Moscow Noir полностью

“No, amico mio, it’s a Mediterranean pine tree. A sky of purest blue! The sea! The sun! O sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/O sole, o sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/sta ’nfro-o-o-onte a te-e-e-e!” Tregubov sings, breaking into a falsetto.

“A goddamn Caruso!” Mesropov says with respect.

Boltyansky enters the yard wearing a black suit and a skinny black tie. His black hair is combed back and slicked so it shines. Seeing Mesropov, he nearly stumbles and his cheeks break out in red spots.

“Hey, pino,” someone shouts, “want to go for a walk?”

Friendly laughter.

Ryabets doesn’t stick around for the party. He takes his diploma and leaves. As he’s walking down the stairs from the auditorium, Boltyansky catches up to him.

“You’re taking off?”

“What do you care?”

“You’re not staying for the dance?”

“I don’t give a damn about that.”

“When are you going to return the book? My parents have been asking. Did you read it?”

“Not all of it. Exams. I’ll finish tomorrow. I’m fast.”

Buratina passes them on the stairs. Powdered cheeks, high heels, short little skirt, lacy stockings, and looking slightly sloshed—she’s giggling oddly. Boltyansky licks his lips. Three more steps up and she stops.

“Ryaba, want a drink? The kids are in the gym. They still have some left.”

“No, I’m going home. I have a headache.”

Ryabets can’t tear his eyes away from Buratina’s legs. She smiles.

“Home, home, home,” she teases. “To his mama … Why don’t you come to Silver Pine Forest tomorrow? Third beach. Know it? We’ll go swimming at 5 or 6, when we wake up. My girlfriend Lida has a dacha there, her parents are taking off, so …”

“Fine,” Ryabets rasps, and heads downstairs.

“What’s with you?” he hears the teasing directed at Boltyansky. “Want to go for a walk? Hee hee hee!”

Boltyansky calls at 4 or so.

“Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Did you forget?”

“Too far.”

“That’s okay, you can stay over. Nadya’s friend has a dacha there.”

“I don’t know, maybe I will.”

“And grab The Decameron. My parents are pestering me.”

“All right.” Ryabets hangs up.

Followed by a surprise: Buratina. She’s calling! In the whole ten years they’ve been in the same class, this is the first time.

“Ryaba, hi.” A depressed voice, as if she’s holding back tears. “Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Take me.”

Ryaba’s heart is pounding. Joy! But fear too. Picturing Nadya in a swimsuit, he can’t imagine what he’ll do with himself. His swimsuit’s going to bristle!

“All right.”

“Should I come by then? In an hour?”

Ryabets hangs up and runs to the bathroom. He decides that if he does it a few times he might get by … He twirls in front of the mirror—uses his mama’s powder on his zits, combs his hair back, then parts it; changes his shirt, rolls up his sleeves, rolls them down. What else? What if she walks in, he kisses her, she responds, and—

A ring. Not the door, the phone. It’s her.

“Listen, Ryaba, I’ll wait for you at the bus stop. If I come over, you’ll rape me. You gave me such a look yesterday! Hee hee hee!”

Oof!

Ryabets grabs his bag and towel, throws The Decameron in—he suddenly remembered—and runs outside.

Nadya’s wearing a yellow shirt with the top buttons undone, and there are her breasts. And a miniskirt too. Her face is creased; she drank and partied all night long. She’s got a mark on the back of her neck. A hickey? Her eyes, half-Kalmyk to start with, are swollen; the abundant mascara highlights this. Her perfume—from a long way off. Ryabets stares and joy bubbles up inside him alternately with horror.

It’s a long trip: trolley, subway, transfer, subway, trolley. Ryabets notices glances at his companion—men’s leers, women’s frowns.

Ryabets can’t for the life of him figure out why she isn’t with Mesropov. It’s a puzzle. Going with Mesropov makes sense. Mesropov would take her in a taxi. All the way to the beach. His parents are really rich.

The trolley crosses the bridge toward pines, pines, and more pines. Pinos.

“Lidukha lives way over there,” Nadya points out the window. Tall green and blue dachas with turrets amid century pines. “We’ll go to her place after the beach, tonight. Her parents are off traveling somewhere. Will you go?”

“Maybe,” Ryabets mumbles.

They get out. Ryabets is holding his bag in front for obvious reasons.

They’re walking down the road next to a very high fence.

“Who lives here? Artists?” he asks.

“Big shots, diplomats, and artists too. Did you see the Japanese flag behind the fence at the stop?”

“Lucky dogs … In Moscow, but like being in a forest.”

Nadya shrugs.

They leave the road and walk among the pines across the sand. Nadya takes off her platform shoes. Ryabets lags behind a little. Make up your mind! is knocking in his brain. She went into the forest on purpose, on purpose!

He puts his hand on Nadya’s shoulder. The girl stops.

“What are you doing?” She removes his hand.