Moscow Noir

“What’s with you?” he hears the teasing directed at Boltyansky. “Want to go for a walk? Hee hee hee!”

Boltyansky calls at 4 or so.

“Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Did you forget?”

“Too far.”

“That’s okay, you can stay over. Nadya’s friend has a dacha there.”

“I don’t know, maybe I will.”

“And grab The Decameron. My parents are pestering me.”

“All right.” Ryabets hangs up.

Followed by a surprise: Buratina. She’s calling! In the whole ten years they’ve been in the same class, this is the first time.

“Ryaba, hi.” A depressed voice, as if she’s holding back tears. “Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Take me.”

Ryaba’s heart is pounding. Joy! But fear too. Picturing Nadya in a swimsuit, he can’t imagine what he’ll do with himself. His swimsuit’s going to bristle!

“All right.”

“Should I come by then? In an hour?”

Ryabets hangs up and runs to the bathroom. He decides that if he does it a few times he might get by … He twirls in front of the mirror—uses his mama’s powder on his zits, combs his hair back, then parts it; changes his shirt, rolls up his sleeves, rolls them down. What else? What if she walks in, he kisses her, she responds, and—

A ring. Not the door, the phone. It’s her.

“Listen, Ryaba, I’ll wait for you at the bus stop. If I come over, you’ll rape me. You gave me such a look yesterday! Hee hee hee!”

Oof!

Ryabets grabs his bag and towel, throws The Decameron in—he suddenly remembered—and runs outside.

Nadya’s wearing a yellow shirt with the top buttons undone, and there are her breasts. And a miniskirt too. Her face is creased; she drank and partied all night long. She’s got a mark on the back of her neck. A hickey? Her eyes, half-Kalmyk to start with, are swollen; the abundant mascara highlights this. Her perfume—from a long way off. Ryabets stares and joy bubbles up inside him alternately with horror.

It’s a long trip: trolley, subway, transfer, subway, trolley. Ryabets notices glances at his companion—men’s leers, women’s frowns.

Ryabets can’t for the life of him figure out why she isn’t with Mesropov. It’s a puzzle. Going with Mesropov makes sense. Mesropov would take her in a taxi. All the way to the beach. His parents are really rich.

The trolley crosses the bridge toward pines, pines, and more pines. Pinos.

“Lidukha lives way over there,” Nadya points out the window. Tall green and blue dachas with turrets amid century pines. “We’ll go to her place after the beach, tonight. Her parents are off traveling somewhere. Will you go?”

“Maybe,” Ryabets mumbles.

They get out. Ryabets is holding his bag in front for obvious reasons.

They’re walking down the road next to a very high fence.

“Who lives here? Artists?” he asks.

“Big shots, diplomats, and artists too. Did you see the Japanese flag behind the fence at the stop?”

“Lucky dogs … In Moscow, but like being in a forest.”

Nadya shrugs.

They leave the road and walk among the pines across the sand. Nadya takes off her platform shoes. Ryabets lags behind a little. Make up your mind! is knocking in his brain. She went into the forest on purpose, on purpose!

He puts his hand on Nadya’s shoulder. The girl stops.

“What are you doing?” She removes his hand.

“I … I—” He drops his bag and tries to put his arms around her.

She dodges him. “That’d be just great. This place is full of people!”

“I … I … just … wanted … to kiss you.”

“Kiss me?” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips. “There! Later, later …”

“When?” Ryabets rasps.

“Tonight, maybe. Who makes love in the afternoon?”

Mesropov and the gang are already at the beach. Boltyansky’s there too. The others are strangers, dark- haired and guttural, Mesropov’s fellow tribesmen. They greet the appearance of Ryabets and Burataeva cheerfully, by pouring the Armenian brandy. Ryabets doesn’t drink. He takes a whiff and sets it aside. First of all, he’s never tried anything stronger than New Year’s champagne, and second, he’s angry. Nadya’s the only girl in the group. She goes for a swim. She swims for a long time and he watches her. She’s already squealing and giggling, and they’re already pawing at her. Mesropov and his friends. “Bastards! Bastards!” he shouts with his head under water so no one can hear.

They play ball, jump around, roughhouse. Ryabets sits on a lounge and rages. Then they wander over to a beer stand on Krug. Mesropov and Burataeva take up the rear with their arms around each other. Ryabets looks back. He doesn’t go near Buratina at the beer stand or later when they finally show up at the dacha of Lidukha, a little brunette with small, intense eyes. She greets her guests on the porch. Mesropov kisses her hand, and at that moment Buratina remembers Ryabets and glances around. He’s standing at the gate.

“Are you coming or what?”

“No, I’m going home.”

He’ll kill her, the bitch, he will.

Ryabets squeezes his dry fists.

Laughter from a second-story window: “Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!”

That last is hers.

Ryabets feels the rough wall. It’s dry, it’s going to burn, so don’t cry, mama!

First, gasoline. No problem. There’s a car by the gate.

Second, a hose. Where’s the hose? There—the dead snake on the dry grass. Everything’s very dry. Laughter and more laughter. Drunken and insolent. And music. Someone’s puking.

Third, a bottle. Here’s a jar under the porch. Two of them. Liter bottles. Great!

Ryabets uses his teeth to rip off a piece—about a meter long—of the snake-hose’s black flesh. There we go, there. He twists off the gas cap. Now suck—ha ha—suck! Acrid fumes, more, more … till you feel like puking. More, more … E-ro-tic! Boltyansky would say. He wouldn’t have to listen to his, Boltyansky’s, laughing, fearless, or him jerking off in the hall … Not a damn thing was going to be left of him either.

It’s flowing! First down the throat, then into the jar. A liter. Let’s pour. Another liter. That’s it, no more sucks out. That’s enough. It’s so dry it could catch without gasoline.

Now to wait. Cover the jar with a towel at least, so it doesn’t evaporate off, and wait-wait-wait.

Ryabets moves away from the dacha and sits leaning up against a sticky pine trunk. Wait. It’s a good thing there’s no dog. No dog.

Ryabets’s hand slithers into his pants. No, he shouldn’t. If I come I’ll back down. It’s wrong. For three years she’s all I’ve been thinking of. Hands off!

Her short haircut in the window. She’s smoking, tapping the ashes right where he was just standing. Oops! The butt flies like a drunken star and drops next to his invisible feet. And smolders. But it could catch fire. It could. Excellent. She’s gone. Yesterday Mesropov said he wanted her girlfriend. But who wants her? These guys? The Chuchmeks? Bitch.

It’s not jealousy, it’s justice. Like in The Decameron. She keeps him waiting in the yard in winter while she consoles herself with someone else. Italy. And the wife forced her husband to climb into a barrel to caulk it up from the inside. She’s standing there and showing him where … while another guy fucks her from behind. Cheerful folks. And there’s the one who pretended to be deaf and dumb in a convent. That’s the life!