Ice Trilogy (65 page)

The orange
still lay under the sideboard.

The boy got down on the floor, stuck his hand under the sideboard, and stretched toward the orange. But his hand couldn’t reach it. His fingers retrieved only dust and a dried-out cherry pit.

“Jiminicrickets!” the boy muttered angrily in the darkness under the sideboard.

He threw away the pit and threatened the orange with his fist. He rose up on his knees and sat for a while, picking his nose. Then he stood up and looked around. On the counter near the sugar bowl, a bottle of ketchup, and a jar of instant coffee lay a silvery-rose compact Mama had forgotten. The boy took it, turned it every which way, and opened it. Staring back at him from the mirror was a blond boy with protruding ears, somewhat bulging light-blue eyes, and a flat nose. He had the small, slightly drooling, perpetually open mouth of a retarded child.

“Good morning, Mickey Rourke,” the boy said. He closed the compact and put it down. He opened a drawer below the counter. Eating utensils were in the drawer. The boy took out a spoon, got back down on the floor, and tried to roll the orange out with the spoon. It didn’t work.

“I’ll arrestetact you, you Chechen!” the boy snarled at the dusty linoleum, banging his spoon on the floor. “C’mon! C’mon, c’mon!” he added in English.

The unattainable orange lay there in the shadows.

The boy sat down. He looked at the spoon. He knocked on the sideboard with it. He stood up and bumped his head on the open drawer. “Ow! Jiminicrickets!” he exclaimed, rubbing his head. He tossed the spoon back in the drawer.

He grabbed a table knife and compared its length to the spoon.

“No, just the same old jiminicrickets.”

He tossed the knife back in the drawer. He closed the drawer. He walked over to the electric stove. On the wall above it hung a colander, a two-pronged fork, a slotted spoon, a ladle, and a rolling pin.

“Aha!”

He stood on tippy-toes, reaching for the rolling pin, and with great difficulty managed to touch its rough wooden tip. The rolling pin swayed. The boy studied it. Then he moved a chair over to the stove and climbed up. He stood up straight. He grabbed the rolling pin, but its string was still hung on the hook.

“Just a minute, jiminicrickets,” said the boy, and, not letting go of the rolling pin, he lifted his bare left foot and placed it on one of the burners.

He tugged on the rolling pin. But the short loop of twine didn’t want to come off the ancient hook. Grunting, the boy began to raise his right leg. This wasn’t comfortable. He grabbed the rolling pin tightly.

“Upgrade, you fatt
y..
.”

He pushed his right foot off the chair, and stood up on the stove, swaying as he tried to keep his balance. He grabbed on to the rolling pin with both hands. The string slipped off the hook. The boy farted and started to fall backward with the rolling pin in his hands.

“Whoa, no
w..
.” Strong hands caught him softly and sat him down on the chair.

The boy turned his head around. A strange man stood there.

“Misha, Misha,” the man said, shaking his head reproachfully. “Is that the way to do things?”

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a kind, tan face. His emerald-blue eyes looked friendly. His strong hands held the boy carefully. His hands smelled good.

“Did you decide to become a rock climber?” The man smiled broadly, showing his strong white teeth.

“Nuh-uh,” the boy gurgled, squeezing the rolling pin in his hands watchfully.

The man picked him up from the chair and set him on the floor. He squatted down nearby. The man’s smiling face was right opposite the boy’s face. He had a small scar on his head. His short, reddish hair stuck up like a hedgehog’s.

“If you want to get an orange from under the sideboard, then it’s better to use a mop, not a rolling pin. You know why?”

“Nuh-uh.” The boy’s large clear-blue eyes looked up at the stranger from under his brow.

“Because your grandmother rolls out dough for piroshki with a rolling pin. But Mama cleans the floor with a mop. Do you like piroshki with egg?”

“Uh-huh. And I like little meatballs.”

“So let the rolling pin roll out piroshki.”

The man pulled the rolling pin from the boy’s hands and hung it in its place.

“And now we’ll get your orange.”

The stranger walked confidently out of the kitchen, opened the door to the toilet, took the mop, and returned to the kitchen with it. Leaning over right to the floor he easily rolled the orange from under the sideboard. He rinsed it off in the sink, dried it with a dish towel, and handed it to the boy.

“Eat, Misha. And get dressed. Mama’s waiting for you.”

“Where is she?” asked the boy.

“At Auntie Vera’s. On Piatnitskaya Street. Do you remember Auntie Vera? The one who gave you the dinosaur?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I bought that dinosaur. In the Children’s World store.”

“Bu
t...
who are you?”

“I’m Auntie Vera’s husband, Mikhail Palych.” The man proffered his large palm. “Let’s get acquainted, we’re both Mikhails!”

The boy offered his hand. The strong tan fingers carefully formed a ring around the boy’s hand.

Dogs barked outside. The man went and looked out the window, peeking through the curtains.

The boy began to peel the orange.

“Do you dress yourself or does Mama help you?” asked the man, still looking out the window.

“Myself.”

“Atta boy,” the man said, pulling the curtain closed. “When I was six I dressed myself too. And I already knew how to ride a bicycle. Do you have a bicycle?”

“Uh-huh. At Grandma’s dacha. But that’s where Tolik made the model eight. It’s spitting,” the boy said as he stuck his finger in the orange.

“Tolik?” asked the man.

“The bicycle. But Tolik doesn’t spit. He squeezes through the fence to Mokhnacha and steals everything from them.”

The man drew a deep breath and exhaled.

“You know what, Misha, why don’t I peel the orange for you. And you go get dressed.”

“Are we going to Auntie Vera’s dacha?”

“That’s right.” The man took the orange from the boy. “So let’s not lose any time. We want to go swimming. It’s broiling hot toda
y...
And we don’t want to sit in traffic jams. Come on, Misha, let’s get going!”

The boy ran into the bedroom. In the entryway near the front door stood a large blue suitcase.

“Is that your suitcase?” the boy shouted.

“Mine,” the man replied.

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing!” The man laughed. “Get dressed, my little stuntman!”

The boy went into the bedroom.

He took his shorts off the back of a chair and started putting them on. But then he saw the soft, fuzzy dinosaur lying on the pillow, half covered by the blanket. Near the dinosaur lay a tiny piece of ice. A wet spot spread over the pillow from the melting ice.

“Hey you, you fat ice!” Getting his shorts tangled, the boy ran over to the bed and threw the ice on the floor. “You peed in your pants, ice! Upgrade, upgrade!”

The boy pulled on his shorts, then put on his shirt and sandals. He picked up the piece of ice and ran into the kitchen with it.

“The ice peed on himself!”

The man sat on a chair in the kitchen and smiled as the boy ran in. The orange was on the table next to him. The boy threw the ice in the sink. The man stood up.

“You’re dressed? Good for you.”

He took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and said, “Okay.”

He put the cell phone back in his pocket.

“It’s time, Misha.”

“What about the orange?” the boy said, craning his neck to look at it.

“Later. Everything late
r..
.” The man quickly took a tiny spray can out of his pocket, pinched his nostrils with one hand, and sprayed gas at the boy.

The boy shook his head and frowned. He turned away, covering his face with his hands. He snorted and ran out of the kitchen. In the hall his legs gave way and he started to fall — into the hands of another man just entering the front door. The first man hurried in from the kitchen, still holding his nose. They leaned over the boy. The first man was taller. The Brothers of the Light called him Dor. The second, a blond man with luxuriant hair and a small, dark-blond beard, was called Yasto. Both of them had strong, muscular, tanned arms. These arms set to work deftly: they retrieved a small syringe filled with a brownish liquid, quickly gave the boy an injection in his upper arm, undressed him, and pulled a pair of disposable diapers on him.

Dor opened the blue suitcase. A camel-hair blanket lay inside. They wrapped the boy in the blanket carefully, leaving his face uncovered. Then they placed him in the suitcase. Yasto gently lifted one of the boy’s eyelids. The blue eye, transparent around the perimeter, looked out at them, thoughtful and immobile.

“He’s sleeping,” Yasto muttered.

“Are those two downstairs?” whispered Dor.

“Yes.”

“The elevator?”

“As it was.”

“Then you’ll carry it.”

“All right.”

They held the boy’s helpless, pale hands for a moment, closing their eyes as though petrified. Then they came to life and closed the suitcase. Yasto softly picked up the suitcase and carried it to the door. They opened the door a crack and stood still, listening attentively. The stairs were quiet. Dor and Yasto looked into each other’s emerald-blue and gray-blue eyes, and embraced headlong, pressing against each other’s chests with passionate strength. Weak fetal sounds issued from their lips, their strong arms hugged each other tightly. Their bodies were tensed, frozen, and their heads trembled. Their hearts
spoke
.

“Dor,” Yasto said hoarsely.

“Yasto,” Dor exhaled.

They moaned and pushed away from each other abruptly.

They shook off their trance and calmed down. They inhaled deeply. And exhaled smoothly.

Dor stepped out the door and began to walk down the stairs: the elevator didn’t work. Waiting a bit, Yasto followed him with the suitcase. Dor trotted down the stairs at a leisurely pace, his strong, supple body moving spryly.

A homeless man named Valera Sopleukh occasionally spent the night between the first and second floors of this sixteen-floor prefabricated concrete-panel apartment building. He had spent the previous night in the stairwell with his girlfriend Zulfia. She had just woken him up, demanding some beer. Kneeling and swearing hoarsely, Sopleukh was fumbling in his dirty pockets, digging out the change that remained from yesterday. Hearing someone coming down from above, Sopleukh lifted his head and pleaded as he usually did.

“Compatriots! Give a former diver something to help quench his thirst!”

Descending the stairs toward them, Dor stuck his hand in his pocket. The homeless couple saw him.

“Buddy, don’t be a skinflint, I’m also — ” Sopleukh began to speak, but he didn’t finish the sentence: Dor struck him on the head with brass knuckles quickly and with incredible force. The feeble crack of his skull could be heard. Zulfia stepped back, opening her toothless mouth. Dor stepped toward her and struck her across the bridge of her nose. Her head was knocked against the graffiti-covered wall. Sopleukh collapsed on the stairs without a peep. Dor stepped over him, wrapped the brass knuckles in a handkerchief, put it back in his pocket, and continued down the stairs. Yasto wasn’t walking as fast, since he carried the suitcase cautiously. Passing between the tramps lying on the floor, looking askance at Zulfia’s convulsing legs and the puddle of urine forming near her, he instinctively lifted the blue suitcase higher, continued down to the first floor, passed by the elevator and announcement board, and, gripping the steel handle of the entrance door with his left hand, went out into the courtyard.

It was hot and sunny there. A dusty car, a Zhiguli, was parked right in front of the entrance. A balding, blue-eyed blond man in a gray T-shirt sat at the steering wheel, watching three stray dogs who were growling at him. As soon as the dogs saw Yasto, they growled even louder and backed away from the car. Yasto placed the suitcase on the backseat and got in next to the driver. The Zhiguli started up and began to drive out of the courtyard.

“That’s it?” the driver asked.

“That’s it,” Yasto answered.

“Those dogs,” the driver grumbled.

“They can sense us, can’t they?” said Yasto with a nervous smile.

“I didn’t know that before.”

“Your heart is young, Mokho.” Yasto brought his scratched hand to his lips and sucked on the drop of blood forming.

The Zhiguli turned onto Ostrovityanov Street and a massive, dark-blue Lincoln Navigator pulled in behind it immediately. A thin man named Irei sat at the wheel, and Dor sat next to him.

“Where to?” said Irei.

“They’ll decide themselves.” Dor held his masculine face in his palms from exhaustion.

The Zhiguli turned onto Profsoyuznaya Street, drove a bit farther, and stopped. The Navigator stopped nearby. Dor jumped out and opened the back door. Yasto, getting out of the Zhiguli, handed him the suitcase. Dor placed the suitcase on the Lincoln’s backseat and sat next to it; Yasto closed the door of the Lincoln from the outside. The Navigator took off, pulling out from behind the Zhiguli with a sharp turn. Immediately on its tail was a black Mercedes S500 with tinted windows and blue police plates. Inside the Mercedes were Obu, Tryv, and Merog, dressed in police officers’ uniforms. Obu held a cell phone up to his ear.

“It’s me.”

“I’m coming,” Irei answered, letting the Mercedes pass him. Dor opened the padlock on the blue suitcase and lifted the lid. The boy slept in the blanket. His face was slightly pink. Dor picked up the boy’s hand. It was cool and helpless. He leaned over the boy, placed the child’s hand to his chest, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Suddenly two cars in the right lane collided and one of them hit the Lincoln. The Lincoln jolted and swerved. Dor grabbed the suitcase and held it down on the seat.

“Arrr,” Irei snarled, dropping his phone and grabbing the steering wheel tightly.