Troika (3 page)

J
ulian Pravdin’s room in the Siberian orphanage was small, and there he lived with two other boys, one named Petrov and the other Volokh. The three boys shared one mattress; nothing but a misshapen rectangular sack, it was filled with bedbugs and had weird bulges sticking out in the strangest places.

A small window faced south over the bay. There was a substantial hole in the glass that the boys stuffed with rags to repel the incomprehensible Siberian winter; when the weather turned warm, they removed the rags, welcoming the moist, cleansing salt air into their dreary chamber. There was the hot plate that the boys sometimes used to cook food. But because they rarely had food and electricity at the same time, it remained mostly unused on the top shelf, the cord dangling, swinging like a noose, taunting them, reminding them how little they really had. And then there was the toilet in the side yard, a small wooden hut with two holes cut in a
rough plank and a shallow pit below, a frozen stew of feces and urine, a soiled rag hanging from a nail.

Julian was lithe, thin and twitchy like a borzoi, with bad vision and shiny black hair. His father, Ivan, was a legendary hunter who knew every foot of the Stanovoy Range, from Lake Baikal all the way to the Sea of Japan. In what one witness described as an epic and harrowing battle, Julian’s father was killed by a tiger in Khabarovsk Krai. The local paper wrote that the wild cat was a mythical beast twenty feet from snout to tail and five feet high at the shoulders, and the villagers said that when the tiger was finished, there was nothing left of Ivan but a hand and a boot. Even the man’s gun, the legend goes, had been devoured. After Ivan’s death, Julian’s mother suffered a clean and rapid break from her principled past. A local doctor called it a severe psychiatric episode; a shaman from her home village, an ancient man with a feathered hat and a painted face, called it the work of a malevolent spirit. Either way, the pain of her loss, of
Julian
’
s
loss, forced her first into alcohol, then heroin and then, by financial and chemical necessity, into prostitution.

In a gray metal box with his other precious things, Julian kept a photo of his parents; there, in a thick forest, his father, strong and rugged, stood with his arm around the shoulders of a slender girl, pink cheeks and white skin, her eyes offering a hint of Asian narrowness that revealed her connection to the village near the Mongolian border. Her shy smile suggested unexpected happiness, as if she had stumbled upon some treasure that she knew must one day be returned to its rightful owner.

Like most of the orphans, Julian didn’t receive visitors. But there was one time, it was the only time, when his mother came to visit. The head of the orphanage, Krepuchkin, knocked on the boys’ door one morning before chores. The three of them stood at attention, lined up like soldiers. Krepuchkin was a repellent old man with
hunched shoulders and a flaccid paunch that hung low over his belt. As though he could not distinguish one from the next, Krepuchkin scanned the boys’ faces. He settled on Julian and pointed at the boy. Put on a clean shirt, he barked, your whore mother is going to be here in an hour. And with that, he slammed the door.

Petrov and Volokh turned to their friend. Julian’s lower lip trembled. He darted to the cabinet and removed the only nice shirt he had, the one he kept clean and folded for the governor’s annual visit or—his deepest hope—a visit from his mother. Julian unfolded the shirt and held it up to his shoulders. Satisfied that it still fit, he then dipped a comb in a cup of water and straightened out his unruly hair.

The three boys stood by the window quietly, looking down to the trash-covered courtyard below. In his damp hands, Julian held the photograph of his parents. Every few minutes he stared at it, as if to remind himself what his mother looked like. He held the photo up to Petrov and Volokh and pointed to his mother’s image. They nodded, comforted him that they too were keeping a vigilant watch for her, that she would not slip by undetected.

At noon, the grub bell rang and howls filled the hallway, the howls of animals—the other orphans running to the dining hall for lunch, fighting for the front of the line so they would not have to settle for scraps. The three boys did not move, for they would not eat lunch on this day. Just then, a truck with a broken windshield lurched up the cratered road and stopped in front of the orphanage. The boys leaned forward, pressing their noses against the cold glass. Out of the driver’s seat stepped a man, hunched and elderly, who hobbled to the back of the truck and removed a stack of wood. Disappointed, Julian dropped his head. To get a better view of the road, Volokh used his sleeve to clear a circle on the glass that was fogged from their breath. “Over there,” Petrov yelled, pointing to a figure approaching on foot from the east.

Walking along the side of the road was what appeared to be an old woman. Despite the cold, she wore high heels and her ankles buckled in the pitted road. Over her head was a scarf—not the thick wool babushka favored by the women of this region, but a bright silk scarf, yellow and blue. As she approached to within fifty feet of the courtyard, the boys could see that she was not an old woman at all, but a young woman who walked with the tentative deliberation of the aged. Julian gasped. He tapped the window. “That’s her,” Julian whispered. “That’s her.” He handed the photo to Volokh and ran out of the room, down the stairs.

Volokh carefully returned the photograph to Julian’s box, and he again assumed his position at the window—Petrov by his side. Below them, Julian burst through the front doors of the orphanage. He stood in the courtyard, wind whipping papers and aluminum cans across the surface. He bit the fingernails of his left hand and shielded his face from the wind with his right. The woman stood at the front gate and peered through the rusted metal. Before her stood her son. She choked on the phlegm in the back of her throat. Her lips moved. She removed a kerchief from her pocket and wiped the lipstick off her mouth. Julian smiled wearily. He waved.

Maria Pravdina stepped through the front gate. As if to normalize the syncopation of her heart, she placed her right hand over her chest and pushed down hard. Julian and his mother now stood twenty feet apart but remained still, unsure of their next steps, unaccustomed to each other. Maria began to cry, a soft whimper. Slowly, she fell to her knees and bowed her head. Julian ran to his mother, threw his arms around her neck, held tight. He, too, cried—the tortured howl of a child abandoned, reunited.

Maria wrapped her arms around the thin waist of her only child. “Sorry, Julian, sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Julian struggled to breathe. “It’s okay, Mom. I understand.”

“I wanted to come, my love. It’s just that they wouldn’t let me, that I lost the legal right once I signed the papers.” Julian nodded. “And then I had some trouble with the law, and Krepuchkin said I was unfit.”

Julian held tight and whispered into his mother’s ear, “You’re not unfit, Mom.”

Maria smiled, kissed her son on the forehead. “Thanks, love.”

“But at least they let you visit today, which is a great thing. How did it happen, Mom, that they let you come see me?”

Maria turned away from Julian. She watched as the old man returned to his rusted truck and drove away. “I worked out something with Krepuchkin. I figured out a way.”

Julian reached for his mother’s hand. “Come see my room, Mom. Meet my friends, the ones I wrote you about. I told them all about you. And Dad, too.”

Maria and the three boys spent the day in the small bedroom. They plugged in the hot plate and popped a fistful of corn that Julian’s mother brought with her; they sipped with delight from the two cans of cola that she carried in her purse. For each boy, she’d brought a small toy. Julian got a model World War II tank. Petrov, a plastic dinosaur. And Volokh received an action figure—a Viking with a horned hat and a tiny plastic sword. Maria asked the boys about their lives: when they arose, what they ate, what they did for exercise, their favorite subjects. She asked if they had girlfriends, a question that made the boys giggle with shame. She told them to stay strong, be honest, pray to God. She said that if they did these things, they would be happy and free.

At five-thirty, the dinner bell rang, and the howls of the other children again echoed through the halls. Julian shuddered. A look of deep, unreachable pain crossed his face. He reached for his mother’s hand. “It’s time, my love, it’s time,” she said.

Julian shook his head. “Please, no,” he begged. Petrov and Volokh stood back, uncomfortable.

Maria shook her head and approached Petrov. As she leaned down and kissed his cheek, the boy inhaled her sweet perfume. She ran her fingers through his hair. She then approached Volokh and gave the boy a kiss on the top of his head.

Maria turned and looked at her child. Trembling, Julian approached his mother. “Stay,” he pleaded. “Or take me with you. I’ve got a bag all ready to go.” Julian pointed to a canvas satchel on the floor. “We can sneak out. Krepuchkin can’t catch us. We can outrun him. And you can take me home, Mom, take me to your home.”

Julian’s mother pursed her lips. “No, love, no. It can’t be, at least right now. I’m sorry. I am not fit.” She held her son’s cheeks in her palms. She kissed him on the lips. She withdrew—and before Julian could reach for her, before he could anchor himself to his past, his future, she was gone.

The boys stared at the closed door. Then they darted to the window and looked out to the courtyard. A sickly fluorescent light flooded the rotted concrete. Below them, Julian’s mother stepped out of the front door and looked about as if she were searching for something, someone. Just then, Krepuchkin emerged from behind the gate. He approached Julian’s mother. She bowed her head and glowered at him, empty, detached. Krepuchkin extended his hand. At first, Maria did not move. She stared at the wrinkled hand. Krepuchkin barked something, and through the window Julian felt the force of the old man’s rage, his sense of entitlement. Julian’s mother reached out and held his hand, leading him to the far end of the courtyard, behind a twisted, dead oak.

Krepuchkin opened his long coat. He unbuckled his belt. His pants fell down around his ankles. With his right hand, he tapped Maria’s shoulder, pushed her down to her knees. Julian’s mother
complied, and as she did so, she glanced up in Julian’s direction—praying that her son would not witness her degradation.

“What . . . what . . .” Julian mumbled, gripping Petrov’s arm. “What . . .” Volokh and Petrov turned away from the revolting scene below. “What!” Julian screamed. He turned to his friends. “What is happening? What is he doing? What is
she
doing?” He looked down to the courtyard and saw the movement of his mother’s head, Krepuchkin grasping her shoulder tightly. Julian scanned the room. The hot plate—still warm from popping corn—sat on the shelf. He pushed his friends aside, grabbed the hot plate and reached for the door. But before he turned the knob, he stopped, lifted the satchel from the floor and threw it over his shoulder. “Leave me be,” he directed as he fled the room.

Volokh and Petrov returned to the window. They watched anxiously as Julian emerged. They watched him cross the courtyard, the hot plate under his right arm. He approached the lifeless oak—slow, steady, powerful like a wild cat. He peered around its gnarled trunk. He approached Krepuchkin from the side and raised the hot plate. He eyed Krepuchkin’s temple. And the moment before he split the old man’s skull, Julian’s mother looked up to her son—a tear in her eye. But there, amid the horror, a sly smile crossed her face, a recognition that her dead husband’s predatory stealth, his primal rage, his willingness to kill, all lived on in their little boy.

Krepuchkin lay on the ground, motionless, dead. Gray matter, bloody pulp spackled the ground. Julian’s mother stood. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She rubbed her sore knees, and she again placed her palms on her son’s cheeks. She nodded and smiled. Julian smiled in return, filled with the pride of a child having pleased his parent. He looked up to the window and waved good-bye to his friends. And then he bowed at the waist, dramatic and proud, like Yevgeny Svetlanov after the final note of
Die Walküre
.

Julian and his mother skipped through the front gate. They looked right, then left. They hesitated for a moment, wondered which way to go, then turned east toward the coastal road, toward the bay, the young boy—
the hunter
’
s son
—guiding his mother with acute instinct through the magical Siberian night.

I
t gets to be a regular thing with Julian. He comes down every month or two, doesn’t give me notice, just shows up at the club five minutes before nine. He sits down near the stage, gives me that nice smile of his. Sometimes he comes in a little early and there’s time to go over and give him a dance, pretend he’s just another customer, which is something that gives me a little thrill. Pretending I don’t know him.

One night, he shows up when I’m dancing for another guy, a cute guy who comes by now and then. And I don’t get close to getting off with this guy like I did with Julian in the Champagne Room that night, but this one sort of turns me on, nice-smelling, makes me laugh and always gives me a big tip. This one doesn’t even pretend he’s not married, wears a thick gold wedding band and there’s nothing wrong with that. Fact the opposite, I say. He’s right out there with it, tells me that his wife knows he comes to the club and she
doesn’t mind, as long as he comes home to her at the end of the night. He says it even turns her on, so much that one night I had this glitter body spray all over my tits and he said rub those babies on my face, get that glitter all over ’cause it’s gonna drive my wife wild. So that’s what I did, glitter all over his lips and cheeks, and you should have seen him when the strobes went off and his face lit up like a disco ball!

So Julian comes in and sees me dancing with the glitter guy and damned if I don’t see a look on Julian’s face like he just caught his wife screwing around. Now, I’m not his woman and he’s not my man and there’s no way I can tell after all these months if he’s single or married. There’s no way he’s got any say in how I spend my time, make my money.

After I finish up with glitter guy, I put my clothes back on and walk over to Julian. He’s got a bottle of water and he’s squeezing it so hard that it’s crushed and almost falling over, it’s so crooked. I say good to see you, baby, but he won’t even look up, just bites at a cuticle like he’s real stressed. So I put my hand on his thigh and try to give him a peck on the check, my playful little kiss, but he pulls away. And I’m thinking, well,
here’s
a side of this man I haven’t seen before.

What’s wrong, baby? Nothing from him but silence. So I ask again, what’s wrong, baby? Still nothing. And now I’m getting a little pissed ’cause what the hell have I done wrong? I’m the one who has no idea when he comes, when he goes, just follow him back to the hotel after my shift and order burgers and watch TV and fuck him, which is real nice, and then I leave first thing in the morning. There’s no way to call him, don’t even have his number, don’t know his last name and I never did open the wallet, never asked for a single penny. I even offered to buy the burgers once, which I thought was real nice, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

He finishes the water, which isn’t easy ’cause there’s lots caught in the bottom of the bottle, which is all crushed, so he has to keep turning it back and forth, spinning it around to get all the water out. Nothing’s wrong, and he holds my hand, says let’s head back to the hotel. Now, truth is I got a date, not a guy I met at the club, but a civilian. But I’d rather be with Julian, which tells you a lot about me and my shitty decisions, so I text the guy and tell him I got cramps and can’t make it. After I press the send button, I say to myself
cramps
? What are you doing telling a man you got cramps? It’s no wonder I don’t have a guy, I guess. But sometimes I do stuff without thinking things through, which a guy I used to love, the only one really—that’s what he told me is my best trait. Right after my ass.

Now, we’re back at the hotel and Julian’s on the bed. He’s in a better mood for some reason, maybe ’cause he’s got me to himself, and he’s flipping through the menu like he’s never seen it before, like he doesn’t order the same damn thing every time. Let me guess, I ask, you having the burger and a club soda? And he looks at me and smiles and says matter of fact, I’m having the sesame crusted tuna with bok choy. I smile and say what the hell is bok choy? He pulls me close and says leafy greens, I think it’s some sort of Asian leafy green, you getting the burger? And I grab the menu, take a look and say if you’re gonna be radical tonight, then so am I. So get me the Cajun salmon with wild rice. And a ginger ale, with a sweet cherry this time.

After he calls room service, I rest my head on his chest and he puts his arm around my shoulder, strokes my face with his left hand. And I’m real happy, peaceful, ’cause I’m in a nice room with a guy who isn’t mean to me and I’m about to have Cajun salmon, and I never did have that before. And I look up at his hand as it passes my face, and from underneath I see his ring finger and right there on the bottom, on that little pad of flesh on the bottom, I see what looks
like a shadow, a line, an indentation. And I gasp, not loud enough that he gets scared, but loud enough that he squeezes me tight, like he senses I’m off.

I don’t know why I gasp ’cause look where I met him. Most guys in the club they’re either married or no way anyone’s ever gonna marry them. And more than that, Julian never promised me anything and I never promised him anything, so why I get a reaction I don’t know. I’m a realistic girl, that’s what my dad always told me. Girl, you see things clear, real clear, he used to tell me.

But still, I feel a little something when I see that line on his finger or what looks like a line on his finger. His hand’s a few inches from my eyes and I squint ’cause of what I think I see. And, yup, it’s still there, a straight thin line, sort of gray, sort of red. So I reach out for his hand, turn it just a little so it hits the light, and when it hits the light, the line goes away, just goes from barely nothing to nothing at all. And I wonder if I’m seeing things, if my mind’s playing tricks on me. And I wonder if I should keep my mouth shut, not pry. Just like the wallet, leave it alone. But then this urge comes up, like a kid grabbing for a piece of candy or something shiny, and I can’t control myself, and I say Julian, are you, tell me straight up, ’cause I’m cool with it either way, are you . . .

And he looks at me real nervous, a little cross-eyed, and it occurs to me that there’s something so pure about him, so much pain maybe, that I don’t have the courage to ask the question. I bring his hand back down to my shoulder, close my eyes real tight, and ask him, baby, are you gonna get dessert, ’cause if so, if you’re gonna get something sweet, then I want the chocolate pie. Whipped cream on top.