The Secret History of Moscow (5 page)

"No, thanks,” Fyodor said. “I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Where are we going?"

She pointed ahead, at the squat gigantic building with arched windows, which he recognized as a train station.

"Paveletzky Terminal,” she told him. “We're staying there, for now at least. They have a very nice waiting hall, and the courtyard. We need the courtyard for the bear."

"The bear?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. I think we're the only tabor in this city that does bear shows. Only he's getting old."

"Oh."

The station bustled with travelers, and the din of voices and sharp sounds of children's crying assaulted Fyodor; he hugged his sketchbook to his chest.

"There are the Roma.” The girl pointed.

They were not like Fyodor remembered them. Instead of bright colors they were dressed in drab city clothing, dirty with neglect and age. Only their dark faces indicated that they were truly alien. “Their clothes…” Fyodor faltered. “What about you? You're dressed like a proper gypsy."

The girl laughed. “What, this? I'm coming from a party. This costume is something we wear when we have to perform."

"And you pickpocket in the regular clothes."

The girl gave him a long look. “Pretty much, yeah. Want to see the bear?"

He nodded and followed her through the hall of the train station to a small grass-covered yard in the back. Furtively, he made sure that his watch was still attached to the wristband, and that the band still circled his wrist.

The bear chained to a wooden stake thrust carelessly into the ground was old and arthritic, and his rheumy eyes watched Fyodor with indifference born of old age and a lifetime of oppression. The fur under his eyes was sticky with gunk, and his chin was bare, as if he rubbed it too much. There were also large bald spots on his sides, gray skin amid mangy brown fur, like patches of lichen on the stone. The bear smelled strongly too, of wet dog, iodine and bad teeth.

"Poor thing,” Fyodor said.

"Poor Misha,” the girl agreed. “He's so old, my mom says he won't live through the winter."

The bear sat on his haunches, his sides rising and falling, his pink tongue hanging out among the broken teeth; Fyodor doubted he would survive the summer. “You call him Misha?"

The girl laughed. “Yeah, I know. Original, right? By the way, I'm Oksana. You?"

"Fyodor.” He thought a bit. “Why did you drag me here?"

"You said you had nothing else to do.” She still smiled, but the look in her eyes was crestfallen.

Had he been older or not so preoccupied, he would've understood that she was showing

kindness to a stranger, looking for a friend or just offering a hand. If he had not been so scared of being stolen in all these years, he would've known better than to scoff, and say, “Look, I told you I don't have any money. None."

Oksana just stared at him. The bear moaned.

"I better go,” he said. He had sense enough not to add, I wouldn't have fucked you anyway, but he thought it, and suspected that Oksana could guess his thought.

* * * *

He never went back to Zvenigorod-another gypsy encounter, coupled with the presence of the amulet and the image of the old and ailing bear convinced him that going back would mean stagnation and death. As the formerly solid structures and ideologies crumbled and the social services collapsed one by one, he learned how to live the life of the street artist. He squatted when he couldn't find other options, preferring the attics of the apartment buildings downtown, not too far from Arbat where he sold the watercolors and bought art supplies and booze; Herzen Street was the reliable favorite. Sometimes he stayed with the hippies who liked Arbat and the artists, and a few of whom didn't mind his overnight presence on one couch or another. Winters were hard but he survived; if it got too cold in his attic, he dragged himself down the stairs, into the streets, into the flashing lights of ambulances who had the good grace of collecting indigents on especially cold nights and taking them to hospitals and shelters, wherever there were beds and food. Sisyphus’ labor if there ever was one, because the winters kept returning, the indigents grew in number, and the ambulances got their funding slashed time and time again.

He was not looking forward to the winters, and come September he started to drink and worry more and paint less-nowadays, he stuck with the views from the roofs and attics he frequented. Every time he saw gypsies, he searched for Oksana, but she was either not there or he failed to recognize her in her street clothes-he remembered her earrings better than her face. He painted her occasionally, hoping to summon her by sympathetic magic, which turned out to be as useless as the defaced coin hanging on the chain around his neck.

The tourists liked buying Oksana's portrait-they liked anything colorful and exotic, like magpies. They were also as loud as magpies, talking at Fyodor in slow, loudly enunciated syllables. He just smiled and gave no sign that he understood English; he didn't have to-exchange of art for foreign green money was a silent transaction. Moreover, if he played dumb, he got to hear them talking about him-terrible, did you see how drunk he was? This is the problem with this country, communism really fucked them all up. Now hopefully things would get better. They'd still drink though.

Like hell they will, Fyodor thought. Although still young, he had learned that things did not get better but worse, that entropy was winning, that despite the appearance of order the universe had one direction-toward heat death, the second law of thermodynamics said as much, and who was he to disagree with Herr von Helmholtz. Everything sought its lowest energy status, and Fyodor had found his.

* * * *

It was only a matter of time before he discovered he was not the only one finding stable equilibria in low places. Everywhere close to the ground time slowed down, and if he pressed his ear to the pavement, not caring if passersby took him for a drunk, he heard voices, quiet as the whispering of the growing grass, complaining and crying in an unceasing susurrus. The coin around his neck grew cold when it touched the ground, and afterwards the metal burned his skin with the collected cold it retained far longer than was prudent.

When his heart grew too heavy with the whispers, he went to the roof, to get away from them. But sooner or later they called, and he descended back into streets wet with the first September rains, and sold paintings, and listened to the ground talk to him.

It was a surprise when the birds appeared-he expected things to come from under the ground, to buckle the cobbles of New Arbat and reach up, up, consuming the world, pulling it down to the lowest energy state. But there they were, flapping; he followed them as they circled over the hungry, troubled city.

As his fascination grew, he ate less and drank more; he hardly ever slept. And when the woman asking about them showed up, he wasn't quite sure what he'd seen and what he'd dreamt or imagined. He desperately wanted to show it to someone, just to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He wanted a confirmation, a witness who would stand with him and watch the birds emerge from closed windows reflecting nothing but the night sky; he wanted someone else to see doors reflected in puddles open and admit small, weak creatures into the world.

When night fell, he danced with anticipation, the only seller remaining after the ghastly pink streetlights went on, he and his lone painting. The crowd of buyers and gawkers thinned as well and he slouched against the storefront, in the shadows.

"Where is he?” a man said nearby.

"Right here.” The woman he met the day before stepped into a warm puddle of light and out. “I hope you don't mind that I brought Yakov along."

"Mind? Why should I mind?” He gave a sideways look to a squat short man with a messenger bag over his shoulder. The bag squawked.

"It's my bird,” the man explained. “He fell out of the nest."

Fyodor took his time looking over a young crow. Something about the man made him uneasy-the way he moved, so crisp, almost robotic, as if he worked on keeping in shape. Short hair. Fyodor cringed and hoped he wasn't one of those iron pumpers who, a few years back, used to beat hippies and forcibly cut their hair, but had now graduated to racketeering.

"You wanted to show me something?” Galina said.

"Yeah.” He motioned. “Come on. It's not far away."

He found his way by memory rather than street names; he couldn't remember the street names if he tried, but he remembered turns, uneven sidewalks, the calm faces of the old buildings. He meandered, but finally found the place he was looking for-an arch spanning between two buildings, leading into a courtyard dominated by a large puddle.

"There,” he said, and pointed at the black surface of the puddle marred by a few oil slicks leaking from a beat-up car parked nearby.

The puddle reflected the faint halos of streetlights, diffuse in the misty air, and the front of the nearest building. A small lamp mounted above the door illuminated its surface, and in the reflection the door glowed with a milky light.

"Watch,” Fyodor said. They did, until their eyes weren't sure if they were looking at the reflection or at the real door-the still surface of the puddle completed the illusion of absolute darkness surrounding an upside-down door, hung in empty space for no particular purpose. Then the door started to open, slowly.

"Don't look up,” Fyodor said. “Don't look at the real thing. Watch the reflection-this is what's important."

The door swung open and blackened with a multitude of starlings-they came screeching from the door in the puddle into the night air above their heads, with no transition and no trace of water on the glistening feathers.

The crow in Yakov's bag cawed in recognition and flapped its wings. The thing couldn't fly, but that didn't stop it from trying. Before Yakov could stuff him back, the crow strained and flapped, and fell. It made no ripples on the surface as it fell through the door in the puddle and disappeared from view.

4: Entrance

Galina looked at Yakov who stared, slack-jawed, at the puddle that had just swallowed his crow. She made a shallow gesture of poking in the puddle, but felt only water and muck on her fingers, and no crow. The reflection of the door bobbed on the waves she raised, and broke into slivers sharply outlined in the moon-white, rippling across the surface.

"Maybe you should go after your bird,” Fyodor told Yakov. His dark eyes reflected the burning ember of his cigarette, and as he dragged on it the flashes of orange light lit his hollow face.

"Go where?” Yakov said.

Fyodor motioned at the puddle, it surface calm again. The door in the puddle was closed.

Galina looked from one man to the other. They were all at an impasse-it seemed equally absurd to deny the crow's disappearance or the reflected door's ability to admit things somewhere else. Galina was used to strange happenings, but having someone to share them with her was a new experience. She felt exposed, defenseless without the comforting blanket of madness that would hide her from things she didn't want to see, explain them away-much as people with cats had no reason to fear the night sounds haunting their houses. It's just the cat, they would tell themselves even when the feline was sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed. There's nothing to worry about.

There was something to worry about, Galina thought. She waited for Yakov to say something-of the three of them he seemed the most balanced, the most normal. Perhaps this is why he still remained transfixed, his eyes panicked. “You said he would know something about the disappearances."

"You don't think this puddle has anything to do with people turning into birds?” Galina said.

"People don't turn into birds,” Yakov answered. “It was just an illusion, a trick of light-it was so windy out."

"You saw it,” Galina said. “You saw it too."

Yakov didn't answer, and Galina stared at the upside down door in the puddle. Still closed, she realized with a pang. The same twinge of disappointment she felt when she would spend hours sitting in a subway station, watching the dark hole of the tunnel, waiting for something to happen. She didn't know what it was about the subways-perhaps the fact that they were carved into a dark wet heart of the earth-that made them so magical. But she used to have an unshakeable conviction that they were the way to a hidden world where she could escape.

Maybe she didn't try hard enough, waited long enough-she left the station when the subway closed, instead of hiding and waiting overnight. She headed straight home instead of wandering through the night city until the sky pinked and the long stationary clouds grew translucent. She didn't want it bad enough.

The desire was bled out of her over time, from one hospital to the next, from one diagnosis to another, until she was convinced of her own insanity for even thinking that escape was possible. And now, when the insanity became comforting and dulling, it was yanked away from her, and the old dreams of escape stirred, terrifying and inviting.

"We better go,” Yakov said to her.

She smiled. “This is how you investigate things? ‘Come on, let's go'? No wonder so many murders are never solved."

Yakov shrugged, and looked away.

The barb hurt, and she immediately felt sorry for him. “I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, my sister is gone, and I just think that perhaps we should look into this."

"Look into what?” He barked a nervous laugh. “People turning into birds? Doors leading into puddles? Crazies?” He indicated Fyodor with a toss of his head. “How do you propose we investigate something like that?"

"We could try and go through that door,” she said.

Yakov shook his head. “It's just a reflection."

"Your pet would beg to differ. Are you just going to abandon your bird?"

"He's a wild bird,” Yakov said. “In any case, suppose you're right. What the fuck could be behind that door?"

Galina thought for a bit. Her childhood imaginings of unicorns and fairies seemed far-fetched-why would there be unicorns and fairies under this dark city that towered over them, surrounded them from all sides with its suffocating stone and metal? What good could hide under it? “I don't know,” she said. “But I'm sure it'll shed some light on what happened to Masha."

Yakov threw his hands into the air and paced around the puddle. “How do you even know that this has anything to do with your sister? Because this lunatic told you so?"

"I'm not a lunatic,” Fyodor interjected.

Galina ignored him. “There are two very strange things happening at the same time and you don't think they have anything to do with one another?"