Murder in Ukraine (3 page)

“What else?”

“She showed up at a fan meeting in Independence Square, we talked and she took off with somebody.   I don’t know who.”

One of the girls says, “Alexei Keks.”  Laughter follows, all the groupies repeat the word “keks”, and there’s more laughter.  It’s a popular kids’ word that’s recently emerged, it sounds funny and cool, and means cupcake.  I pay for Jenya’s Nikes and leave with an altered mindset, no longer worried about placating my brother.

I’m looking for Alex Cupcake.

****

              The nuclear plant in Zaporizhia is known for storing radioactive waste in the open air, and for all you connoisseurs of urban charm, there’s smokestack industry as well.  Frankly I’m not keen to visit, but on the train a retired Zoporizhian gentleman assures me it’s an admirable city; he fishes for pike in the Dnieper River on fair-weather mornings, buys flowers and a rye bun for his wife on return, and he admires Putin.  At that point I realize he’s senile, so without being rude I shift my attention to the window view. 

              As it turns out, I’m utterly taken by Zoporizhia from the moment I leave the station in a cab; I’m in love, I feel as if I’m returning after a lengthy absence. It’s the combination of the familiar and the strange, it’s Kiev and yet not, it’s full of people who’ve never pissed me off.  I dab at my eyes.  (I react the same when I go to Lvov.) 

Alex Cupcake is Alex Poporechney, and his last known address is here in Zaporizhia.  I’ve watched several of his YouTube videos; they post every few days, but recently there’s been nothing.  The blogs didn’t stop on the day Tatty Akkuratney died, if that’s what you’re thinking, but a few weeks previous.  He’s a sweet-faced nineteen-year-old, with medium length, light colored hair which he’s constantly running his hand through, and his videos are of two types: meeting friends to chat and drink, or solo in his apartment, where he addresses the camera and updates his subscribers on his personal relationships, and his journey as a videoblogger, and his financial situation, which I gather is dire.  (He had a brief stint at MacDonald’s).   His following isn’t huge.  He’s determinedly optimistic, but there’s an undertone of worry that he may be losing the battle, by which I mean, he may need to abandon his YouTube dream and get a real job.

The address I have is on Gorky Street just off Lenin Prospect. Lenin Prospect is grand and urban, but once on Gorky we’re practically in the countryside.  I ask the driver to wait while I unlatch a gate and follow a pathway between red and yellow tulips. I knock on the door.

              The woman who answers is well-mannered, conservatively dressed, soft voiced.  A girl of about three years hangs on her arm.

              I ask for Alexei Poporechney, and she tells me she’s his mother. I’m seriously taken aback, she’s barely older than me, so when she asks me my business I abandon the fiction I’ve prepared and tell her the truth. 

              “I’m a constable with the Kiev police department and I’d like to ask Alexei about a fan meeting he attended in Independence Square.  He may have witnessed something that could aid us in solving a crime.”

              “What sort of crime?”

              “Homicide.”

              Surprisingly she relaxes.  I’m guessing she was prepared for petty larceny, but it’s murder, so it has nothing to do with her Alexei.

              “Mrs. Poporechney, do you know why Alex stopped blogging on YouTube?”

              “He’s busy these days,” she says.  She’s pleased, but perhaps hesitant to elaborate to a stranger.

              “He’s working?”

              Maternal pride wins out.  “He was hired by the company that manages the shipping locks on the river.  If he sticks with it, they’ll help with engineering school.” 

              I can tell she’s been wanting to tell someone, to test this information in the real world, and see if others believe it, because she’s not sure.

              “He’s doing well, then.  Is he at home?

              “He’s living with a mate from work.”

              “Could I have the address, Mrs. Poporechney?”

As I leave, I glance back, to see if she’s gone inside to phone.  But no, she’s inspecting the flowerbeds, and the daughter trails after.

****

The cab takes me toward the river, we’re not in the countryside anymore, it’s urban decay on every level, rubbish rotting in the gutters, street walls scarred, shops sealed with plywood.  No reflection on Zaporizhia, cities all over Ukraine have this sort of neighborhood now.  I pay off the cab because my driver has another fare, and then something unexpected happens.

It turns out Mrs. Poporechney lied.

The street door is open but the lift is broken, so I walk up to the fifth, tap on the door of apartment 504, and a Muslim woman answers.  She’s never heard of Alex.  I return to the lobby and find a row of battered mailboxes, but no Poporechney on any of them.  I knock on the first floor apartment door which has a view of the street entrance, and intrude on an elderly gentleman’s lunchtime.   He shakes his head.  No Alexei.

I’m baffled. I turn to leave when I notice a hallway door, which I assume is a utility closet. I open it, descend a creaking stairway to the basement, arrive at another door.  This one doesn’t open although it doesn’t appear to be locked, so I put my shoulder into it.

              “Alexei?”

I grope for the light switch, pop it up and down.

“It doesn’t work,” says a low voice.

“Alexei, I’m Katya Kondrashov with the Kiev police.”

“Okay.”

“Can I come in?”

No answer so I shove again and wriggle through.  Inside there’s light from a sidewalk-level window, but it’s murky as hell.  There’s a figure lying on the stone floor, wrapped in layers of clothing. 

I bump against a stool, and sit down.  My eyes adjust.  There’s no smell except basement smell; the furnace has been turned off so it’s quiet except for the rattle of plumbing.  There’s an empty water canister standing against a wall but no sign of food.

“What’s going on, Alexei?”

No answer.  “Alexei, when was the last time you ate?”

The figure shifts slightly but I can’t see a face.

“Alex I’m not here to harm you.  I just want to hear your side of the story.”

A minute passes.  Then a whimper. 

“Why don’t we go out?” I suggest.  “It’s a beautiful day, we’ll get Pepsis and sandwiches, my treat.”

More time passes, I’m starting to wonder what my next ploy will be, and then Alex says in a soft voice, like his mother’s, “Could you wait outside please?  I have to pee.”

“Sure.  I’ll wait upstairs.”

The young man who emerges from the basement and climbs the stairway doesn’t resemble Alex Cupcake.  This is a boy who’s wrung every drop of anguish from his guilt, only to learn that guilt replenishes endlessly.  The lively energy of the face is gone, the cheerfulness replaced by gape-mouthed desolation, every physical marker of youth and attractiveness has been ravaged. Alexei Poporechney is a zombie.

He trails after me, we cut across a kids’ playground where young men are pelting each other with empty aluminum cans, and a couple of streets further on we find a sandwich shop.  Alexei hangs back, I order for both of us, neither of us speaks until I ask if there’s park in the vicinity.  Then he lopes ahead with frantic  purpose, leading me between two monstrous apartment towers, down a stairway, through a fringe of young birches, out onto the grassy slopes above the Dneiper.   

From these cliffs men are casting fishing lines into the river.  It doesn’t seem to be a park, although perhaps it’s city-owned, because the grass has been mowed.

              I make myself comfortable, Alex lowers himself to his knees close by, rips open the wrapping on the sandwich, wolfs it down, then gulps Pepsi before eyeing my sandwich, which I pass to him.

              I’ve never been good with conversation starters, but “You cut off Tatty’s hands to make it look like Pasha Bulychuk did it,” is my lamest so far.  Alexei doesn’t respond, I’m not sure how much of his mind is left, whether he functions normally anymore, and his next revelation confirms my doubts.

              He chews and smiles.   “I tried to outrun him,” he tells me finally. “I thought if I ran fast enough I’d leave him behind.”    He nods toward the big island that cleaves the Dneiper- “Over there, I ran for hours.”  He chews and smiles.

              I think he was trying to outrun Alex Cupcake, but I don’t know for sure, because Alexei Poporechney has run out of things to say.  His smile fades, the chewing slows, and bits of food dribble from his sandwich wrap. Now the gulls swoop in, landing all around us, screaming and flapping.

I rise, nudge Alexei to his feet: he holds out his hands like a child, and I slip on the cuffs.

                                                     ****

It’s late before I pull on my woolen bedtime socks the following night, and my cat Masha is waiting to see which side of the bed I’m tending toward, so she can claim it first.  I take a moment to think about my experiences.

It’s all a pity, but I don’t know who to feel sorry for, not Alex who’s in hell, and should be, and not Tatty Akkuratney.  Tatty’s lights went out forever when she died, and all the pity in the world won’t help her. 

Finally, I rarely feel sorry for myself, it saves a lot of fuss. 

From below, Klem wails, brother Vanya joins in, and my hands clench as I wait for my sister to comfort them. I realize I feel sorry for all the blameless children who wail in anguish, because they’ve been ignored, or scolded, and everything is too difficult.

I want to tell them it’ll get better, but I suspect it never does get better, not for some.

THE END