Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

It’s all just the way it is. For no reason. Just because. Just—because.

I looked up and met someone’s searing gaze. A fairly unpleasant one. It belonged to a burly man who had suddenly materialized in front of me; someone of about fifty with the broad, crudely chiseled mug of a charismatic antihero. The fellow was walking toward me—uncertainly at first, but with every step more and more purposeful. I realized right away who it was. I was about to get up when the guy stopped abruptly, shoved his hand inside his coat, and, staring at me from under his brow, clapped a cell phone to his ear.

Kostya from the Criminal Investigation Department called; he was a great resource for Felix here in Moscow.

“Hello?” Felix answered in a quiet, curt voice, not taking his eyes off Pasha Korenev.

“You’re trying to find out about Dmitry Lisin?” Kostya asked cautiously, his voice full of concern.

“Yeah.”

“Were you able to see him?”

“Yes. Yesterday.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” Kostya snickered. “Just in time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I happened across his name this morning. I thought of you right away. The report on the explosion on Sirenevy Boulevard came in from the eastern precinct.”

“What explosion?”

“You haven’t heard? At 2 Sirenevy Boulevard. It looks like a gas main burst. Several apartments were destroyed, three people died. One of them was Lisin. He lived in the apartment right above the one that blew up.”

“A gas main?” Felix repeated slowly, looking at Korenev, who sat serenely in the same spot.

“That’s what they suspect. The cause hasn’t been determined yet.”

“It wasn’t gas, Kostya. I mean, maybe it was gas—but it wasn’t an accident. It was murder.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” Felix barked, then hung up.

He approached the bastard, who stared calmly back at him and seemed like he was about to hold out his hand in greeting; but Felix’s facial expression stopped him.

“Pasha…?” Felix asked, surprised at the hesitancy of his own voice.

The bastard nodded. “Felix…?”

A plain, pale fellow, who seemed paradoxically both younger and older than his thirty-some years. Absolutely average, a somehow ineffably unprepossessing appearance. At the same time, a certain detail that Felix didn’t catch—probably something in the guy’s eyes—triggered his memory of the words of the late Lisin: He’s gotten really weird. He’s drinking, I guess. Or shooting up…

They stood there facing each other—Korenev, calmly expectant. Felix suddenly realized he didn’t know how to begin, or what to do. Or why he needed to see the guy so urgently… Since Felix had homed in on the creep, reason only intermittently guided his actions. The situation was dictated exclusively by emotions: Felix was impatient to see the monster, to stand near him, to observe him at close range—and to let him know that he knew everything. That this bastard had no way out—he would cringe in fear, he would feel terror so fierce it would hurt…

“My name’s Shakhlinsky,” Felix finally said, in the same strangled voice.

“Uh-huh,” Korenev replied, nodding slightly to himself. Something flickered behind his eyes—but no, it wasn’t fear.

“I’m Yanka’s uncle,” Felix added.

“Please accept my condolences,” Korenev said after a slight pause, and Felix was ready to rip him apart right there. He knew why the son of a bitch had suggested meeting here, in a place full of people. He was afraid…

“I’m a colonel in the police force, Criminal Investigation Department.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“You know what I want,” Felix said, and mastered himself with a deep intake of breath. “They say it was several hours before she died. And you, son of a bitch, will suffer ten times longer, and worse. Do you think I’m going to send you up for this? No, you don’t, of course.” He struggled to assume a gentler expression. “You know there’s not enough evidence. Only I don’t need any friggin’ evidence; I’m going to kill you myself…”

The bastard smirked. Felix could hardly believe his eyes—the guy was smirking without the slightest sign of fear.

“So you think I killed her?”

“And you didn’t think anyone would find out? Right. No clues, and—the main thing—no motive. But I was lucky. Just by chance I learned about a few of your acquaintances. About what happened to them during the past year. The year when you suddenly disappeared. When no one could find you, except a few who died soon after. Or ended up as vegetables on life-support systems—like Gleb Mezentsev.”

“Wait a minute—Gleb was in a car crash.”

“Right. His BMW flew into a ditch after someone drove him off the road… It was a hit and run.”

“You think I did that? That’s crazy—I’ve never even had a driver’s license. Although the fact that you single me out at all is kind of cool. You say you were lucky…?” Korenev stared at Felix, who had a hard time not averting his gaze. But he held out, of course—the bastard lowered his eyes, and nodded. “So you decided I killed them… There’s just one thing I don’t get—why me?”

“Because you, motherfucker, envied all of them. Because you’ve been a sniveler your whole life. Because your life has been a pile of shit. Because you never got a fucking thing you wanted. Because you, you little shit, hate everyone who has it better than you, who lucks out—”

“Lucks out,” Korenev interrupted. “What does that mean, ‘to luck out’? You think you have the right to judge who’s lucky and who isn’t? Do you think there’s any logic to anything? But of course. We always look for some rationale, some system to explain things. But we really invent them ourselves. Simply because we think in these categories; we don’t know any other way. Only there is no system, and no explanation.” Still staring, Pasha Korenev shook his head slowly back and forth. “They only exist in our own minds. That’s what none of you want to understand. What I myself didn’t understand for a long time. I kept thinking there had to be rules of some kind. And I tried to play by them! To do things conscientiously. To keep my word. Not let anyone down. I kept thinking if I was good to people, they’d be good to me.” The corners of his mouth contorted. “But it’s all a load of crap. There are no rules. Nothing depends on your personal qualities or the efforts you make. Either you’re lucky or you aren’t. Only that”— he suddenly took a half-step toward Felix, almost pressing up against him—“doesn’t mean a damn thing. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why I come to all of you—so you’ll finally start thinking about it. Rules don’t exist here either. And even if you luck out all the time, it doesn’t guarantee anything. Nothing. At. All.”

“Mm-hmm.” Now Felix moved forward slightly, forcing Korenev to fall back a step. “And you took the role of fate upon yourself?”

Korenev snorted in exasperation. “You’re not listening. You try to attach meaning to everything. To find someone to blame. Naturally, it’s easier that way, when there’s someone to blame.” He took another step backward, as if to observe Felix from head to toe. “But you must understand—there is no one to blame. And nothing you can do.” Another step backward. And then, from the side, a group of loud, gesticulating young people surged around him. There was some minor scuffling, after which Korenev ended up about five meters away from Felix. Somehow following fluidly in the wake of the young people, he moved away, skirting the fountain. He quickened his pace, weaving in and out of people in the crowd.