, then felt her reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Boris… you… you shouldn’t get up yet. We’ll call the militsiya after you’ve rested.”
“No, now, Musya.” Looking across the room, he ordered, “Bring me the phone. It’ll reach here.”
His eyes, however, rested only for a second on the black phone. Off to the side was the armoire. He stared at it and a flash of memory burst in his head. Something else had happened.
“Boris… are you all right?”
“The armoire…” No, that wasn’t it. “The mirror. Yes. I saw him in the mirror first.” He cursed as he pictured the man in his mind. “Tfoo!”
He leaned back in the couch, unable to believe his dilemma. This was all much worse than he’d imagined. What was he supposed to do? Where could he go?
“What, Boris, what?”
“We can’t call the militsiya.”
“Why?”
“He… he was wearing a brown leather jacket.”
“Who?”
“The burglar.”
“He was?”
“And I recognized him. The brown leather jacket. It was the jacket.”
“Oi.” Musya could barely speak.
Boris leaned back in the sofa. He was sure of it, though. It was a fine leather coat, the leather sleek and shiny as if every square centimeter had been hand-polished. How many coats were there like that in Leningrad? A half-dozen at most. You had to be important or rich to have one of those. Rich like a farsovchik. A black marketeer. Someone who dealt in jeanzi or foreign records or stolen car parts.
So he was that guy from the gang. Boris rubbed his hands together. Yes, it was the same coat. He had touched it twice last night. The leather was so soft, too, its squeaking hide so deep and rich. He had felt it once colliding with the guy near the railroad bridge, then again here in the apartment.
“Musya, that wasn’t a burglar. That man wasn’t trying to steal any money. He was waiting for me. Waiting to kill me.”
Musya’s face went from red to sour white. She stood as still and frail as a china doll.
Boris looked up. “Musya? Musya, are you all right?”
“I… I…”
“You look terrible. Sit down.”
She stumbled back a few feet and sunk into a chair. Boris felt her eyes staring at him in fear.
“Hey, don’t worry, Musya.” He reached out and patted her knee. “I’m all right. He didn’t get me. Everything�
��s okay.”
Still she said nothing.
“I’m so stupid,” he said.
He bowed his head into his hands. His skin was rough, his beard prickly. Under his fingertips he sensed the distinct ridges across his forehead left from worry as much as anything else. A little higher he felt a few more centimeters of scalp—a little more each year—then his thick blond hair.
Bozhe, he was getting old, and he still wasn’t doing what he wanted with his life. And tonight he’d almost been killed because of that. If only he’d made that decision years ago then he would never have become involved with black marketeers. Ink and paper. Those were the materials of his dream. He’d have been a writer by now. He could have been very successful. He was resolved not to follow the course his father had set for him. At the same time, though, for fear of hurting his father, he hadn’t the courage to follow his own ideas. So his life had fallen somewhere in between the two, landing in a truck.
Boris raised his head. Musya was as still as the waters of the Fontanka Canal. He had to tell her everything that happened last night. Would she be furious at him?
“I’m such a louse,” said Boris. “I was asked to do something—and I agreed.” He paused in his confession. How was he to explain all this? “It’s all such a long song I don’t even know where to begin. Musya, I got involved with a group of black marketeers. A very nasty gang. The meanest. I… I… well, Sergei told me about them and he’s getting a cut of it, too, for setting everything up. He went on and on about what quick and easy money it would be. They smuggle stolen auto parts up from Riga. I only did it once. Last night. You see, they loaded the parts on the back of my truck and I brought them up here. I wasn’t supposed to see any of them. But I did. That guy in the brown leather coat.”
Musya awoke from her stupor. “What?”
“Musya, haven’t you been listening? That guy in the brown leather coat—he’s from a gang of black marketeers I got involved with. I wasn’t supposed to see any of them, but I screwed up and ran right into him. I think that’s why he tried to kill me. I mumbled something about wanting out. And I looked right at him.”
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