Hack:Moscow (4 page)

Once, Anton asked,
Hey Andrei, what does it feel like to be an orphan?

I told him that everyone becomes an orphan eventually, what’s the big deal? He’d looked impressed by that, or pretended he was. I don’t know why but I couldn’t concentrate on work the whole day.

Maybe it’s the quiet in my bedroom that brought back that particular conversation.

It’s night now, the silent hours when every creak of the floorboards, the sound of people quarreling next door, even a random cough on the street, carried. Anna had been practicing the piano earlier, but she stopped over an hour ago. Old Nelya had left me too. During dinner, I’d wondered about the O’Brien’s and asked her what it felt like to be married. Her wrinkles had disappeared as she spoke about her husband, a pilot, who died decades before I was born. After a few sentences, her face fell, as if her memory had been gunned down somewhere, somehow. Her hand twisted the ocher-colored kerchief around her head, fumbling to keep one end tied to the other. Eventually, she pleaded a headache and left.

I wonder why Old Nelya comes over. Is it pity? Or loneliness? If so, does that make her care for me less real? More questions without answers.

I finished another blog post and reviewed my work. Two days ago, after finding out O’Brien’s wife loved birds, Luka instructed me to set up a bird-watching blog. “Don’t you like birds?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, you do now. Consider it part of your education.”

Before this assignment, I’d never blogged. After I got the task, on the bus ride back, I saw starlings flocking around like a fisherman’s net amidst the clouds, dancing over the cityscape. They had provided my first inspiration.

Cities like Moscow, also Rome, are famous for their starlings
, I’d written.
People love these gorgeous birds and enigmatic dance! The best way to recreate their flying patterns is to focus on a lead starling and map how others relate geo-spatially, linking their vectors to simulate a flock.

I’d created a sample animation before doubt crapped all over me. Writing a blog entry was more difficult than I thought. “Make her relate to you, want to know you better,” Luka instructed, but somehow what I wrote seemed wrong.

“Maybe I should include the Big-O calculation,” I’d told Anton yesterday. “In case, you know, she’s concerned about the efficiency of the algorithm. Or something.”

“What algorithm?” He looked startled. “What are you trying to do?” He reviewed my posts, then burst out laughing. “You!” He clapped my cheeks with his hands, and rocked my head from side to side. “You don’t have a lot of friends, do you?”

I don’t like it when people touch me, but the warmth of his hand on my cheeks mesmerized me. “Sometimes, you remind me of…someone,” he trailed off, his look odd.

He showed me other blogs to mimic. They seemed frivolous, posts about nothing much, just pictures, then a few lines of banal text. It felt lazy, so I resolved to do more research and make things convincing.

These last two nights, as I read up on birds, the girl on my laptop had appeared several times. She reminded me of an exotic creature, housed in a tiny box to one side of my screen, free to come and go. I’d traced her IP address, then looked up Tokyo on an online map. In real life, she’s four thousand seven hundred miles away. Her presence felt closer. A lot closer.

Watching her, I learned what it felt like to stalk an elusive bird in its native habitat. This one sported blueberry mascara and liked punk-black lipstick. Her raven hair was usually plaited over one ear, but when she wore it loose, she appeared young. Despite her bold makeup, she had a vulnerable smile that flitted on her lips when she read her emails or watched some online video. I’d been tempted to write to her before.
Hello. I am Andrei Yaklova. I am watching over you
. That would guarantee a beautiful friendship! No. Better to enjoy her company in silence, to pretend she was a friend hanging out with me. She was about the same age as Anna and looked totally different. Yet there was something about her expression that made me think the two were alike. Or maybe it’s me. I felt like I knew this girl from a long time ago.

I once read a website that said everyone came from an Oversoul, and we’re fragments blown apart during the Big Bang, so no one’s special or unique. I don’t believe in souls: dead is dead. I’m also not sure about the concept of unique.
You’re unique
, my father told me once, and it made me feel proud. I’d imagined myself as individual as a snowflake, or as special as that famous psychic, the one who claims Chernobyl changed him, or as unique as that moment when my father took my hand and patted it for no reason.
Andryushka, you’re one in a billion,
he said
.

Later, I realized in a world with more than seven billion people, there are many others like me. Maybe they have different faces and similar worries, or vice versa. Maybe they’re orphans scattered in different corners of the world, all of us bit pieces in the giant computer that is the world, like recursive functions, each of us handing off a tiny part of the answer we’ve found to the question that is life to the next, then the next. Maybe we’re all working towards something bigger, something better, cycle after cycle, life after life, death after death. It’s a comforting idea.

Perhaps it’s the secret defiance lining her lips that reminds me of Anna.

A text message buzzed on my phone.
Well???
It was Luka on edge.

I texted back. We agreed to meet at the Café Volga so he could see my progress.

Finish it by then!!
His impatience punctuated everything he said ever since we took the job.

Which means more posts to be written up. I went back to my laptop and typed away. After I finished a dozen more entries, I saw the girl rolling back her chair. She stood and started peeling off her t-shirt.

I quickly slammed my laptop cover shut.
I’m not like that
, I reminded myself, but my fingers itched and rubbed themselves against the laptop’s hard edge. That was when I decided to go to sleep. Wake up earlier tomorrow, finish the blog.

That night, I dreamed of my other selves clustered around, holding me. One of them told me I’m better than I thought. I want to believe that.

I arrived at Café Volga before Luka. He’d called earlier to remind me of the time, yet he was late himself. It happens. Like me, he’s not good at keeping track of time.

The café was near G.U.M, the department store with fancy colonnades. Once upon a time, only the elite were allowed to shop there and skirt rationing. Now, anyone with more money than sense can. This café tried to be posh, what with its handwritten chalkboards and an exorbitant menu, but the faint smell of varnish made everything seem fake.

As I waited patiently for Luka, I reviewed my bird blog again and again. It’s official: I’m now a bird expert, especially those with long legs like egrets and herons.

Not that anyone cared. I glanced around. A group of foreigners entered, chatting aloud in English.
An inferior language,
I imagined Luka sniffing as he entered behind them. The door closed behind the noisy group. Still no Luka.

Phone check: my battery was almost flat. I must have forgotten to recharge it the night before. I tried texting Luka to let him know, but before the message was sent, it blinked out. Not good. For a moment, I considered connecting my laptop to the café’s WiFi, but Luka told us not to connect online needlessly. The N.S.A., the F.S.B.—apparently, a whole alphabet soup’s worth of agencies bug everything these days.

So I continued waiting. I pulled out the latest book Luka lent me. It’s a thick one, Tolstoy’s
War and Peace
. Luka said his genius was indisputable: “Worth five, no, ten American authors any day.” When he said that, I’d imagined an equivalency table for people. What would the matrix be like: one Russian author equals X American authors equals Y Armenian authors? Can one weigh the worth of a life? The first time I tried reading the book, I fell asleep. War and Peace—the title promised, so I flipped to a random page hoping to find something exciting instead of the dull, lulling prose I read last time. A character leapt out at me this time. Prince Andrei Nikolaevich Bolkonsky. Another Andrei just like me. I flipped a page, then paused when Elgar’s
Enigma Variations
began playing over the café speakers. Anna had liked it, I remembered, because each variation signified something different: a laugh remembered, a close friend, immortalized love, all the themes different yet alike. It reminded me of people. Of life. Almost all our genes are the same, yet everyone has a different fate. What would it be like if I’d been born royalty? An enigma.

“Anything else?” A uniformed crotch bumped against my table.

I gave the short waiter a royal wave and he lashed the table with a gray cloth in a condescending manner. Andrei equals two hundred-ruble coffee. In Moscow these days, that doesn’t buy you much nobility or time. The current joke is that even the policemen don’t accept bribes under a thousand rubles these days; it’s not worth the trouble. A strategic retreat then, Prince Bolkonsky, to the perimeter of the camp? Very good, Lieutenant, but not too far away. I still had to wait for Luka.

I exited the café and leaned against the window with its decals of fish leaping over the Volga, then opened the book. A rapping sound behind me caught my attention. The waiter inside made a shooing motion, and I thought of flipping him the finger.

When I turned back, someone bumped into me. I knew I was in trouble when the man lifted his gelled head, his rhinoceros hair threatening to impale me. He dusted off his leather jacket and called out to his friend. “You see that? He stuck his foot out to trip me.” A rough hand shoved me against the wall. His garlicky breath savaged me as his face pressed close, eyes tight like lizard’s. I considered my options quickly. Behind, I heard the waiter lock the café to prevent the fight from spilling in. “Hey, look at me when I’m talking.” The punk knuckled me in the rib and when I curled up, his mop-haired friend, who wore a t-shirt with a cross bone print, grabbed my bag. “Sasha, look at this.” He brandished my laptop.

I flailed for it. “Give it back!”

Sasha yanked my hair and shook me, pushing me down on my knees. “Who told you to trip me?” He placed a boot on the back of my thigh, and its chunky lugs pressed through my jeans. “Sasha,” Crossbones called out—A voice of mercy, I thought, until he said, “Don’t forget his wallet.” Rough hands seized my waist, grabbing at my pockets, and I spun like a top, trying to evade them. As I turned, I saw the people around us, looking on. A group of workers in hard hats ate lunch nearby; one of them gave me a thumbs-up as if to cheer me on. A middle-aged woman loaded with grocery bags made a wide berth of us. A girl with a balloon looked like she was about to be lifted from the grimy streets.

Finally, a boot jabbed the back of my leg. I recalled the half-breed boy who’d been kicked to death and felt a flash of anger.
Be a man,
I heard Father cry, but I huddled into a ball instead, lips pursed against the rough pavement. Why doesn’t someone help me? Why?

Sasha sat on me. “Yeah, yeah, there’s my bitch.” He bounced on my back. “Now, stop squirming.”

“Get off him.” I suddenly heard a cold voice. I felt Sasha’s weight lift and I looked up. Luka was here.

“Mind your own business, asshole.” The two advanced towards him, one on each flank, like hyenas. Luka drew his jacket aside and stroked his gun handle. “I’ll count to three,” he said. “Three.”

The punks scampered like they’d seen the devil.

“Luka. You’re here.” I staggered towards him.

“You idiot.” He cuffed me so hard I knelt again.

“Why wasn’t your cell phone on?” Luka asked again, even though I’d told him twice. “Do you know how worried I was?”

“Sorry.”

We were in Luka’s car, an old Lada, motoring down Kutuzovskiy Prospekt, away from the Red Square. Muscular foreign cars overtook us. Nowadays, you only see Russian cars outside the Garden Ring Road, because everyone near the center of Moscow is wealthy. Nobody drives Ladas. Except Luka.

In the distance, I saw Ostankino Tower, a half-kilometer spike beaming propaganda and brainwashing the birds around it. After the fight, Luka had made me follow him to his car. “Those punks would be waiting for you. That’s what I’d do,” he said grimly, before glancing at his watch. “Let’s talk and ride.”

As I updated him about what I had written, our car rumbled eastwards past the dumpling-like houses of Dorogomilovo District. “That’s everything?” he asked, when I finished.

“Yes. Unless you want to see the pictures.” I poked at a hole in my seat and felt the stuffing crumble when I pulled my finger out.

Luka frowned at me. “Don’t poke. This car looks old, but it’s solid Soviet engineering. The engine will run forever, unlike your American or Japanese or Korean tin cans. Money’s not for frivolous things. You save it and spend it on things you care about.”

I recalled the expensive Champagne he’d bought, the memory of it fizzing faintly on my tongue. I knew he had bought it for Anton and me to try. He’d spent all that money to treat us. He cared. The warmth bubbled inside until my ribs spasmed. I thought back to the teenagers who’d savaged me—why?
Because you let them,
I could hear Anton chiding me.

“I need to drop you soon,” Luka said. I suspected he was late for his next appointment. He horned more as he drove, and he gripped his wheel knuckle-white tight. He kept cursing as he cut other cars, and I wasn’t sure whether he was cursing himself or me or the world. Maybe all three.

“It’s ok. Just go where you need to be.” I enjoyed being in his car, watching him. “I’m in no hurry.”

He bit his lips, as if debating something. Finally, he nodded. “Just stay in the car when we get there.”

Twenty minutes later, we reached an industrial area. In the distance, a striped smokestack smogged like it was on fire. The stores here had posters posted, ripped, and reposted over the facade:
Russia for Russians! Vote for Your Safety!
A teenager in a hoody was spraying a line on the wall as he skateboarded down the street. It’s civic improvement: the dirt-washed walls looked better with that stripe of color. Our car stopped outside a bar called Kopecks and Rubles. I imagined Saint George riding from the bronze face of a kopeck and lancing the two ugly men guarding the entrance. The trolls gazed at Luka’s car in a surly manner.

Before he got out, Luka told me sternly, “Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be back soon.”

When Luka opened the door, one of the men lumbered over. “You,” he said, as if expecting him.

“I have an appointment with Boris,” Luka said curtly.

The troll bent to look at me through the window, then rapped the car door. “Come out.”

“He’s waiting here.” Luka said. “He’s just a boy. He has no business inside.”

That made me open the door. “I’m not a boy.”

“I’m not babysitting anyone.” The troll grabbed me by the scruff of my t-jacket, then pulled me out the car. “Go in. Both of you.”

I glanced at Luka. His eyes were accusing.
Look what you’ve done
. Before he could say anything, the other man offered a mocking bow. “Go on, you two,” he said, as if curious to see what would befall us inside.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I should be here.

Inside, the bar was well-lit. A redhead bartender looked up, then looked away. None of his business. The trolls patted us down and found Luka’s gun. He whistled when he turned it over. “Now, this little friend stays.” He jerked his head towards a doorway. “Go in. Boris hates waiting. You know how short his temper is.” The two chuckled as if sharing some inside joke.

Luka and I walked past a curtain, a sheet of ball bearings, which rattled noisily. A narrow entrance opened into a labyrinth of stout doors. He led until we entered an office dominated by a work desk. To one side of it, a man wearing a muscle t-shirt sat on a gym stool lifting dumbbells. At the table, a man, inches shy of being a midget, ate pasta. He paused and stared at us when we entered, then a single strand of noodle slithered into his mouth. I noticed the wall on my right was filled with banks of televisions playing on mute.

The T-shirt ended his bicep curls. “Pyotr Abramovich,” he announced. Who was he talking about? “He’s here, Boris.”

“
Tchut, tchut
, he goes by Luka now, Milo.” Boris dabbed his mouth with the corner of a red-stained napkin.

Milo sniggered. “A man with two names is a man with two faces is a man—”

“Enough.” Boris pinched between his eyes, then addressed Luka. “I apologize. Apparently, Milo thinks he’s Pushkin. You’re late, Luka,” Boris said, then turned his head to one side, towards a half-played chessboard, and belched over it. “You don’t change, do you? You used to make me wait when I came to you for favors. I called you here today because I was hoping you’d have good news for me.”

“I told you it could take between a fortnight to month, Boris. We agreed. There’s still time.”

“Time, time, time…” Boris seemed to enjoy the sound of his reedy piper’s voice. “Boy,” he said, without looking at me, “do you know what’s the tallest building in the world?” I didn’t reply. I looked at Luka instead. Pyotr Abramovich, Boris had called him. Was that his real name?

Milo piped up. “It’s the building in Lubyanka Square. The F.S.B. building is so tall you can see Siberia from its basement.” He chortled. No one else did.

“That’s why I worry, Milo. Our friend, Luka, is dealing with dangerous people and I’m his intermediary. Who knows whether the F.S.B. will still want to deal if he keeps delaying? He has no sense of urgency.
Tchut
tchut
. You were the one who came to me for help, Luka, this time, to strike a deal with your former employers. There’s not much the F.S.B. wants, you know, but I worked hard, Luka, just for you. I knocked on doors, hat in hand, and asked our friends what they’d want in exchange for your wife. And because I asked nicely, because I always deliver, they told me, Boris, if Luka can bring us that cutting edge, military virus those Americans are working on—that’s something. So I struck a deal. Then, what happens? No results.” Boris threw his hands in the air, like a circus juggler. “At this rate, I’ll get in trouble. This undue delay—did you change your mind, is that it? One thing always puzzled me. Why would someone like you, so high up the chain, marry a human rights lawyer?” His words rushed, tumbled, and rolled over each other. “Ingratiating yourself with the liberals, perhaps? Bad move.” Boris plowed half the chess pieces with a greasy fork to one side, until they piled up. “Her lining up those lawsuits against our esteemed leaders?
Tchut, tchut, tchut
.” His fork swept right this time, as he smiled brightly. “Come to think of it, we should call this deal off. All these years in a dark cell, that woman’s damaged goods. You can do better—”

“Boris, you said—”

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t interrupt me,” Boris’ voice became steely, then flexed. “I said? What did I say? Where was I? Ah.” He ran his hand lightly over the toppled over chess pieces, petting the kings and knights and pawns. “If I were you, Luka, I’d find someone new. Upgrade. See, I know computer terms too.”

“I’ll get what you want. In the agreed upon timeframe. I already told you that.”

“So you said. The world revolves around what you say. Or so you think.” As he spoke, Boris’ gaze swiveled to me. I glanced away, to avoid catching his eye. I focused on the wall of screens instead, and it was a mistake because there, I saw Death. In one screen, a man was flailing, his hands jerking, as a tank rolled over his legs. In another screen, a low-resolution black-and-white film ran, showing a cowering man being bayoneted, then another, then another, they were kneeling in a line. Each screen held a vignette of Death. I saw a mob drag a soldier out of a helicopter, then bludgeon him with pipes. I saw a man raise his hand beseeching the sky before sawing at a hooded man’s neck with a box knife. I saw a blank screen and I caught sight of myself in it. I felt my stomach churning, as if I were the one experiencing all those deaths.

“And who is this?” Boris continued. “We don’t know him, do we, Milo, so why is he here? Ah. Because Luka sees it fit to invite him along. Luka says whatever he wants, Luka does whatever he feels like. Next time, he will probably walk his dog here and let it crap on my carpet.” Boris pinned the air with his fork, its tines turned toward Luka. “No respect—that’s always been your problem. A professional failing, some would call it. You don’t respect me. I bet you don’t respect those who work for you as well.” The fork re-stabbed the air and pointed at me. “Does he know who you are? Who you were? Former Deputy Head of F.S.B.’s Division Six, Signal Intelligence. A man who turned his back on his country,
tchut, tchut.
Did you know that about him, boy?”

I stared at Luka. His lips were pursed, not protesting, not denying. What Boris said—it explained a lot. But if he thought it made a difference to me, that he could turn me against Luka, he was wrong. Names in our community mean nothing, Luka taught me that long ago. I trust numbers more: they’re cleaner, purer, more honest—they can be counted on. The length of time I’d known Luka could be measured. Each day, each hour, each minute, each job, each smile, each touch, each bit of advice. Luka was more than a name to me.

“I’ll get what you want, Boris,” Luka answered steadily, and it reassured me. “Andrei, we’ll go now.”

“Go? No.” Boris uttered the word slowly, savoring it. “We’re not done.” He leaned back and cradled his head, bouncing in his chair. “You don’t come late and leave early. You don’t order me around here, not like before.” He stood and circled the table, walking towards us. He was even shorter than I thought.

Milo followed him. Something in his hand clicked and cocked—a gun. He cocked it again like a threatening rhyme.

As Boris passed the screens, he waved at them. “There’s a connoisseur’s club for these. One man’s death, another man’s hobby. You’ll be surprised how much people will pay to watch these things. They say that man is the only animal that will sacrifice himself for others; I doubt that’s true, not for everyone. However, I’m certain we’re the only ones who’d pay to see another person die.” He cocked his head as if listening to a voice. “
Tchut tchut
, I’ve an entertaining idea.” He twirled his fork and pointed it at me.

“No.” Luka moved to cover me with a hand. “It was my mistake bringing him here. Don’t touch him. I need him.”

He needs me. What he said lodged inside me. Luka needs me.

“Milo, if he doesn’t drop his hand, shoot the boy.” A pleased look on his face.

Milo raised his gun and Luka’s hand sagged, helpless. I’d never seen him like this before. Quick washes of emotions ran over his face. Fear? Anger? Anguish? Rage? Resignation? I couldn’t tell. I looked at him, but he avoided my gaze, and it made me afraid.

I felt a numbness tingle up my toes. I’d felt the sensation before, long ago. I was drifting.

“Boy, put your thumb to your neck.” When I didn’t, he took my hand in a surprisingly strong grip and forced my thumb under my jaw. “There, there.”

“Boris—” Luka said, before Milo’s gun pecked his cheek like a kiss.

Boris bounced his fork against his hip. “Boy, if you disobey, I’ll kill Luka. Now, I want you do something simple. I want you to rub.” His smile spread like an oil slick. “I’ll tell you when to stop. Now, rub.”

I began rubbing my thumb slowly.

He grabbed my hand again and pushed it. “Harder. Remember what’s at stake.”

I rubbed harder.

“Rub. Don’t stop.”

I rubbed and felt bits of skin roll under my thumb.

As I rubbed, Boris kept drumming his fork on his hip, and there was something almost mesmerizing about its beat. As the pain grew, I focused inward. I thought of double-digit division to cool my fear when the swelling under my thumb grew hot, and when I felt a stinging sensation spread, I counted prime numbers to contain it, to ignore it. I rubbed. A long slice of skin rolled loose, and I restarted at three hundred and seventeen. My thumb became smeary with sap and I continued counting, retreating to a world where I’d been to before, back when the policeman told me a truck driver had plowed into Father’s car and I’d walked along the Moskva River counting out my steps, until I walked into a bright, sterile place in my head, a place where there’s no fear, no pain. Cocooned, I didn’t feel a thing. Not the gooey feel of my flesh. Not the blood making my thumb slick, or the pulsing in my veins. Not the rounded, contented humming Boris made as he studied me, a tuneless melody. I counted and the numbness wiped away the bits that hurt, zeroing out everything.

I rubbed.

“Stop.” I didn’t feel Boris touching my neck. “You’re quite a boy.” He sniffed his fingers, then wiped his hand against Luka’s shirt. “Ten days. Get me what I want. Now, get out.”