Moscow Noir

What about the shape of her nipples? What color are they? And what about her freckles? Freckles sprinkled her pale skin like gold dust. Does she have them all over?

“You seem like a smart guy. So I want you to think up some kind of charity event. A real tearjerker. Something to make everyone bawl. So that I seem like a father to everyone, you know what I mean? So they’ll think of me afterward when the time comes. You know, elect me. You get it. So, think something up. You got imagination.”

That’s when I created the ChaBa.

It was the end of December, my time was almost up, Stary was eating sushi, and Foxy was throwing money to the wind. I thought up the idea for ChaBa in a whirlwind of inspiration and despair. I thought of ChaBa because I thought that a little money wouldn’t hurt me, in the end.

“Merciful Monsters Charity Ball,” I announced proudly.

“What’s that?” said Stary, stabbing a morsel of sushi with one of his chopsticks.

“A costume ball and masquerade. Real fancy. Real stylish. We’ll have Ksyusha Sobchak, Zemfira, Renata Litvinova, Zverev, I don’t know who else, maybe Fedya Bondarchuk, some red-carpet types, Rublyevka wives, a couple oligarchs, some ministers, I dunno.”

“And?”

“And everybody dresses up like monsters. They eat, drink, dance, get high, fuck, and the whole thing will be on TV.”

“What’s the point?”

“There’ll be invitations, which the merciful monsters will get only after making a donation to some charity organization like, I dunno, Destitute Russia. Yeah, Destitute Russia. All profits go to the poor and homeless.”

“Homeless …” Stary murmured absently.

It was a smart move on my part. Stary always had a soft spot for the poor and the homeless. That is to say, always since the day he hired an underage redheaded whore for five bucks and took her from Kursk station to his place, a humble three-story mansion overlooking the Yauza River. He fucked her, fed her, kept her warm, and decided to keep her for good, like a lost cat. From that day, Stary imagined himself to be the protector of the poor, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.

He often got on my nerves, telling me about their first night together. How she started weeping when he told her she could stay …

“Monsters, huh? I like it! There was a movie called Monster’s Ball. Yeah, a movie … with, you know, what’s-her-name in it.”

… And how she couldn’t calm down, and kept on sobbing like a baby so that she couldn’t even say her name. (Carefully and kindly, Stary first threw away the used condom, then offered the girl shelter, and then decided to introduce himself.)

“What’s her name, the black one …”

“Halle Berry.”

“That’s right, Halle Berry.”

… And how she told him through her tears, “M-m-my name is L—L—L—”

“Lee? You must be Foxy Lee with your red hair,” Stary suggested, laughing, and when she stopped crying she said, “Foxy, I like that. I’m Lisa, actually.”

“Monsters Ball, I like the sound of that. Monsters help the homeless! You’ve got some smarts, all right! Monsters. I’ll get ’em all over here to the Atrium.”

“But—”

“I’ll rent the Atrium for the night, no problem.”

… And how they laughed afterward, and how “Lisa” didn’t really stick, but that sweet Lee did. That Lee really did stick. Foxy Lee, it almost sounds Chinese.

Foxy Lee, my red-haired little girl.

She said that she liked me from the very beginning. I could never figure out whether she really liked me, or whether I just didn’t disgust her. Or maybe she didn’t really care one way or the other. On the whole, Foxy acted like a typical female of the species: she didn’t get uppity, and she deferred to the strongest male, never forgetting that there were other males around grazing, and that his status as “strongest” was always temporary.

When Stary wasn’t looking she never missed a chance to make eyes at me. Although, no, come to think of it, I’m exaggerating. She didn’t really make eyes at me. She just looked me right in the eye, staring; but for too long, and her gaze was too moist. The blood from my head rushed to the pit of my stomach and the skin on my back would be covered in goose-bumps. Then I would recall (genetic memory should never be underestimated) how the backs of my ancestors were covered in hair, and that their hair was said to stand on end at the sight of such females.

But Stary was the strongest, the alpha male; and she was afraid of him.

Stary owned millions, and sometimes killed people (although not by his own hand, of course). Stary had gotten the nickname back in kindergarden, because his last name was Starkovsky. He was five years older than me. He was only forty when he died.

And today was the day he died.

Our bus is driving from one train station to the next. By the end of the night it will have been to each one in the city. At each stop the men in masks drag in more half-dead bums, until the bus is totally full, until the smell becomes completely unbearable, until we come full circle and end up back at Kursk. This is a mission of mercy. This is the route of suffering.