Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

“Lucky dogs… In Moscow, but like being in a forest.”

Nadya shrugs.

They leave the road and walk among the pines across the sand. Nadya takes off her platform shoes. Ryabets lags behind a little. Make up your mind! is knocking in his brain. She went into the forest on purpose, on purpose!

He puts his hand on Nadya’s shoulder. The girl stops.

“What are you doing?” She removes his hand.

“I… I—” He drops his bag and tries to put his arms around her.

She dodges him. “That’d be just great. This place is full of people!”

“I… I… just… wanted… to kiss you.”

“Kiss me?” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips. “There! Later, later…”

“When?” Ryabets rasps.

“Tonight, maybe. Who makes love in the afternoon?”

Mesropov and the gang are already at the beach. Boltyansky’s there too. The others are strangers, dark-haired and guttural, Mesropov’s fellow tribesmen. They greet the appearance of Ryabets and Burataeva cheerfully, by pouring the Armenian brandy. Ryabets doesn’t drink. He takes a whiff and sets it aside. First of all, he’s never tried anything stronger than New Year’s champagne, and second, he’s angry. Nadya’s the only girl in the group. She goes for a swim. She swims for a long time and he watches her. She’s already squealing and giggling, and they’re already pawing at her. Mesropov and his friends. “Bastards! Bastards!” he shouts with his head under water so no one can hear.

They play ball, jump around, roughhouse. Ryabets sits on a lounge and rages. Then they wander over to a beer stand on Krug. Mesropov and Burataeva take up the rear with their arms around each other. Ryabets looks back. He doesn’t go near Buratina at the beer stand or later when they finally show up at the dacha of Lidukha, a little brunette with small, intense eyes. She greets her guests on the porch. Mesropov kisses her hand, and at that moment Buratina remembers Ryabets and glances around. He’s standing at the gate.

“Are you coming or what?”

“No, I’m going home.”

He’ll kill her, the bitch, he will.

Ryabets squeezes his dry fists.

Laughter from a second-story window: “Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!”

That last is hers.

Ryabets feels the rough wall. It’s dry, it’s going to burn, so don’t cry, mama!

First, gasoline. No problem. There’s a car by the gate.

Second, a hose. Where’s the hose? There—the dead snake on the dry grass. Everything’s very dry. Laughter and more laughter. Drunken and insolent. And music. Someone’s puking.

Third, a bottle. Here’s a jar under the porch. Two of them. Liter bottles. Great!

Ryabets uses his teeth to rip off a piece—about a meter long—of the snake-hose’s black flesh. There we go, there. He twists off the gas cap. Now suck—ha ha—suck! Acrid fumes, more, more… till you feel like puking. More, more… E-ro-tic! Boltyansky would say. He wouldn’t have to listen to his, Boltyansky’s, laughing, fearless, or him jerking off in the hall… Not a damn thing was going to be left of him either.

It’s flowing! First down the throat, then into the jar. A liter. Let’s pour. Another liter. That’s it, no more sucks out. That’s enough. It’s so dry it could catch without gasoline.

Now to wait. Cover the jar with a towel at least, so it doesn’t evaporate off, and wait-wait-wait.

Ryabets moves away from the dacha and sits leaning up against a sticky pine trunk. Wait. It’s a good thing there’s no dog. No dog.

Ryabets’s hand slithers into his pants. No, he shouldn’t. If I come I’ll back down. It’s wrong. For three years she’s all I’ve been thinking of. Hands off!

Her short haircut in the window. She’s smoking, tapping the ashes right where he was just standing. Oops! The butt flies like a drunken star and drops next to his invisible feet. And smolders. But it could catch fire. It could. Excellent. She’s gone. Yesterday Mesropov said he wanted her girlfriend. But who wants her ? These guys? The Chuchmeks? Bitch.

It’s not jealousy, it’s justice. Like in The Decameron . She keeps him waiting in the yard in winter while she consoles herself with someone else. Italy. And the wife forced her husband to climb into a barrel to caulk it up from the inside. She’s standing there and showing him where… while another guy fucks her from behind. Cheerful folks. And there’s the one who pretended to be deaf and dumb in a convent. That’s the life!

Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!

When are they going to settle down? First brandy, then beer, then brandy. How will he get home? How? The trolleys will stop running. So will the subway. I’ll call my mother. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Evidence. They’ll ask his mother, When did your son come home?

Phooey! He’s in trouble again. Don’t do that. Go home. Jerk off as much as you can. Until you can’t, ha ha.

Shhh. They’ve turned off the lights. Gone to bed? Bolt too? With who? Quietly by myself … Super! The terrace door creaks. Ryabets presses up against the trunk and tucks his feet in. The shadow from a nearby bush hides him. A rustle. Lidukha with the big tits. Mesropov. They stop and whisper.

“I won’t without them. Where did she throw them, the fool?”

“Over here somewhere. It’s dark, where should I look? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You promise but it’s my ass!”

“Lighten up, will you? I swear, I’ll be careful!”

“Uh-huh, and then it’s you and Nadya?”

“What’s with you? I didn’t invite her, you did. You and I have all day tomorrow, don’t we? When are your parents coming back?”

And he paws at her, the Chuchmek, he paws at Lidukha. He pulls her to the ground and lifts her skirt, goddamn decameron!

Ryabets goggles at the silhouettes fornicating. He feels like coming out and… kicking, kicking! Just be patient. Wait and be patient. Lidukha gives a faint cry. And Ryabets notices her look out the window. Her profile is sweet, but her eyes are harsh. That means she sees everything and isn’t going away. Why? Why? Mesropych rolls off the girl. Like a tick. Nadya spins around and vanishes.

They stand up, shake off, and leave. They close the door. Lock it. Very good. Wait.

Ryabets, crouching, moves toward the house, right where the couple was. There’s something kind of white in the grass—condoms! Two packets held together by a rubber band. Why did they leave them here?

Ryabets is standing behind the bridge pylon watching. The flashes he could barely make out a minute ago are visible now, and furious. The pinos are burning, the pinos! Like candles!

He stands and watches. Another ten minutes and it’ll be dawn. Two fire engines speed past. And an ambulance. Too late.

He descends to Novikov-Priboy Street, finds a telephone booth, drops in a two-kopek coin, and dials. His mother doesn’t answer right away, she mumbles incoherently, and Ryabets is relieved. She’s drunk. If she’s drunk, that means his father’s been asleep for a long time too. No need to hurry.

Last man standing. How powerful is that? Like Mesropych. Boltyansky once asked Zinaida Leonidovna, the lit teacher, about The Decameron . Had she read it? That idiot four-eyes exploded. “Who gave you permission to read books like that?” And Boltyansky said to her, “But it’s a classic. It says so in the preface.” “A classic?” Zinaida Leonidovna hollered. “I’ll give you a classic, Boltyansky! I worry that’s all you think about! It’s never occurred to you that The Decameron is primarily an anticlerical book. Go to the board, Boltyansky. Tell me about the images of Communists in Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov’s Quiet Flows the Don and Virgin Soil Upturned. Or should I fail you immediately? Tell your parents to come see me tomorrow!”