Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

Jacob started twisting her arm out of the shoulder socket but got nowhere; he hadn’t sawed all the way through the flesh…

Jacob again! Yulia was getting angry.

“Nothing,” she replied with a sigh, and got a grip on herself. “Nothing else. I feel sorry for Mikhail Ivanich. But everything else is fine.”

“Good,” Oleg said quickly. “You know, I’m hungry as a wolf! I’m on Paveletskaya right now. I’ve got some business to do. I’m selling a picture. But I’ll come right over after that.”

“All right.” Yulia nodded and ended the call. She thought sadly, So this is what we’ve come to. There was no food in the house. No money whatsoever. Yulia was one of those people who drags out the last three or four days before her paycheck and by payday has absolutely nothing left in the house.

Oleg, however, had one quirk: food. There always had to be some. And food always meant meat. Salad wasn’t food. When Yulia met Oleg Bekas at his gallery and got to talking to him over a cup of coffee with brandy, he immediately informed her of this quirk. That—dinner not being made—was why he’d left his wife (now his ex) and his infant child. The baby’s name was Sevochka Bekas and his wife’s was Marina. Oleg came home from the gallery one day and there was nothing on the table. Marina’s brown eyes stared at him guiltily as she held Sevochka, who was burning up with fever, to her breast. “Sevochka got sick,” she said. “I didn’t have time.” Oleg gnashed his teeth, turned on his heel, and left. Softened by the brandy, Yulia nodded, as if to say , Rightly so. What kind of a wife doesn’t cook for her husband? “You have to understand, I’m an artist,” Oleg explained. “I’m not some low-brow proletarian. I have the right to put myself first.” Yulia nodded.

A week later she learned from common acquaintances that on that fateful day Marina picked up Sevochka, who was still burning up with fever, wrapped him tightly in her robe, and went out to the balcony barefoot. It was snowing, and Sevochka quieted down and peeked out of her robe. Snowflakes were melting on his cheeks. “Pretty?” Marina asked. Sevochka goo-gooed approvingly. Marina climbed onto the railing, holding her son to her breast, and from there, from the sixteenth floor, to the dumbfounded looks of the group smoking on the next balcony over, she jumped.

When she first heard this, Yulia just shook her head. Foolish woman Marina. Who jumps off over men?

But right now she was ready to do the same thing. Pick up Barsik, hold him tight to her breast, and leap from her sixth floor, right in front of the dumbfounded visitors at the Metelitsa casino. Because she no longer had the emotional strength to be left not only walletless but also Oleg Bekasless.

Yulia worked as a proofreader in a publishing house. Her only connection to art was through grammar. For days on end Yulia read other people’s words very, very carefully. And corrected them. She felt like a worker who hammers a nail into a wall to hang a painting that gives off a divine light. But what kind of light does a nail give off? None whatsoever. Oleg was an artist, though, and canvases came to life in his hands. Even a sheet of notebook paper. Yulia couldn’t do that. She could only go word by word, like an infinite rosary, barely penetrating the meaning of what was written.

She fell in love with Oleg once and for all (though she had never believed in love at first sight and in her youth had often snickered at her more naïve girlfriends). With Yulia it was all very simple. Like him—hook up—go to a café—go to bed. Love? Who cared about love? As long as he had a fat wallet and a generous nature. Maybe that’s why Yulia hadn’t been through any emotional upheavals before Oleg. She hooked up and split up with a cold heart and a clear head. Like a chekist. But here was Oleg. An artist. A creator. Someone from another world where they don’t hammer nails but drink to Brüderschaft with God almighty… Yulia saw him in the gallery and fell hard. Her heart broke off and slowly dropped to the pit of her stomach.

Yulia went out on the balcony. The lights of New Arbat spread out right there in front of her. Here was a huge building with a web of lights like an open book. Here was a casino in the shape of a ship; here was another casino, and another. Expensive cars, lots of people. Sometimes Yulia dreamed of flying from her window and landing right on that ship burning with blue lights—and then sailing off to distant lands, where she and Oleg would live together in a cabin and have three children.

Jacob climbed onto the stepladder and tried to hang his mama’s head on the Christmas star, but the star was so fragile, and his mama’s head was so heavy, that… The words raced through her mind again and Yulia mechanically finished up: that the boy couldn’t hold it there and the head came crashing down, cracking loudly on the parquet floor. Yulia didn’t feel so good. Usually she didn’t remember all the words to the texts she proofread, and now there was this flood. I’ll ask them to give me a different novel, she thought. And I’ll give this one to Mikhail Ivanich… Damn, he’s gone… Everyone’s gone…

Yulia let out another sigh and looked at the clock. She had approximately an hour and a half until Oleg’s arrival. She went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Then the refrigerator, and then the cabinets over the sink. The old fairy tale about Roly-Poly came to mind. I’ll scrape the bottom of the barrel, Yulia chuckled to herself. Her soul was being torn to shreds.

Her search was crowned with a near-empty bottle of sunflower oil, a piece of dried-out French bread, and an almost full bottle of vodka—Yulia gave Barsik vodka compresses when he was sick. She mechanically twisted off the tight lid and sipped some vodka straight from the bottle.

Jacob sat down on the chair and looked at her intently. His blue eyes said , Come on. It’s so easy. Easy as pie. Anna fidgeted. “Maybe we can leave Thomas alone?” she asked. “Do you want to spoil the whole game?” Jacob scowled. He fiddled with the cord of his checkered shorts. “No,” Anna answered in fear. “Then stand up and do it,” Jacob said gently. “And don’t forget this.”

Compresses for Barsik.

Barsik.

Anna went over to Thomas’s crib. He was looking at his mobile. “Jake, I can’t get to him,” she said. “The crib’s too high.” “I’ll bring a chair!” Jacob responded. A minute later Anna was climbing onto the chair and looking down at Thomas. “So pretty,” she said softly. “Of course he’s pretty,” Jacob agreed. “But that’s completely beside the point.” “Yes,” Anna said. “Is the water hot enough?” Jacob inquired. “You understand what I mean when I ask if the water’s hot enough, right?” “Yes, Jake. It’s boiling.” Anna raised the kettle, screwed up her eyes, and upended it on Thomas. A piercing shriek filled the nursery.

Yulia shook her head, driving out the terrible thoughts, and took another swig of vodka. The thoughts returned.

What’s the big deal? Yulia thought. The big deal is that I would never survive Oleg leaving me.

She gave herself a good shake and stumbled into the bathroom on wobbly legs. A second later she came out clutching a mop.

“Puss puss puss,” Yulia called faintly, glancing around the room.

Barsik jumped out from behind the couch. Yulia caught him in her arms and moved out to the balcony. There she lay the cat on the tile floor. Barsik stayed there obediently, watching her with his slanted little blue eyes.

“I’m proud of you,” said Jacob. “Don’t howl.” “I can’t not howl. This is Thomas after all. He’s still little and it hurts,” Anna said, weeping. Jacob hugged his sister. He glanced at his little brother screaming in anguish in his crib with a piece of red meat where his face had been. “You see, Anna, he shouldn’t suffer. We’re going to save him.” Jacob moved away from his sister and took the screaming Thomas out of his crib. He put him on the rug. “Did you bring what I said?” “Yes,” Anna answered obediently. Jacob took the golf club from her hands. He stepped back a little and took aim. He raised the club high over his head, then lowered it with a whistle at Thomas’s head, which cracked like a watermelon.