The Museum of Abandoned Secrets (82 page)

As a girl, Daryna had heard her fill of horror stories of the kind this woman loves so much: about a child’s hand torn off
and left in her mother’s grasp when the child herself was ripped away by the avalanche, about a pregnant woman, trapped alive in a cement bubble. Babi Yar rebelled, adults said, only back then one said such things in a whisper. In a whisper and with a pillow over even one’s cradled phone: Soviet superstitions had it that you could be listened to through your phone even when you weren’t talking on it. And then the stories of it slowly faded—survivors dissolved in the masses of newcomers, the city grew, and the newcomers never learned about the flood. They just went to play soccer in that same stadium, Spartak, which was so quickly built up again.

The dead were the ones who took you, Vlada, weren’t they? Other people’s dead—exactly when your own life shifted and slid, losing its footing? They are strong, the dead; they can do things. Oh yes, they are strong. Lord, how strong they are. We couldn’t dream of matching them.

This jolts her again. The woman will think Daryna’s got the hiccups. Or a concussion. One thought follows on another’s heels, in a series of spontaneous discharges, uncontainable like labor contractions or vomiting; after another surge, Daryna’s mind suddenly achieves final clarity: she knows now how it all happened then on the highway, “downa track,” at the Pereyaslav exit. She knows what the yokel’s afraid of—because he is afraid, has been the whole time, from the moment she recognized the cut-down canvas, glancing at her when he thinks she doesn’t see it, and then looking instantly away, like he’s been burned. Even though she, with no qualms whatsoever, does not take her eyes off him, as if they were each other’s dearest people in the world about to part, as if she were hoping that at any moment he might work up the courage to tell her everything he has to tell her, to the end, even though she’s already understood everything and does not need his explanation. It’s only Adrian who hasn’t yet figured out how Vlada’s painting found its way to this home—so she wills herself to knock down the barrier of disgust, releases her jaw, which has been clenched the entire time, and asks the yokel, unexpectedly
loudly, as if speaking on camera, “Did the two of you search the car together?”

Now it’s the yokel’s turn to be jolted by electricity. For a second, he’s covered in a cold sweat: Moderfucker, he thinks; now I’m fucked! And—for what?! Dat’s da worst of it—get caught over nothing! Go ahead, be a good dad, give your daughter a house-warming present, damn it! And said to da wife—don’t take it. It’s not worth da trouble, but no, she’d put her foot down—it’s pretty, she said, real pictures, in frames, like they sell in stores in Kyiv for big money, put it up nice in Ruslana’s new flat. Dey all gonna be sitting pretty now, and Ruslana, too, when dey get us for robbery—hell on a fucking stick, to get caught on such crap!

And such an intolerably bitter sense of resentment for this outrageous injustice fills the yokel that instead of defending himself, he shouts out, straight at Daryna, almost desperately, as only an innocently wronged man could shout to a woman with such maternal eyes, “Like dere was anything to look for in dat car of yours! Nothing but dese here pictures!”

In the silence that follows, a fly buzzes loudly somewhere under the ceiling: it’s spring, Adrian mechanically observes, as he regards the yokel with new curiosity. The spring will show who shit where. What is it that the cops call the dead bodies of the missing they find in the spring? It’s something lyrical, oh yes—snowdrops. Goddamn, the dude sweeps crashed cars, then. And this mustn’t be his first time either. And really, no reason for good stuff to go to waste—and the dead don’t care anymore. That’s why he went into such a huff over the tale of the avenging skull, the delicate soul that he is. Impressive. No wonder he and Yulichka reached an understanding.

“Where are they?” Daryna’s voice trembles. “Where are the rest of the paintings? There should have been five—where are the other four?”

Their hosts glance at each other: a pair of schoolchildren who’ve been caught smoking in the bathroom. Adrian wonders if the dude has connections among the local cops. The cops might
be in on the action, too—the law doesn’t require photographic records for highway accidents, so they’re free to pick over the fresh carrion. Why not? It’s their loot—money, jewelry...one man’s war, after all. Adrian blinks automatically at the Haid mantel clock on top of the TV (quarter to noon): a respectable, well-made clock, straight from somewhere in bombed-out Königsberg or Berlin. Let anyone try to prove, after the fact, that the victim was wearing jewelry. And who would try to prove that—the victim’s grief-stricken family? Time to reclaim initiative, Adrian decides.

“A bad story you got yourself here, Vasyl Musiyovych.” This time Adrian leaves no doubt about his police-inspector intonation, and the yokel, who’s been half ignoring the “boozer-ex” all this time, experiences a stab of confusion. “A really bad story. The police have been looking for these paintings for four years already; the accident made quite a stir in the news; it was on every channel. And the painter, the one who died, was not only a close friend of Miss Daryna,” the pair of schoolchildren obediently, as if following a teacher’s pointer, move their eyes to Daryna, “but also the wife of an elected representative.” Adrian says Vadym’s last name and watches, not without glee, an intense—he’s all but got steam coming out his ears—thought process manifest itself on the yokel’s face before being replaced by an expression of genuine pain: aha, he’s getting it—he’ll have to kiss the pictures goodbye; no way around it, no matter how loath he is to part with them.

But the wife reacts faster.

“Well, who knew what was ina car! It sat turned upside down...”

Daryna freezes. Adrian can feel her thoughts as clearly as if it were his own brain being bombarded with electric shock; another instant and he’ll lose it, let it rip; only his worry for Daryna helps him to keep his cool.

“But don’t you know that you had the duty to call the police and the ambulance? What if she were still alive, inside that car? Consult the Criminal Code, ma’am!”

At the mention of the Criminal Code the woman shudders but does not back down.

“Well, it was all just skittered ina mud!” She takes a new angle, now pleading. “Just think, that’s a whole load of trouble. If we hadn’t took it, it’d of been ruined anyhow!” she’s finally found her lifeline. “It was rainin’ so hard you couldn’t see your hand, right, Vasya? If it’d laid there some more, the paint would of come straight off. This way, I saved them pictures, you see.”

She steps up to the canvas and runs her hand over it, with a sense of ownership, as if smoothing out a rug she’s selling, and shoots Adrian a sly sideways look (unlike her husband, she intuited Adrian’s status right away). In different circumstances, Adrian would have smiled at this—just watch her go!—but at the moment he is in no mood for comedy. The yokel catches on, too.

“If you want to take this picture, I won’t mind...what about you, Galya? Let ’em take it, right? We don’t need it dat much. Only how do I know you’re telling da truth? Can’t just anyone come over and start grabbing whatever he fancies.”

Adrian understands they’re now haggling. The pair has realized they’re in trouble, but will keep kicking until the end, to try to get out with some sort of gain for themselves—if I can’t eat it, at least I’ll bite it. They don’t know how to be any other way; otherwise, they’d be as “mighty insulted” as that poor bastard that drank the poison for Colorado beetles. Only these guys won’t go drinking poison—they love life too much.

And that’s when Daryna begins to laugh. She is not hysterical, nothing like that, she just can’t help it: the redneck’s last sentence, together with his offended look, gets stuck inside her and keeps spinning there, producing, with every turn, a new wave of raging hilarity—“can’t just anyone come over and start grabbing whatever he fancies”—and she is shaking with laughter like a loose-bolted old truck on a dirt road; she is a rattletrap of unglued muscles and tendons, oh my goodness, wiping tears—rewind and rewind, again like contractions or vomiting, “can’t just anyone come over”; she can’t breathe, and the thing is the phrase loses none of its effect with repetition; it remains, to Daryna, insanely funny, and she cannot stop, even though no one else is
laughing, and she herself could not possibly ever explain what’s so funny about it, but God, she’s about to burst—her panties are wet already, and tears are running down her cheeks like streaks of rain down a windshield; the redneck and his wife are a blur in her eyes, “can’t just anyone come over and start grabbing”—and she jumps to her feet, shaking her head and choking on a new fit of laughter, waves at Adrian, meaning, it’s fine, she’s fine, she’ll be back to rejoin the company in just a minute, she just has to laugh it all out....

At this moment, the one who cannot
not
be watching the two of them through the mangled, swollen, and poster-clogged eye of her painting on the wall must clearly see Adrian and Daryna caught together, at once, in a lightning-quick flash of déjà vu.

As Adrian watches Daryna dash out the door, grabbing her purse on the run, he recalls a recent scene exactly like this one, at The Cupid—a stunning coincidence, like a repetition of the same movement in a dance, almost a rewind, but not quite; something has changed, because something always changes, and the elements of “then” and “now,” so brightly lit in our awareness, though they do call back and forth to each other with all their apparent congruity, like a repetitive geometric design, are still never one hundred percent identical. This time, Adrian realizes, there’s no need for him to run after her—she really will come back in a minute, as she said she would; she is fine.

Daryna’s déjà vu, however, comes to her as a direct extension of her negotiations with Vadym the night before—still warm, still swirling in her mind in shreds of dirty foam: in the yokel and his wife’s naïve determination to bite off a piece of the action, no matter how small, and hide it in their cheeks, even when backed into a dead corner, Daryna recognizes the same element of a behavioral matrix she encountered the day before, the same “election platform”—to get off the shoals in a way that allows one to keep the controlling stake. And in this very instant, as Vadym and the cuckoo yokel become in her mind a single entity, the laughter that took her over lets up like a sudden spring downpour—as if she’d
heard a joke that stopped being funny after it was explained—and Daryna, still shaking her head in amazement (Can you believe this?) feels for a pack of Kleenexes in her purse, sniffing, and pushes at a white plastic door, decorously hidden in a niche, on which a stenciled peeing boy glows proudly like polished brass on a military uniform.

The bathroom smells of sweat and perfume: this is a well-off home, built to every city standard. From the mirror above the sink a woman she has seen somewhere before but doesn’t recognize right away looks back at Daryna: a clown or Lady Dracula. No—rather, a silent movie actress washing her face in the dressing room: the shoot is over, the role’s been played. (The terrifying beauty with fire hidden under her skin who once flashed up from under all that artful makeup is not coming back—and there isn’t anyone left to make her up anyway.) Her mascara is smeared into dense, predatory black fans around her eyes, and those eyes themselves, still not quite conscious, as if drunk with laughter, radiate, in contrast with their grotesque frames, a glowing, uncanny detachment, as if focused on something unseen. Something beyond reach.

A sudden understanding intrudes upon Daryna: I am not alone, she thinks. Who else is here? Who is with me?

She runs the water and puts both hands under the icy stream. What bliss, what boundless joy—just water, even when it’s merely coming from the tap, like this. The living water, the same as that which flows in the Dnieper. Or do they have their own well?

She bends over and catches the stream with her lips, drinks, swallows, and drinks more as she once saw a pigeon drink from a fountain where he perched: beak open hungrily, his whole body feasting on every sip. Or was it a dog? Lord, there’s so much life all around, and—dear Lord, what unthinkable things we do to it.

She raises her head and looks at the woman in the mirror: the Revlon lipstick smudged around her mouth as if she’s been kissed—like on a compact mirror in a purse found on the scene of the accident. That was a painting, that was a photo,
I’ll use this somehow, I just don’t know how yet—
wet streaks run down her chin,
hang there like tiny stalactites of sweat, her wounded lips move, and on her skin, she somehow feels her own breath as she whispers, “I did everything as you wanted, Vlada. Everything. I will take them back. You go now.”

“I got him to sell me the clock, too!” Adrian announces.

“You should be in the right lane,” Daryna advises, focused on the road. She’s allowed him to take the wheel because he is now in better shape than she is, but she hasn’t relaxed; she’s alert; two heads are better than one, and the Lord helps those who help themselves. “What clock?”

“The one that they had sitting on top of the TV, you didn’t see it? A prewar piece, German-made—a trophy! He said his father brought it back from the front.”

“Sweet. And my gramps brought back a piece of shrapnel in his chest, which killed him within a year. And two cans of American meat stew from his rations—he didn’t eat it, saved it for the kids, as a treat.”

“You can’t compare. Didn’t you see, they have a tradition? Runs in the family.”

“Oh, look, another cemetery!”

“That one’s new, clearly.”

“Yeah.... Look, gas and food—do we need to fill up?”

“You know I wouldn’t mind filling myself up with something. How about we stop after Boryspil somewhere? All these Petrivna’s-and Mariyana’s-type places don’t inspire much confidence in me; there’ll be better places closer to the city.”

“After the interchange? Sounds good. I’m hungry too. Could eat a horse, actually.”

“That’s from an overdose of emotions in a single twenty-four-hour period.”