Daria Desombre - The Sin Collector

Kenty’s thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. He shuddered, then put the icon aside. At the door stood his father, a broad-shouldered man of fifty, seemingly enormous in his long dark coat. His beard was black with a sprinkling of gray, and though it was short, it came up almost to his eyes. A healthy, youthful blush lent color to his cheeks, and his sharp eyes regarded Innokenty with something like a squint. This massive individual ushered in his companion, a man much shorter and more slightly built, with a long beard gone almost completely gray, then shut the door behind them both. Only then did he offer his hand to Innokenty to shake. It was enormous, practically a shovel.

“Hello, son!” He glanced respectfully at the older man. “You’ve met the head of the diocese.”

Innokenty gave a slight bow to the old priest, standing calmly at his father’s side. “Could I offer you some tea?” he asked, but then corrected himself. “Herbal, of course?”

The older man nodded. He looked around dispassionately, his heavy eyelids half-lowered, letting his gaze wander silently down the hallway and over the dark icons on the white walls, then contemplating the designer lamp, a waterfall of crystal droplets. Innokenty’s luxurious surroundings embarrassed him now, and he noticed how his father’s lips tightened, although the old priest’s face remained impassive.

Kenty sat his guests at the kitchen table and bustled about. He ran boiling water into a white ceramic teakettle to warm it, then wiped it dry and filled it with a fruity brew that was not technically tea. All the while, the question plagued him: Why had they come? His parents hardly ever visited him, and a prestigious visitor such as this priest was unprecedented. Why had his father brought the man? Innokenty answered his own question: it was the other way around. His father was here at the whim of the single-most-important figure in the Old Believer community, which meant the reason for their visit must also be of singular importance. But what was it? Kenty poured the bright-red, aromatic brew into their cups, smiling mechanically.

“Your young lady,” his father began, and a shiver ran down Innokenty’s spine, nearly making him splash tea on the tablecloth. “The one you’ve been shadowing all these years—”

“Masha?”

It was not really a question. Had he ever been anyone else’s shadow?

Innokenty put the tea kettle neatly back in its place as two pairs of eyes watched him closely.

“Maria Karavay,” the head of the diocese affirmed, his voice soft. He paused and pursed his lips like a peasant to blow on his hot tea. “She seems to be leading a group of detectives from Petrovka looking for some sort of serial killer. Today they came to the church on Basmanny to ask questions. Yakov spoke with one of them. But we know full well that these people are going to keep sniffing around, and that will not do us any good. On the contrary.” The old man looked up from his teacup. His swollen eyelids had suddenly lost their sleepy look, and his eyes were bigger now, drawing Kenty in with a gaze that was young and sharp. “On the contrary, this will only bring us misfortune.”

“It is your duty to protect your own, Innokenty,” his father added. “These people are reckless. It will only take the slightest nudge to send them on a new witch hunt. Just one article in the tabloids about a psychopathic Old Believer, and that will be the end of everything we’ve worked to build these past years. It will all collapse, as it has happened before, all too often. They will cast out all the Old Believers who have only just returned from South America, they will halt the plans to restore our churches to us—”

“We have no desire to reveal to the world how many members of our community are living a secular life,” the priest cut in, never letting his pointed gaze drop from Kenty’s face. “Not because this is a transgression, but because when we shout the faith of our fathers from every street corner, we betray them. More fitting, for us, is silence, which was created before the Word.”

“I’m not sure I can talk Masha out of it.” Kenty shook his head. “She’s very stubborn. And she almost always achieves what she sets out to do.”

“Let her achieve it, then.” The older man stroked his beard. “Catching a killer is a sacred endeavor. But she is not looking where she should. By the time she recognizes her mistake, the evil will have already been done. One must not use evil means to strive for good. One must not.”

No one spoke. The Old Believers might have said an angel was flying by.

“I’ll try,” Innokenty finally said. “But I can’t promise you anything.”

“Very well.” The head of the diocese nodded gravely.

“Please try,” added Kenty’s father.

With that, both men stood and proceeded to the door. There, the priest made the sign of the cross over Innokenty before he walked out, and Kenty’s father quietly laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, then followed. As he closed the door behind them, Kenty wondered what they would have said if they had known that he personally was part of the investigation now threatening to discredit the whole community. He walked back to the kitchen. The three teacups still sat on the table, looking for all the world like chalices of blood.

The priest’s words spun in his head. One must not use evil means to strive for good. One must not.

Andrey worked up the nerve to invite Masha over only after he had pulled up to her front door.

“So, if you want,” he said, exhaling smoke out the open window of his old Ford, “we could go to my place?”

He could have said, Let’s go to my place and I’ll introduce you to Marilyn Monroe. Or I’ll show you what kind of place a cop who doesn’t take bribes can afford. I’ll show you the vinyl cloth on the table outside, worn down to its thready white skeleton. Or the creaking, mismatched chairs, the stained towel hanging near the rusty washbasin, the wallpaper that’s warped and uneven from the last freeze. Yeah, I have so much to show you, like nothing you’ve ever seen. No exquisite antiques here!

Why was it, he had asked himself many times, that in order to get a girl to come home with you, you had to offer to show her something completely beside the point? Like your old blues records or whatever. He looked at Masha and blushed.

“But only if you promise not to let my mess frighten you away,” he added out loud.

Masha turned her pale elfin face to him and let him see her eyes, which looked almost transparent in the darkness.

“Let’s go,” she said, and squeezed his hand hard.

And with a squealing of the brakes (now this was what his supercharged engine was good for!), he tore away from the curb before she changed her mind, heading for a place where the darkness would make the differences between them disappear. Faster. He had to go faster. The prospect of what remained of the night before them sent blood to Andrey’s head, and he felt himself growing warm, despite the breeze buffeting him from both open windows.

He handled the car expertly, as if he were playing a computer game or taking drugs. He was on something, actually, but this high was natural. This euphoria made his vision sharper, his reflexes quicker. Masha was curled up in her seat watching the road as if she, too, were willing the car to go faster.

Now they were past the outer ring road that circled the city, now they turned onto the highway that led out into the countryside, and now they were on a local road, where silent, dark houses lined both sides and the air smelled of fresh grass and wet sand. Finally, he stopped the car, turned off the engine, and sighed. He said it again, like casting a spell.