October 8, 1993
Friday
14:00
While they drove me around in the trunk, I mulled over the return to the sands. Nothing good had happened in the past three months.
Dying because I’d moved into an apartment with a VCR and a television? I’d worked my ass off! Slaved from morning to night, never saw daylight!!!
I rolled onto my other side. The trunk felt clean and didn’t reek of gasoline.
First thing, I tried to find something positive in what had happened. For instance, I was traveling in comfort. No comparison to my dad’s Moskvich, where one half of the trunk was taken up by spare parts, the other by stinking canisters of rags. The positives ran out there.
I got to thinking about what I’d spent my life on. Conclusion: I’d turned out to be the earthworm that went fishing with the men.
The other passengers in the carriage?
Verochka, Vadim, and Nastya – grabbed the firebird by the tail. Chicha wasn’t moping. Kirill was drinking. The trade-school boys were running their schemes. Anatoly Stepanovich, by rumor, had moved on to either the GUVD or the MVD and kept quiet. Veronika Sergeyevna sang at the Terem, dreamed of nothing better. Left uncertain were Gennady Ivanovich, through whom Zhorik dealt with factory directors, and Lena, hired on by Kirill and never once shown up to work. Hm, and tomorrow I wouldn’t show up either. Damn it!
So absurd! I wished so badly Zhorik were here! Without him, the return to the sands would be squalid and meaningless. Only he could pack philosophical meaning into any twist of fate. He’d explain plainly enough why I was dangling in a trunk, having gotten not one damn thing that was promised.
Once a week I’d screwed Verochka, a pale carbon copy of a wet dream. At least something… But where was my real woman?
I remembered the girl from the white room. Nothing I did brought me a centimeter, a moment closer. The pile of duties Zhorik kept winding up spun me round and round like a centrifuge, gave me no time to catch my breath… Light struck my eyes.
They lifted the trunk lid. So, we’d arrived.
I was hauled out, squinting, shivering, set on my feet, shoved in the back. I opened my eyes, looked around. The men hadn’t lied, they’d brought me to the woods: scraggly little trees bristled all around, sickly but numerous.
I fought down my fear while the men rummaged in the trunk. They produced a tow rope… tight, hard, till my limbs went numb, they tied me to a tree. Tugged, testing its strength. The trunk, two arms thick, shuddered but didn’t bend. I squirmed and got a slap for it.
– So?
– So what?
– You gonna share?
– Share what?
I still didn’t understand the point of my appearance among the aspens. In principle, I could hand over the VCR, the television, and the keys and registration for the Torus. By and large I didn’t need those things. I’d gladly trade them for my old student life. I could hand over half my earnings regularly, pay fifty dollars a week. But who’d believe that? The kidnappers had set their sights on millions and a stake in the business. Swearing, threatening to leave me overnight and tear my ass into lemon wedges by morning if I didn’t come to my senses. They spoke Russian words in a language I couldn’t understand. How was I supposed to answer? Swear on my life I had no millions, never seen one? Confess I’d sold my soul for love of an ethereal girl and gotten Sunday screws plus fourteen hours of office work the rest of the week in return?
Nonsense! They wouldn’t believe it. They stood there whispering to each other. Deciding what to do next.
What about? About that… Uh-huh…
Waving their palms in front of each other, they started loudly debating where, how far off, to haul the sucker off to bury – up to the neck for starters… I sank into gloom.
The small one, I even knew his name – Boba, changed his mind. Suggested not hauling the body anywhere, just burying it here. The massive, pumpkin-shaped Shura shook his head – no good, the ground’s frozen, we’ll wear ourselves out. Better to take him to the dacha and toss him in the cellar for a week, or better yet sell him to the Chechens for baksheesh.
The threats sounded like nonsense, vaudeville, not serious. Vadim had been right to reason that serious people had no reason to deal with the likes of us. There were other spheres where the important types moved, ones we had no access to. We were only of interest to small-time riffraff, clowns in a criminal wrapper.
I hoped they wouldn’t hit me. Boba and Shura had also decided to do without a beating. They inspected the quality of the restraints, ruled that I’d sit out here till morning. If I didn’t croak, tomorrow I’d hand everything over myself. Otherwise they’d hand me a shovel and I’d dig my own little grave. Not worth their trouble to wear themselves out. The rig would stay theirs regardless.
– That’s doubtful!
A familiar, dear voice objected from the side. And there was Zhorik, appearing like out of a fairy tale. Stood with his hands on his hips, ten meters off. Boba and Shura turned, hunched their shoulders like bulls:
– Beat it, before you catch it!
Zhorik didn’t so much as flinch, started lecturing and advising the way only he could:
– He’ll bolt out of here in five minutes flat. What kind of people are you? Who ties knots like that? Can’t do a single thing properly. Let me show you how it’s done…
He headed toward me, recalling some Bill Driscoll… and drawing level with Boba, in one imperceptible motion he pulled the jacket up over the man’s head and, without letting go, drove a spinning kick into Shura’s jaw, slammed a knee into Boba’s groin, who collapsed... kicked Shura in the groin, and he collapsed too. Both ended up in the half-frozen mud, and Zhorik began methodically kicking Shura, aiming for the abdomen and the crotch.
Zhorik’s kicks were like blows from a battering ram. Whooomph! A hole in the wall. Whooomph! Another hole. Though there were no holes, of course. Just a writhing body, blood starting to seep from its mouth and nose. Zhorik turned to Boba, grinning:
– Sepsis for your little buddy, guaranteed.
Boba, twisting and writhing, whimpered:
– Bro, come on, what’s this about? We’re not tourists, we didn’t know the kid was with you…
– And if he weren’t with me? What changes? Article one-twenty-five, paragraph one, five to ten years. You know that one?
– No.
– Should’ve. April twenty-ninth they amended the criminal code with a nice little clause. Study the laws before you break them.
– What?
Zhorik continued the friendly conversation, leaning over the shaking body:
– Who tipped you off?
– What?! – Boba shook in every limb, not understanding the question.
– Who tipped you off about the businessman? This one.
– Andreich.
– Which one specifically?
– Head of security.
Zhorik straightened up to his full height, scratching the top of his head in astonishment. Stood a moment… and in a couple of minutes, with powerful kicks, turned Boba into a sack of guts. Once he saw a trickle of blood from the beaten man’s mouth, he nodded to me: what are you standing around for, let’s get to the car.
I jerked left and right like a marionette, still tied up. Zhorik, with an apologetic smile at his own oversight, cut the ropes with a knife.
Hm. He’d worked over the bandits exclusively with his feet. Zhorik read my thought and explained:
– We’ve got a contract to sign in half an hour, and now picture this – me splattered in blood with busted knuckles. So, feet only. We’ll settle up with Andreich later, no feet, no little knives involved. Through Seva…
