Ice Trilogy (43 page)

“Well, are we gonna stand around a long time?” the driver asked.

“Just a minute, just a minute...Listen...what station are we at?”

“Kratovo.”

“Kratovo?” Borenboim looked at the driver’s hat. “Novoriazansk Highway...Take me into Moscow, pal. A hundred bucks.”

“That’s it. Get away from the car,” the driver replied angrily.

“Or to the police...I mean, to the highway...to Riazanka!”

The driver slammed the door. The Niva zoomed off. Borenboim jumped back.

The jeep turned the corner.

Borenboim looked at the card.

“Shit...gifts of the magi...with a PIN code, no less! Nonsense, utter nonsense.”

He returned the card to his wallet and stuck the wallet in his pocket. He walked down the street past the fences and darkened dachas. He shivered. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.

There was a light on in the window of one dacha.

Right next to the solid gates in the wall was a little wicket gate. Borenboim went over to it and tugged. The gate was locked.

“Anyone home?” he shouted.

A dog began barking in the house.

Borenboim waited. No one responded. He shouted again. And again. The dog barked.

He dug out a handful of wet snow and made a snowball. He threw it at the window of the porch.

The dog kept on barking. No one came out.

“‘And neither wake the prince...nor the dinosaur,’ as the poet said...shit.” Borenboim spat. He walked along the dark street, which narrowed to a muddy path. Green and gray fences squeezed in on either side.

Borenboim walked along. A thin layer of ice crunched under his feet.

Suddenly the path broke off. Ahead was a steep descent, muddy with melted water and snow. He could dimly make out a small river. Black. Occasional chunks of ice.

“‘The ball is over, the candle is out, I’ll fuck you slowly’...”

Borenboim stood there for a minute. He shivered and turned around. Walked back. He came to the house with the light in the window and made a snowball. He threw it in the air. He kicked it. Suddenly, he sobbed out loud like a child, defenselessly. He ran down the street, sobbing. He screamed. Then he stopped.

“No...not like that...Oooo. Mama...! You asshole...fucking asshole...oooo! It’s just...just...you asshole...”

He blew his nose in his palm. Sniffling, he walked on. Turning right, then left. He came out on a wide street. A truck was driving by.

“Hey, chief! Hey!!” Borenboim cried out hoarsely in desperation. He ran after the truck.

The truck stopped.

“Chief, give me a ride!” Borenboim yelled as he ran up.

The
driver
looked out drunkenly through the window: 50 years old, a crude yellowish-brown face, a rabbit-fur hat, a gray padded jacket, a cigarette.

“To Moscow.”

“To Moscow,” laughed the driver. “Holy shit, man, I’m going home to sleep.”

“Then to the station?”

“To the station? It’s right here, why drive there?”

“Right here?”

“Sure.”

“How far?”

“Ten minutes on foot, for Christ’s sake. Go that way...” He waved a dirty hand out the window.

Borenboim turned around. He headed down the road. The truck drove off.

Headlights appeared ahead of him. Borenboim lifted his right hand. He waved it.

The car drove by.

He arrived at the station. A white Zhiguli was parked next to a twenty-four-hour kiosk selling drinks. The driver was buying beer.

“Hey pal, listen,” said Borenboim walking over to him. “I have a big problem.”

The
driver
looked at him suspiciously: 42 years old, tall, stout, round-faced, in a brown jacket.

“What is it?”

“I...need to find a house around here...I can’t remember the number...”

“Where?”

“Here...right nearby.”

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

The driver squinted his puffy, piglike eyes.

“Money up front.”

Borenboim automatically took out his wallet, then remembered.

“I don’t have any cash...I’ll pay, I’ll pay later.”

“No go,” said the driver, shaking his massive head.

“Wait a minute...” Borenboim touched his cheek with a dirty hand. Then he took his watch off his left wrist.

“Here, take my watch...it’s Swiss...it’s worth a thousand bucks...I was attacked, you understand? Let’s go, let’s find them.”

“I don’t play other people’s games,” said the driver, shaking his head.

“Hey, friend, you won’t come out a loser!”

“If you was attacked, go to the cops. They’re right here.”

“What the fuck do I need the police for?...What’s the goddamn problem, it’s worth a thousand bucks! Maurice Lacroix!” Borenboim shook the watch in front of him.

The driver thought a moment, then sniffed.

“No. No go.”

“Jeez, shit...” Borenboim exhaled tiredly. “Why are you so fucking law abiding all of a sudden?”

He looked around. There weren’t any other cars.

“All right, all right. I’ll find them later. Can you at least take me into Moscow? I’ll give you rubles or dollars when I get home. Whatever you want.”

“Where in Moscow?”

“Tverskaya, the center. Or wait...better to Leninsky. Leninsky Prospect.”

The driver squinted.

“Two hundred bucks.”

“Okay.”

“Money up front.”

“Christ! I just told you — I was robbed, mugged! Here’s the security deposit — the watch! I can show you my credit cards!”

“Watch?” The driver looked at it, as though he’d never seen it. “How much does it go for?”

“A thousand bucks.”

He looked bored, then he sniffed and sighed. Took the watch. Examined it. Stuck it in his pocket.

“All right, get in.”

35 Leninsky Prospect

The Zhiguli drove into a courtyard.

“Wait just a minute.” Borenboim got out of the car. He walked over to the door of entrance 4. Punched in an apartment number on the intercom.

For a long time no one answered. Then a sleepy male voice asked, “Yeah?”

“Savva, it’s Boris. I have a problem.”

“Borya?”

“Yes, yes, open up, please.”

The door beeped.

Borenboim walked in. He ran up the steps to the elevator and took it to the third floor. He approached a big door with a video camera. The door opened slowly.

Savva
looked out of it: 47 years old, big, heavyset, balding, a sleepy face, wearing a dark red robe.

“Borya, what’s up?” he said, squinting sleepily. “Good lord, you look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Hi.” Borenboim straightened his glasses. “Give me two hundred bucks to pay the taxi.”

“Are you on a binge? Did someone beat you up?”

“No, no. It’s a lot more serious. Come on, come on, hurry up!”

They entered a spacious foyer. Savva slid back the door of a semitransparent wardrobe. He reached in the pocket of a dark blue coat, retrieved his wallet, and took out two hundred-dollar bills. Borenboim grabbed them and rushed downstairs. But the Zhiguli wasn’t there.

“Damn!” Borenboim spit on the ground. He went to the corner of the building. The car was nowhere to be seen.

“Sometimes these people are incredibly sharp.” He laughed angrily. Crumpled the bills. Stuck them in his pocket. “Fuck you,” he said in English.

He went back to Savva’s.

“Was it enough?” Savva went into the kitchen. He turned on the light.

“Quite.”

“Your glasses are broken. You’re all muddy...what happened, were you attacked or something? Come on, why don’t you...take this off, put on...you want something else to put on? Or want to go straight into the shower?”

“I want a drink.” Borenboim took off his filthy jacket and threw it in a corner.

He sat down at a round glass table with a wide border of stainless steel.

“Maybe take a shower first? Were you beaten?”

“A drink, a drink.” Borenboim rested his chin on his fist and closed his eyes. “And something strong to smoke.”

“Vodka? Wine? There’s...beer, too.”

“Whiskey? Or don’t you have any?”

“You insult me, boss.” Savva left the room with a sweeping gesture. He returned with a bottle of Tullamore Dew and a pack of Bogatyr cigarettes. “Ain’t nothin’ stronger.”

Borenboim quickly lit up. He took off his glasses. Rubbed his forehead above the eyebrows with his fingertips.

“On the rocks?” Savva took out a glass.

“Straight.”

Savva poured the whiskey.

“What happened?”

Borenboim drank silently, emptying the glass.

“Hooooowever, my father in heaven!” Savva sang in a church chant. He poured some more.

Borenboim downed it. He turned the glass back and forth.

“I was attacked.”

“Right.” Savva sat down opposite him.

“But I don’t know who they are or what they want.”

“Ich bin ne undershtandt.” Savva slapped his palms on his pudgy cheeks.

“Me neither. Nicht undershtandt. Yet.”

“And...when?”

“Yesterday evening. I went home. Right by my door some prick stuck a pistol in my side. And then...”

Sabina
entered the kitchen sleepily: 38 years old, tall and strapping, athletic.

“Zum Gottes willen! Borya? Are you having a man’s drinking bout already?” she said, speaking with a light German accent.

“Binosh, Borya has a problem.”

“Did something happen?” She stroked his messy hair. She leaned over and embraced Borenboim. “Oy, you’re all muddy. What’s this?”

“Just...men’s business.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“Serious?”

“So-so. Not very.”

“Do you want to eat? We have some salad.”

“No, no. I don’t need anything.”

“Then I’ll go to bed.” She yawned.

“Schlaf wohl, Schätzchen.” Savva embraced her.

“Trink wohl, Schweinchen.” She patted him on his bald spot. She left.

Borenboim took another cigarette. He lit it from the butt of the first and continued.

“Then this guy followed me into the apartment. Handcuffed me. A woman came in. They hammered two spike things into the wall. And strung me up with a rope. They crucified me, goddamnit, on the wall, like Christ. So. And then...it was...very strange...they opened a sort of...it was like a safe...and there was this weird hammer in it...an odd, archaic sort of form...with a handle made from a branch...very crude. But the hammerhead wasn’t steel or wood, it was ice. Ice. I don’t know whether it was artificial or real, but it was ice. And then — picture this — the broad starts slamming my chest with this hammer. She keeps saying, ‘Talk to me with your heart, tell me with your heart.’ But...it was so strange! They taped my mouth shut! With packing tape. I’m mooing, she’s bashing me. With all her fucking strength, man. So, this ice splinters and flies around the room. She’s pounding me and talking all this bullshit. It hurt like hell, went straight through me. I’ve never felt pain like that. Even when my meniscus went out. So. They’re banging and banging me. Then I just lost consciousness.”

He took a swallow from the glass.

Savva listened.

“Sav, this all sounds like nonsense. Or a dream. But — here, take a look...” He unbuttoned his shirt to show the huge bruise on his chest. “That’s not a dream.”

Savva stretched out a pudgy hand. He touched it.

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit...when you press it. My head hurts. And my neck.”

“Drink, Borya, relax.”

“And you?”

“I...I have to go in early tomorrow, that is, today.”

Borenboim emptied the glass of whiskey. Savva poured some more right away.

“But the most interesting part was after. I wake up and I’m sitting in a Jacuzzi. There are two women with me. The water’s bubbling. And these women start patting me gently and telling me some nonsense about a brotherhood, that we’re all brothers and sisters — talking about sincerity, frankness, and so on. It turns out that they’d been hit in the chest with the same kind of hammer, they showed me the scars. Actual scars. And they were pounded until they spoke with their hearts. They said all of us in this fucking brotherhood have our own names. Their names were Var, Mar, I don’t remember. And my name — is Mokho. You get it?”

“What?”

“Mokho!”

“Mokho?” Savva looked at him with small, weak-sighted eyes.

“My name is Mokho!” Borenboim shouted and began laughing. He leaned against the back of the stainless-steel chair. Clutched at his chest. Winced. Swayed.

Savva watched him intently.

Borenboim giggled nervously. He rocked back and forth on the chair. He took a new handkerchief out of his pocket. Wiped his eyes. Blew his nose. Rubbed his chest.

“It hurts when I laugh. So you see, Savochka. But that’s not all either. We’re sitting there, sitting in that Jacuzzi. And suddenly a girl comes in. Really young...probably about eleven. Blondish, with huge blue eyes. And with the same sorts of scars on her chest. She comes in and sits down next to me. I’m thinking: Okay, now I get it, they’re gonna try and pin rape of a minor on my prick. But she just sits there. And suddenly I notice — they’re all blue-eyed blonds. The two who bashed me with the hammer were also blue-eyed and blond. Like I am! You get it?”

Savva nodded.

“And I realized this wasn’t the usual kind of attack. I say to them, ‘Girls, that’s enough splashing, call over your heavies. I’ll ask what they want.’ And they say, ‘We don’t have any muscle here.’ And you know, I believed them. Uh-huh. And this little girl, this blue-eyed Thumbelina, she kept on saying, kept repeating the same thing over and over like she was a doll: ‘Let me talk to your heart, let me...’ So I just got up. My clothes were there. I got dressed. Looked around. Nobody else around. There’s no one. It turned out to be a real New Russian house, real fat cats. There’s no one there, only the servant. And this naked girl. I walked out into the yard, headed for the gates. And the naked girl followed me. The servant opened the gate, no problem, so I left. There was a street, a normal dacha kind of street, this was all in Kratovo. And the naked girl — followed me out the gate! She started with the ‘Let me talk to your heart’ stuff again. Well, I think, what the hell — go on, talk! She comes up to me, hugs me, and glues herself to my chest like a leech. And you know, Savva” — here Borenboim’s voice trembled — “I...well, you’ve known me twelve years....I’m a grown-up guy, all business, pragmatic — shit, man, I know what’s what, it’s hard to pull anything over on me, but...you know...what happened then was...” Borenboim’s delicate nostrils began to flutter. “I...it...I still don’t know what it was...and what the whole thing was...”