Natalia Smirnova: Moscow Noir

Slowly, and somehow picturesquely, he fell.

He died almost immediately. His last words were: “I’m cold.”

He really did love the movies, poor guy. A rug spattered in blood, his woman, her hands stained red, “I’m cold”—so Hollywood. Until Foxy Lee untied me and I had checked his pulse, I almost thought he was faking it.

But he died for real.

Naked, shivering, and pathetic, standing over Stary’s dead body, I offended Foxy again. I asked her what she wanted—as in, how much I owed her for the favor. I gave the dead body a little kick.

That’s when she started to cry. She cried long and hard, like a baby, like an inconsolable child. She was probably crying like that the first day Stary brought her here. She was sobbing and gasping and she couldn’t stop. She kept saying, “I don’t nee… nee… nee…” I hugged her and stroked her hair. I felt ashamed, really ashamed, even before she managed to say, “I don’t need anything. I did it for you. He wanted to kill you!”

I was ashamed. I hid my face in her hair and asked her to forgive me.

Then she whispered: “If you want me, you can have me.”

I was already naked, and she undressed quickly. Stary was staring at us out of one bloodied eye. He kept watching silently as I got the answers to my questions.

I found out that Foxy moans.

And that her eyes stay open, but her pupils dilate and become huge and crazed, like two black full moons.

And I found out that she smells like an animal and a child at the same time, and she tastes salty, like the sea. That her nipples are hard and brown, and that she has freckles, not only on her face but on her shoulders. And that there is a thin line of red hair that stretches from her navel to her pubis.

Then she gave me some clothing, his clothing, because Stary had thrown mine away, and she gave me a stack of dollar bills (his) and she gave me a gun (his) and the gold bank card. My bank card.

As I was leaving, I asked her, “What about you? Are you gonna be okay?”

And she answered: “What about me? They’ll be looking for you, not me. I’ll stay here and I’ll be miserable. I’ll say he was lying there when I came into the room.” She nodded at Stary.

Apparently, I didn’t look too ecstatic.

“All you have to do is make it through the night,” said Foxy. “If we both run away, then they’ll look for both of us and we won’t have any chance at all. If we do it this way, I’ll have everything fixed up by morning. Then you’ll step off the bus and my guy… our guy, that is, will give you new documents, tickets, and new clothes. You have to believe me, honey, no one in his right mind would go looking for you in that stinking bus. No one in his right mind will look for you on a third-class train. We’ll meet up in Odessa, okay? Is that okay with you?”

I had no objections, because the plan made sense. I had no objections, because I was in love. I had no objections, because Foxy Lee is my guardian angel. Because doubting her would be a sin. She killed him for my sake. And in doing so she harmed herself. That’s a fact. It’s a paradox. I keep thinking about it, and I never stop being amazed: because Stary was the one guarantee she had in life. In killing him, she lost everything—the mansion on the banks of the Yauza River, money, clothes, perfume, bling, expensive cars, shopping trips to the Atrium—everything.

What would she get in exchange for all that?

Stary was married, but not to Foxy. His wife lived in a modest three-story building on Rublevsky Highway. With the help of a maid, a physical trainer, and two nannies, she took care of their son. Stary came to visit them from time to time. Foxy knew about it. Stary had bequeathed everything to his wife and son. Foxy knew about that too.

So what would she get in exchange for all that?

Me. Just me. And with no guarantees.

It’s still dark outside the window, but it’s already morning. We’re on our way back. We’re already close: there’s that goddamned Atrium on the other side of Sadovaya. Only five or ten minutes left, no more. All we have to do is turn around at Taganka and drive a little ways to get there, to Kursk. It’s really early, and the Atrium is as depressing as an abandoned medieval castle.

Things are going good, as Stary used to like to say. Soon this will all be over. Things are going good. One of our guys will meet me on the platform. I’ll board the Moscow-Odessa train, a third-class car, and, finally, I’ll get some sleep. No, first I’ll go to the dining car and grab something to eat. Then I’ll go to sleep. Things are going good. Except that—

There’s one little thing, one small thing that won’t let go of me. Like the dull end of a drill, it pierces my brain. Some business I forgot to take care of, or an unanswered e-mail, a mistake in a quarterly financial report, or the last piece of a puzzle that has fallen behind the couch.

I still haven’t been able to figure out what that little thing is. Maybe it’s just exhaustion, some inconsequential glitch in my nervous system, some whim, and it would probably be best to ignore it. I should just look out the window and not think, not think, not think…

I’m just looking out the window—at the road, at the traffic lights, at the Atrium.

The Mercy Bus driver turns on the radio:

“… record-breaking cold this month, temperatures tonight have plunged down to thirty-eight below! But it’s going to heat up today, we have a warm front coming in…”

“…to understand her you gotta know her deep inside, hear every thought, see every…”

“…shhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

The bus driver turns the dials mercilessly.

“…regardless of what you say, transformation on that scale is only possible in a democratic society…”

“…have you ever really really really ever loved a woman?”

“…I’ll send you sky-high for a star!…”

“And now for our top news bulletin. A police spokesman has confirmed that the primary suspect in the murder of Nikolai Starkovsky, State Duma deputy and owner of the Star Oil company, is Andrei Kaluzhsky, PR manager for Star Oil and organizer of the Merciful Monsters Charity Ball, which took place in Moscow on the night before the murder. According to police, they have ample evidence implicating Kaluzhsky in the murder. At present, according to investigative authorities, Andrei Kaluzhsky is in hiding somewhere in Moscow. He has not left the city. ‘I simply cannot believe that this man would commit premeditated murder,’ said Elizabeth ‘Foxy’ Lesnitskaya, girlfriend of the late deputy, in an interview. ‘Andrei was so kind and honest. The whole ChaBa was his idea. It was a lovely charity event, which has already helped hundreds of homeless people!’”

Foxy Lee, my red-haired girl. How kind and foolish you are to protect me. Hold on a little while, soon this will all be over. We’re already pulling up. Here we are at the station.

The bus comes to a stop.

No one in his right mind will go looking for me in a third-class car on the Moscow-Odessa train, will they?

“…police are doing all they can to find…”

The merciful in masks are walking down the aisle. Drowning out the blaring radio, they announce: “The Mercy Bus has arrived at Kursk station. Those who can leave the bus by themselves should do so now. Extra medical treatment will be provided for those who are sick or cannot walk. Those of you who are seriously ill can check in at the local hospital.”

The swollen, smelly passengers pry their eyes open, hoisting themselves lazily and awkwardly out of their seats.

“…A photograph and description of the suspect have been sent to all police stations, airports, and trains stations. Police are on high alert…”