Ice Trilogy (41 page)

“Parvazik, I swear, it’s...” Nikolaeva raised her hand.

“An ice’s ax...fuckin’ A!” He laughed. Rocked back and forth.

“Shit, Pash. Ice’s ax! I tell you, brother, we gotta get in a different business.
Basta
. Let’s go to the markets and sell oranges!”

“Parvazik, Parvazik!” Nikolaeva cried out, crossing herself.

Pasha hooked his powerful hands and twiddled his two short thumbs rapidly. He muttered in a female falsetto, “You shitsucker, how come you’re getting so disrespectful? You don’t wanna work like normal people? You tired of normal life? You want things to go bad? Wanna get tough? Get slapped around?”

“I swear, Parvazik, by everything on earth, I swear!” Nikolaeva crossed herself. She kneeled down. “By my mother I swear! I swear on the memory of my dead father! Parvazik! I’m religious! I swear by the Virgin Mary!”

“You’re religious? Where’s your cruss?” Pasha asked.

“Those bastards tore my cross off too!”

“Your cruss, too? Such bad guys they were?” Parvaz shook his head sadly.

“They almost wasted me! I’m still shaking all over! If you don’t believe me — let’s go to Sparrow Hills, I’ll find the place, the place, my cross will be there!”

“What cruss? What fuckin’ cruss? You as bad as they come, that’s what you are. Cruss!”

“If you don’t believe me — call Natashka! She saw! She saw me limp in naked with the fucking bejeezus beat out of me!”

“Natash!” Pasha shouted.

Natasha appeared immediately.

“When did she get here?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Naked?”

“Naked.”

“Alone?”

“With some dick.”

“Pash, that was the driver, he brought me back when I...”

“Shut up, cunt. And what kind of dick was he?”

“With an earring, a beard...She owed him money. And she blew him in the bathroom.”

“But that was for driving me home! For the fare! I ran off without a stitch on me!”

“Shut up you moldy wad of prick cum. What did they talk about?”

“Nothing special. She blew him real fast and said, ‘Come by again if you want.’”

“You little piece of shit!” Nikolaeva stared angrily at Natasha.

“Parvazik, she said she wouldn’t give me any more sheets and stuff.” Natasha ignored Nikolaeva.

Parvaz and Pasha looked at each other.

“Parvazik...” Nikolaeva shook her head. “Parvazik...she’s lying, the bitch, I...she keeps wearing all my dresses! I did everything for her!!”

“Who’s at home?” Parvaz asked Natasha.

“Lenka and Sula. They’re sleeping.”

“Get them in here.”

Natasha left.

“Parvazik...”

Nikolaeva was kneeling. Her face was distorted. Tears welled up and splattered.

“Parvazik...I...I...told you the whole truth...I didn’t lie the teensiest bit, I swear...I swear...I swear...”

She shook her head. The towel came unwound. The edge covered her face.

Parvaz stood up. He walked over to the sink. He leaned toward the trash can.

“I believe you that time. I forgive you that time. I was helping you that time.”

“Parvazik...Parvazik...”

“I gave you back your passport that time.”

“I swear, I swear...”

“I thought to myself that time, I thought, ‘Parvaz, Alya, she is a woman.’ But now I understood: Alya is not a woman.”

“Parvazik...”

“Alya — is a garbage rat.”

He pulled an empty champagne bottle out of the trash can. He held it squeamishly with two fingers.

“Semisweet.” He pushed the table to one side with a sudden jerk. He placed the bottle on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

Sula
entered the kitchen: 23 years old, small, chestnut hair, olive skin, an unattractive face, large breasts, a slim figure, colorful robe.

Lena
followed right behind:
16
, tall, a good figure, a pretty face, long blond hair, pink pajamas.

They both stopped at the door. Natasha could be seen in the rear.

“Girls, I got some bad news,” said Parvaz. “Very bad news.”

He thrust his hand in his slim pockets. Stood up on his toes. Rocked back and forth.

“Last night Alya did something very lowlife, very bad. She behaved herself like a garbage rat. She cut off a piece in a very bad way, very lowlife. She spit on everyone. She shitted on everyone.”

He was silent. Nikolaeva kneeled. She sobbed.

“Clothes off,” ordered Parvaz.

Nikolaeva untied the belt of her robe. She shrugged her shoulders. The robe slipped off of her naked body. Parvaz yanked the towel off her head.

“Sit on it.”

She got up. Stopped crying. She went over to the bottle. Aimed and started to sit down on the bottle with her vagina.

“Not your cunt! Sit on it with your ass! You’re gonna work for me with that cunt!”

Everyone watched silently.

Nikolaeva placed her anus over the bottle and sat. She balanced carefully.

“Sit!” Parvaz shouted at her.

She sat down more freely. Cried out. She propped her hands on the floor. “No hands, cunt! No hands!” Parvaz kicked her hand and pushed down sharply on her shoulders.

“Sit!”

Nikolaeva screamed.

19:22
,
6 Tverskaya Street

A dark blue Peugeot 607 drove into the courtyard. It stopped.

Borenboim
sat in the backseat, reading a newspaper: 44 years old, medium height, thinning blond hair, an intelligent face, blue eyes, thin glasses in gold frames, a dark green three-piece suit. He finished reading, threw the paper on the front seat, and picked up a slender black briefcase.

“Tomorrow at 9:30.”

“Okay,” nodded the
chauffeur
: 52, a longish head, ash-gray hair, a big nose, fat lips, a brown jacket, a light blue turtleneck.

Borenboim got out. He headed for entrance 2. His cell phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and stopped. He put the phone to his ear.

“Yes. Well? That’s what we already agreed on. Nine o’clock. There. No, let’s go upstairs, the food’s better and it’s quieter. What? Why didn’t he call me at the office? Huh? Lyosh, what is all this?...It’s like a game of telephone or something! How can I consult in absentia? He should just come over like normal. Bonds are in good shape now all around, they’ve been going up for two months, there’s nothing to talk about on that score. What? All right. That’s it...Oh, yeah, Lyosh, have you heard about Volodka? They brought an excavator up at night and dug out two bathhouses. That’s right! Savva told me. Ask him, he knows the details. That’s the scoop. Okay, that’s it.”

Borenboim stepped into the entryway.

The
door attendant
: 66 years old, thin, a
wig, glasses, a grayish-pink sweater, brown skirt, and felt boots.

Borenboim gave her a nod.

He entered the elevator, took it to the third floor, and got out. He retrieved his keys and began unlocking the door.

Suddenly he felt something sticking into his back. He started to turn around, but someone grabbed him hard by the left shoulder.

“Don’t look around. Straight ahead.”

Borenboim looked at his door. It was made of steel. Painted gray.

“Open it,” ordered a low, male voice.

Borenboim turned the key twice.

“Go in. Make a move, I beat the shit out of you.”

Borenboim didn’t move. The butt of a silencer was pressed against his cheek. It smelled of gun oil.

“You didn’t get it? I’ll count to one.”

Borenboim pushed the door with his hand. He entered the dark foyer.

A hand in a brown glove extracted the key from the door. The man followed Borenboim in, immediately closing the door behind them.

“Turn on the light,” he ordered.

Borenboim groped for the wide button of the switch. He pressed it. The lights in the whole five-room apartment lit up at once. Music could be heard: Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”

“On your knees,” said the man, poking the gun between Borenboim’s shoulder blades.

Borenboim lowered himself onto the beige area-rug.

“Hands behind you.”

He let go of the briefcase and stretched his hands behind him. Handcuffs clicked shut over his wrists. The man began searching Borenboim’s pockets.

“There’s money in the desk in the study. About two thousand. That’s it,” Borenboim muttered.

The man went on searching him. Took his wallet out of his pocket, his cell phone, a gold Gucci lighter.

He put everything on the floor.

He opened the briefcase: business papers, two pipes in a leather case, a tin of tobacco, a collection of stories by Borges.

“Get up.” The man took Borenboim by the elbow.

Borenboim stood up. He glanced at the man.

The
man
: 36 years old, short, strongly built, blond, blue eyes, short hair, a heavy face, a thin light-colored mustache, a steel-colored raincoat, a light gray scarf, a black leather backpack on his back.

“Forward,” the man said, poking Borenboim with the gun.

Borenboim moved forward. They passed the first living room with the round aquarium and soft furniture. They entered the second. This one had low Japanese furniture. Three scrolls and a flat-screen television hung on the walls. The stereo system stood in a corner — a dark black-and-blue pyramid.

The man walked over to the pyramid. He looked at it.

“How do you turn it off?”

“There’s the remote.” Borenboim nodded toward a low square table. A black-and-blue remote control lay on the edge.

The man picked it up. He hit the “power” button and the music stopped.

“Sit.” He pushed on Borenboim’s shoulder. Sat him down on a narrow chair with a red pillow.

He put the pistol back in his pocket and removed his backpack. He opened it up. Took out a hammer and two steel mountain-climbing spikes.

“What are the walls in the building?”

“What do you mean?” Borenboim, grown pale, blinked tensely.

“Brick, concrete?”

“Brick.”

The man yanked two of the scrolls off the wall. He took aim and, level with his shoulders, hammered the spike into the wall with three blows. He moved over a couple of meters, hammered in the second spike. On the same level. Then he took out a cell phone. He punched in a number.

“Everything’s okay. All right. It’s open.”

Dibich
soon entered the apartment: 32 years old, a tall, thin, broad-shouldered blond, blue-gray eyes, a cruel bony face, grayish-blue coat, dark blue beret, dark blue gloves, a dark blue-and-yellow scarf, an oblong sports bag.

She looked around. Barely glanced at Borenboim.

“Good.”

The man took a rope out of his pack. He cut it in half with a knife.

They lifted Borenboim. They removed his handcuffs and began to strip off his jacket.

“Can you tell me what you want — like human beings?” asked Borenboim.

“Not yet.” Dibich took his right hand and tied the rope around it.

“I don’t keep money at home.”

“We don’t want money. We’re not robbers.”

“Then who are you? Insurance agents?” Borenboim grinned nervously. He licked his dry lips.

“We’re not insurance agents,” Dibich answered seriously. “But we need you.”

“For what?”

“Relax. And don’t be afraid of anything.”

She tied his hand to the spikes in the wall.

“Are you sadists?” Borenboim stood with his hands out to his sides.

“No.” Dibich took off her coat. Under it she wore a dark blue suit with delicate stripes.

“What do you want? What the fuck do you want?” Borenboim’s voice cracked.

The man taped his mouth shut. Dibich unfastened the bag. An oblong, mini refrigerator lay in it. She opened it. Took out an ice hammer.

The man unbuttoned Borenboim’s vest and shirt, ripped open his undershirt. Suddenly Borenboim kicked him in the groin. The man bent over. Hissed. Fell to his knees.

“Asshole...”

Dibich waited. She leaned on the handle of the hammer.

“Goddamn...” The man frowned.

Dibich waited a bit. She looked at the scroll hanging on the wall.

“The ice is melting, Obu.”

The man stood up. They approached Borenboim; he tried to kick Dibich.

“Hold his legs,” she said.

The man grabbed Borenboim’s knees. Held them tight. Froze.

“Speak with the heart!” Dibich swung back gracefully. The hammer made a half circle through the air and whistled. It slammed into Borenboim’s chest.

Borenboim growled. Dibich placed her ear to his chest.

“Speak, speak, speak...”

Borenboim groaned. He jerked.

Dibich stepped back. Swung back. Hit him — with all her might.

The hammer cracked. Pieces of ice flew all around.

Borenboim moaned. He hung limp on the rope. His head slumped down on his chest.

Dibich pressed close.

“Speak, speak, speak...”

A sound arose in his chest.

Dibich listened carefully.

The man listened, too.

“Mo...kho...” Dibich said.

She straightened up with a satisfied look.

“His name is Mokho.”

“Mokho,” the man spoke. He frowned — then he smiled.

Borenboim opened his eyes.

He was sitting in a triangular bathtub. Warm streams of water flowed pleasantly around his body. Two naked women sat opposite him.

Ar
: 31 years old, plump, blond, blue eyes, large breasts, round fleshy shoulders, a simple smiling peasant face.

Ekos
: 48, small, slender, blond, blue eyes, an attentive intelligent face.

The light in the spacious bathroom was dim. Just three fat blue candles burned on the edges of the tub.

“Hello, Mokho,” smiled the plump woman. “I’m Ar, your sister.”

Borenboim wiped the moisture from his face. He looked around. He gazed at the candle.

“And I’m Borenboim, Boris Borisovich. My only sister, Anna Borisovna Borenboim-Vikers, died in a car accident in 1992. Near the city of Los Angeles.”

“Now you will have many sisters and brothers,” said Ekos.

“I doubt it.” Borenboim touched the large bruise on his chest. “My mother is in the other world as well. My father is in the hospital following a stroke. The likelihood that he will gladden me with a brother or sister is about zero.”