The Secret History of Moscow (23 page)

"It's still fall."

"Same difference. Who would go for a walk in such weather?"

"I hope that Sergey's friends would."

"Perhaps.” He tossed another branch into the flames. “Where's your tabor?"

She jerked her shoulders, irritable. “I don't know. Maybe they moved on, to Ukraine or somewhere south."

"Why don't you look for them?” Fyodor asked. “Because of me?"

"You're an outsider,” she admitted. “Most Roma don't like outsiders. But with me, I think you'd be all right."

"Why don't you look for them then?"

"Maybe in the morning.” She sighed. “It's difficult. I spent so much time among Russians, I feel like an outsider myself most of the time. The trouble is, you can't live in two worlds-you always pick one, even if you don't mean to."

"I think I know what you're saying,” Fyodor said. “Most of the time you don't even know that you've already chosen.” He fell quiet, thinking of the summer of his eighteenth year when he failed the exams and never went home. There had been nothing keeping him from going, except that he just didn't. Couldn't. “You never know until it's too late to do anything about it."

Oksana slouched more, digging her hands deeper under her bent knees. The rats pressed closer around her, in a protective circle of warmth. “It's like when you're a kid, and then one day you realize you're ashamed of your parents, and you don't even know how it happened. Everyone gets embarrassed of their parents at some point, I think. I just didn't know one could be embarrassed of an entire people."

"I know how you feel,” Fyodor said. “I think."

Oksana shrugged. “Everyone does to some extent, I suppose. Doesn't make it any easier."

"No,” Fyodor agreed, and looked at the sky that was growing gray over the river. Morning was coming, and he turned to look behind him, at the palimpsest of a path, almost invisible under the thick snow swaddling the ground in its soft embrace. There were crosses of bird prints between the white silent trees, becoming slowly visible as the daylight grew with every minute, imperceptibly at first but quickly gaining strength. The fire burned out, leaving a black scorched circle that stared at them like an empty eye socket from the gently sloping face of the riverbank.

"I suppose we better go check out the cabin,” Fyodor said.

They found it with ease-there were snow-covered signs everywhere, which detailed directions and historical irrelevancies in two languages. Really, Fyodor thought, who cared where the cabin was transported from, log-by-log? What did it matter if Peter the Great decided to move the capital to St Petersburg? Was there any significance to the fact that Peter was the first czar to be crowned with a crown made in Western style, indistinguishable from those of European monarchs, and scorned the Helm of Monomakh? He remembered that helm, displayed in one of the Kremlin's museums. It looked like a regular hat, save for the abundance of jewels and the cross that topped it. The museum guide explained that Monomakh's Helm symbolized the transition of the seat of power from Byzantium to Russia, and that since Byzantium was heir to the Roman Empire, this is why Russia was considered the

third Rome. He spoke about the legacies of early Christianity, of the terrible and ancient heritage. Fyodor understood with a vague animal instinct why Peter the Great-the ticcy, twitchy, narrow-chested giant-would want to avoid this legacy, already replicated ad infinitum in the shapes of church roofs and fur hats everywhere.

It wasn't about control of the sea, Fyodor though as the virgin snow crunched and gave under his freezing feet, toes curled inside his oversized army boots. It wasn't about Peter's training in Europe or infatuation with the West. It was all about escape-escape from this blasted city with its terrible history buried deep underground, with its oppressive Byzantine past. Peter could not bear this place, suspended between worlds, and he chose a new alliance and built a new city, European and clean, where the streets ran in a grid instead of meandering drunkenly up and down the seven hills of Moscow. So Peter fled, Fyodor thought, fled in self-preservation, into the cold and sterile embrace of the Baltic. Who could blame him?

They saw the cabin from between barren trees frosted with sparkling ice, icicles festooning the branches like candy. Fyodor could taste the familiar crystalline pure flavor of them, unforgettable since childhood.

"You think anyone is in there?” Oksana whispered.

Fyodor examined the snow on the path leading to the cabin's door. “Nothing from this side, at least."

"That's good,” Oksana said. “Sergey said that other guy used to go there at night."

The door creaked on its hinges and opened under Fyodor's push. There was a smell of neglect-a sour stench of spilled beer and a whiff of stale air. The cabin-a small room with a soiled floor, strewn with beer bottles and rags-was empty.

Fyodor breathed with a mix of relief and disappointment. “No one here,” he said, and waited for Oksana to come in, stomping her feet and clapping her hands. Her long hair had frozen in a fringe of icicles, and he fought the temptation to break one off and suck it, like a child would.

"We should've come here at night,” she said.

"Should've,” Fyodor agreed, “only you were too scared last night, remember?"

Oksana shot him a nasty look. “I was not scared. It just didn't seem like a good idea, to rush into something dangerous in the middle of the night. Now, we at least know where everything is, and we can hide here and wait."

Fyodor shook his head. “Why don't we go and find that Slava character?"

"Where would you find him?"

"Sergey said, he liked to hang out by the Tsaritsino marketplace. Let's go there, check it out. I'm not staying in this cabin all day. At the very least, we can find some food there. We'll leave a few rats to keep watch for us, yeah?"

"I haven't any money,” Oksana said.

"Neither do I. We'll just have to improvise."

"If you're expecting me to steal, you're out of luck."

Fyodor laughed, the sound reverberating off the old walls. “No,” he said. “Of course not. I'll do the honors."

* * * *

They took the subway-just three stops. Unexpectedly the turnstile at the entrance of the station took the changeless coins Fyodor offered it, and for the first time in god knows how long he rode the subway lawfully-at least somewhat. It was past the rush hour, and they found seats, even though they did not have long to travel. Fyodor always found thinking on the train easy and pleasant, with the dark tunnel enclosing the rushing train securely, like a glove, and the lights on the walls of the tunnel whooshing by with comforting regularity. He let his mind drift then, images and thoughts traveling through his mind-he imagined himself rushing like the train, and his thoughts were just brief stationary flashes of light he was passing by, given an illusion of movement by his own unstoppable momentum.

He watched the faces of the people sitting across from him-old ladies, mostly, now that everyone else was at work; old ladies with eyes lost in nests of wrinkles, and thick woolen kerchiefs swathed around their heads; their darkened hands were folded on their laps or clutched grocery bags. There were also bums who smelled of urine and alcohol, and Fyodor thought that it had been almost twelve hours since he had his last drink. His hands felt itchy and restless, humming with some fool energy that would soon turn into shakes.

"I need a drink,” he whispered to Oksana.

She eyed him with mild disgust. “It can wait."

"No.” He held up one hand, palm down, the trembling of his fingers now buzzing, subsonic, visible. “It really can't."

Oksana sighed, and looked away. “We'll get you something at the market,” she said. “Just don't fall apart on me, all right?"

He nodded and stared at the two teenagers sitting by the door at the end of the car. The rest depressed him too much.

Oksana's disapproval didn't bother him-he was used to tisking and looks that mixed disgust with pity; he was even bored with the regret and self-loathing that were common to the point of cliché with every drinker he knew. He just wanted to get his drink and get on with the task at hand. It wasn't so bad, really; how many people needed to take their medication every day? How many couldn't get out of bed without their pills and unguents? Alcohol was his medication and unguent, and he saw nothing shameful in that.

The train pulled into the station, and he followed Oksana onto the platform. As he watched the train leave, he wondered briefly what would happen if he threw himself at the glistening windows once again-would he be transported back underground, or would he shatter the glass and plummet along with the waterfall of hard sharp shards onto the tracks that already hummed with the arrival of the next train? Would the two minutes between the trains be enough to scramble up the tall cement walls that separated them from the platform, or would he be too dazed to do anything but stand on the tracks, staring into the approaching lights and roar and brimstone of the next train?

Oksana tugged his sleeve. “Let's go,” she said. “No point in waiting."

"There's always a point in waiting,” he said, remembering all the times when he waited, vaguely, for something or someone to transport him, to steal him away. But the gypsies were not coming for him, and he followed her to the exit, slouching more with every step, his mind growing feverish in the absence of medication.

They ascended the stairs to the surface within a dense crowd-the market did a brisk business.

Despite his shaking hands, Fyodor scoped the crowd. It was cold enough for people to wear bulky coats, and even a clumsy pickpocket could expect a measure of success. As they shuffled up the stairs, side by side, pressed together, waddling like penguins, he let his fingers slip into an old woman's pocket, warm and cavernous. There was no wallet, but his fingers closed on a piece of paper. A single note, barely enough for a drink, but it was all he wanted. He stuffed it into his pocket and slowed his step to fall behind in case his victim discovered the injury inflicted on her.

Oksana shook her head but said nothing, even as he stopped at a kiosk at the underground crossing and bought a gin-and-tonic in a can. He drank it on the spot, feeling the tremor leave his fingers almost instantaneously. He tossed the empty can in the direction of the several stray dogs sleeping peacefully by the kiosk.

"It's cute,” Oksana said. “I always see these strays in the subway crossings, and people always step around them so carefully. Even when their legs are outstretched no one ever steps on them."

"I just wish the vendors wouldn't feed them,” Fyodor said. “Look how fat they are. And if they keep feeding the lazy curs they'll never leave."

"And where would you like them to go?” Oksana wanted to know.

He shrugged, indifferent. “Should we go to the market?"

The rats shifted under his coat, eager to get on with it. Fyodor thought that he would've preferred some more substantial reinforcement than the rats-a gun, perhaps, would be welcome when dealing with career criminals.

They ascended the steps. The market entrance-an open gate made of hollow aluminum bars-was to their left, and through it they saw the snow on the ground kneaded by the multitude of feet into dirty slush, the makeshift counters which displayed a scattering of awkward co-op-produced clothing and shoes, lost amidst a sea of knockoff T-shirts, duffel bags, and jeans, with words like ‘Nike’ and ‘Jordache’ in careless stitching, more of a gesture than any genuine attempt at deception.

Oksana walked along the counters, her gaze occasionally lingering on a handbag or a blouse; Fyodor worried that she would be distracted by the abundance of shiny objects around her, but she held all right. Fyodor's gaze searched the crowd, looking for the obligatory maroon jackets and gold chains. He had never met Slava but he knew the type.

The crowd was predominantly female and elderly, and Fyodor was growing disappointed, until the smell of lamb and cilantro attracted his attention. Like most heavy drinkers, he was not particularly interested in food, but the kebob shack from which the smells emanated seemed like a good place for the racketeers to congregate.

Oksana apparently thought the same-she sniffed the air and swallowed hard.

"Maybe they're in there,” Fyodor said. “Let's check it out."

"I'm hungry,” Oksana said.

He should've felt guilty at that. Instead, he cased the market for the shoppers absorbed in examining the wares and the seams on the garments, liable as they were to fall apart at the slightest provocation. He walked past them, his hands now steady, dipping casually into pockets and purses, until a sweaty crumpled wad of bills lay in his hand. “All set,” he told Oksana. “Come on, we'll get you something to eat. And for your rats, too."

The rats responded with enthusiastic shuffling under his coat, pressing to get closer to the sleeve openings.

Fyodor and Oksana entered the shack, indistinguishable from any other establishment of this sort. A sweaty individual in a wifebeater manned the counter, and the dense smells of onions and lamb mingled with the more delicate fragrance of cilantro and chives. The plastic tables stood empty, except for the one at the corner, where tobacco smell and low male voices hung thick. Out of the corner of his eye Fyodor noticed a swath of maroon and a flash of yellow, and stepped to the counter to order. They took their plastic plates filled with kebobs-chunks of greasy charred meat and a pitiful scattering of herbs for garnish-to the table by the door, where they could watch the thugs unobtrusively. Fyodor was tempted to get a shot of vodka, but decided against it. For once, he judged sobriety preferable. Besides, it was expensive nowadays. Gorbachev's quaint attempts to ennoble the national character by discouraging drinking were getting on Fyodor's nerves, and even though the push for alcohol-free weddings (which, Fyodor supposed, would eventually lead to immaculate conceptions) was largely over, prices never fell to their pre-Gorbachev levels.

Apparently, the thugs at the other table felt the same way. They were involved in an animated discussion about using a pressure cooker to make moonshine. “It's perfect,” one of them said. Judging by his sloping shoulders and mangled ears, he was a retired boxer. “In a small apartment, yeah? You can use sugar, or grain, or potatoes, and then just distill it with the pressure cooker. I have a fermenting jar, fits behind the sofa in the kitchen, it's maybe thirty liters. Takes like an hour to put it through the pressure cooker to distill. Good stuff, barely smells or anything, and no hangover."

"My neighbor distills twice,” said the one Fyodor surmised was Slava. “He's a chemist, so he has all this equipment-Bunsen burners, and what not. And those twisty glass tubes."

"With the cooker you don't have to distill twice,” the ex-boxer said. “It comes clean the first time. Or you could just make wine-saves the trouble."

"Grapes are expensive, though,” another thug said.

The ex-boxer waved his hand dismissively. “Use raisins,” he said. “I don't get why they're cheaper than grapes, but there you go. More sugar per kilo, too."

Fyodor studied the man he assumed was Slava-younger than his companions and slim in a way that suggested erratic eating habits rather than a vigorous exercise regimen, he looked like the brains of the concern rather than its muscle.

Slava seemed distracted-he often glanced at his heavy metal watch that clanged with a quiet satisfaction of wealth, and rubbed his face, flashing several large rings every time he raised his hand. Fyodor noticed a slight trembling of his thin fingers, pale as the cuff of his cream-colored shirt. The cuff slid back, exposing what Fyodor took for a tattoo-a dark triangle surrounding three circles-and Slava pulled it up hastily. He looked up and Fyodor barely had time to look away. The afterimage lingered, and he whispered to Oksana, “Did you see that tattoo?"

"It's not a tattoo,” she whispered back through a mouthful of meat and cilantro. “It's a burn."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged, chewing with great energy. “Looks… like… it.” She didn't eat her bread, but instead stuffed bits of it up her sleeves, where they disappeared with alacrity. The rats were hungry too. She passed Fyodor a slice, and he offered it to the rats that settled like a warm, breathing shroud around

his middle, concealed by the coat but giving him a paunchy appearance.

The thugs ate in silence now, hurried along by the impatient glances and sighs of their leader.

Oksana whispered into her sleeve, and one of the smaller rats plopped to the floor, apparently climbing out of her boot.

Fyodor looked around, worried, but no one but him had noticed the brown streak of fur crossing the linoleum floor decorated with puddles of melted snow and dirt, and darting under the thug's table. Fyodor held his breath as the little rat, following Oksana's instructions, climbed up the chair leg and slid into the seat next to Slava. He seemed too preoccupied to notice the pink twitching nose and two small, strangely human hands examining the contents of his pocket. The rat had to duck as he opened his jacket and extracted a wallet from the inner pocket.

The thugs paid and exited, still talking about the relative advantages of sugar over raisins. Fyodor and Oksana waited for the door to slam closed, before paying for their meal. The rat had darted back, its head held high and something glistening in its mouth.

Oksana bent down to collect the reconnaissance rat onto her palm. She plucked the small round object from its mouth, and gave it to Fyodor.

A small sphere of green lunar glass rolled in his palm, warm and a bit wet. He thought he felt it pulsing with a suppressed breath and heaving of life, and he shuddered trying to imagine what it would be like, having one's soul encased in a tiny glass cocoon like a fly in amber.

They returned to Kolomenskoe. The traffic must've been bad-the thugs barely overtook them. Fyodor saw them from across the street of the park's central entrance, exiting the maroon Merc that matched their jackets, and stretching their legs.

"There's just no point in driving in Moscow,” Fyodor said.

"It's not about speed,” Oksana said. “It's about being able to afford not to take the subway."

At this moment, Fyodor acutely missed the good old Soviet days, when everyone was poor enough for the subway, except a few apparatchiks with government-issued black shiny Volgas. He remembered his stepfather being keenly suspicious of everyone who had a car, assuming that it was ill-gotten, through bribery or theft; he was usually right, Fyodor thought, as much as he disliked agreeing with his stepfather.

He despised him a little too, for being such a working drudge, for wasting his life in gloomy joyless labor at one factory or another, never actively hating his job but not liking it either-as if there wasn't enough life left in him, oppressed by the routine and boredom, to summon even a shred of enthusiasm for either. As unenviable as Fyodor's life was, he comforted himself by saying that at least it wasn't as bleak as his stepfather's. He had no notion of where his actual father might be, but hoped for the sake of the man he had never met that it was not dreary.

"We need to find out whose soul this is,” Oksana said.

"How do we do that?"

She nodded at the pack of jackdaws industriously pecking at the snow.

"Do you think it'd work?” Fyodor said.