Daria Desombre: The Sin Collector

But to no avail. Andrey had to practically swallow his share whole, too, just to keep some of it away from the scrawny, clever beast.

“And you’re a terrible actor. You’re playing dumb, but I don’t buy it,” Andrey told him as he sipped some tea. “Who was that shameless blonde in the old Hollywood movies? Marilyn Monroe.”

This shaggier Marilyn must have known there wasn’t any meat left, and Lipton was clearly outside his expertise. The pitiful sheen in his eyes was gone now, and he stretched out on the floor next to the saggy old couch.

“Don’t even think about sleeping here.”

Andrey went to drag the dog out by the scruff of his neck. But Marilyn wiggled out of his grip, and that look returned, a suffering that permeated the whole damn room. Andrey gave in, spat on the floor, and told the dog he was overacting. He shut the door to the bedroom behind him.

By morning, though, clever Marilyn had evidently figured out how to pry the door open and come right up to the bed. Andrey swore again and walked out to the wash basin hanging outside. He took the towel down from the hook without thinking, then immediately hung it back up again. The towel was such a dingy shade of gray that there was no way he was going to use it. Andrey told himself very seriously that he was really going to have to do some laundry, and then he switched on the electric teapot and sat down on the porch. While the water started to boil, he took yesterday’s teacup and spooned instant coffee into it, along with a couple of cubes of sugar. He sliced some bread. Then he locked eyes with the dog again. Those eyes seemed unimpressed.

“You can get the hell out if you don’t like it, Marilyn Monroe,” Andrey snapped at him. His mood that morning was rotten enough, and then he remembered that the night before, all wrapped up in his conversation with the dog, he had forgotten to buy the cheese he wanted for breakfast.

His cell phone rang, and Andrey swore quietly. The day was about to go from bad to worse.

“Dean Ursolovich isn’t here!” the disgruntled secretary told Masha. “You should have called first.”

“But the schedule says…”

Annoyed, Masha trudged back downstairs, cursing herself for coming across town for nothing. Ursolovich never followed the schedule, except when it came to his lectures. Students were clearly not a priority. Masha had been proud, at first, that he’d agreed to take her on as an advisee, but as the weeks and months flew by, the seditious thought crept into her mind that maybe a less famous instructor, someone less busy writing textbooks and articles and flying off to conferences at Princeton, would have been a better fit. After all, she wasn’t writing her thesis for him, or for the grade, or for—

Masha suddenly froze. Through the open door to the university cafeteria, past the bored food-service workers, she spotted Ursolovich’s hunched back at a table by the window.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, striding up to his table. “I tried your office.”

Ursolovich turned to her, a chunk of sandwich distending one cheek. “Ave a cuppa chee,” he mumbled to her, then turned his back again.

Masha obediently bought herself some tea and a roll and then returned, thinking gloomily that Ursolovich would surely punish her for interrupting his repast, just like he had done to another of his advisees. The poor guy had stumbled from his office pale and trembling, dropping loose pages covered in red ink, and practically run off down the hall.

“I can’t eat when someone is sitting there just watching me,” Ursolovich told her when she settled down in the chair next to him.

He dug through his worn-out briefcase and pulled out the painfully familiar folder. Then he wiped his fingers haphazardly on a paper napkin and began paging through her thesis. Masha gripped her teacup hard; her fingers had gone white. The margins of her manuscript were unsullied with comments.

“This is good work, Karavay,” he finally said, raising his nearsighted, nearly lashless eyes. “With a little work, you could stretch it out into a doctoral dissertation. But you’re not planning to go into academia, are you?”

Masha shook her head.

“Well, here’s what I would tell you.” Ursolovich leaned back in his chair. “The topic is really very… nontrivial. Rather particular, I’d say.”

Ursolovich’s attentive eyes were fixed on Masha’s face, and she suddenly felt ill at ease.

“You know more about this, er, research topic than I do. More than anyone in this entire institution, to be honest. This sort of knowledge”—he slapped a hand down on the folder—“is not something that can be acquired in a whole year of training. Not even two. Maybe if you devoted yourself to it for five years, at a minimum. Which means this thesis has been in your head ever since you started the program. So tell me, young lady, what makes this subject so attractive for a girl of twenty-three?”

Masha felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

Ursolovich suddenly leaned over the table and asked her, quietly, “So you didn’t believe them?”

Now Masha really met Ursolovich’s gaze for the first time, and in a flash, he remembered the color of Fyodor’s eyes. They had been just like hers, a light, light green, a rare color, very cold. The resemblance really was astonishing: she had the same sharply defined cheekbones, the strong, handsomely drawn mouth. And her gaze, too—definitely a Karavay family trademark. It was as if she were looking right through him as the gears turned in her brain.

“Listen.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, even though there was nobody around. “No matter who it was, please, let this go! Don’t waste your life trying to understand. And remember, no matter what, Fyodor is not coming back.”

Masha shuddered, but Ursolovich looked away, closed the folder, and continued in a new tone. “I have a few other questions and suggestions about your work, mostly in terms of structure. There’s a page stapled to the bibliography. All right, you can go.”

Masha nodded, muttered something inaudible that might have been thanks, stuffed the folder into her bag, and nearly ran for the exit.

“Where’s your internship?” Ursolovich’s voice chased after her.

Masha froze, her spine stiff.

“At Petrovka,” she called back, her voice even.

Ursolovich snorted and turned away. It’s hopeless, he thought. She’ll never let it go. Just like her father! Who would believe that behind that innocent gaze, that smooth forehead, those locks of straw-colored hair tucked studiously behind one pink ear, there was such a strange beast lurking, like something out of a Goya painting?

Masha strode away from the cafeteria, eyes forward, chin jutted out, trying with all her might not to let any excess moisture—that was her father’s phrase—leak from her eyes. But that moisture was looming, compelled by helplessness and childlike anger. How could she have unmasked herself so stupidly? What was she thinking, revealing a secret she hadn’t entrusted to her friends, her diary, or even her mother? Why, why, why hadn’t she decided to write her paper on some other topic, something more innocent? A topic like… But here Masha faltered, because for her, there was only one topic.

She must have been working on it for five years, at least, Ursolovich had said. Five? Try ten. Masha’s thesis had taken shape in her head when she was twelve years old, the age little girls put away their dollies for good. And what do they start playing with instead?

If someone had told Andrey he was suffering from the typical complexes of a guy from outside the big city—and not just a case of provincialism, but of poor-person provincialism—he would have laughed in that person’s face. Considering yourself a provincial in Moscow was ridiculous. Ninety percent of the city’s residents came from somewhere else. And the ten percent who insisted on their ancient and venerable Moscow roots? Look closely and you’ll always find an auntie in Saransk and a grandpa in the Urals. Andrey considered Moscow his own because he knew it like the fingers on his hand. That knowledge was extremely valuable.