I remembered another day here, after the police brought news of Father’s accident. I’d came here, sat on a bench, and waited for him, thinking it was all a mistake, that he’d stroll over to me.
When he didn’t, I’d walked for hours, a countless number of steps, on and on. I wasn’t even aware my fists were clenched the whole time. The crescent marks on my palm are where my nails had bit into flesh.
I touched my neck. The scab begged me to peel it so I did. Anton said scars taught people lessons. The stinging pain promised strength and wisdom. Now, I just had to find it, so I kept walking and thinking.
Before I came to the park, earlier in the morning, I’d waited under Anna’s window. There was no sound, nothing, so I threw a pebble. Nothing. So I threw another and her window opened. She’d looked out, eyes rimmed red. She’d seemed surprised to see me, but her smile was genuine. We stood there for a quiet moment, a four-four beat. “Are you ok?” I spoke first, resuming the conversation from last night. Instead, she pointed at my neck, as if to point out a lie. She didn’t ask anything, so I didn’t need to answer anything. “Did you dream of a place to fly to?”
She nodded. “Are you going to work today? Stay, just a little while. I’ll play you something.” She disappeared inside and a stately, peaceful melody began, part of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, Largo. As she played, I leaned against the wall, feeling the music tunnel through its bones into mine. I wish I could have listened to that song forever.
But I couldn’t. No one can.
One of the chess players smacked the table. “This is it, Vladimir Bolshakov. Your center broke here.” He took a large bite of a pirozhki, the crust and stuffing dribbling all over as he spoke, “That move just now, right here—everything fell apart.”
In my dream, I had laughed as I slit Boris’ throat, and so had he, our bloody smiles stuffed with delight.
“I disagree. My mistake was this move here.”
They began playing the game backwards, just as two children raced past their table, ringing around another skeletal tree. I used to believe trees were replanted upside-down during winter and their branches were roots digging into the sky. If they climbed high enough, I’d fantasized, I could go up and save the princess in Novospassky Monastery.
“Another game?”
“You always want to play again when you lose.”
“That’s life, no? That’s life.”
“You and your nonsense.”
The pieces reset. A veiny hand plucked a knight, circled it in the air like a hand bell before smacking it down. What role do you play, Andrei Yaklova? I’m not a prince, I know that. A knight? A rook? A pawn? Who says I have to be a chess piece?
I felt my nails against my palm, the hardened skin, willing them to be tougher.
1.60
The next morning, I went to the warehouse early. Everything looked the same, but it was a new beginning. The first thing Anton did when he came in was to make a big show of looking at his watch, as if shocked I was early. Then, he studied the plaster below my jaw. “Shaving accident? I can see one, two, three strands of hair still.”
“We have to make it work,” I said.
Anton scratched his ear. “What do we have to get to work?”
“Everything,” I said firmly. “Luka’s job.”
“Oh, that.” He sounded disinterested. “Someone’s determined today.”
We spent the morning weaving the key logger and the blog website together. When Luka arrived, he wrote the bait email with the help of an online translation program. After it was done, he read it aloud. It was a fawning email to O’Brien’s wife, one which invited her to visit our blog.
“She’ll fall for it,” Anton said when Luka finished. “It’ll work.”
“What do you think, Andrei?” Luka’s voice was taut like a plumb line weighed by guilt.
“There’s nothing to think,” Anton said, “Bird watchers like serendipity. She’ll go for it. My key logger is perfect. It’s art. It’ll work.” Click any link on the website, any picture, and the key logger would install, lurking like a silent betrayal. He flicked through the pictures on the blog I created. “I hate birds,” he said. “They shit everywhere.”
“You hate everything,” Luka said, “so shut up. I’m talking to Andrei.”
“True.” Anton’s voice became icy. “Some things I hate more than others.”
As they spoke, I pictured the woman wandering in a forest, lured by birdsong and whisked into a net. Would her husband blame her if he finds out? Would he love her still? Grow up, Andrei, I told myself. You can’t afford to care for strangers. Luka depends on you now. His wife is at stake. He needs you.
“Well, Andrei?” Luka asked. A touch of impatience in his voice. A hint of a plea in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good, good.” Luka closed his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he clicked a button.
Send.
And we waited.
1.65
The bus is full of school children today. The teacher had led them onboard two stops after me, the group heading for an excursion. I’m on the way to meet Luka and Anton to discuss what to do. It’s been days, and we’re still waiting for Garret O’Brien’s wife to respond. We don’t know why she’s not responding. Anton said he had a Plan B, a worm he embedded into one of her club’s website’s host servers. “Assuming she logs on, it’d take a while to scrap together enough for me to customize something. Maybe a privilege escalation hack, or something. It’d depend.”
He doesn’t know Luka doesn’t have that time, and the latter won’t tell him. All he does is keep telling me not to worry.
In the front of the bus, the teacher looks harried. She keeps shouting: “Can everyone keep quiet!” Little children are terrors. Are grown-ups better? If so, maybe it’s because of the sense of guilt they develop.
I thought of last night. Before I slept, I peeped into the girl’s room. Her curtains were closed and she was napping. I’d enjoyed watching her sleep, her dim figure stirring occasionally under the duvet. It felt peaceful. Her breathing was even and calming. Soothing, like a lullaby.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself beside Anna’s bed. I stood close enough to touch her, to smell her golden hair, which spilled across the pillow. A piano stood in one corner, its cover scuffed. The pillow cover was pink—no, blue, like mine. I had stroked her hair as she slept. Even in repose, her lips smiled at me. Anna, Anna, Anna, I shook her, half-pleading, half-savage, uncertain what I wanted to do with her.
Then, I woke up for real. I’ve never had dreams like this before. I touched my underwear and my hand smelled of salt and sea. No matter how I cleaned myself, I felt dry. Dirty.
When I realized what had happened, I’d written to the girl I spied on. It was rash, but I needed to tell someone how I felt. I’m sorry, I typed. She wasn’t around to read my confession, writ in large font across her screen, but she would when she next logged on. After another moment’s thought, I deleted the spy program. No more temptation, Andrei! Do the right thing!
The sense of guilt-driven righteousness hadn’t lasted long. When I left my apartment, I saw Grigory seated on the stairwell steps, blocking me. He held a nail clipper, a thick, hairy foot crossed over his knee. A broom rested on his side. “You,” he barked. “Your eyes are swollen.” His were bloodshot with malice. He pointed his nail clipper at me, as if it were a mind-probe. “I know what it is.” His lips blubbered. “It’s Nelya’s clogs keeping you up. That dry-teated bitch.”
For a moment, I wanted to kill him. I imagined the broomstick thrust deep inside his piggish maw. So, I fled.