Anthony Marra - The Tsar of Love and Techno - Stories

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From the
bestselling author of
—dazzling, poignant, and lyrical interwoven stories about family, sacrifice, the legacy of war, and the redemptive power of art. This stunning, exquisitely written collection introduces a cast of remarkable characters whose lives intersect in ways both life-affirming and heartbreaking. A 1930s Soviet censor painstakingly corrects offending photographs, deep underneath Leningrad, bewitched by the image of a disgraced prima ballerina. A chorus of women recount their stories and those of their grandmothers, former gulag prisoners who settled their Siberian mining town. Two pairs of brothers share a fierce, protective love. Young men across the former USSR face violence at home and in the military. And great sacrifices are made in the name of an oil landscape unremarkable except for the almost incomprehensibly peaceful past it depicts. In stunning prose, with rich character portraits and a sense of history reverberating into the present,
is a captivating work from one of our greatest new talents.

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“But you.” His eyes zeroed on mine. “You think you’re too much of a man to pull trousers on an amputee and you haven’t even popped your cork. Shameful.”

I hoisted his trousers up his knobby hips. Hemmed mid-thigh, they looked more like volleyball shorts. He pointed to a roll of duct tape encircled by gummy rings on the floor. “You need to tape the stumps.”

“Hell no.”

“You need to learn how,” he stressed.

“You’re missing your legs, not your hands. Tape them yourself.”

“Virgin,” he commanded.

After I ran a few rings of tape around the stumps, Kirill greased his hair with vegetable shortening, combing it through a dozen times before satisfied with the part. “They can scoop this crap into a jar with a French label and charge ten times the price,” he explained. “But they can’t fool me.”

The last touch was a squirt of embalming fluid — scented cologne. I heaved Kirill into his wheelchair and pushed him into the hall.

“I’ll go down myself,” he said when we reached the stairs. With a sheet of cardboard beneath him and his gloved hands clasped to the rail, he tobogganed down the steps. Seven flights of stairs, not a problem, and yet his trousers had been a peak only I could carry him over. Cheeky little shit.

“Wait,” he said. The apartment buildings’s front door clunked closed behind us. A medieval siege engine couldn’t break down that thing. “I want to catch my breath.”

“You’re in a wheelchair. Breathing is about all you can do.”

He shook his head, lit a cigarette, and spoke as if I were the unreasonable one. “In such a rush, this one, to do anything but lose his virginity.”

Following his lead, I lit up too. The White Nights always dead-ended into Gray Mornings. The clouds just dozed in the sky without a care in the world. Lazy bastards. Across the Neva, the odd smokestack stood taller than any imperial obelisk. If eras are remembered by their greatest monuments, ours will be remembered by billboards advertising Beeline mobile phone plans. Across the street, a pack of feral dogs chased a homeless man through a vacant lot. Our school textbooks said as many as a thousand serfs died building Petersburg. Our teacher put the number closer to a hundred thousand. But he’d say anything to sleep with you. The lead dog lunged for the vagrant’s ass, and as he stumbled a bison of a Rottweiler charged into his back. Three brutal steps later, he toppled over. I’m not sure the city would be worth even him.

“I thought you wanted to get going.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Kirill replied, holding up his cigarette. “It’s important we take time to savor it.”

The white onion domes of Smolny Convent disappeared behind us as I pushed Kirill along Shpalernaya Street. We took a left at Prospekt Chernyshevskogo. A casino’s colors glowed like lollipops held to lamplight. Sushi restaurants and Irish pubs everywhere. Tinted town car windows the same obsidian black as their drivers’ sunglasses. Fires twitched through the grates of rusted ash cans. Weird how fires shiver as if they’re the ones cold. We waited for a break in traffic.

“You need to carry me over the gate,” Kirill said when we reached the entrance of the Chernyshevskaya metro station. I plunked two tokens in the turnstile and hoisted him by the armpits. Heavy, for half a man.

Newspaper vendors flashed headlines as I broke down the wheelchair. Sochi Mega Resort to Open Next Year. Sydney Prepares for Summer Olympics. Kresty Prison to Be Turned into Hotel-Entertainment Complex.

“The Chernyshevskaya metro escalator is one hundred and thirty-seven meters long. Do you know what that makes it?” Kirill asked.

“Enough of a ruler to measure my member of the party,” I said.

“We’ll have to take your word on that, virgin,” he replied. “A hundred and thirty-seven meters makes this very escalator the longest escalator in the world. A world record, right here in our own neighborhood, and ninety-nine out of a hundred people who ride these stairs don’t even know it.”

“Why’d they build the tunnels so deep?”

“So they could be used as shelters if the Americans nuked us. You’re too young to remember, but when I was coming up in the eighties we were still afraid Americans would drop a nuclear warhead on us.”

“Do people hit by nuclear warheads ever lose just their legs?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He frowned at his stumps. “I’ve never been hit by one.”

The marbled metro platform was chessboard checkered. Kirill strapped on his leather gloves, planted his palms on the marble, and swung his body between his arms. For Kirill, the world was made of parallel bars. I pushed the empty wheelchair behind him.

“How do I look?” he asked. Dressed in full military uniform, from his peaked cap to his hemmed trousers, he looked too solemn for me to take seriously.

“Short,” I said.

A tube of muggy air as long and swift as the train it preceded gushed into the station. Kirill gave instructions. The act was nothing new. You couldn’t go more than three metro stops without seeing a crippled vet from the war in Chechnya. They sang folk songs, sat on wooden pallets, recited Pushkin, pretzeled lifeless limbs, held cardboard signs advertising their suffering. Others just got drunk and murmured stories so depraved they could never be true.

The train exhaled a congested breath of passengers. Kirill knuckle-walked through the shuffling legs and I followed behind with his wheelchair. Young men offered their seats to women and the elderly with a decorum you’d rarely find above ground. Doors closed, wheels hummed on rails, and Kirill began. He didn’t sing the national anthem, didn’t produce a tray of ten-ruble trinkets from his wheelchair satchel or a horror story from his past. He simply crawled through the parting crowd on clenched fists, head raised, eyes meeting every glance. I just pushed the wheelchair behind him and watched the rubles tumble into the wicker basket.

“Give him a few rubles, Masha,” a babushka shrink-wrapped in a kerchief whispered to her friend. “Pity the poor soul.”

“You’re a hero,” an elderly man in tortoise-rimmed glasses observed. “Better to lose your legs than your honor.”

For the length of the train ride, Kirill didn’t speak. He neither solicited nor acknowledged the alms that just kept falling from the wallets and purses of morning commuters. He put one fist in front of the other, his peaked cap tilting, his limp stumps dragging behind him, not a caricature, not a freak show, but a brave man crawling across a battlefield that raged in his head. I nearly opened my own wallet.

He made two hundred and forty rubles in the two minutes to Ploshchad Vosstaniya. I couldn’t believe how many coins and crumpled bills lay in the basket. It was more than my father made in three hours.

“You don’t want them to think you’re making money,” he whispered as he pocketed the change. At Ploshchad Vosstaniya, we moved to the next car.

We rode the one and two lines until early afternoon. Twelve hundred rubles by ten o’clock. Twenty-three hundred by noon. Who knew my fellow citizens possessed such patriotic generosity? For lunch we surfaced at Baltiyskaya and bought shawarma and kvass from an elderly street vendor with dyed purple hair. I watched short skirts pass through the long afternoon light. “My assistant here is stricken with an incurable case of virginity,” Kirill called to a really cute young woman whose dark brown bangs awninged the open pages of Harry Potter. “Will you take pity on him?”

I wanted to punch Kirill right then. I’d read the Harry Potter book three times through and it was a secret I’d carry to my grave. I might’ve told her. She’d already taken her book and walked away.

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