Jennifer duBois - A Partial History of Lost Causes

Walking through Leningrad, he skirted the city’s center, cutting south on Ligovsky, giving wide berth to the Saigon. He knew that there was nothing there now; in the night, the upset stalls had been righted, the blood had been mopped up by industrial state mops, the bus had been towed away to some broken-down automobile ossuary on the outside of the city. But he could still imagine it every time he blinked: the screech of rusted brakes, maybe, the thick thud of a person falling too hard into snow.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it. He could believe it, the way he could believe that there was no life after death, that the world would someday hurtle itself into the sun, that he might always live alone. It was the kind of information that, once believed, left one with almost nothing to do but lie down on the ground and believe it some more.

The hospital was a stocky flint-gray building with bars on the windows. At the reception desk sat a woman with faintly red hair and skin stretched too far over her bones, as though her skull had continued growing for several years after her face had stopped.

“Yes?” she said, not looking up.

“I’m here to visit Mikhail Andreyevich. He’s here. In room 219.”

“If you know where he is, then go,” said the receptionist. “What are you asking me for?”

Aleksandr walked down the hallway. The walls and floor were the color of a femur. Every few doorknobs were bunched with plastic flowers in leering yellows and oranges, stiff-limbed stuffed animals, tiny Soviet flags. Aleksandr thought about the people behind the unornamented doors.

When Aleksandr entered the room, he was relieved to see that Misha seemed to be asleep. He lay with his eyes closed, his face a tessellation of gashes of varying severity. Aleksandr walked toward him and leaned over to look more closely. A particularly deep laceration threaded just underneath Misha’s eye, and it was easy to tell how close he’d come to losing it. Aleksandr touched Misha’s hand lightly. His skin was the consistency of mosquito paper and the color of the unwashed hospital sheets. There was something perversely comical in Misha’s survival. Misha had, after all, already been halfway out the door — part skeleton, part mad, mostly ghost.

“Get better, Misha,” Aleksandr said. “Good luck.” He cupped Misha’s forehead briefly.

Misha’s eyes snapped open. Open, they occupied an unnerving amount of his face, as though he were a nocturnal creature adapted to looking only into darkness. “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

Aleksandr immediately removed his hand from Misha’s head and pretended to be righting the sheets, which had curled out from their corners. Bits of foam erupted from the exposed mattress, stained with substances in dark and ominous colors. “I’m Aleksandr Kimovich,” he said. “I’m a friend of Ivan’s. I was a friend of Ivan’s.”

“Are you with Nikolai Sergeyevich?”

“Nikolai’s not here right now.”

“No.” Misha sat up. He perched himself on his elbows. Through Misha’s skin, Aleksandr could see where his elbow bone bisected. He could see his jutting breastplate creating a second collarbone across his chest. “I’m saying, are you fucking with Nikolai Sergeyevich?”

“We’ve met. At the Saigon, remember, and at Stalin’s centennial.” Misha only blinked, his enormous bat eyes shining and reproachful. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aleksandr said finally.

“I remember you.” Misha closed his eyes. Aleksandr felt much calmer around Misha when he had his eyes closed. “You’re not very memorable. But Ivan trusted you. He told me that when he came to see me a few times at my mother’s. I don’t know why, personally. You seem sort of slow to me.”

“I’m not the one handcuffed to a bed,” said Aleksandr. He stopped tugging at the sheets and let one corner come untucked. He hoped Misha would roll onto it in the night and feel the cold of the recycled mattress against his skin.

“But Ivan trusted you,” said Misha. “Come here.”

“Where?”

“Closer.”

“I’d rather not.” Misha smelled like formaldehyde and lime cleansers.

Misha’s eyes fluttered open again, and Aleksandr could see the shivering capillaries in his eyeballs. He could see the faint gesture of a heartbeat in his wrist. “Aleksandr,” said Misha almost imperceptibly. “It was Nikolai.”

“What?” said Aleksandr, although something in the back of his head was starting to shudder and grind to life. It was a feeling he knew from chess: it came in the moment when he knew what he was going to do next, before he completely knew why.

“He was behind us. He signaled the bus.” Misha’s voice was almost nothing, the sound of a skull slipping into snow.

“How? How did he signal?” Aleksandr spoke without moving his lips.

Misha’s eyes looked wet and unseeing, orbs of volcanic rock stuck awkwardly into his head. He stared at Aleksandr hard. Then he jerked his head.

“That,” said Misha, “is how he signaled.”

“If you saw him,” said Aleksandr, trying to keep his voice even. “If you saw him signal, then why didn’t you shout?”

“I didn’t know it was a signal until afterward. He jerked his head. I saw him jerk his head.”

“Okay,” said Aleksandr. “Okay.” He blinked and saw Ivan and Nikolai arguing over the Lithuanian. He blinked and saw Nikolai’s leather jacket. He blinked and saw Nikolai the night before, his bloodied socks, his ragged breaths. He blinked and saw Nikolai’s notebooks.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Aleksandr hissed at Misha.

Misha looked at him witheringly. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’d think your little advice column, or whatever, is finished. You’ve got bigger problems now, tovarish. I’m sure the smart thing to do is to lay low and behave yourself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Me?” Misha snorted. “I’m obviously supposed to be dead. I was thinking of blowing up the Kremlin. I was thinking of assassinating Brezhnev. You hear that?” He was shouting. “I’m going to fucking kill Brezhnev. I’m going to have a day of it. I’m going to get myself killed, and I’m going to defile the corpse of Lenin first. Fuck them all! Fuck them all ! You hear me?” Aleksandr could hear the rustling and clucking of a phalanx of nurses on the march down the hall, armed with sedatives for Misha.

“You’re going to get yourself put in Matrosskaya Tishina,” said Aleksandr. “You know that?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Misha. “Try to be less stupid, okay? Just remember about Nikolai.” Then he was once more shouting, thrashing the sheets, knocking over his bedside water, and hurling profanities. The dismissive red-haired nurse from the reception desk entered and stuck Misha in the neck with an epic needle. His eyes froze in place, and his withered hands dropped to the sheets.

“The pain medication has made him crazy, perhaps,” said Aleksandr.

The nurse’s mouth twisted, and she looked at Aleksandr a little longer than people normally did.

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps.”

The first thing Aleksandr did was break in to Ivan’s apartment. It was easy to do: he slid his internal passport between the cheap lock and the shoddy doorframe, and the door popped open. The cat was quivering and belligerent and threw herself against Aleksandr’s legs with homicidal rage. He hadn’t thought to bring anything for her, so he tossed out some linty bread crumbs from his pocket and hoped she wouldn’t notice. He pulled the light string.