Ludmilla Petrushevskaya - There Once Lived a Girl Who Seduced Her Sister's Husband, and He Hanged Himself

Osip cautiously inquired if there were other options.

“Another option would be to pay the translator directly, half that amount.”

“But I know her! She’s a regular centaur!” Here Osip gestured with his hands. “An ass like hers… she’ll give us a discount!”

“I seriously doubt it. Theaters like yours are a dime a dozen, and they all want her.”

“We’ll offer her a thousand dollars! A whole thousand!”

“If she gets a thousand, then so do I, as the author of the score.”

“Who needs your score? We’ll put some soundtrack together!” Osip glared at Misha’s poor little keyboard.

“Translator Karpui insists her lyrics and my music stay together,” Misha piped up nervously. “It’s a musical—don’t you get it? Every theater in Moscow makes money on musicals except you in your dump!”

Osip looked deflated. He promised Misha an appropriate solution and pulled him into his office.

After a lengthy discussion Misha was promised $1,500 and, for Karpenko, a room in the theater dorm, a part in the play, and a permanent position with the company.

“What’s going on between you and this Karpenko, young man? Has your wife been informed?” Osip asked suspiciously.

“We are getting a divorce,” Misha blurted out, surprising himself.

“And do you actually know this Karpui?”

“Karpui is Karpenko—she wrote the play herself. We hold copyright to both the play and the music.”

“You can shut up now! This Karpenko and her play are worth maybe a hundred dollars on a good day. If you want, I’ll make her a janitor; we need one in the theater.”

“Great! We’ll sell the play to the best theater in Moscow for my price!”

“Two hundred?”

At this moment the maestro walked in, beaming, and announced he’d never seen such enthusiasm among the actors about a new play. “I can see it onstage! And you”—here the maestro called Misha several names—“are in my way with your music!”

Enraged, normally meek Misha lost his composure and demanded a thousand each—immediately and in dollars, not rubles.

“Immediately? I can’t,” Osip replied peevishly.

“The translator and I will come in on Monday.”

“On Monday I can’t, either. Mmm… make it Wednesday.”

“So on Wednesday you’ll meet my conditions, right?”

“Look, Misha!” Osip started yelling again. “I need a janitor! Renovations are almost over; who’s going to clean up this mess?”

A pause.

“By the way,” Osip announced to the confused maestro, “your former student Karpenko has just returned from Finland, where she’s been working in television.”

“From Finland? That’s where she was! Suddenly my student disappears…. So she’ll play Gallina Bianca; she’ll be perfect! In the first act she’s a skinny little thing; in the second she’ll have big boobs and high heels—”

“Actually, she wanted to play Julietta Mamasina,” interrupted Misha.

“Who cares what she wants!” screamed Osip. “Fine, let her play already,” he finished quietly.

At the dorm, Karpenko moved into a room belonging to two girls who had been forced to move into a double, which now became a triple. The aggravation intensified as new parts were assigned. Oh theater, the snake pit of snake pits! The question suddenly arose as to why Misha was living in the dorm without any registration, while the rest of them had to pay extra for gas and electricity. Also, did Misha’s wife know what was happening? Somebody should inform her. The wife and their ten-year-old son once came to see Misha, waiting for him until the last train. God knows how Osip found out, but he warned Misha, and he and Karpenko hid at the Domodedovo airport.

The new season opened with previews. Karpenko made sure her costume provided room for her growing belly. Fake bust, miniskirt, red wig, high boots on flat soles—comic in the extreme. The premiere was a great success. Julietta sang off-key and danced like an elephant, a model for future starlets. In the dorm everyone knew about Karpenko’s pregnancy and positioned themselves to take over her part.

A few weeks later Osip Tartiuk stopped by Karpenko’s room. Karpenko was lying on the bed. Misha, wearing headphones, was bent over his keyboard.

“So what are we going to do?” Osip inquired. “When are you due? We need time to replace you!”

“December 31.”

“So what do we do? We have two weeks left.”

“Let Misha do it. He knows the part. You don’t have any actresses who can play it.”

Tartiuk looked stunned.

“Misha!” Karpenko shook him by the shoulder. Misha took off his headphones. Karpenko ordered him to change into Julietta’s costume. Twisting his arms like a flamenco dancer, Misha squeezed into it. He looked beyond funny: a miniskirt, enormous breasts, a butt like two watermelons, and, under red curls, an unshaved sallow mug with a huge schnobel .

“A regular centaur…. Well, well. Have a safe delivery. Ciao!” Osip left. Karpenko lay in bed, swallowed by her belly. Misha saw nothing notable in her swollen body. He was used to large women—his previous wife was the biggest centaur in the pack. A week later he took over Karpenko’s role.

On December 31 the show ended at nine thirty. Misha called Karpenko’s phone, but no one answered. He tried the dorm; the line was hopelessly busy. He changed, threw flowers into a cab, and arrived at the dorm ahead of everyone else. The phone’s receiver was lying on the floor. Their door was open. The floor was wet. Everything in the room was turned upside down. What had happened here? Where could she have gone in such a condition? She had talked about doing some tests… He checked under the bed. There, by the wall, he found her purse. A passport, mobile phone, her medical history… Okay, let’s see: Nadezhda A. Karpenko, pregnant, due December 31. Pregnant? He dialed the medical emergency number. An hour later he found out that Nadezhda Karpenko hadn’t been admitted to any hospital, including any maternity wards. Misha collapsed on the floor. Suddenly he heard explosions in the street. New Year’s fireworks.

Karpenko had dragged herself to a nearby maternity ward. She knocked for a long time. Finally a tipsy nurse admitted her. “I’m not feeling well,” Karpenko whispered. The nurse, who didn’t look too good either, announced, “Lisssssssten… ,” sounding exactly like Elephant, but she couldn’t finish the sentence and stumbled off. Karpenko lay down on the bench and closed her eyes. A fiery canon ball was rolling in her belly, trying to make more room. A young woman in white loomed over her. Karpenko managed to recite her lines: “Couldn’t find my papers, somebody took my purse, everything was there—my phone, my passport, my medical history…. Had some cash in my coat but couldn’t get a cab…. My father flew away…. No one wants us, no one….” Someone kept asking her name and date of birth. “I’m an actress,” was all she could manage before passing out.

She awoke in a large room with tiled walls that looked like a swimming pool. People in white masks stood over her.

“Hey, you! Open your eyes,” she heard. “There you go. Are you planning to push or what? What’s your name?”

“Karp…”

“Lovely name. Hey, don’t you die on us—don’t ruin our New Year!”

The pain came. Her body was turning inside out. Inhuman torture began.

“Push, push! Okay, stop for now!”

She felt them stab her with a knife and then twist it. They’ll cut the baby!

“Don’t, don’t stab me!” she screamed in her stage voice.

“Calm down. It’s the baby, not us. The baby’s pulling you apart. There, I can see the crown!”

Suddenly she heard a low sound like a train whistle.