Butterfly Skin (43 page)

Why was it Olya he chose, thinks Ksenia, why not me? I know he smashed her ribs, took out her heart, as if he was remembering once again what I said –
break open my ribcage and take my heart
, like leaving his signature. And that means he did it for me. It means it’s my fault, it means I killed Olya. It means I was killing her when I made the site, when I answered that very first hi, I was killing her every time I wrote to him, every time I masturbated, every time I came, every time I hurt myself, I was killing her when I read his letter. I killed Olya. It’s my fault.

She lies there in the darkness, Marina’s gone, Ksenia lies there without closing her dry eyes, not a single tear, lies there in the darkness, repeats to herself:
it’s my fault, I killed Olya
, picturing over and over again the smashed ribcage, the dead heart encrusted with blood, like a signature at the bottom of a letter – a letter she had been forced to read, a letter you couldn’t just dump in the waste paper basket, kill on the server, block out with a filter. If I hadn’t shifted him to “ignore,” Olya would still be alive, thinks Ksenia, that means it’s my fault, I killed Olya. That night I came out of the bathroom, walked over to the laptop, said: “sorry, Olya” – and killed her.

Blank eyes, a silent apartment, a dark room, nothing, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I can change. It’s my fault, I killed Olya. What’s left apart from that thought? Nothing.

Round and round the same circle, without stopping:
Olya, ribcage, heart, letter, signature, my fault, I killed Olya.

Ksenia sits up in bed, hugging herself. In the ghostly light of the streetlamp pouring in through the window the room looks gray, the space is curling up at the corners, like torn wallpaper on a damp wall, it’s hard to concentrate.

He sent me a letter, thinks Ksenia, what answer should I give him? Nothing.

If I could delete him from life, she thinks, delete him like a file in a computer memory, go back into the past, kill him at birth, kill him before he starts killing… but what can I do now?
Olya, ribcage, heart, letter signature, my fault, I killed Olya.

Letter, signature. Olya sat right here on the divan, and she, Ksenia, ran around with the phone, calling the police, pretending to be a responsible grown-up woman, but Olya just sat there, she already knew the answer to
what can I do?
There’s nothing I can do. Nothing I could have done. I can’t lie down and go to sleep, I can’t stop thinking.
Olya, ribcage, heart, letter, signature, my fault, I killed Olya.

Think about something else, Ksenia tells herself, think about Mom, think about Marina, think about Pasha, about work, if nothing else helps. Think about how tomorrow you’ll arrive in the office and start editing the latest news. Think about the news. About Mikhail Khodorkovsky, about the Chechen war, which doesn’t exist, about YUKOS, which soon won’t exist, about the doubling of GDP, about international politics, leisure and sport. Don’t think that sooner or later the crime news will remind you once again:
it’s your fault, you killed her.
Now every woman he kills will be a letter to you. And he’ll keep writing until you answer.

What can I answer him with? A silent apartment, a dark room, blank eyes.

He’ll kill again, Ksenia tells herself, and somehow this thought seems to offer hope, it seems like a way out of the circle. She doesn’t understand why it’s so important, just repeats to herself:
he’ll kill again.
Think, Ksenia, think, ask yourself the question you’re so afraid of, the question to which you already know the answer.

Who will he kill?

You know the answer, she tells herself. He writes to me, he’s going to kill for me. He killed Olya. Now he’ll kill Marina.

Ksenia goes across to the computer, prods a key with one finger, looks at the clock in the corner. Two o’clock. Even so, she knows what she has to do.

The long beeps of the ring tone, five, six, seven. No one answers. Surely she can’t be too late? Surely Marina can’t be…? Surely the cybernetic gods of the old altar would have warned her, the Great Bear-Mother would have shielded her in her white fur, the cryptic Chinese symbols would have protected her?

“Hello,” Marina replies in a sleepy voice, speaking over a child’s crying, “who is it?”

“It’s me,” says Ksenia, “are you all right?”

“Apart from the fact that you woke Gleb up, yes, I am,” Marina answers. “What’s wrong?”

“Lock your door properly,” says Ksenia. “And in general – take care. You’re the only friend I have now.”

“So?” – Marina still doesn’t understand.

Of course she doesn’t. She hasn’t been lying in the darkness, repeating hour after hour:
Olya, ribcage, heart, letter, my fault, I killed Olya.

“He’s killing my friends,” Ksenia explains. “That’s how he talks to me.”

Marina says nothing, then she answers, already wide awake:

“All right, I’ll put the door on the chain.”

Ksenia hangs up, walks round the room. She feels cold, there’s a buzzing in her head, it’s hard to concentrate.
Attagirl
, she says to herself,
attagirl
. Mom was right, there’s no point in crying, you have to fight, you have to do something. See, I phoned Marina, made sure everything’s all right, warned her, attagirl, go to bed, you’ve done everything you could, go to bed. Tomorrow morning call the police, ask them to give Marina protection, let them watch over her, let them catch him…

He’ll kill again
, Ksenia tells herself. Maybe he’s already broken into Marina’s apartment? Maybe he knows everything I’m going to do? Maybe he can see me right now? Ksenia closes the laptop, checks the door to the apartment, turns all the lights on. All the things she does won’t stop the killer. He wants to talk to her – and he’ll kill again. The police won’t be able to protect Marina forever, he’ll bide his time, lie low, pretend he’s given up killing, but he’ll be waiting.
He’ll kill again.

Ksenia walks round the apartment, the lights are on everywhere, she thinks there’s something moving in the corners, something rustling in the silence, something flickering on the very edge of consciousness. There’s a buzzing in her head, it’s hard to concentrate. Calm down, she tells herself, go to bed, what can you do now? Nothing.

Nothing? Ask that question again.
What can you do?
Ksenia Ionova, successful IT manager, senior editor in the news department, twenty-three years old –
what can you do?

I have to kill him, thinks Ksenia. Kill him. Out loud she says.

“I’ll kill him.”

No, she doesn’t believe it herself. How can she kill him? He’s a strong adult man, and she’s a little girl. The entire police force of the city can’t catch him, how can she kill him? It’s like the story about the sniper, thinks Ksenia: there’s a killer, his victim and an observer. And already there’s nothing you can do. This is the same. He’s a killer. She’s an observer. What can she do?

I have to do something, Ksenia tells herself, I have to fight, I have to do something. Think about the sniper, the woman and the journalist, she tells herself. The woman’s the victim, she’s walking along the street, she doesn’t know anything, she has no choice. The sniper’s under cover, he has a rifle, he can kill. The journalist is sitting with him, they’re talking. Why does the sniper decide to shoot? Out of boredom? No, he’s not bored. He’s sits there under cover and talks to the journalist, and then – then he says: “I’ll fire.” He fires for her, he writes her a letter.

Ksenia feels like the solution’s somewhere close. She stops noticing the shadows in the corners, doesn’t hear the rustling or the murmur of the blood in her ears. She walks round and round the room, faster and faster, as if she’s trying to catch up with herself. Think, Ksenia, think!

He writes a letter. A letter is written to someone. The sniper kills because there’s an observer. The journalist can’t kill the sniper, she can’t stop observing. If she’d got up and walked out a minute before the woman appeared, nothing would have happened.

That’s right, thinks Olya, that’s what I tried to do. I got up and walked out. And then he killed Olya.

That means she can’t walk out. She’s the observer, he’s the killer, he’ll carry on talking to her and killing again and again. What can she do?

Nothing?

Ksenia walks round the room, round and round. Think, she repeats to herself, think. How can you stop being an observer, if you can’t walk away? If you can’t kill? What can you do? Once again: observer, killer, victim. The observer and the killer are unique. The victim can be anyone. Anyone who walks down the street. The killer will shoot. The observer will watch. The victim is the point at which bullet and gaze meet. What can the observer do?

She feels like the solution’s somewhere close. On the very edge of consciousness, in a blind spot, in the corners of the room. Round and round, what can you do?

Once again: observer, killer, victim. The observer and the killer are unique. The victim can be anyone. Anyone who walks down the street. Anyone who goes out in the street. Anyone.

Stop.

Ksenia stops walking. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, her hands are shaking, her sunken eyes are glittering.

The observer can’t walk out. The observer can’t kill.

The observer can only become the victim.

Ksenia smiles. That’s the solution. That’s the answer. Now ask again: what can you do?

You can die.

“That’s good,” Ksenia thinks, and again: “That’s good. There’ll be no one to write to. Marina will be safe, everything will be all right.”

“Did you want me to answer your letter?” Ksenia says out loud. “All right, I’ll answer. Did you want me to come to you voluntarily? All right, I’ll come. Did you promise not to kill me? Fine, but I’m going to try to die. We’ll do things my way this time. You will kill me after all. And everything will stop, everything will be all right.”

Did you say
responsibility?
Yes, all right, let there be responsibility. You kill, I die. To each his own. I can’t kill you, not even for Marina’s sake – I can’t. But I can die for her sake. A man can kill, a woman can die.

Ksenia smiles. No more need to hold back, no more need to hold out. She knows what to do.

So, we’ll meet tomorrow, she mutters. I used to dream about that meeting, remember? Now I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to talk about tortures. I invented them myself, what a fool. To be quite honest, I’m a little bit afraid. Although, what do I have to be afraid of? I used to hurt myself so I could come. I hurt myself so I could forget myself, at least just a tiny bit. Tomorrow you’ll hurt me so I can die. So Marina will live. So everything will stop. I’ll see it through, won’t I? It won’t take very long, will it? I’ll try to die quickly. And Marina said a martyr’s death is good for the karma. Now I’ll find out.

Ksenia smiles. Sits down at the table, types the address from memory, writes:
Dear brother, I’m very sorry I didn’t understand before how much we need to see each other. Unfortunately, I don’t know where I can find you, so please, find me and take me. If we really are two sides of the same coin, we have to try. I don’t know if we’ll manage to be as happy as Hannibal and Clarice, but if the invitation to your personal hell still stands, I’m waiting for you. Your sister Ksenia.

She reads it through, yes it’s fine. No matter how clever he is, he won’t guess she’s going to trick him, trick him and do things her way. She hits “Send,” the letter is converted into ones and zeros, goes flying off through the intricate network of wires and optical fibers and a few seconds later it reaches the addressee. That’s all there is to it.

What can you do now? Ksenia asks herself. Nothing. Just wait.

And this time “nothing” doesn’t sound so frightening.

Maybe, thinks Ksenia, I should write a farewell letter? Wake up Mom and say goodbye? Poor Mom. No, I don’t want to, let her think it was an unfortunate accident, a whim of malevolent fate. Malevolent fate? I don’t think so. Ksenia smiles.

Maybe she should write to Lyova in New York?
Dear brother, I’m really sorry I didn’t realize sooner just how much I miss you. Dear brother, I’m very sorry we’ll never see each other again.
A fine letter. But no, let Lyova think his little sister died a pointless death in a distant northern country where the local police can’t even protect their own citizens.

If Lyova was here, thinks Ksenia, everything would be different. He promised to come back, but he’s still there. They’ll be coming for Sarah Connor soon. I just hope it’s very soon. Or else, God forbid, the police will realize what’s going on and put me under protection, condemn me to the role of the eternal observer, stop me dying, stop me winning.

“I just hope you’re quick,” Ksenia says to the brightening window. Then she goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. It’s stupid to sleep on your last night. Don’t think about death, she tells herself, just think: I did what I had to do.

KSENIA, KSENIA, KSENIA
.

I received your letter. I’m waiting for you, waiting so eagerly, that all the forgotten fears are coming back to me.

I’ve never seen your face, the only photo I found on the web was five years old, a young girl, almost a teenager, black hair hanging loose down to her shoulders, a boyish figure. I can’t match this photograph up with the woman who answered me on ICQ.

Somehow when I think of you, I remember Karina, the first lover I had after my divorce. I was a faithful husband, so Karina was my second woman. I remember we arrived at my place, and I walked over to the bar to pour the wine, and she immediately started taking her clothes off, and when I turned round I saw her slipping her unfastened dress off her shoulders. Her skin looked radiantly white to me, and Karina herself was like the Snow Queen when she came for Kay. It was so beautiful and so frightening that I squeezed my eyes shut and squeezed my nails into the palms of my hands so hard that it hurt.

Ksenia, Ksenia, Ksenia, when I think of you, that fear comes back to me again. I think you’re so beautiful that I won’t be able to stand it. You sat with me when I was sick, you cut your skin when I cried in pain – and I’d like to repay you. When you come, I’ll cut the skin off my own hands, cut out my own eyes, tear the skin off my own flesh in strips, eviscerate my stomach, break open my ribcage. I can do it, dear Ksenia, believe me. I’d like to pile a heap of nails torn from fingers, severed nipples and lips turned inside out at your feet, and I’d crown this pyramid with the slippery spheres taken from my own eye sockets. This is me, dear Ksenia, this is me, laid open to my deepest depths, the only gift I can bring to you. Tell me you will not reject my gift.