The Tool & the Butterflies Read online

  “I serve the Soviet Union!”

  “Give Galina my best.”

  “Absolutely, Comrade Ivanov!” Alevtina Vorontsova left the office. Then the lieutenant colonel started writing something and kept at it into the night, eventually switching on his desk lamp to check it over. In the wee hours of the morning, he looked up at the cage.

  “I forgot about you, Mr. Iratov! I’m so terribly sorry.” He turned to the intercom again. “Remove the prisoner … And here’s some information for you, Comrade Iratov. A trial will be held soon. The evidence will be presented to the prosecutor today, then, a couple weeks later, it’s goodbye Comrade Iratov!”

  The trial was held seventeen days later. Iratov was relieved to see his parents in the audience—so those fuckers had been putting one over on him the whole time. Those little Communist Youth League girls were out in force, their eyes burning with indignation. During the proceedings, he made eye contact with each of them in turn, and every last one bestowed a longing, amorous look on him, as if to say “if it were up to us …” A lot of people had come in the hope of hearing the ghastly verdict: “For this grave violation of socialist law, this court imposes the severest possible punishment—death by firing squad!”

  It was soon revealed, however, that the president of the Moscow Architectural Institute had come forward as a character witness and provided an excellent letter in Iratov’s defense, emphasizing that he was an extremely talented student. His final project had been awarded a gold medal in Tokyo. Both the Japanese judges and the representatives of several other countries had evinced an inclination to commission this Russian architect’s brainchild … And the president had been in the Party for forty years. Who could ignore that?

  The burly, chubby-cheeked judge grew curious and asked what exactly this project was. The president’s representative turned over a sheet of Whatman paper with a sketch on it, and everyone gaped at something their eyes had never beheld before. Standing up proudly among ordinary buildings, swathed in green plants, soared a gigantic self-tapping screw. Yes, really, like the kind a carpenter would use to attach the baseboards in an apartment. Giggling could be heard in the gallery; then the audience burst into laughter.

  The Honorable Judge Chubby Cheeks suppressed a smile with difficulty and called the court to order. A juror whispered something in his ear.

  “And how much are the bourgeoisie offering for this … design?” he inquired.

  “Two million dollars,” the president’s representative answered, and the crowd fell silent at once. Them regular Soviet folks had never even fantasized about that kind of money. “The entire building is designed around the shape of a perfectly ordinary screw.” Someone in the crowd let out a nervous hiccup. “The architect used the principles of engineering to demonstrate how elevators would move along the threads of the screw, while the top floor, which would house something important, you know, like the main bureau of the Ministry of the Space Industry, would be located near the head of the screw. You could launch a Vostok spacecraft from the roof if you wanted,” the representative joked. He also reported that the architect had made it very clear that he specifically wanted this innovative structure to be built in Moscow, the capital of our glorious Motherland. Thus, it would not be entirely fair to accuse this young man of hating our glorious Motherland.

  A recess was called. The judge consulted various layers of the government hierarchy. The party structure urged mercy, as well as closing the trial to the public to prevent journalists from continuing their coverage of this high-profile case.

  “We won’t let them shoot a talented man like that,” said a Central Committee member with a smile. “Who’s going to do the building if we put our geniuses against the wall? Plus, these are more humane times. Nobody wants to bring back firing squads for speculating … well, except the old guard … they’re always pushing on us …”

  “They shot Gumilev,” the judge reminded him. “He was a genius, too!”

  “Did anybody offer two million dollars for Gumilev’s poems? Answer me that! You have to make some mistakes when you’re young or you’ll be a complete idiot when you’re old … Come on, the building’s a screw!”

  “Fifteen years?” the judge asked.

  “Five.” The Central Committee member admonished the judge once again for his excessive harshness and warned his chubby-cheeked honor that consuming too much sugar could cause diabetes. Just think about that, getting your foot cut off … That was an outcome he dreaded himself.

  “Plus, we’ll knock some time off for good behavior … Then we’ll see … Leonid’s a nice guy!” Five days later, Iratov was sentenced to four years and seven months in a work camp—not even a high-security one. They gave him two hours to say goodbye to his parents, then it was off to the woods near Vladimir.

  Iratov had a pretty easy time adjusting to the camp. He was neutral toward everyone, and some people even found him useful. He steered clear of the guys with connections and cautiously established contacts with the ones who did business. Plus, the warden was building himself a little dacha, and there wasn’t even a decent engineer to be found. Iratov came in handy—he drew up the plans and even managed the construction work.

  “Good goin’, Yakut!” said the thin-as-a-churchkhela warden, slapping the architect on the back. “You sure whipped up a top-notch hacienda! And it only took ya six months! I woulda been putzing around for fifteen years! You’ve got talent! I’m gonna tack another nickel on your sentence! Don’t look at me like that, I’m kidding! You can sign on as a volunteer worker. Do you have any idea how many people I know around here? We’ll build castles for all of them and rake in some serious cash! And women! Plus, no oversight! What the hell do you want to go back to Moscow for?”

  Iratov laughed the whole thing off and presented himself as some Muscovite lordling who would never contemplate such a thing. He had made up his mind what he wanted in life, and it certainly wasn’t working for a bunch of screws! But for the time being, he willingly obliged, even putting out a wall newspaper where the screws were transformed into national heroes.

  His mother often came to see him, never missing a single opportunity. Those visits were absolute torture for him. There was a time or two when Shevtsova came out and fucked him for his full two-day leave, which was enough to colorize his black-and-white camp life. The screws would take turns peeping, but the young couple didn’t give a damn. Boy, there was nothing Iratov and his guest didn’t try! She was every bit the virtuoso Iratov was, spinning and swinging like crazy, getting into these wild positions—the amazing elastic girl! They burst out laughing when they heard a bass voice saying, “Fuck, I’m gonna come!” The uninhibited Ms. Shevtsova aimed her bare ass at the likely location of the peephole—no reason they shouldn’t get their virtual jollies over there!

  A month later, his mother arrived again. She told him that his dad was often ill, that the principal was being unfair, and that almost all the plaster had fallen off the ceiling in their apartment.

  “I’m all alone now.”

  Then she didn’t say anything for a while, and Iratov munched on cheese sandwiches and cold dumplings from a glass jar … Then the aging English teacher, born Countess Rymnikova, took the night train back to Moscow. She had to make it back in time for her second-period class.

  The very next day, he was summoned for another rendezvous, and a family one at that—i.e., with his supposed wife. He had been granted another forty-eight hours off. Even the screws were surprised—getting leave twice in a row was unheard of!

  Iratov was intrigued, and as he walked to the family section, he pondered who could have been so brazen. Claiming to be his wife! Was it Katya, the volleyball player? Or maybe it was Comrade Shevtsova again? She couldn’t stand going without sex unless she was in class, or maybe a Communist Youth League meeting. And she had spectators here, too! The memory of Shevtsova’s naked body was enough to make Iratov almost happy.

  There’s no logic to life. You’re driving down a
straight road, convinced that it will go on forever, then a pit opens up, and you’re … frigged!

  Alevtina was waiting for him in the room set aside for conjugal visits. Captain Vorontsova, in the flesh.

  She was of tremendous dimensions and had grown even more corpulent since Iratov got sent up the river. She settled in between the pillows on the bed, crushing its springs into the floor. Dressed in simple civilian clothing, with no makeup, the officer almost looked like an old lady.

  “It’s y—” Iratov was stunned.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  He was standing in the doorway, gobsmacked, staring at his former handler. Yeah, this fat sow wasn’t Shevtsova … there’s the pit!

  “I’m … Alevtina. Don’t you recognize me?” She coughed thickly, breathing spasmodically like an old man taking a drag on a hand-rolled cigarette full of the coarsest makhorka tobacco.

  “Sure …”

  She lit one of her Camels and bade him step into the room. Rooting around in some bags, she deftly spread the delicacies she had brought on the table. A little bottle of precious vodka was soon on display, with another flat one, which had to be French cognac, beside it.

  “There’s some ham, too—it’s Hungarian. Look how pink it is! And some lovely sprats, and some meat with mushrooms—I braised it myself! I made the potatoes, too. You aren’t actually that far from Moscow. I wrapped it all up in newspapers and blankets. I drove a hundred and twenty-five miles! Have a seat, baby! Have some pickles and cucumbers! Come on, you must be starved!”

  “What the hell did you come here for?”

  “Who, me?” Alevtina was breathing heavily, as if she’d unloaded a truck full of watermelons instead of laying out a spread. “To visit you!”

  “What the hell for?” Iratov felt a tide of anger rising in him; he wanted to kick her right in the gut.

  “To see you, why else?”

  “Gather up your crap and beat it, you old bitch! You made me potatoes! Potatoes!”

  “Why are you so cross with me?” Alevtina splashed some vodka in a glass. “Or have I done something wrong?”

  “What?!” He went crimson with hate. “You wanted to fucking shoot me! Shoot! Me! I don’t think so! I’ll get parole in a few years. My country needs me, how about that? I hope you croak before I get out! I’ll dance on your grave!” God, he was so handsome in his rage, with sparklers under his black brow and that incorrigible hair! Alevtina couldn’t help but admire him.

  “Shoot you? Are you off your rocker, honey bunny? You were the one who turned me in so they’d let you off! You wanted me to go to jail instead. Or have you forgotten? You’re the rotten one, honey! You’re as handsome as a god, but you’re no god! I was just doing my job. You were trying to save your skin! See the difference? And don’t act tough with me! I know this is like a resort for you! How about cutting down trees in Magadan? How about the mines? Fucking limp-dick prick …”

  “You used me!” He grabbed his own shoulders and strained his muscles until they hurt to keep himself from choking the old viper then and there. Vorontsova crunched into a pickle. “I hate you!”

  “I used you?” She spat the end of the pickle on the floor. “Didn’t you make millions? You ungrateful swine!”

  “What millions? It’s all gone!” He took a threatening step toward her.

  “Just don’t be an idiot, I’m begging you,” she said, smiling to reveal teeth stained brown with tobacco film. “And your millions haven’t gone anywhere.” Alevtina looked into his black eyes with a smirk. “What, do you think I don’t know? Me?! You turned in eight hundred thousand! Rokotov was small fry compared to you! I’m Alevtina Vorontsova, working with the security organs for twenty years without a single reprimand, and you think I’m stupid? I have a report on every transaction you made! I know where you buried the dollars and where you stashed the gold and stones! You think you’ll just waltz out of here in a couple years, pick up your caches, and go straight to the West? Stick that screw up your ass!” There was a neigh of laugher in her vodka-cleaned throat. “If I had revealed the extent of your crimes back then, you’d be in a mass grave with the serial killers and pedophiles! You’d already be done rotting! I took pity on you, you idiot!”

  Iratov sat down at the table, filled a glass to the brim with Stolichnaya, and poured it straight into his belly.

  “Boy, you can drink! Where’s the money?”

  “Where it was.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “What for?” The captain sliced off a generous piece of pink ham, put it on a white bun, and held it out. “Go on, eat something!” He took the sandwich, bit into it like a frightened dog, leaned back in his chair, and began to chew.

  “It’s Hungarian … I remember …”

  “I told you it was delicious! Just as good as what they have in the West!” Alevtina caught two sprats with her fork. They dove into her enormous mouth, and only then did she go back to the vodka.

  “How come you didn’t take the money?” He, too, crunched into a pickle, then swallowed the brine. “You could have gone to the West yourself …”

  “How should I put this …?” Alevtina wiped her greasy lips with a rag. “I came here because of a … weighty … matter. The West can wait!”

  “Get to the point already!” He twisted off the top of the cognac bottle. “Want some?”

  “Nah, don’t want to mix grains … and I don’t really drink anymore.”

  “How come?” Iratov took a giant swig.

  “Well, I’m pregnant, Arseny,” Alevtina informed him matter-of-factly. “It’s coming in a few weeks. Wouldn’t want to hurt the baby …”

  “Pregnant? You?” He stared at the captain and laughed out loud. His long laughter tore him up and bubbled in his throat. Then he sputtered to a stop. “Whose is it?” he asked, suddenly hoarse.

  “You see … I’m sure you understand …” Alevtina hadn’t stopped eating her presents.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Yours, honey! It’s your son! That’s the weighty matter!”

  “You’re full of it!” Then Iratov suddenly went limp and started crying like a child who’d lost his mommy in the supermarket.

  “Tears of joy, I hope! Why would I lie? He’ll be born soon—and you’ll see he’s yours. I can tell it’s going to be a boy … I keep getting this bitter taste in my mouth. They say that happens when the baby’s hair is growing … And man, you’ve got a full head of hair! Ooo, he’s kicking! He gets a kick out of it when I talk about him … That’s why I didn’t have them really throw the book at you, you goof! A boy needs a father! A man! And a man of means.”

  Iratov had almost been annihilated by the enemy’s superior forces. He sat there, surrounded, like General Paulus, sensing that his life was coming to an end, like a man on the verge of committing suicide: face pale, eyes wandering, extinguished. He looked like a maniac in an asylum.

  “Go on, talk to him!” Alevtina invited Iratov to touch her stomach—it was high time he felt his father’s touch, after all. Iratov threw up, right there on the table. “Who consumes that much alcohol on an empty stomach? Yuck, it got everywhere!” She rose from the compressed bedsprings with difficulty, wet the rag in the sink, and cleared the table. “Basically, you register as the father and a week from now you walk! Or else you can wait for your case to be reviewed. And then …”

  What could he do? To be in a bind like that, when he’d had his whole life planned out … He sat at that table until nightfall, not eating, not drinking, just thinking, while Alevtina snored in the conjugal visit bed. Her stomach, full of his seed, rose aloft and then descended, gurgling thunderously, like a volcano about to erupt.

  5

  I woke up in February. Nothing in the fridge but rotten eggs. It was warm in the apartment, though. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, put some gauze on my jeans and ironed them until they had perfect creases, got dressed, and went outside. My neighbor, Ivanov, was sitting on the back of the bench, so hungover he was sh
aking. He really wanted something to make him feel better, even just a bottle of beer—he had a splitting headache, and he grinned when he saw me.

  “Fuck, man! Wow, it’s you!”

  “Sure is,” I concurred. “I don’t have any money.”

  “We all thought you’d kicked … Not even thirty rubles?”

  “Thought I’d kicked what?” I inquired, still not intending to offer my neighbor any monetary aid whatsoever.

  “Kicked the bucket!”

  “What? Why?”

  “You haven’t come out of your apartment for a month and a half!”

  “What are you, my parole officer?”

  “No …”

  “My brother?” Ivanov grew weary of answering my questions—especially since he had the shakes so bad his jaw had locked up.

  “I kept going over to your door, you know, the keyhole, to smell …”:

  “What?”

  “Well, to see if you were rotting in there. I had a mouse die behind my wardrobe once. It stank for two weeks!”

  “I’m not a mouse!”

  “Yeah, I can see that you’re alive … Well, happy New Year!”

  “The new year starts in September, idiot!”

  Our conversation was soon exhausted, so I set off for Danilovsky Market. I walked down the rows, pinching sauerkraut from the stalls, sampling pickles and marinated garlic, which wound up being my breakfast …

  It’s freezing outside, the streets aren’t plowed, and cars drown in pure snow. Breath comes easy, white drifts reflect the sunshine, eager to cast its rays into your eyes. I enjoyed a pleasant sneeze. And another! And a third!

  I walked through downtown Moscow, sometimes breaking into a run and skidding on the frozen asphalt. My route took me to Petrovsky Boulevard, home to a little barbershop where an old Greek man with a patchy, gray beard—Antipatros was his name—cut my hair, leaving me with just an eighth of an inch. That was the way he’d always done it, with the clippers. For the last thirty years … His assistant was a thin, exceptionally beautiful mixed-race girl with striking blue eyes. She brought him everything he needed, then he put some cream on my face and shaved my cheeks with a wicked razor. He put a hot towel on my clean skin, held it there until steam rose from my forehead, then sprinkled me with chypre. Where Antipatros got that skin-tingling chypre remained a mystery. Maybe he stocked up, back when you could buy it? He trimmed the hair protruding from my nose with manicure scissors.