Moscow Noir

I know this is how I’ll die. Alone, in an empty apartment, the summer of 1980, the sixty-third anniversary of the Revolution’s birth.

Death is a great cheat, a fata morgana. I once dreamed of it, but it slipped away, over and over. Eventually I gave up, weary, and backed off.

Now it’s coming for me and I say, Listen, I don’t understand why I ever loved you. In reply you squeeze my old fingers in your cold hand.

Is this really what I dreamed of half a century ago?

Too bad. You’ve taken so long to get here, I almost forgot how much I once loved you!

A little girl on Crimea’s cliffs, a young woman from a burned-out village, an old woman in front of a mirror. A sailor floating down the Volga, a soldier pulling out a pin, an old man waiting for death, a man finding it for himself. And more and more new souls keep crowding in behind them.

All of them are me.

My god, so many! None of them are left—the son, the daughter, the heir, the heiress—no one is left, no one and nothing, there’s not even anyone to remember, anyone to tell, anyone to utter a word to those who came after. No one sees or hears them.

Only me …

Masha weeps, she weeps for everyone who vanished without a trace, weeps and repeats: Only me, only me … and does that mean I’m their heir? Does that mean I have to bear all this, preserve these souls in my emaciated body, bear them eternally in exchange for my unconceived children?

I’m as alone as alone can be

, Masha tells herself. I never knew my real parents, my mama and papa drove me out, I have no brothers or sisters, and will never have children. How will I carry this burden alone? Am I a medium or something? Did I summon up the dead? No, they came to me of their own accord, entered me the way a rapist enters a sleeping woman, a woman who has lost the strength to resist.

Oh well, if you’ve come, make yourself comfortable, eat me, enjoy. Here is my flesh, here is my blood, but no bread and wine are served here. Be my guests, only know it’ll be a short story. Because I’m not going to be able to bear all this any longer.

I can’t alone.

And I can’t call for help.

I’ll go to Nikita and say, I hear voices, I have other people, dead people, living inside me. Instantly his voice will become very patient, sympathetic, and upbeat. That voice will make even me start to think I’ve lost my mind and belong in a psych ward. It’s probably better if I don’t say anything at all.

Just so he’s nearby, just so he doesn’t leave, just so he holds my hand—and I’ll keep quiet, I’ll deal with the rest myself.

I’ll say, Wasn’t it nice in the Crimea nine years ago? Remember I was still telling fortunes on the quay? Could that have been when it all started? Could that be where I let all these alien lives inside me, all these lost, dead, unfortunate, barren souls? But we were still having fun that evening, drinking wine, eating shashlik. We were young and foolish. Strong and confident. Maybe deep down I still have that strength, maybe it’s enough at this age, what do you think, Nikita, eh?

Don’t answer, you don’t have to. After all, you and I know ourselves how much we can withstand. Don’t answer, all right? Just don’t go away, please. Don’t go.

I’ll just hold your hand—we’ll all just hold your hand—and maybe we’ll surface, or maybe we’ll finally learn to breathe underwater.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

ALEXANDER ANUCHKIN

was born in Moscow in 1976 to a family of teachers. He has worked as a crime reporter for twelve years, in addition to writing for television. He is currently the anchor and chief editor of the Essential (Glavnoe) TV program. His debut novel, the political thriller Gold Reserve (Zolotoi zapas), was published in 2009.

IRINA DENEZHKINA was born in Yekaterinburg, a large industrial center in the Urals, in 1981. When one of her manuscripts was short-listed for the prestigious National Best Seller Prize, she drew significant critical attention from the Russian media. Her story collection Give Me: Songs for Lovers (Dai mne!) has been translated into twenty languages, including English. She still lives in her native town, working as a journalist, writing her next book, and raising her son.