July 3, 1993
Saturday
2:20 PM
The job-seeking girls turned out to be provincial types in white blouses with little ruffles. No traces of former beauty were going to threaten them in old age. The girls glowered from under lowered brows, sniffling. Shifted their scowling looks from me to Yefimych and back again. Their expressions brightened whenever I came into view, and darkened whenever Yefimych did.
It felt good. I puffed out my cheeks, playing the thoughtful executive, and racked my brain for something clever to say. Zhora hadn’t authorized me to either offer jobs or turn anyone away. But, damn it, I wanted to feel important, to show some kindness, to offer up some positions. The girls would burn with the desire to express their gratitude in some accessible way… Then, glancing at Yefimych, I understood that the girls already knew exactly who they’d be thanking.
Yefimych was drooling with lust. Stripping the girls with his eyes, kneading and groping their curves in his mind. For a moment I felt sick. I saw Mityay. Saw that hopeless, bottomless mug, marked front to back with one single thought.
— No openings, — slipped off my tongue. I threw a convincing glance at the Breitling, spread my hands apart, and positioned myself by the telephone with my back to Mityay and the girls. Put on a show of urgently needing to communicate with someone far away.
In truth, I was afraid to meet Dmitry Yefimych’s eyes. Afraid of confirming a sudden hunch: that I’d run into Mityay, who’d somehow ended up here, God knew how.
I tortured my finger against the creaking rotary dial. The receiver crackled and hissed, half-signal, half-squeal breaking through the clicks and static, and Mityay didn’t leave. I could feel it in my spine, how he stood there, legs planted wide apart, drilling a hateful stare into my back, regretting that he hadn’t brought along a Mosin-Nagant rifle or a Mauser.
I shrank into myself, hunched my shoulders, broke out in sweat, swelled, melted, and turned into a pathetic little man, terrified by episode two of an endless horror series…
Clap. The door shut. I turned around and let out a breath. There was nobody in the room. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. Looked around again. Nobody, horned or hoofed, was hiding in the corners.
Walked through the rooms. In time with my measured pacing, I declined the name and patronymic of Dmitry/Mityay Yefimovich every which way and hoped I’d never run into lecherous Mityefimych again. Developing any complicated thoughts — like exactly how an illiterate soldier from the days of the conquest of Manchuria had turned into a research institute’s deputy director — wasn’t happening. I was scared and mentally deconstructed.
The buzz of the ringer brought me back to the real world. I picked up the phone.
— Coffin to the phone, — a distant voice ordered.
— He’s not here, — I answered.
— When will he be?
— Four PM sharp.
— I’ll come by.
Something clicked on the other end of the line, followed by the dial tone. I put the receiver back. Sighed.
The task Zhora had entrusted to me, I’d carried out flawlessly.
Just as instructed, I’d set the meeting for four o’clock, hadn’t mixed anything up, hadn’t forgotten a thing. I was becoming a businessman too, but I had no desire to feel proud of myself. Yefimych was what worried me.
