The Museum of Abandoned Secrets (30 page)

Only Nastya, of course, doesn’t give a damn about all that, and in any case her interests will always be aligned with whoever did the crushing and not with whomever got crushed, because the crushed, as she learned from her mommy, daddy, school, and television, are the losers, has-beens, and screw-ups, so I can take my little church and go hide in a dark, quiet corner. I don’t like walking on that side of Volodymyrska—and I’m not the only one. In the Soviet days it was always empty, vacuumed clean—people have loosened up since then, lost the bit and the rein, but I still don’t like walking there. I’ll have to, though.

And right there, on the crosswalk before Reitarska, my cell rings: Aidy.

“It’s not here,” he says, and I’m almost run over by an especially nervous Toyota that jerks off before I quite make it all the way to
the sidewalk. (I stick my tongue out at the driver.) Their archives, turns out, are not here but across the street, on Zolotovoritska. And that’s where he is right now. And that’s where I am to go; he’ll tell me everything.

“They’re all going to lunch now; I just made it!”

I turn around—like the indomitable Nastya, like a tank; I dash between moving cars not waiting for the green light. Zolotovoritska is a street I like: cozy, quiet, one of the few streets in the center that retains its true old-Kyiv charm, and even the recently sprouted cohort of granite-plated bankomorphic high-rises can’t do anything to destroy its spirit. And right on the corner of this agreeable street, in front of a flowerbed, on a little knoll, in the sun, stands my good lad—like a beacon to show me the way—and it’s instant: a hot wave of utterly inane joy at the sight of his lanky-colt figure, his close-cropped head, his smile that beams from afar like a discrete source of light in the cityscape. He’s seen me!—but I did first! I did!—and while this distance between us—this bisector not found on any maps of the city, called forth for just this minute beside this flowerbed, this line that’s made this empty corner of Zolotovoritska and Reitarska alive, buzzing and pulsing for this one minute, shrinks at the speed of the intercepted glance (the knee-buckling, head-spinning kind that makes your heart drop into bottomless tenderness), while this “crosswalk,” invisible to all but the two of us (and no city in the world has road marks more important than these!)—counts down the seconds that remain between us—seven, six, five, four—I see, with peripheral vision (like a black gangster-mobile that pops up out of nowhere in a cheap action flick, and next a window’ll roll down to let out the muzzle of a submachine gun)—an incursion onto our bisector, from somewhere behind me on the sidewalk, of someone else’s black shadow. Not a casual brush but a frontal attack, resolutely aimed to wedge itself between the two of us, keeping us both in its sights. And when I step onto the sidewalk, a step away from Aidy, instead of touching him, finding him in a quick tangle of hands, shoulders, cheek, I run into the wall of that foreign look, sprung
up suddenly beside us, short and hard, as if from under a frown. Prominent black eyes set in fleshy eyelids, an appraising look, but not in the usual men’s way, different, so that you want to shake it off right away, like a black spider; before this instinctive impulse can reach my brain, the look scrambles its aim by leaving only a vague unsettling residue, a slimy trail—and Aidy, taking his hand off my shoulder in an interrupted gesture, turns his head and smiles starchily in that direction as to someone he knows—barely, but enough that the person deserves a few niceties, even if he’d turned up at a bad time.

“Going to lunch?” the man asks.

This sounds like a send-up for a recently concluded conversation to which there is nothing to add, and it’s not hard to guess who this type, stuffed into his mass-produced suit like into a corset, might be—that very same archive’s employee who left the office on Aidy’s heels and should’ve kept going instead of coming to loiter around us. The mister’s head hovers at about Aidy’s shoulder, and the rest of him is not much to look at either—the rump significantly outweighs the top, legs sort of stubby—but his bearing and face are remarkable: a strong face, he must’ve been a real hottie when he was young; schoolgirls doodle such Mephistopheles profiles in their notebooks, only he’s not my type. I don’t like those Mediterranean-swarthy, sepia types with eyes that become more prominent and black the more white strands they get in their black wool, and something vaguely hawkish in their features—the whole aging Arab terrorist look. Or Israeli military. For some reason, I think they must be constantly sweating—like someone used too much oil paint on them and forgot to daub the painting. And he’s got military bearing alright; they all carry themselves like that—even when all they’ve got is an archive job. What’s his rank, I wonder?

Aidy cleverly makes a point of not introducing us. A cow would get it—go on, move right along, nothing to see here—but this forward-chested stub of a terrorist is much less perceptive than a cow; he’s about as sharp as my Nastya, and he proceeds to shower
Aidy, verbosely, paternally, solicitously, with patronizing notes, with some utterly unnecessary details, belaboring the already belabored—that it’s better to telephone them, anytime after tomorrow, the more time they have for the search the better, not all cases have been cataloged yet, priority is given to requests for rehabilitation of which there don’t seem to be getting any fewer, not at all, quite the opposite, much has been done already, but there’s still at least as much to do. And there he stands, good and sturdy, with his thick, oily eyebrows and his hawkish profile, and bullshits and bullshits, and does not intend to shut up anytime soon, and I catch him glancing at me again and it finally dawns on me: he recognizes me! (Is that why he stopped?)

Shit, of all things, we could really do without this. Dude, why couldn’t you just go to lunch? Damn television—soon as you stick your nose out in public, someone’s always staring at you, liable to ask, “Is this really You?” And not even to get an autograph, but just because, to confirm they’re right. I keep mum like a real Ukrainian partisan, not a peep, standing beside them as if we’re on a subway and not in the middle of the street, and focus on breathing through my nose, keeping my face straight as a passport photo—it’s not actually your face people recognize as much as your expressions and, especially, individual intonation, so I stubbornly drag out my pause, long, endlessly long, folks’d be shuffling and coughing already if this were the theater. And he has no desire to wait forever either; it is his lunch break after all.

“I’m sorry; you’re Daryna Goshchynska, aren’t you?”

Here we go.

“And I’m sorry, who would you be?”

Aidy makes a grudging entrance—like a double base in a jazz band, “Pavlo Ivanovych, from the archive.”

Pavlo Ivanovych, sure. A purely KGB way of introducing oneself. I heard this from my mom: they were all either Pavlo Ivanovyches or Sergei Petrovyches, all those operatives, “guardians,” men without last names, just name and patronymic. For no reason I can grasp, this gesture of loyalty to the age-old traditions of his
guild suddenly pisses me off—I mean really pisses me off. I go blind with a rage that’s rushed to my head—or maybe I’m just slow to react today and there is a whole cocktail of accumulated ingredients exploding now, all my aggregate irritation beginning with Gucci Nastya (or maybe it was Nastya who infected me); but at this particular moment, I am just as ready to bare my teeth and growl—so furious my jaws cramp.

“In that case, I am Daryna Anatoliivna!”

“That I knew,” he says, regarding me as if a fed condor atop a tall cliff: the heavy, wrinkled eyelids half shield his unmoving protuberant eyes—eyes fit for an Oriental beauty, velvet and languorous, a pair of jet stones. What are they doing on him? A prank of nature. With a very slight emphasis, just a skosh of pressure, exactly enough to make sure his words don’t go unnoticed, he repeats, “I know it’s Anatoliivna.”

Am I supposed to fuss, fawn, and flip right over? Gosh, wherever from, how, pray tell, I’m dying to find out? Piss off. Jackass.

“Your matinka still alive?”

That’s exactly what he says—matinka. In Russian, this would’ve been matushka—appropriate, even respectful. That’s how they used to talk among themselves—matushka, and also supruga
, as in “Send my regards to your good supruga,” never “wife”—“wives” were something the people they interrogated had, men not to be considered or given regard. But for their own: matushka, supruga—the jargon of power, the victors’ argot. How did I not notice that he is translating from Russian in his head?

If he and I were iguanas, we’d be set in a perfect shot for
Planet Earth
on Discovery Channel: face to face, rearing with angrily unfurled hoods, waiting to see who strikes first. Or cobras—those also sway in the air before darting at the enemy, a lightning-fast whiplash. (I do also have Aidy on my side, calm like a boa constrictor, wise to keep his peace, and this, undoubtedly, gives me extra strength, but we’ll leave him outside the frame.)

“Yes, she’s well, thank you. And yours?”

Did I imagine this, or did the other iguana shudder, slump on its feet a bit?

“Please send my regards to her,” he goes on—not one to be knocked off his course, that’s another habit of the powerful—ignoring anything out of line, letting it slide as if it never happened. Canceled as being not in effect. Except, if your matinka’s off limits for me, then why the hell should you be messing with mine?

“Regards from whom?”

“Boozerov,” the iguana finally cracks and names himself, and it sounds unexpectedly intimate: the hood falls, the frill folds, there are worn loose sacks around his eyes, sagging jowls of well-cured skin above his shirt collar—a man in his fifties, and deeply so—with liver spots on his cheekbones, troubles with digestion and very likely his prostate, too, his career mostly played out, and obviously not too brilliantly, ahead of him only retirement with its pension and the constant worry that it’ll be cut, and what has he done to be snarled at like that?

“Pavlo Ivanovych Boozerov,” he confides further—almost embarrassed as if he were whispering something lewd into my ear, a man pestering a woman in the street, following her—and is transformed right before my eyes, this poor, ill man, just think about living with a last name like that, sheesh, that’s quite a favor his mom and dad did him! A serious name—earnest, genuine Ryazan-Tambov vintage—the kind often found among old army retirees, like the unforgettable lieutenant colonel Plankin who taught PE and history at our school and was rumored to have become Plankin after he took his wife’s name, having himself been born Dillrodov. So Boozerov is actually not that bad, could be worse—unless, of course, Pavlo Ivanovych is pulling my leg, because he looks no more like an authentic Boozerov from Ryazan marshlands (Tatar cheekbones, gray eyes, a general watery indeterminacy of color) than I look like Osama bin Laden. The casting’s all wrong. Is he expecting to hear how pleased I am to meet him, or what?

“Just say it like that, to your dear matinka—Boozerov, Pavlo Ivanovych. I think she’ll remember me. Our paths crossed.”

“It’s a small world,” Aidy observes philosophically, inserting his head into the frame, and, thankfully, right on time—I have not the slightest clue what to say to Pavlo Ivanovych’s lyrical pronouncement. Really have no desire whatsoever to learn when and under what circumstances his path may have crossed with my matinka’s, and thus proceed to say nothing, obtusely and not politely at all. Over and out. And anyway Pavlo Ivanovych’s digestive juices must be trumpeting their call to battle: I see two yellowish-white streaks curdled like old sheep-cheese in the corners of his mouth and get genuinely queasy. Pavlo Ivanovych, on the other hand, feels quite the opposite.

“A pleasure,” he helpfully voices the line I missed—if no one’s serving, he’ll help himself. “A pleasure to know that she’s raised such a...famous daughter (last word spoken with the Russian stress). I myself often watch your shows, although it’s not always easy for me to find the time. And my daughter (with the Russian stress) just worships you.”

This stiff little stump in his corset suit smiles for the first time. What a surprise—an awkward, meager smile, à la Shtirlitz from the classic Soviet TV series. It looks as though he had to engage untrained and long-calcified facial muscles; maybe that’s what they did in their Cheka schools: set everyone’s faces to the same standard, one mold for all, but still—at the mention of his daughter, the smile works, comes out warm, likeable, brightens his face—he’s basically a handsome man, even exotic-looking, so what if his shape let him down a bit.

And I do smile back and say thank you, and that it’s very nice to hear: an automatic reaction like a camera’s flash once you pushed the button, but wait, it’s not over yet; he reaches into his chest pocket (No gun under his arm!—then again, should there have been?) and pulls out a notepad and shoves it at me, opened to a blank page of checkered graph paper. His daughter (with the Russian stress!) would be so thrilled to have my autograph. A loving dad—how nice. I’d be happy to, of course, only I would need a pen, too. And something for her personally, he mutters. Just a
few words, one line. Of course, my pleasure. What’s her name? Jeez. Very nice...thank you...me too.

Sheesh, that was it?! All this sending of mysterious regards to my matinka (but I’ll make sure to ask Mom what his deal is, if, of course, she remembers him), all this drawn-out hanging on, and five minutes of utter bullshit—all just to get an autograph that’s given to anyone free, just for the asking?

Either I’m missing something or this customer’s really a little off his rocker. Not an iguana, maybe, but a different form of life for sure—the kind you have to study purposefully or you’ll never figure out what’s going on in its head.

“Call,” he says, by way of parting, putting his precious notebook back inside the pocket of his frock, “if you need anything.”

As if it were I who’d been the petitioner, and it is now I who’ll be extended the privilege, as one of “their” people—of the private, backdoor access, far from the hassle of the public entrance, whenever I call, as is only right and proper among “our” people. It’s like he doesn’t even see Aidy anymore, doesn’t look once in his direction—as if Aidy hadn’t been here, and his name’s not on the list, and his relatives don’t merit to be sent any regards (like, for example, Dovgan Olena Ambroziivna, year of birth—1920, year of death—1947, place of death—unknown).