“Lena, child, help me go to him,” Zinaida Lukinichna asked her.
Supporting the old woman by the elbow, Lena carefully led her to the casket. Zinaida Lukinichna stroked her dead grandson’s blond curls with her wrinkled hand, kissed his lifeless brow, and made the sign of the cross over him.
“Citizens, it’s time!” the redhead’s voice announced from the back of the room.
“A little longer, please.” Olga quickly slipped another bill into her hand.
“What can I do?” the lady said, more softly now. “There are people waiting.”
Lena had never seen a suicide’s face before. She was surprised that Mitya’s face was calm and untroubled, as if he’d just fallen asleep.
“Lord, forgive him. Lord!” Zinaida Lukinichna whispered. “He knew not what he did… My grandson, my Mitya, my baby. I’ll try to pray away your sin, my child, my grandson… My dearest Mitya…”
Lena put her arm around the old woman’s trembling shoulders.
Lord, I’m not made of iron, either, she thought.
Right then, her eye fell on Mitya’s large, strong hands, with the fingers of a professional guitarist. She noticed a few fine scratches on his right arm. It looked like Mitya had been hurt right before he died. What could he have scratched himself on? Something fine and sharp. A needle!
Looking more closely, Lena noticed several fine wounds between his fingers and on his wrist. Yes, they were definitely needle marks. The policemen and doctors had noticed them and had immediately told Olga, “Your brother was an addict.” But why were the needle marks on his right hand? There wasn’t anything on his left. Mitya wasn’t left-handed. That Lena knew for sure.
“Lena dear, will you come by our house now, at least for an hour?” Zinaida Lukinichna asked once the casket slid behind the black curtains.
No! Lena wanted to say. I can’t. My husband’s leaving tonight, I haven’t seen my daughter since early this morning, I have piles of work, and all this is hard for me. I want to get home as fast as I can.
“Of course, Zinaida Lukinichna,” she said.
There were lots of people at the Sinitsyns’. Relatives had taken care of the funeral table. As the guests took their seats, they tried to move the chairs as quietly as they could and spoke in low voices.
Katya had another loud breakdown.
“Lena, take her out to the stairs, I beg of you,” Olga whispered. “Go out with her and smoke. Let her shoot up quietly there. I can’t take this.”
Lena was shocked by Olga’s suggestion to let Katya shoot up. Ultimately, Katya had lost a husband, a partner she’d spent eight years with, and it was Katya herself who’d had to pull him out of the noose. You couldn’t ascribe her emotional breakdown to drug withdrawal alone.
“Here’s her purse.” Olga handed her the worn leather bag. “It’s all there. Do it quickly! Gleb’s already picked up on something.”
It was true. Thirteen-year-old Gleb, Olga’s older son, was already standing in the doorway and listening closely to their conversation.
“Ma, Katya’s doing really bad. Maybe we should call a doctor?”
“We’ll manage without a doctor.” Olga cut him off. “Now go to your room and don’t hover.”
Two minutes later Lena was leading a sobbing Katya by the arm out onto the stairs. When the front door closed behind them, Lena took out a pack of cigarettes. It’s not the easiest thing to tell a woman you barely know that it would be acceptable for her to shoot herself up with heroin.
Katya took a greedy drag—and only then noticed her own purse hanging from Lena’s elbow. Her eyes dried up and flashed.
“Katya,” Lena said gently, “could you hold off a little longer?”
The question sounded silly. This was neither the time nor the place to get Katya off drugs, but she still couldn’t bring herself to actually suggest that someone shoot up.
“If you don’t like looking, you can turn away,” Katya said and nervously licked her lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”
“Fine.” Lena sighed. “Only let’s go up and stand between floors, at the windowsill, otherwise the elevator will come up and someone might see.”
“If you like, you can stand here and I’ll go up,” Katya offered.
“Yes, that’s better.” Lena didn’t have the slightest desire to watch her shoot up.
It was only a few minutes before Katya came back down the stairs with a calm, almost placid face. Some color had even returned to her cheeks.
“Can I have another cigarette?” she asked.
Lena held out the pack and noticed a few fine, light scratches on Katya’s birdlike hand. There were dots on her swollen, blue veins… Only it was her left hand.
“Katya, tell me, please, when did Mitya manage to scratch his arm?”
“His arm?” Katya blinked, not understanding. “Which arm?”
“I don’t remember which one,” Lena lied. “I just noticed he had scratches on his wrist.”
“You think he was shooting up like me?” Katya asked with a perfectly calm voice and released a stream of smoke in the direction of the elevator.
“I don’t think anything. I’m just asking. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“No.” Katya shook her cropped head. “It does. Mitya didn’t shoot up. Ever. Not once in his life. He detested drugs. It’s all my fault he’s dead, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t give him a child, I kept asking for money, and he put up with it because he loved me.”
Lena got scared that she was about to break down again, despite the drugs she had only recently shot up. It’s time for me to go home, she thought sadly. Seryozha will be back from work soon, he’ll pick up Liza from Vera Fyodorovna’s, and they’ll be waiting for me.
“Katya, why do you shoot up in your wrist instead of your elbow?” she asked, and then immediately wondered why she’d asked. What difference does it make? Why should I care?
Katya silently rolled up her sweater sleeve and showed Lena the bend in her elbow, which was dominated by a large, puffy black bruise speckled with brown scabs. Lena suddenly felt pity for this skinny little girl, now utterly alone, who no one in the world cared about.
Katya’s parents lived somewhere in the Far East, Khabarovsk maybe. They had long since divorced, her father was a drunk, and her mother had a new family and no time for Katya. Lena remembered Mitya telling her all this once, in some long-ago conversation. At the time she was happy for him. He absolutely beamed talking about his dear Katya. He really did love her very much.
Now no one cared about this unfortunate addict. Olga wasn’t going to have anything more to do with her. She’d only done so for Mitya’s sake.
“How did it start for you?” Lena asked quietly.
“After my third miscarriage,” Katya told her calmly. “Before that, I didn’t even drink or smoke. Mitya and I wanted a baby so badly, but it didn’t work out. After the third miscarriage they told me that was it, it would never happen. That’s when I got into junk. Someone I knew felt sorry for me and suggested I give it a try—to stop the pain and forget everything. I thought I’d do it once and that would be it. Just to forget.”
“Did you?” Lena asked.
“We’ve had our little talk. That’s enough. I don’t give a damn about any of it. I’m nobody to you and you’re nobody to me. What business do you have prying? I’m scum, a user. You’re a decent woman. You have a husband and child. What? You thought you’d take pity on me? Sympathize? I’d prefer money. Olga won’t give me any now. After the funeral I’m out on my ass. I’ll be lucky if they don’t kick me out of the apartment. In her place I would. She was the one who bought us the apartment.”