Moscow Noir полностью

True noir is not only contained within Moscow’s central districts, replete with the atmosphere of multiple destructions and even more ghosts (Pure Ponds and Zamoskvorechye, the settings for the stories by Vladimir Tuchkov and Gleb Shulpyakov), but also the residential neighborhoods where, despite the dream of broad streets, bright-colored buildings, and ample green space, poverty still reigns and the typical apartments with their cheerless electric light and thin walls never let their inhabitants forget for a minute that there is no exit. This is Perovo in Maxim Maximov’s story, and Andrei Khusnutdinov’s Babushinskaya, where Paul Khlebnikov, editor in chief of the Russian Forbes, met his death. In the forested areas at the city’s edge maniacs are at work, but in the largest of them, Elk Island National Park, there is a piece of land one kilometer square that, due to a strange combination of circumstances, is not protected by a single police unit. This is where thugs go to settle scores, this is where they bring their dead bodies, and this is where the dramatic events in Alexander Anuchkin’s story “Field of a Thousand Corpses” unfold. Naturally, noir is train stations too, where people congregate after they have lost hope, where it’s easy to be completely anonymous and get lost in the crowd; train stations play leading roles in the stories by Anna Starobinets and Alexei Evdokimov. Actually, almost any place in Moscow longs to be the setting for a story of crime and violence.

This anthology is an attempt to turn the tourist Moscow of gingerbread and woodcuts, of glitz and big money, inside out; an attempt to reveal its fetid womb and make sense of the desolation that still reigns.

Natalia Smirnova & Julia Goumen

St. Petersburg, Russia

March 2010

PART I

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

THE MERCY BUS

BY ANNA STAROBINETS

Kursk Station

Translated by Mary C. Gannon

I’m waiting for mercy. It should be here any minute now. There it is, turning the corner. Soon it will stop and open up its doors to me and others like me. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be warm.

Right now it’s cold, though. It’s real cold. Especially for me. At least they get to lie on the sewage grates, or sit nearby on the bare asphalt, their backs up against the gray panels of the train station. They get the choice spots. Hot steam rises up from under the ground, saturating their stinking rags and bodies, their hair and their skin. The steam is so hot that it even melts the icicles hanging down from the roof of the building. Droplets run down the icicles like pus. It’s warm there, beneath the overhang.

On the other hand, I don’t envy them. When they get up they’re going to feel ten times worse, with their clothes soaking wet and all—it’s minus thirty degrees. True, they’ll be getting right onto the bus, but who wants to be soaking wet in a bus?

A shapless old hag in sagging purple tights is asleep, breathing gently. The rest are awake. They watch with no expression as the bus approaches. The cripple shuffled off, the hem of his soft leather overcoat trailing behind him on the frozen ground, his shiny black dress shoes worth a thousand dollars each. Unbelievable, he hadn’t even wanted them! Foxy Lee had it all figured out. “At the station you can just trade with one of them,” she’d said, but she hadn’t considered that these retards might turn down such a good deal, clutching their rags with iron grips.

I had to force the trade on him. I can be pretty convincing sometimes, particularly when I’m right.

By the way, never pick a fight with a bum at Kursk station. It’s like trying to battle with a giant rotten apple, or a bag of garbage.

True, they were too small for him, the shoes. But that’s no big deal, he can break them in. Or sell them. The rest of the duds were too big for him. But that’s how they wear them around here.

None of his friends went after him. No one tried to stop me while I was slugging him either. The expressions on their swollen steamy faces were hard for me to make out, even under the streetlight, but I think they were looking kind of hostile.

So just in case, I keep to the edge of the group. I’m safer here, near the entrance gates and the cops. Because, first of all, they’re afraid of the cops. Second, they’re too lazy—no, lazy’s not the right word, they’re too comatose to cover the fifty-meter distance to where I’m standing.