In a few hours, with the sky full dark, Raisa would get dressed and go to work and when she was finished take a bus to Petrovka to meet the ghost detective. She would look at photographs. She knew the face of the man she would be looking for. Would she have the strength to identify him? Or should she simply say, “He is not here,” and go on with the life she had chosen and which had chosen her?
She had just returned from her night of work. She was tired, so tired that the idea of just rising from the chair to get to her bed was too much effort.
In the darkness, her head turned to the curtain in the corner. Behind the curtain was a cardboard box. It was not a particularly large box. From time to time she took the box out and removed items and memories, touched and examined them and put them back. It was her past and it was painful, but compelling. Whenever she went through the contents of the box, she smiled and wept.
She got up wearily, turned on the small sixty-watt table light and moved to the curtain. The meaning of her life was beyond that curtain in a cardboard box. She wondered how many others in Moscow kept their meaning in boxes behind the curtains.
Although Bronson was a dog, that did not mean he had no thoughts. On the contrary, he had many thoughts, but they were fleeting and he had almost no control over them.
Even now, as he lay in his large metal cage in the darkness, with only the dim night-light through the single small slit of a window, thoughts came racing through the head of the huge dark animal.
An image of a human bringing something heavy down on his back stirred the dog, but it was instantly gone, forgotten till the next time. A spark of a memory of looking into the eyes of another dog whose neck he had held with his best bloody grip rolled by on a wave. He felt the death of that other dog and it became part of the wave of death of many dogs. And that too passed.
Memories did not linger consciously in Bronson. He felt, but did not think, that he would soon be facing another dog in the circle.
Smelly, shouting humans would be there, some calling the name he had been given. His body would quiver with memories so deep that they went back to the wild free days of his ancestors in the forests.
And then the thing would take over and he would attack. There was no plan, no thought. Bronson would give himself over to the ancient memory of survival, and it would either carry him through the triumph over the dead or dying other or leave him lying in the scent of his own death.
But none of this frightened the dog. Fear simply was not a part of his being. Nor did he think in terms of success or failure. He simply existed to live and fight and for the praise of the human who provided food and shelter.
The human had taught him two words that made Bronson’s life simple- vyshka, death sentence, and stop, which was the same in Russian or English.
Bronson had attacked two humans in his five years of life. One of the two he had killed. The other, he did not know about. He did not particularly like attacking humans. They provided no meaningful battle that would leave the dog with a fast-beating heart of triumph. But, if ordered, he would attack and he would kill, and he would lose himself in the smell of fear and the taste of flesh and blood.
Bronson slept.
Oleg Kisolev, the soccer coach, lay in bed that evening next to his lover, Dmitri. Dmitri was a left-wing on Kisolev’s team. Dmitri was, at one time, the fastest player in the league, a graceful, dodging flash who consistently led all others in assists. Oleg remembered the lean man with long dark hair and powerful legs running with the ball ahead of him, passing defense men, centering the ball in a perfect low arch in front of the goal for a header. Dmitri was almost thirty now and, while still fast and the best corner kicker in Moscow, he had lost as much as a quarter of his speed.
Oleg touched the head of the man beside him, who was exhausted from a long practice and who needed a shave. The light on Oleg’s side of the bed was dim and he had to wear his glasses to read the book on his chest. Over the past two years or so Oleg had begun selecting books more for the size of their type than the content of their pages. Now he was reading a book on the history of the Soviet Union in the Olympic Games. The book was ten years old but full of things Oleg did not know.
The light did not bother Dmitri. When he was exhausted, not even the cry of pazhahar, fire, would awaken him.
Oleg thought about the two policemen who had come to see him about Yevgeny Pleshkov that afternoon. The policeman who slouched had kicked the ball farther and with more accuracy than anyone Oleg had ever seen, with the possible exception of Karish-nikov. The policeman was a little old for the game but perhaps he could still play fullback. This speculation was only a game for Oleg, an exercise of his imagination. The policeman would never play. In addition to which Oleg really did not wish to see the man and his partner ever again. Oleg had good reason. Oleg preferred never to see any policemen again. He was sure he had done well, but the young one had smiled and made Oleg feel uncomfortable.
“I didn’t betray Yevgeny,” Oleg told himself. “Yevgeny went wild.
It was when the German touched Yulia between her legs and Yulia bit her lower lip and tried to look as if she were thinking of somewhere else, another time.”
It was in Yulia’s apartment on Kalinin. Yevgeny was just a little drunk and he told Oleg they would surprise her. Surprise her they did. She answered the door wearing a pair of pink silk panties and a matching bra. She didn’t try to keep the two men out of the room. On the contrary, she had opened the door for them to enter and they had immediately seen the German, Jurgen, sitting naked on the spindly legged sofa. His arms were outstretched and draped along the top of the sofa.
Oleg immediately noticed that the man was flaccid, though his penis was unusually thick and long, even longer and thicker than Dmitri’s.
Yulia gave no explanation. She closed the door to the room and went to get herself a drink from the small wooden cabinet against one wall.
“An unexpected visit,” the German had said. “And from such a distinguished member of the government. I’ve been hoping to meet you.”
Neither Oleg nor Yevgeny had responded. The German had continued talking with only the slightest accent.
Oleg was well trained in his hatred of Germans. He and two generations before his were taught in school with graphic photographs of staggering numbers of dead Russian soldiers, women, and children. Those who had survived and helped repulse the ob-scene invasion of their country told tales of German atrocities and the horrors they had endured and witnessed. The teachers, the survivors, the books did not differentiate between Nazi soldiers and German citizens. They were all born with a madness to conquer.
This one was no different.
“Yulia and I were waiting for the proper time to suggest a lu-crative business proposal with you,” the German said. “Your coming now is a fortunate act of fate.”
Yulia had now put on a flimsy robe, a white one through which you could see. Oleg, though his sexual interests were with another gender, recognized the long-legged beauty of the woman and understood his friend Yevgeny’s obsession with her.
She handed Yevgeny a drink: vodka, no ice. She offered Oleg nothing. In the several years his friend had been having binges with her at his side, Oleg had met Yulia only twice. Oleg did not drink.
He did not carouse and so he seldom saw Yulia, though the two had formed an instant dislike of each other from the moment they had met. The source of their dislike was obviously Yevgeny, whom she quite successfully manipulated when he was drunk and whom Oleg tried, with almost no success, to wean back to sobriety and safety. Yevgeny was too prominent a man to continue to avoid being exposed by the press for his drunkenness, his gambling, his being seen around with a beautiful woman who was obviously his mistress. And Yevgeny was not one to fade into the shadows when he was on a drunken spree. Oh, no. He was loud, very loud. He practiced speeches in the streets and stopped individuals to tell them what had to be done to save Russia and return it to a power its people deserved. If anyone recognized him, they did not admit it. Most people simply walked by.