Ice Trilogy (39 page)

“That’s it...I’m off.”

“What about the beer?”

“What beer?”

“You were the one who wanted to have a beer, no?”

“I was joking.”

“Some kinda joke, leetle boy...”

Lapin left.

It had grown dark outside and was beginning to freeze. The puddles cracked underfoot.

Lapin limped to his door and walked in. He pressed the elevator button, looked at the wall. He saw the familiar graffiti. Two tags — acid orthodox and destruction-97 — were Lapin’s work. He noticed a new inscription: ural, don’t be afraid of awakening.

Black marker. Neat handwriting.

07:08
,
The Kiev Highway, Kilometer 12

A white Volga automobile turned onto a forest road. Drove about three hundred meters. Turned again. Stopped in the glade.

A birch grove. Leftover snow. Morning sun.

Two people got out of the car.

Botvin
: 39 years old, heavy, blond, blue eyes, a kind face, a blue-green athletic jacket, blue-green pants with a white stripe, black sneakers.

Neilands
: 25, tall, thin, blond, decisively stern, blue eyes, sharp facial features, a brown raincoat.

They opened the trunk.

Nikolaeva
lay inside: 22, a cute blond, blue eyes, a short fox-fur coat, high black suede boots, her mouth taped with a white bandage, handcuffs.

They pulled Nikolaeva out of the trunk. She kicked and whined.

Neilands took out a knife. He sliced through the back of the coat. And the sleeves. The coat fell to the ground. Under the coat was a red dress. Neilands cut it. He cut the bra.

Medium-size breasts. Small nipples.

They led her to a birch tree and began tying her to it.

Nikolaeva let out a muffled wail. She struggled. Her neck and face turned red.

“Not tight. Let her breathe freely.” Botvin pressed her writhing shoulders against the birch.

“I don’t make it tight.” Neilands worked with intense concentration.

They finished. Botvin took a longish white refrigerator case out of the car. He opened it. Inside lay the ice hammer: the neat weighty head, the wooden handle, the rawhide straps.

Neilands pulled a one-ruble coin out of this pocket.

“Heads.”

“Tails,” said Botvin, trying out the hammer.

Neilands tossed the coin. It landed upright on its edge in the snow.

“Well how do you like that?” Botvin laughed. “So what do we do, try it again?”

“Go ahead and hit,” Neilands said with a wave of his hand.

Botvin stood in front of Nikolaeva.

“Now listen, sweetheart. We aren’t robbers or sadists. Not even rapists. Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Nikolaeva whimpered. Tears ran from her eyes. So did her mascara.

Botvin swung back.

“Speak!”

The hammer struck her sternum.

Nikolaeva grunted.

“That’s not it, hon,” said Botvin, shaking his head.

He drew back. The sun sparkled on the side of the hammer.

“Speak!”

Another blow. The half-naked body shuddered.

Botvin and Neilands listened.

Nikolaeva’s shoulders and head trembled. She hiccuped rapidly.

“Close, but no cigar.” Neilands frowned.

“Let the Light’s Will be done, Dor.”

“You said it, Ycha.”

Two birds called each other in the forest.

Botvin slowly drew the hammer to one side.

“Come on, luv...spea-ea-k!”

The powerful blow shook Nikolaeva. She lost consciousness. Her head hung limp. Her long blond hair covered her breast.

Botvin and Neilands listened.

A sound awoke in the bruised chest. A faint rasp. Once. Twice. A third time.

“Speak with the heart!” Botvin said. He held his breath.

“Speak with the heart!” Neilands whispered.

The sound broke off.

“It was definitely there...Lift her head,” said Botvin, raising the hammer.

“One hundred percent...” Neilands moved behind the birch. He lifted Nikolaeva’s head and pressed it to the rough, cold trunk. “Just — take it easy, now...”

“You bet...” Botvin drew back. “Speeeak!”

The hammer smashed into the chest. A spray of ice splinters flew out in all directions.

Botvin pressed his ear to the chest. Neilands looked out from behind the birch.

“Khor, khor, khor...” could be heard from the breastbone.

“We’ve got it!” Botvin shouted, tossing the hammer aside. “Speak, little sister, speak with the heart, talk to us!”

“Speak with the heart, speak with the heart, speak with the heart!” muttered Neilands. He began hurriedly searching in his pockets: “Where is it? Where? Where did I...where is it?”

“Wait a sec...” Botvin patted all his pockets.

“Jeez, damn...it’s in the car! In the glove compartment!”

“Damnit...”

Botvin lunged toward the Volga. He slipped on the wet snow and fell — onto the dirty brown grass. He crawled quickly to the car, opened the door, and pulled a stethoscope from the glove compartment.

The sound didn’t stop.

“Hurry!” Neilands cried in a falsetto.

“Damnit all...” Botvin ran back. He stretched out a dirty hand holding a stethoscope.

Neilands stuck the ends in his ears. He held the stethoscope to the violet-colored chest.

Both of them froze. An airplane flew by in the distance. Birds called to each other. The sun went behind a cloud.

There was a raspy sputtering sound in Nikolaeva’s chest — faint but regular.

“Di...ro...aro...ara...” whispered Neilands.

“Don’t be in such a hurry!” said Botvin, exhaling.

“Di...di...ar. Diar. Diar. Diar!” Neilands sighed in relief. He took the stethoscope off and handed it to Botvin.

Botvin put it clumsily in his ears. His plump, dirty hand pressed the black circle to the chest.

“Di...et...di...ero....Diar. Diar. Diar. Diar.”

“Diar!” Neilands nodded his narrow head.

“Diar.” Botvin smiled. He wiped his face with his muddied hand. He laughed. “Diar!”

“Diar!” said Neilands, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Diar!” Botvin replied, tapping on his chest.

They embraced, swayed, pushed away from each other. Neilands began to cut the rope. Botvin tossed the hammer in the case. He took off his jacket.

They freed the unconscious Nikolaeva from the ropes and handcuffs. They wrapped her in the jacket and lifted her. They carried her to the car.

“Don’t forget the hammer,” wheezed Botvin.

They laid Nikolaeva on the backseat.

Neilands grabbed the case with the hammer. He tossed it in the trunk.

Botvin got in the driver’s seat. He started the engine.

“Wait.” Neilands strode over to the birch tree. He unzipped his trousers, spread his legs.

Nikolaeva moaned weakly.

“She’s coming to. Diar!” Neilands smiled.

A stream of urine hit the birch.

Nikolaeva woke up from a touch.

Someone naked and warm was pressed to her.

She opened her eyes: a white ceiling, an opaque light fixture, the edge of a window behind a semitransparent white curtain, curly blond hair. A smell. Aftershave lotion. A male ear with an attached earlobe. A male cheek. Well shaven.

Nikolaeva moved. She glanced down: the edge of a sheet. Under the sheet her naked body. An enormous bruise on her chest. Her legs. A dark, muscular male body. Pressing to her. Entwining her in its arms. Turning her on her side. Powerfully pressing her chest to his.

“Listen...” she said hoarsely. “I don’t like it that way...”

And suddenly she froze, stupefied. Her body shuddered. Her eyes closed halfway and rolled to the side. The man also froze. He shuddered and his head jerked. Pressed to her, he too was stupefied.

Thirty-seven minutes passed.

The man’s mouth opened. A faint, hoarse moan escaped him. The man moved. He flexed his hands. Turned over. Rolled off the bed onto the floor. He stretched feebly and let out a sob. His breathing was heavy.

Nikolaeva shuddered. She rolled her legs over, sat up, and let out a cry. She held her hands to her chest and opened her eyes. Her face was crimson. Saliva drooled from her open mouth. She whimpered and began to cry. Her shoulders heaved. Her legs trembled restlessly on the sheet.

The man exhaled with a moan. He sat up and looked at Nikolaeva.

She was crying hard, her body shaking helplessly.

“Want some juice?” the man asked quietly.

She didn’t answer. She looked at him fearfully.

The
man
stood up: 34 years old, a slim muscular blond, with big blue eyes and a delicate face, handsome and sensitive.

He walked around the bed. He took a bottle of mineral water from a nightstand and opened it. He poured it into a glass.

Nikolaeva watched: his tanned body, golden hair on the legs and chest.

The man caught her look. He smiled.

“Hello, Diar.”

She didn’t answer. He drank from the glass. She unstuck her lips, swollen and scarlet with blood.

“I’m thirsty...”

He sat down next to her on the bed and embraced her. He put the glass to her lips. She drank greedily. Her teeth chattered against the glass.

She drank it down. She exhaled with a moan.

“More.”

He rose. He filled the glass to the brim and brought it to her. She gulped it down.

“Diar...” he said, stroking her hair.

“I’m...Alya,” she said. She wiped her tears away with the sheet.

“You’re Alya for ordinary people. But for the awakened, you are Diar.”

“Diar?”

“Diar,” he said, looking at her warmly.

Suddenly she coughed. She clutched her chest.

“Careful.” He held her sweaty shoulders.

“Ow...it hurts...” She moaned.

The man took a towel from the nightstand. He placed it on her shoulders and began to dry her off carefully.

She examined her bruise and whimpered.

“Oy...but...why did they...”

“It will pass. It’s just a bruise. But the bone is intact.”

“Jeezus...and that...what was that you were doing...jeezus...why the fuck were you doing that? Huh? What the fuck was that for?” She shook her head. Held her knees to her chin.

He embraced her shoulders.

“I’m Con.”

“What?” she said, looking at him with confusion. “A Con?... Artist?”

“You didn’t understand, Diar. I’m not
a
con, I am Con.”

“An ex?...The regular kind?”

“No,” he laughed. “C O N — three letters. It’s my name. I’m not a con artist, and I’ve never been a convict of any kind.”

“Really?” She looked around, bewildered. “What’s this? A hotel?”

“Not exactly.” He pressed against her back. “Something like a rest home.”

“Who for?”

“For the brothers. And sisters.”

“Which ones?”

“Ones like you.”

“Like me?” She wiped her lips against her knees. “You mean, I’m a sister?”

“Yes, a sister.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Yours?” Her lips trembled and grimaced.

“Mine. And not only mine. Now you have lots of brothers.”

“Bro-thers?” She sniffled. She grabbed his hand. Suddenly she screamed at the top of her lungs — hysterically and for some time. The scream turned into sobs.

He embraced her, held her close. Nikolaeva wept, burying her face in his muscular chest. He began to rock her like a baby.

“Everything’s okay.”

“Why...again...why...oooo!” She sobbed.

“Everything, everything will be all right for you now.”

“Ooooo!! How could...oy, what did you do to me...Christ...”

Gradually she calmed down.

“You need to rest,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two...” she whimpered.

“All these years you’ve been sleeping. And now you’ve awoken. It’s a very strong shock. It’s not only joyful. It’s frightening as well. You need time to get used to it.”

She nodded. And sobbed.

“Is there...a...handkerchief?”

He handed her a tissue. She blew her nose loudly, crumpled the tissue, and threw it on the floor.

“Jeezus...I sure cried my eyes out.”

“You can take a bath. They’ll help you to collect yourself...”

“Uh-huh...” She looked fearfully at the window. “But where...”

“Is the bathroom? They’ll take you in a minute.”

Nikolaeva nodded distractedly. She glanced over at the lily in the vase. At the window. At the lily again. She took a deep breath, jumped up off the bed, and ran for the door. Con didn’t move. She threw the door open wide and flew out into the hall. Ran. Bumped into a nurse smoking a cigarette next to a tall brass ashtray. She smiled at Nikolaeva with her blue eyes.

“Good morning, Diar.”

Nikolaeva ran toward the exit. Her bare feet slapped along the new, wide parquet of the hall. She ran up to the glass doors, pushed the first one, and leaped into the entryway. She pushed the second one. She ran across the wet asphalt.

The doctor looked at her through the glass. He folded his arms on his chest and smiled.

A fair-haired chauffeur in a parked silver BMW gazed after her. He was eating an apple.

Nikolaeva ran naked through Sparrow Hills. Bare trees stood all around. Dirty snow lay on the ground.

She tired quickly. Stopped. Squatted. She sat for a while, breathing heavily. Then she got up. She touched her chest and frowned.

“The bastards...”

She walked on. Her bare feet splashed through puddles.

A big road was visible ahead. Now and then a car drove by. A wet spring wind blew. Nikolaeva stepped out on the road. Immediately she felt the intense cold. She shivered and hugged herself tight.

A car went past. The middle-aged driver smiled at Nikolaeva.

She raised her hand. A Volkswagen passed her. The driver and the passenger opened their windows. They looked out and whistled.

“Assholes,” muttered Nikolaeva. Her teeth were chattering.

A Zhiguli came into view and stopped.

“Are you one of those polar bears or something?”

The
driver
opened the door: 40 years old, bearded, with glasses, a large silver earring, and a black-and-yellow bandana on his head. “The ice has broken up already!”