Moscow Noir полностью

“The money’s over there,” I said, nodding. “In the top drawer of the desk. Exactly ten thousand.”

“I’m not joking. Have your parents sell their apartment. You should understand that my life is being ruined because of this. I have no other choice. Mark my words, you’ll be doing time.”

A nose injury, blown out of proportion into a worldwide conspiracy that cannot be proved or disproved—as long as you believe in it, it’s true. But why was he indulging in this eccentricity, and what did he really need the money for? Was it a bribe? For whom? My god, could he really be so desperate as to believe that this fantastic sum could help him rise from the ashes? For us ordinary people (dorm dwellers), it would have been no more consequential than a mosquito bite, but for him it was a mortal wound. For the rest of us, unemployment, lack of money, obscurity, was the air we breathed. For him, it was a sign that his life was over, once and for all.

“You listen to me!” I shouted. “One more word out of you and I’ll fix your nose for you myself, right here! Have your parents sell their apartment and shell out the cash to you! Or are you an orphan now?”

“My parents are unable to give me any money,” he answered hollowly, as though his parents had died yesterday.

“And why is that?” I asked in surprise. “You are family, after all. And you’ve had it easy for three years, living off the money they send you. So what gives?”

“My parents are busy with their own lives now. They got divorced, and I got left out of the picture, so I can’t ask them for help anymore.”

“But you think you can ask me for help?” I exploded. “Ten thousand bucks doesn’t just materialize out of thin air, you know! What do you want it for anyway? To go to America? Or invest in Gazprom stocks and become a millionaire in six months?”

“I’m warning you, either you come up with ten grand or I’m taking this case to court.”

“You can take it to the war crimes tribunal for all I care!” I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. What was I going to do with him? And how much longer could I keep this up, treating him like a normal human being? Get a grip! If we could sit down and have some vodka together, I might quote the words of a poor, homeless Russian poet who died in exile. He said, It is cold to walk the earth; still colder is the grave. Remember that, remember, and do not curse your fate. He wouldn’t get it though. It would be like trying to explain that bread is bread. Somewhere deep inside, I knew: he was losing it. Something had to be done, an alert had to be sounded. The problem was that while his old swagger had not made him many enemies, it did little to win anyone over to his side either, so his fall was met with a general apathy. I was the only one he could count on. So I decided to go back in there and talk to him. I decided to say, Come on, don’t do this to yourself. You are healthy and strong as an ox! You’re young and bright, well-educated and good-looking. You could be out there having fun and living life to the fullest, and you choose this instead?

I went back inside, only to find him standing over my computer. I yelped like a wounded animal and rushed forward—but it was too late. With one press of a key, he had consigned my best piece to oblivion. Half a year of tense and difficult sleepless nights … I’ll kill him! I grabbed a ceramic vase from the table and threw it at him, aiming for his head. I missed, and it crashed through the double-paned glass window. Then I went straight to the dorm supervisor.

“But you boys come from the same parts, don’t you?” the supervisor asked me. “Why are you squabbling with each other? I don’t have room vacancies at the moment. If you really want to move, I suggest you ask around. Maybe someone will agree to swap roommates with you.”

Nobody wanted to swap with me; no one was willing to share a room with Tatchuk.

Each morning the sheets on my bed were twisted into a hieroglyph suggesting torturous insomnia. The reason: that maniac had acquired the revolting habit of getting up in the middle of the night and shuffling around the room like a somnambulist. My nerves were wound tight as strings, and it was like Tatchuk was pulling a bow across them. I always had the feeling that he was getting up stealthily, tiptoeing toward me. Perhaps with a pillow or razor in hand. I stayed on my guard, waiting for him to strike from behind. I think we both needed help. I found myself having to copy all the files in my computer onto discs that I secured in the desk drawer under lock and key. Things can’t go on like this for long, I told myself. But it didn’t get better. It just went on and on, in the same way.