Natalia Smirnova - St. Petersburg Noir

“Well?” If Tsukatov deemed a matter important, he could be patient.

“Ahem. It’s not really enough money.” Demyan Ilich’s brows undulated nice two furry caterpillars. “Yes, well, I can ask around. Maybe something will turn up.” His nostrils flared as though he had already caught the scent of his prey, hiding nearby.

“How soon will you know?”

“I’ll get back to you in two or three days.”

When the door closed behind the curator, Professor Chelnokov exhaled as though he had just surfaced from a murky darkness, where he would surely have suffocated had he hesitated for even one more moment. He had a hard time dealing with forced silence. Chelnokov felt that when he was silent he no longer existed. And even if he did still exist, he was becoming ever smaller and more insignificant, like a devaluing currency.

“Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth!” Tsukatov said testily. “A very difficult fellow,” Chelnokov agreed, taking a sip of his coffee, already grown cold. “I’m dumbfounded. If one were to believe Lombroso’s anthropological c-criminology, he’d be nothing less than a serial killer. Those students of ours—could that be his handiwork?”

Two years prior, a female student had disappeared, and half a year later a male student went missing. The latter, however, was from the Physics Department, which had some of its classrooms on the same floor as the Biology Department, in the right wing, opposite the Genetics kitchen. At the time there were numerous rumors floating around—that a cannibal maniac was on the loose, or that the victims had been sold into sexual slavery, or that they had been butchered by surgeons dealing in human organs. For a while the chancellor’s office was full of police operatives who questioned teachers and students; but soon things quieted down. The victims weren’t found. In fact, it never became clear exactly when and where they had disappeared—at the university or off the premises, somewhere in the city.

“Being difficult isn’t a crime.” When Tsukatov deemed someone useful, he became lenient. “It’s not like we’re getting married to the guy.”

“Him?” Chelnokov cried indignantly. “What do you mean married? I’d be afraid to turn my b-back to him. He’d just as soon b-b-brain you!”

People don’t talk about things that are important; things that are important are felt. Those feelings burn the heart, and the heart tosses and turns like a rose chafer beetle inside a closed fist. Demyan Ilich knew his materials and was rarely mistaken. That kid was definitely suited for the job. Of course, it would take a lot of work, pressing, crushing, and occasionally giving him a good shake to awaken his true nature, forcing the sleeping essence to hatch and crawl out of its eggshell… But he looked very promising. To himself, with his distinctive brand or humor, the curator referred to this process as awakening the beast.

Demyan Ilich stopped him in an empty hallway. Lectures had already begun, and the fellow, it seemed, had arrived late, or had perhaps shown up earlier than necessary. He was an ordinary student, with loose pants hanging from his buttocks, a sweatshirt with a hood, and a bag hanging across his stomach. He had a backpack, and his movements were loose, as though his joints had too much play. He had dark fuzz on his upper lip, pimples, and shifty eyes. The curator asked him to help bring the reagents for the laboratory class. The fellow agreed. Why not? Demyan Ilich let the boy go into the open storage room ahead of him, closed the door, and click-click, he turned the key, locking them both inside.

One moment there were two people in the hallway, the next moment there was no one at all.

After the third class had let out, Lera took the key to room 452 and went off to rescue the wild boar’s head. A hunter, a general who was an acquaintance of Tsukatov’s, had given his hunting trophy to the department a year ago. It was the excellently dressed head of an enormous male boar with terrifying fangs. There wasn’t enough room for it in the museum, so they hung the head in the lecture room. From that time on, unable to rely on the vigilance of instructors, Lera was responsible for unlocking room 452 before class and locking it after class was over. Otherwise, the students, due to someone’s forgetfulness and/or lack of supervision, might give way to their curiosity.

Lera locked the room, plowed her way through a crowd of vociferous sophomore girls, passed the wide stairwell that veered off sideways, and went into the laboratory, where she picked up the IKEA catalog she shared with her friend, a graduate student. They chatted briefly about this and that, the trouble and inconvenience of the remodeling and so on, before she headed back to the lab assistant’s room. As she passed the storage room of that loathsome Demyan Ilich, above the noise in the hallway she seemed to hear a muffled voice coming from behind the door. That was unusual, since the curator never let anyone into his lair. Lera stopped, hesitated a moment, and then carefully put her ear to the crack between the door and the frame. The door was well fitted, but what if… yes. That is, no—she couldn’t have been mistaken.

“We’re gonna friggin’ acquire some new habits now.” The custodian’s muttering growl came through the closed door, almost indiscernible, as though from underwater. “ We’re gonna do it one friggin’ step at a time. Ahem. First were gonna make a real guy out of you. Then… Sure you are. What did you think? I’m gonna grab your throat and hold it like that a little, and then you will… What was that? How’s about I kick your balls? And your Adams apple?Don’tbitch, out on me. Ahem. Yeah, that’s the lesson were gonna learn now—were gonna have a little talk and learn how to behave. Yeah. And eat sunflower seeds too. It’s called the hairy Sutra Awakening. Ever heard of it?”

Lera recoiled from the door, her ear burning. What was this nonsense? She could only hear one voice coming from inside. Even if there was someone answering the curator, that voice was inaudible. And who could be in there? No one. No one could stand Demyan Ilich here… Suddenly Lera’s thoughts stood on end like iron shavings on a magnet: Why, he’s a maniac! He can’t even be trusted with a fork! My goodness, he’s really lost it. He’s talking to himself …

But unable to stifle her own curiosity, Lera put her head to the door one more time.

“Are you gonna make trouble? Don’t just stand here, sit down on the floor. Ahem… No, damnit, not like that! Not on your ass, you moron. That’s for our next lesson. Squat down… Yep, now were talkin’. Tuck your knees below your underarms and let your arms just hang… Good. Now spit. Spit between your legs… No, not that much. Count to seven and then spit. Ahem… Good boy. You’re almost a real man now. Now, let’s eat sunflower seeds… No, who told you you could get up? Stay put. Here’s your seeds. Wait! Gotta learn how to eat them right. Empty the whole bag into your pocket. That’s right. Now grab a fistful… Okay. You take a seed from your fist with your thumb, and use your nail to stick it between your teeth. Like this, see? Now, snap it open with your teeth. And keep your nose to the grindstone. Say if you’re at a watercolor exhibit, or the subway, or at somebody’s house or whatever, and you can’t spit the husks on the floor, you’re gonna have to put them into your other hand. But if you see that no one cares, you spit them anywhere you want to…”

Lera thought that the voice was getting closer, she sprang away from the door of the storage room and hurried away, clicking her high heels and glancing back over her trembling shoulder all the while, then rushed into the lab assistant’s room. Jesus! There was a whirlwind of thoughts in her head. He needs to be locked up! What is Tsukatov thinking? I’m scared to work with him!