Moscow Noir

Oleg arrived at 9 o’clock. By that time Yulia had washed, made herself up again, and put on a red dress. She was a little unsteady from all she’d drunk, but Oleg didn’t notice.

He lifted his nose, inhaling the aroma of the roasted meat. He slipped off his jacket, ran a handkerchief over his bald spot to wipe away the sweat, and as a final gesture smoothed his beard.

“What’s for supper?” he asked cheerfully, giving Yulia a pat on the cheek.

“R-rabbit,” she hiccupped.

“Excellent!” Oleg rubbed his hands and hurried into the kitchen. He sat down on a stool.

Yulia served him pieces and he ate it, crunching the bones and smiling contentedly, like a cat. The oil ran down his beard. Yulia sat across from him.

“Do you know which painting I sold?” he asked triumphantly, nodding at his briefcase.

“Which?”

“Rusty Evening!”

Yulia shuddered. Rusty Evening had been painted in blood. Oleg was so proud of his conceit—to create a painting two by two meters using only blood. He had bought syringes at the pharmacy and Yulia had given him blood in a skin ointment tube. It had made her head spin, but Oleg had been so pleased. “It’s all right,” he’d said. “You can take a break tomorrow. I have my mom and sister too.” His sister was all of twelve. Oleg was very proud of the fact that the picture had “virgin blood.” He drew human figures with it.

And now some “rich wuss,” as Oleg put it, had bought their blood.

“Listen,” Yulia groveled through her embarrassment, “since you got paid so well, can you lend me a little money?”

Oleg frowned. “I see,” he said nastily. “The female wiles are here. I know these crass women. They need money, not love.” He stood abruptly from the stool.

“No!” Yulia cried. “I’m not like that! I just … I just … They held back our pay. The crisis …”

“You have to be thriftier, Yulia,” Oleg preached, dropping back down on the stool. “Let this be a lesson to you. I can’t pay for your mistakes, understand? You have to save for a rainy day.”

Yulia nodded, scared. Oleg relented.

“Come here!”

Yulia rushed into his arms, breathing in his painfully intimate smell, realizing she couldn’t go on without him. She wanted to tell Oleg that something terrible had happened to her. But what would he say? She pressed up to her beloved’s chest. Anna and Jacob went into the bathroom. “Do I have to undress?” Anna asked again. “No need for that, I don’t think,” Jacob replied. He took the cord he’d prepared beforehand out of the pocket of his checkered shorts. “Anna, you have to get in the bathtub.” “Okay,” Anna nodded obediently. “Just promise me, Jake, that our game ends here and we can go watch television in the living room.” “I promise,” Jacob said. “The game will end …”

Oleg turned off the light and was now trying to separate Yulia from her red dress, but the clasp wouldn’t yield. Oleg growled lustfully, tugging at the zipper.

Jacob quickly tied one end of the cord around the drain grill. Anna lay down on the bottom of the bathtub. Jacob tied her neck so that there was no more than five centimeters of cord between the drain grate and the girl. “Goodbye, Anna!” Jacob said, and he kissed his sister on the cheek. “Bye,” Anna nodded. “Is this going to take long?” “I think fifteen minutes is all we’ll need,” Jacob answered, and he turned on the water.

Yulia burned with desire as Oleg ripped off her panties and bra, but she was trying to drive Jacob out of her thoughts. Oleg licked her belly, arms, and face—whatever he came across—with his hot tongue.

German balanced on the edge of the roof, trying to hold onto the New Year’s garland that was slipping through his fingers like a snake. “Jacob!” he shouted. “Jacob, help me!” “I’m hurrying, Papa!” Jacob shouted in reply, stamping his boots on the roof—and with a running jump he pushed his father off.

Oleg thrust himself into Yulia, panting and moaning. Yulia tried to get into his rhythm, furiously driving him on. Goddamn you, Jacob, her brain grumbled angrily. Goddamn those novels! Goddamn this job! Goddamn this life!

Jacob carefully mopped up the floor in the living room and kitchen. He checked the chicken in the oven to make sure it hadn’t burned, then went to his room. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was an ugly red mark on his neck. I can put on a sweater, Jacob thought. He carefully removed his checkered shorts and put on the white pants he’d hung neatly on the back of the chair. He found his white sweater in his closet and went out into the dining room, where the utensils were already neatly set on the snow-white tablecloth on the oak table. He sat down at the head of the table. It’s Christmas, Jacob thought. I’m home alone. Like in the movies.

The next morning Yulia woke up with a hangover and a nasty taste in her mouth. Her head was spinning. Oleg wasn’t next to her. Yulia rose with difficulty and walked into the bathroom. The shower brought her back to earth. She moved into the kitchen and sat down on a stool.

Life was quietly returning to her—the street noise, her neighbor’s scratchy radio, and the sound of the boiling kettle. Yulia drank plain hot water, then she went out on the balcony to clear her head. The casino-ship had turned out its lights and no trace remained of its nocturnal grandeur. Yulia smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a crowd of people below. She took a closer look.

On the asphalt, in an unnatural pose—his hands and legs turned out like a marionette—lay Oleg. Naked. Yulia blinked. Then she mechanically stepped back.

Yulia struggled for breath. She went back inside. Here they were, Oleg’s clothes. Here were his shoes. Here was his briefcase. With trembling hands Yulia unlocked it.

The briefcase was packed with bundles of euros.

It will be Christmas soon, Yulia thought. And I’m alone. With a stash of money. Like in the movies.

Jacob smiled.

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

BY SERGEI SAMSONOV

Ostankino

Translated by Amy Pieterse

He acted as though he had received a divine certificate verifying the fact of his brilliance from birth. While the other inhabitants of Literary House on the corner of Dobrolyubova and Rustaveli were plunged in a state of despondency that comes from the sense of a wasted life, my roommate, Tatchuk, lacked even a hint of that overpowering feeling of hopelessness.

Surfacing to earth out of Lucifer’s cowshed, otherwise known as the Moscow subway, on our way back to the dorms, I felt, as always, dejected, stunned by defeat. He seemed, as ever, pampered by good luck, an immutable, victorious smile on his lips. I hated Azerbaijanis, Russians, Moldavians, Jews, Tajiks, Ukrainians, blacks, and all other earthlings, forty thousand of whom passed through the vestibule of Dmitrovskaya station every day (with marble facings the color of a dried blood blister). He seemed to take no notice of the riffraff, cutting right through the crowd as though it were just a hologram image of a human herd.

“What’s with the gloomy face?” he asked as we were coming out of the underground crossing on Butyrsky Street. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“No, but I can tell from just looking at you that you think it is. Honestly, though, you can’t blame me for the fact that you didn’t have a single manuscript in your file! That, my man, is just plain bad luck.”

It was like this: the head of our university was approached by the organizers of a certain literary prize, who had requested a few examples of the more interesting manuscripts that the student body had produced. All of this (reading and submitting the text) had to be done in a matter of hours, because the deadline for novels and stories had almost arrived. They chose Tatchuk, myself, and one other student. They checked our files, but mine was empty. Unlike Tatchuk’s, which was stuffed full of work. So I missed my chance. A month later, I found out that my