June 23, 1995
Friday
11:00 a.m.
Left in the lot were the Balmung, a couple of Zhiguli Eights, and a cream-colored convertible. I slowed down. I’d seen one like it in a fashion magazine. What make was it? Veronika walked over to a blue Eight, waited until I was watching, scribbled seven digits on a scrap of paper, and tucked it into my pocket: «Call me.»
I kissed the offered cheek. Veronika got in the car, started the engine, and sped off.
Through the Balmung’s open window, Zhorik yelled:
— Hey there, you fearsome fucker!
I walked over to the car and took the passenger seat.
— Why so gloomy, screwed yourself out? — Zhorik asked, as soon as I’d buckled in.
— Didn’t get enough sleep.
— No wonder. Thoughtful sex is congruent with sleep deprivation: the more present you are in the moment, the more you need to sleep it off afterward. One night of African passion equals two days of sleep debt!
We drove in silence.
Drove in silence. Looked out the windows in silence. About ten minutes in, a cream-colored convertible overtook us. It flew past recklessly, its passengers shrieking nonstop.
«Some daredevils,» I thought. «Why the rush? Where’s the fire?»
Sunday was reaching its peak, the heat hung heavy, shimmering. I started thinking about what I’d do that evening… the Beemer swerved, brakes screeched, tearing at my eardrums!
A blind curve ended in a knot of cars. We narrowly avoided a collision with a Zhiguli Kopeika stopped at the tail of a long, fifty-meter jam. We swerved onto the shoulder and dropped into the ditch!
We got out to look around. Lucky we’d landed in what would only get called a proper «ditch» once the report was filled out. And over there?
Over there, the convertible had gone into the curve, fishtailed, and flown into the oncoming lane, right under a Kamaz truck. At the endpoint of a braking trail drawn black on gray asphalt lay four bodies. People fussed around the corpses. The convertible, now a heap of metal, gleamed opposite. The hood was gone. The cabin had turned to mush. Only the cream-colored trunk and two hefty wheels looked untouched. I walked closer and read: «Jaguar» on one side, «XJS» on the other.
A beautiful car. Had been. Zhorik came up beside me with a comment: «Bad timing to check out.»
He opened his notebook and put two little crosses under a column of numbers. I nodded toward the bodies:
— From there?
— Only the dimwits. The girls went with the guys chasing the good life, but there’s no such thing. There’s only a beautiful death. Life’s like a book — until you read to the last page, you don’t know what it’s about or what kind of story it was. Beautiful, or rotten. And everyone reads their own book: some read serious literature, some a cheap paperback, some just a newspaper blurb.
— What were these guys reading?
— Murzilka, best case, and even that’s not certain. Too early for them to die. I’ve got the ring on me. They closed their own eyes and took the girls down with them.
— So the contract’s broken?
— Not at all. The dream of having money without limit and girls without counting them — fulfilled. More money than they knew what to do with. Had no clue where to spend it. Couldn’t get the itch out of their pants either. Everything came true. Nothing to do with me.
The bodies were carried off, the scrap-metal Jaguar towed away, the road cleared.
We got back in the Balmung and dragged ourselves toward Moscow. Passing the crash site, I studied the bloodstains on the asphalt, shaped like the sky I’d once wandered under... the vocational-school kids had wandered under it too, and another dozen passengers from that ill-fated train car. What would become of them? I’d last seen Verochka two years ago. Veronika, Chicha, Vadim, and Kirill I’d just seen. What about the rest?
— Zhora, what about the rest? Are they alive?
— Curiosity killed the cat, — Zhorik dodged the question.
— How many of us are left?
— Eleven. Don’t sweat it. Just two idiots checked out. Could’ve lived a long life. We’ll write it up as an accident, a manufacturing defect. My mistake. Shouldn’t have let him go in that state.
Phew, that eased things. Two dead in two years. Zhorik and whoever stood behind him weren’t showing bloodlust. No need to worry about the near future. The distant one stayed shrouded in fog, same as for every citizen of the country. What could you wish for in June of ninety-five? Only one thing: that the Communists wouldn’t come back to power in a year.
— Relax. Even if they do, you won’t notice. Nothing will change.
— How do you know?
— We’re here. Get out.
Zhorik dodged the question again.
