Moscow Noir

couples with baby carriages, cyclists, poplars, lime trees. Graveyard shadows sleep peacefully among bushes and alleys. Sleep, O souls of long forgotten soldiers. Sleep in the best neighborhood in Moscow. You are welcome here, because all cities stand on the bones of the past. Carts, then hearses, rolled down these streets. These days, from the open balcony doors, you could hear women’s laughter and music, and from the sidewalk you could see the tops of bookshelves and white ceilings with circles of honey-colored lights cast by chandeliers. A cat sat in the window and stared gloomily at the gray concrete below. The cat’s name was Grymzik. He belonged to my neighbor, and I was almost home. And I needed to make an urgent phone call.

“Sergey? Hi, how’s your precious health today?”

“Ah, good doctor! Nice to hear your voice. I’m great, actually. Physically exhausted, but glowing with mental health. I’m afraid I no longer make a very interesting patient. You’re a regular magician, I’ll have you know.”

“Believe me, Sergey, no magic involved whatsoever. What was it that bothered you? Depression and a couple of neuroses. Well, who wasn’t depressed in the ’90s? I used to have two patients who loved to discuss the benefits of suicide and its various methods with me every day. I didn’t try to contradict them, and even participated in their discussions. What do you expect from someone who’s been designing rockets all his life, and is then told: Thank you, but we really won’t be needing any more rockets. Rope and a piece of soap is the only way out. And you … half the people in the U.S. take Prozac; and they had no major crisis or economic collapse to contend with in the ’90s. So there’s no magic to it whatsoever. But you should hear about my new patient. You won’t believe it if I tell you. Actually, that’s why I’m calling you. Do you still have your connections in the archives?”

“Oh, I never lost them. Still work there. Deputy director, if can you believe it. So the entire archive is at your disposal. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Well, you see, it’s a very serious case,” I said, improvising. “A fetishist, a rapist, most likely a murderer. Fixated on particular objects, locations, and events from the past. And particular names. I have a theory, which I thought you could help me test. Just promise me that you won’t think I’m off my rocker when I start asking my questions. You wouldn’t believe what kinds of nutcases there are out there.”

“Indulge me,” said the archivist joyfully. “What particular historical fetishes does your maniac have?”

“Coordinate number one is the area between the edge of Khodynka Field and the back of Birch Grove Park. Apparently, that part of the city is connected with some important people. And I’m talking famous historical people—from the Soviet era. Some bigwigs in the ruling party. Then there’s a fetish, which is a summer coat, or an overcoat. Light gray, no belt, made from good material, like gabardine, worn by a man of above-average height. Do you think you could help me determine the exact era and style of an overcoat? It would help me figure out who he’s fixated with. Because the bastard wouldn’t tell me. So, the overcoat is coordinate number two. Then, since we’re talking crazy people here, there’s one peculiar detail: with him it’s all about underage girls—white socks and all that nonsense. And that’s your third coordinate. So, what do we get at the point of intersection?”

“Well, doctor, you’re an intelligent man. You know your history. It’s not what; it’s who. Some concrete historical figure. But I’m curious. This guy—does he wear the old- fashioned overcoat and rape young girls in white socks?”

“Sergey, don’t ask questions. Who’s the psychiatrist here? Yet, indeed, you guessed it. Only the particular location is also significant here—the back of Khodynka Field and Birch Grove Park.”

“But of course, my dear doctor. Let’s begin with the overcoat. It’s probably from the postwar era. In the ’30s, the fashion was to wear military-style overcoats with a belt. Then, after that, up until the ’60s … Well, take the photographs of the Soviet party during that muddy period between Stalin and Khrushchev, and you’ll see about five overcoats like that in every picture. As for underage girls, it’s perfectly clear. I’m sure you know who was infamous for meddling with them.”

“Beria,” I said under my breath, looking down at the dark treetops from the balcony. “Lavrentiy Beria.”

“That’s right. Of course, other party leaders have been know to savor similar worldly pleasures; but schoolgirls were Beria’s particular preference. Well, not just schoolgirls; often women with specific figures and mannerisms. Am I using the correct terms?”

“Absolutely.”

“Imagine a black car driving slowly along the sidewalk behind a girl with plump calves. Two men get out of the automobile and introduce themselves to her. According to some sources, they just push her into the car and drive off to the famous house on Sadovaya Street. Across from Krasnaya Presnya, in case you didn’t know. Other sources suggest that the scenario was a little more genteel. They would talk the girl into it first. If need be, they’d dress the teenager in a school uniform, or sometimes a ballet tutu. Then they sat her on a sofa and told her to wait. Dozens of books have been written about it; and just two months ago, some TV people approached me about it. They’re going to make a program. Have I told you anything you didn’t already know?”

“The particular spot,” I reminded him. “Our entire district was built by Beria. I know this already. He, of course, always took off from the airport on Khodynka; but other people boarded planes on the other side of the field. What does our maniac know about that other, forgotten part of the field? And what does that part have to do with Beria?”

The archivist took a deep, noisy breath. “He knows something that very few people know, frankly. And I find it strange that a maniac could get his hands on such information. It’s extremely difficult to come across. What’s on that side of the field now?”

“A construction site. Just like every other goddamn neighborhood in the city … New buildings crawling up to the skies all over the place.”

“And you want to know which building stood there before?”

“Can you tell me this over the phone?” I asked after a pause.

“Yes, after Mr. Suvorov’s novel The Aquarium, I can,” the archivist reassured me cheerfully. “The Aquarium, the main intelligence directorate of the Red Army, stood there. Around it were various military fences, barracks, even tents, when the troops were training for the parades on the occasion of the Bolshevik Revolution. The area belonged to the military, in other words. That wasn’t much of a secret. The secret, for a long time, was what was there underground.”

“Do you mean catacombs, bomb shelters, underground tunnels?” I recalled the heavy metal door with the spindle wheel.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said the archivist. “Back then they were building bomb shelters everywhere, and Beria was in charge of it. In the summer of 1953 they took him into one such bomb shelter at the far end of the airfield, just after Comrade Stalin died. That was where he spent his last days. How long exactly is difficult to say. They say that they executed him first, and prosecuted and sentenced him later, in December. It’s possible, by they way, that he was executed in that very basement, right between Birch Grove Park and Khodynka Field. The site of his final orgasm, as it were.”

“From the point of view of psychiatry, it’s interesting that you would refer to an execution as a last orgasm,” I said pompously. “Would you be so kind as to explain what you mean in more detail?”

“Doctor, not everyone’s a maniac. Could you hold on a second? I’m going to go grab something … here. A memoir of someone who loathed Beria with all his heart. For various reasons. The Bystander, by one Mr. Dmitri Shepilov, minister of foreign affairs under Khrushchev. He was also in charge of culture, arts, and ideology in the Communist Party. He was, by the way, a handsome man who loved women. Ordinary women, mind you, not underage schoolgirls. The chapter is called ‘The Battle.’ And I quote … hold on a minute, I’m going to quote him where he talks about where they put Beria. ‘And when he was told he was under arrest, his face turned green and brown from his chin to his temples and up to his forehead. Armed marshals entered the meeting hall. They escorted him to the automobile. It had been earlier agreed upon that the Beria would not be put in the internal jail in the Lubyanka or the Lefortovo detention cells: that could lead to unforeseeable consequences. It was decided to keep him in a special detention cell in one of the buildings of the Moscow Military District under surveillance by armed guards.’ He’s referring to your Khodynka; or, rather, the farthest end of it. Later the military closed some of the buildings there and gave them away. Oh, and here’s the part about orgasms: ‘He persistently from the depths of his memory recalled the most erotic scenes and relived them, voluptuously enjoying all the little details, in order to excite himself, seeking oblivion for at least a few precious moments. The supreme officers who guarded the door of his cell all day and night could see through the peephole how Beria, covered with a rough military blanket, writhed underneath it in spasms of masturbation.’ What style, doctor! Note, however, that I wasn’t quoting from the book. I was quoting from the original manuscript that I