Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

For those who know anything about life and death, the field is a cult location. That’s where we’re going. Actually, we’re nearly there. Coming toward us through the night, through the black branches, reflecting off the thin crust of ice, are the headlights of someone’s car zapping us in the eyes. They’re waiting for us. Voronov has a lot of friends.

“A guy died here once,” Voronov says, addressing no one in particular, and he kills the engine. But I know—he’s continuing my education. He’s teaching me how to live. We get out of the car and look both ways. A junior agent, Khmarin, takes the alcohol and snacks out of the trunk. “It probably took a few days,” Banderas continues. “His car broke down on the parkway and he crawled here. He lay here, rasping, calling for help. All kinds of vermin ate him up.”

“What kind of vermin?”

“All kinds. It’s a national park. They have wild animals here.” He spits a yellow gob long into the snow.

The oncoming car switches its beams to low. Men get out, shivering in their summerweight leather jackets. I know them only vaguely. District criminal investigations. All friends of my new boss. They’re scary, but I’m getting used to them. For them the field is a known quantity. For me it’s still wild and exotic. We shake hands. The men break up into groups while Khmarin and I serve up an improvised meal on the hood of a long American automobile. There are lots of cars, ten or so. They pull up one after the other, forming a lopsided circle. Each on his own side of the field. I’m cutting sausage with fingers stiff from the cold, and I realize that here today they’re going to solve a dozen crimes ranging from serious to very, just like that, easily, plastic cup in hand. One pours for another, the other for a third. They’re cutting deals, and first thing tomorrow morning they’ll start writing reports.

“Does everyone have some?” Voronov asks, lifting a ribbed white cup.

“Aaaaoooo!” the agents respond.

“Down the hatch,” my boss sums up, sending 120 grams of pepper Kristall down his throat in a single motion. We’re lucky. The Kristall factory is the Eastern District agents’ patrimony. At least we drink high-quality vodka.

Adam’s apples are bobbing. Up and down. The cops are getting a buzz on. Stealthily I pour myself a half at the hip. It’s comfy here sitting on this mossy piece of concrete. Slippery but comfy.

The picnic drags on. It’s looking to be dawn soon. I examine the faces of the men surrounding me. They’re stinking drunk but not repulsive. They’re just talking a little louder, and more and more often their hands, with their thick short fingers, slice the air dangerously close to whoever they’re talking to. Yes, the word “danger” right now couldn’t be more accurate. These men, unpredictable and invested with almost limitless power, could do something terrible stone sober, but now…

Another bottle makes the rounds. And another. I’ve stopped counting and stopped being amazed at the foresight of those gathered. How much did they bring? Their business discussions are drawing to a close. Here and there—bursts of laughter. The cops are in a great mood today.

“Banderas!” a cop shouts from the other end of the field. “Listen, they told me that after a liter you can hit nine out of ten with either hand! They were lying, right?”

“No way.” Nikolai Petrovich throws back his heavy head. “They only lied about one thing: it’s ten out of ten. Even after two.”

The field laughs. This slippery topic ought to be shut down, it seems to me, and I even open my mouth, but they get ahead of me. I think things over too long to say anything original.

“Well now, let’s see if it’s true.” A man of about fifty totters out to the middle of the field. I know him. He’s the deputy chief detective from the next department over. A colonel. He was in line for a promotion to Moscow homicide, but something didn’t work out. They say it was the vodka again. The colonel takes an apple from the pocket of his pretentious leather jacket, blows tobacco flakes off it, and places it on his own head. The field bursts into laughter again.

“Watch,” the young agent Khmarin elbows me in the side. “Something’s about to happen.”

To be honest, I’m scared, but Khmarin is perfectly calm and smiling his big gap-toothed smile.

“Two years ago Banderas stood three Tajiks here, rapists. They didn’t want to write confessions. He put an apple on top of each head, and took out two barrels. They say it stank of shit, but nothing bad happened.”

“Did they write them?”

“Sure did. You’d write anything if a bullet grazed your head.” Khmarin sniffs. “True, I didn’t actually see it. But that’s what people say.”

I don’t doubt that’s exactly how it all went down, but my alarm doesn’t abate. I’m looking at Voronov. He’s very, very drunk. Catching my look, he smiles and the tips of his mustache go up. He comes closer, leans toward my face, bathing me in a haze of vodka, and whispers, “If you get together with an old friend and buy a case of pepper vodka, you can have a pretty decent time of it. You just have to leave your guns at home. Someone told me that too, but I forgot. Just so you remember, student.”

I’m gripped by panic, but changing anything—that’s out of my hands. The colonel stands in the middle of the field and keeps smiling idiotically. The apple is shaking on his head, looking to fall. Voronov marks off twenty-five paces and stands facing him. The cops fall silent. You can touch the silence now, you can cut it with a knife and spread it on bread. Snow crunches under someone’s feet; the officers are freezing in the winter woods, and warm boots are not their style. Voronov gets his nonregulation TT out of his left holster, examines it carefully, and closes his eyes for a second. Right now I can feel him as if I’ve entered into his mind. He aims with eyes closed, without raising the barrel. The next instant something terrible happens. Chilled from standing there in one place, the colonel sneezes. We still haven’t heard the sound and don’t realize what’s happening. All we see is his face suddenly crumple. His mouth opens wide, the apple falls off his shaven head, and the night silence is shredded by gunshot. He sneezes and drops like a sack into the snow. His legs bend, his arms fling awkwardly to the side, and the 7.62 caliber bullet pierces his head like it’s a ripe melon—straight through. Now his left leg twitches spasmodically—the tiniest bit. Once, twice, three times. All his muscles tense and his chest rises and falls. The thousand and first corpse on the field.

No one seems surprised. The agents collect the remains of their feasting silently and efficiently and toss the bottles and snacks into their trunks. One after another the engines start up and the dry snow creaks under their wheels. Another three minutes or so probably pass, or maybe it’s an eternity. And here we are. The two of us on the field. Voronov nervously squeezes the TT in his hand, and I’m frozen in an awkward pose on the mossy concrete.

The colonel’s corpse.

Our eyes meet. Banderas walks over to me and looks me up and down. He throws the gun at my feet.

“Keep it. It’s a present.” He turns on his heel and walks toward his car. “Boy, cops don’t go to prison. They die fast there. Or stop being cops. Or stop being at all.”

“And so?”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Aha.”

“Aha. Idiot. You’re a cop. That’s all. God help you. And if he does—you’ll understand real fast. Bye for now.”

He starts his engine and leaves. I’m alone. I sit like that for another hour, until my drunk is completely passed. My brain is now amazingly clear, and I know what I have to do.