“Help me clean up,” Yulia had said to Oleg.
“The body?” Oleg asked.
“We’ll think of something when we come to that,” she said. “I’ll change into something that won’t be ruined by the blood.”
Oleg got on his knees and began picking up photographs, many of them splattered with blood, and cassettes, some of which had broken and flown across the room, leaving a brown vinyl trail of thin tape. And there were dozens of pieces of wood. In his hurry, Oleg picked up a splinter in the palm of his hand. There was enough visible to pull it out, though his hand was shaking.
Oleg found a wastebasket and was filling it when Yulia reappeared in faded blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt.
“No,” she said, handing Oleg a large green plastic garbage bag.
“Fill this. I can dump it in the trash. It will be picked up in the morning. Put in everything.”
The man and woman worked together. Yulia produced a blanket to wrap the German’s body, which they did with surprising ease, though Oleg did his best not to look at the grotesque naked man with the battered face and the sharp piece of wood buried in his neck. Without hesitation, Yulia pulled the wooden stake from the neck of the man who had humiliated her. She wiped it to remove any possible fingerprints and dropped it into the rapidly filling bag.
Then she produced two electrical extension wires and used them to tie the top and bottom of the makeshift shroud in which what was once a man was wrapped.
The blood was the most difficult part of the operation. Yulia said, “I’ll be right back. Try to rouse Yevi. We will need his help.”
Oleg did as he was told and tried not to look at the bundle on the floor. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not respond to his entreaties, but he did look into Oleg’s face as if trying to recognize him. Oleg gave up and resumed his cleanup, wondering if Yulia would suddenly appear with armed policemen and point her finger at the scene, denouncing Oleg and Yevgeny.
She did reappear with a bucket containing a variety of plastic cleaning items, a pair of brushes, and some towels.
“Took them from the storage closet on the next floor,” she explained. “I will have to get them back soon. Let’s put the body by the door. See if he is leaking through first.”
Again, Oleg did as he was told. The blood did not seem to be spreading, at least not yet. Together they moved the wrapped corpse near the door.
Cleaning up the blood took almost half an hour and left the thin carpet wet.
“We can do no better,” Yulia had announced, surveying the room. “I’ll rearrange the furniture later to cover the spot. It will look fine. Now we get rid of the bag and the body.”
“How?”
“I’ll take the bag,” she said. “I’ll carry it to the park and drop it in the trash there.”
“Burn it,” Yevgeny suddenly said in a monotone, without looking at the others. “No one must find those photographs, those tapes.”
“All right, I will burn the bag,” she said.
“I want to watch,” said Yevgeny.
“You don’t trust me,” Yulia said with a smile.
“No.”
Yulia gave a raspy, deep laugh which sent an icicle down Oleg’s back. “Then you shall watch,” she said.
“The originals,” said Yevgeny, slowly coming to life and rubbing his eyes.
Yulia shook her head. “I will protect you, Yevi. I will burn these photographs and tapes. I will help get rid of the body. The three of us, if the police get close, and they are looking for you, must never vary from the story that Jurgen was attacking me, that he had a gun, that you bravely overcame him and had to kill him to protect yourself. As for the body, you panicked and to protect me again wrapped him up, and we, you and I, took him to the place I have in mind. Your friend Oleg need not be involved.”
Yevgeny nodded in agreement.
“I have the originals of the photos and the tapes safely hidden,”
she said. “And so they will stay. I ask you for nothing in exchange.
They are my insurance that the two of you will not betray me. I like you, Yevi. You have never hurt me. You have been generous and undemanding. And now you’ve rid me of my beast. No, that is a cliche. You’ve rid me of something that looked like a human, something with an insatiable lust, who enjoyed the anguish of others.
He is the only person I have ever known who simply enjoyed being evil. One time I asked him if he was the devil. He said he was.”
Yevgeny finally stirred and stood. “Let us do it,” he said.
The rest was a frightening nightmare for Oleg, who was grateful that Yulia was clearly in charge and knew what she was doing and that Yevgeny was participating. She carried the bulging garbage bag through which shards of wood from the broken box now jut-ted like angry little spikes, while Oleg and Yevgeny carried the awkward and heavy dead German. Yulia also held a two-liter plastic bottle. Yulia had surveyed the hallway and, assured that no one was in sight, led the two men carrying the body to the service steps.
Oleg started to head down but Yulia said, “No. Up.”
Oleg was in no state to challenge anything she said, and Yevgeny had lapsed back into a near-somnambulistic state.
They struggled up two flights, where Yulia opened the door to the roof and put down bottle and bag to open the door with a key.
“Jurgen had the key made,” she explained. “I was never sure why.
Now I have a reason.”
They struggled onto the roof. Yulia led the way to a ribbed metal shed whose door was open.
There wasn’t much inside the shed: a few paint cans, a pile of rags, something that looked like a radio with its electrical intestines showing. The shed was dark, and no light came from the moon and stars covered by clouds. But there was enough, just enough, light coming from Kalinin Street below so that Oleg saw where Yulia pointed. He guided Yevgeny and the body to the spot she had indicated and they put their burden down.
“Back,” said Yulia, pouring the contents of the bottle she had been carrying over the body and the garbage bag she had placed atop it.
Oleg led Yevgeny several steps away from the shed. There was a sudden flare of flames as Yulia joined them.
“Someone will see,” Oleg said. “Someone will report a fire on the roof. The police. .”
Yulia stepped to Yevgeny’s right and took his arm.
“No one will see. No one will report. No one will discover perhaps for days, and no one will be able to identify the corpse. The evidence will be gone. It will remain a mystery. I have seen such things happen. Yevi can stay with me tonight. Tomorrow. . I don’t know.”
“It looks like rain,” Oleg said as the sky rumbled above them.
“It has for days,” she said, “but the shed will keep it from our work. Even a deluge won’t stop that fire.”
They stood watching for a few minutes, just to be sure the body and the bag were on fire and not likely to go out.
“Go home, Oleg,” Yulia said.
Oleg was hypnotized by the flames, the smell of tape and flesh.
He stood transfixed.
“Go home, Oleg Kisolev,” she said firmly.
And, finally, he did.
Oleg had made his way home and now lay in his bed next to Dmitri, trying to convince himself first that the whole thing had not happened. He failed. Then he tried to convince himself that he was safe, that the body of the German would burn beyond recognition, that the green garbage bag and its contents would also be burned without leaving a trace, aside from ashes.
Oleg put the Olympic history book down and reached over to turn off the light. His hand hesitated and he realized that he did not want to be in darkness. He adjusted his pillow and slid down under the covers, turning to put his arms around Dmitri, who made a slight sound of childish pleasure.
Maybe, thought Oleg, maybe I can sleep like this. Maybe.
Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin, Leon Moiseyevitch, the doctor, sat at the piano beside the cellist and oboe player with whom he had performed for almost five years. They specialized in standard works, Bach and Mozart particularly, and Leon found that he could lose himself in the music, that rehearsal after rehearsal, concert after concert, brought him closer to the magical state in which he could simply let his fingers and body perform while he listened.