Fantasy: The Best of 2001 Page 13

  “It’s no brainbuster, Viktor. I’m not the least gifted when it comes to organization. Fuck, I can’t even balance my checkbook. But even I can figure this one out.”

  As if his engine had begun to idle out Chemayev’s energy lapsed. He grew cold and the cold slowed his thoughts, replaced them with a foggy desire to lie down and sleep. March put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a shake, and pain lanced along his cheekbone. The touch renewed his hatred, and braced by adrenaline, he let hate empower him.

  “C’mon, lad.” March said with a trace of what seemed actual concern in his voice. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I understand,” said Chemayev shakily.

  “Understand what?”

  “I have a . . . a good situation. A future. I’d be a fool to jeopardize it.”

  “Four stars!” said March. “Top of the charts in the single leap! See what I told you, Viktor? A kick in the head can enlighten even the most backward amongst us. It’s a fucking miracle cure.” He kneeled beside Chemayev. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you. Perhaps you’ve been wondering why, with all the rude boys about in Moscow, our Mister Polutin hired in a Mick to do his dirty work. Truth is, Russki muscle is just not suited to subtlety. Those boys get started on you, they won’t stop till the meat’s off the bone. I’m considered something of a specialist. A saver of souls, as it were. You’re not my only project. Far from it! Your country has a great many sinners. But you’re my top priority. I intend to be your conscience. Should temptation rear its ugly head, there I’ll be, popping up over your shoulder. Cautioning you not to stray. Keep that well in mind, Viktor. Make it the marrow of your existence. For that’s what it is, and don’t you go thinking otherwise.” March stood, reached down and took Chemayev’s right arm. “Come on now,” he said. “Let’s get you up.”

  Standing, it looked to Chemayev that the stones beneath his feet were miles away, the surface of a lumpy planet seen from space. A shadowy floater cluttered his vision. The white leaves each had a doubled image and March’s features, rising from the pale seamy ground of his skin, made no sense as a face—like landmarks on a map without referents.

  “Can you walk?” March asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  March positioned himself facing Chemayev and examined him with a critical eye. “We better have you looked at. You might have a spot of concussion.” He adjusted his grip on Chemayev’s shoulders. “I’m going to carry you . . . just so’s you know I’m not taking liberties. I’ll come back after and get your things.”

  He bent at the knees and waist, preparing to pick Chemayev up in a fireman’s carry. Without the least forethought or inkling of intent, acting out of reflex or muscle memory, or perhaps goaded by the sour smell of March’s sweat, Chemayev slipped his right forearm under March’s throat, applying a headlock; then with all his strength he wrenched the Irishman up off his feet. March gurgled, flailed, kicked. And Chemayev, knowing that he only had to hang on a few seconds more, came full into his hatred. He heard himself yelling with effort, with the anticipation of victory, and he dug the grip deeper into March’s throat. Then March kicked out with his legs so that for the merest fraction of a second he was horizontal to the true. When his legs swung down again the momentum carried Chemayev’s upper body down as well, and March’s feet struck the ground. Lithe as an eel, he pushed himself into a backflip, his legs flying over Chemayev’s head, breaking the hold and sending them both sprawling onto the stones.

  By the time Chemayev recovered March had gotten to his feet and was bent over at the edge of the circle, rubbing his throat. Stupefied, only dimly aware of the danger he faced, Chemayev managed to stand and set off stumbling toward the trees. But the Irishman hurried to cut him off, still holding his throat.

  “Are you mad, Viktor?” he said hoarsely. “There’s no other explanation. Fuck!” He massaged his throat more vigorously, stretched his neck. “That’s as close as I’ve come. I’ll give you that much.”

  Chemayev’s legs wanted to bend in odd directions. It felt as if some organ in his head, a scrap of flesh he never knew existed, had been torn free and was flipping about like a minnow in a bait bucket.

  Strands of hair were stuck to March’s cheek; he brushed them back, adjusted the waist of his trousers. “It’s the girl, isn’t it? Liza . . . Louisa. Whatever her fucking name is. Back when I was of a mood for female companionship, there were more than a few knocked my brains loose. They’ll make a man incorrigible. Immune to even the most sensible of teachings.”

  Chemayev glanced about, groggily certain that there must be an avenue of escape he had overlooked.

  “I remember this one in particular,” said March as he approached. “Evvie was her name. Evvie Mahone. She wasn’t the most gorgeous item on the shelf. But she was nice-looking, y’know. A country girl. Come to Dublin for the university. Wild and red-cheeked and full of spirit, with lovely great milky bosoms, and a frizzy mane of ginger hair hanging to her ass that she could never comb out straight. I was over the moon ten times round about her. When we were courting we’d sit together for hours outside her dormitory, watching the golden days turn to gray, touching and talking soft while crowds moved past us without noticing, like we were two people who’d fallen so hard for one another we’d turned to stone. Our hearts just too pure to withstand the decay and disappointment of the world.” He stepped close to Chemayev, inches away—a wise white monkey with a creased, pouchy face and eyes as active as beetles. “After we became lovers we’d lie naked in the casement window of her room with a blanket around us, watching stars burn holes in the black flag flying over the Liffey. I swear to God I thought all the light was coming from her body, and there was music playing then that never existed . . . yet I still hear its strains. Is it like that for you, Viktor? That grand and all-consuming? I reckon it must be.”

  March clasped Chemayev’s shoulder with his left hand, as if in camaraderie; he made a fist of his right. “Love,” he said wistfully. “It’s a wonderful thing.”

  * * *

  Chemayev was not witness to much of the beating that then ensued; a punch he never saw coming broke his connection with painful reality and sent him whirling down into the black lights of unconsciousness. When he awoke he discovered to his surprise that he was no longer in pain—to his further surprise he found that he was unable to move, a circumstance that should have alarmed him more than it did. It was not that he felt at peace, but rather as if he’d been sedated, the intensity of his possessive attitude toward mortality tuned down several notches and his attention channeled into a stuporous appreciation of the blurred silver beam hanging in the darkness overhead . . . like a crossbeam in the belly of a great ark constructed of negative energy. He could hear water splashing, and a lesser sound he soon recognized to be the guttering of his breath. He thought of Larissa, then tried not to think of her. The memory of her face, all her bright particularity, disturbed the strange equilibrium that allowed him to float on the surface of this painfree, boundless place. But after a while he became able to summon her without anxiety, without longing overmuch, content to contemplate her the way an Orthodox saint painted on an ikon might gaze at an apparition of the Virgin. Full of wonder and daft regard. Soon she came to be the only thing he wanted to think of, the eidolon and mistress of his passage.

  Things were changing inside him. He pictured conveyor belts being turned off, systems cooling, microbes filing out of his factory stomach on the final day of operation, leaving their machines running and all the taps going drip drip drip. It was amusing, really. To have feared this. It was easier by far than anything that had preceded it. Though fear nibbled at the edges of his acceptance, he remained essentially secure beneath his black comforter and his silver light and his love. The thought of death, once terrifying, now seemed only unfortunate. And when he began to drift upward, slowly approaching the light, he speculated that it might not even be unfortunate, that March had been wrong about God and the hope of the Resurrection. Beneath hi
m the garden and its pagan central element were receding, and lying with its arms out and legs spread not far from the ruined fountain, his bloody, wide-eyed body watched him go. He fixed on the silver light, expecting, hoping to see and hear the faces and voices of departed souls greeting him, the blissful creatures that patrolled the border between life and true eternity, and the white beast Jesus in all Its majesty, crouched and roaring the joyful noise that ushered in the newly risen to the sacred plane. But then he sensed an erosion, a turmoil taking place on some fundamental level that he had previously failed to apprehend. Fragments of unrelated memory flew at him in a hail, shattering his calm. Images that meant nothing. A wooden flute he’d played as a child. An old man’s gassed, wheezing voice. Sparks corkscrewing up a chimney. Pieces of a winter day in the country. Shards of broken mental crockery that shredded the temporary cloth of his faith, allowing terror to seep through the rents. Real terror, this. Not the fakes he’d experienced previously, the rich fears bred in blood and bone, but an empty, impersonal terror that was itself alive, a being larger than all being, the vacuous ground upon which our illusion breeds, that we never let ourselves truly believe is there, yet underlies every footstep ever taken . . . gulping him down into its cold and voiceless scream, while all he knew and loved and was went scattering.

  Trembling and sweaty, Chemayev stared at the tele­vision set above the bar. A brown-haired teenage girl in a denim jacket and jeans was hitchhiking on a desert road, singing angrily—if you could judge by her expression—at the cars that passed her by. He watched numbly as she caught a ride in a dusty van. Then, astounded by the realization he was alive, that the girl was not part of the storm of memory that had assailed his dying self, he heaved up from the barstool and looked avidly about, not yet convinced of the authenticity of what he saw. About a dozen people sitting at various tables; the bartender talking to two male customers. The recessed door beside the fireplace opened and a woman in a black cocktail dress came into the lounge and stood searching the tables for someone. Still shaky, Chemayev sat back down.

  All that had happened in the garden remained with him, but he could examine it now. Not that examination helped. Explanations occurred. He’d been given a drug in a glass of Yuri’s special reserve—probably a hypnotic. Shown a film that triggered an illusion. But this fathered the need for other explanations. Was the object of the exercise to intimidate him? Were the things March had said to him about Polutin part of the exercise? Were they actual admonitions or the product of paranoia? Of course it had all been some sort of hallucination. Likely an orchestrated one. He could see that clearly. But despite the elements of fantasy—March’s lyric fluency, the white trees, and so on—he couldn’t devalue the notion that it had also had some quality of the real. The terror of those last moments, spurious though they had been, was still unclouded in his mind. He could touch it, taste it. The greedy blackness that had been about to suck him under . . . he knew to his soul that was real. The memory caused his thoughts to dart in a hundred different directions, like a school of fish menaced by a shadow. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to center himself. Real or unreal, what did it matter? The only question of any significance was; Who could have engineered this? It wasn’t Polutin’s style. Although March surely was. March was made to order for Polutin. The alternative explanations—magical vodka, mysterious Lebedevian machinations—didn’t persuade him; but neither could he rule them out . . . . Suddenly electrified with fright, remembering his appointment, thinking he’d missed it, he peered at his watch. Only eleven minutes had passed since he’d drunk the vodka. It didn’t seem possible, yet the clock behind the bar showed the same time. He had fifteen minutes left to wait. He patted his pocket, felt the airline tickets. Touched the money belt. Pay Yuri, he told himself. Sign the papers. There’d be time to think later. Or maybe none of it was worth thinking about. He stud­ied himself in the mirror. Tried a smile, straightened his tie unnecessarily, wiped his mouth. And saw Niall March’s reflection wending his way among the tables toward the bar. Toward him.

  “I was hoping I’d run into you,” March said, dropping onto the stool beside Chemayev. “Listen, mate. I want to apologize for giving you a hard time back there in the fucking ice palace. I wasn’t meself. I’ve been driving around with that bastard Polutin all day. Listening to him jabber and having to kiss his fat ass has me ready to chew the tit off the Virgin. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Totally at sea, Chemayev managed to say, no thanks, he’d had enough for one evening.

  “When I can no longer hear that insipid voice, that’s when I’ll know I’ve had enough.” March hailed the bartender. “Still and all, he’s a fair sort, your boss. We held opposing positions on a business matter over in London a while back. He lost a couple of his boys, but apparently he’s not a man to let personal feelings intrude on his good judgment. We’ve been working together ever since.”

  Chemayev had it in mind to disagree with the prop­osition that Polutin did not let personal feelings interfere with judgment—it was his feeling that the opposite held true; but March caught the bartender’s eye and said, “You don’t have any British beer, do you? Fuck! Then give me some clear piss in a glass.” The bartender stared at him without comprehension. “Vodka,” said March; then, to Chemayev: “What sorta scene do you got going on here? It’s like some kind of fucking czarist disco. With gangsters instead of the Romanovs. I mean, is it like a brotherhood, y’know? Sons of the Revolution or some such?”

  The bartender set down his vodka. March drained the glass. “No offense,” he said. “But I hate this shit. It’s like drinking shoe polish.” He glanced sideways at Che­mayev. “You’re not the most talkative soul I’ve encoun­tered. Sure you’re not holding a grudge?”

  “No,” said Chemayev, reigning in the impulse to look directly at March, to try and pierce the man’s affable veneer and determine the truth of what lay beneath. “I’m just . . . anxious. I have an important meeting.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who with?”

  “Yuri Lebedev.”

  “The fucking Buddha himself, huh? Judging by what I’ve seen of his establishment, that should be a frolic.” March called to the bartender, held up his empty glass. “Not only does this stuff taste like the sweat off a pig’s balls, but I seem immune to it.”

  “If you keep drinking . . . .” Chemayev said, and lost his train of thought. He was having trouble equating this chatty, superficial March with either of the man’s two previous incarnations—the sullen, reptilian assassin and the poetic martial arts wizard.

  “What’s that?” March grabbed the second vodka the instant the bartender finished pouring and flushed it down.

  “Nothing,” said Chemayev. He had no capacity for judgment left; the world had become proof against in­terpretation.

  March turned on his stool to face the tables, resting his elbows on the bar. “Drink may not be your country’s strong suit,” he said, “but I’m forced to admit your women have it all over ours. I’m not saying Irish girls aren’t pretty. God, no! When they’re new pennies, ah . . . they’re such a blessing. But over here it’s like you’ve got the fucking franchise for long legs and cheekbones.” He winked at Chemayev. “If Ireland ever gets an economy, we’ll trade you straight-up booze for women—that way we’ll both make out.” He swiveled back to face the mir­ror, and looked into the eyes of Chemayev’s reflection. “I suppose your girlfriend’s a looker.”

  Chemayev nodded glumly. “Yes . . . yes, she is.”

  March studied him a moment more. “Well, don’t let it get you down, okay?” He gave Chemayev a friendly punch on the arm and eased off the stool. “I’ve got to be going.” He stuck out his hand. “Pals?” he said. With reluctance, Chemayev accepted the hand. March’s grip was strong, but not excessively so. “Brothers in the ser­vice of the great ship Polutin,” he said. “That’s us.”

  He started off, then looked back pleadingly at Che­mayev. “Y’know where the loo . . . the men’s room is?”


  “No,” said Chemayev, too distracted to give direc­tions. “I’m sorry. No.”

  “Christ Jesus!” March grimaced and grabbed his crotch. “It better not be far. My back teeth are floating.”

  The walls of the corridor that led to Yuri’s office were enlivened by a mural similar to the mosaic that covered the bar in the lounge—a crowd of people gathered at a cocktail party, many of them fig­ures from recent Russian history, the faces of even the anonymous ones rendered with such a specificity of detail, it suggested that the artist had used models for all of them. Every thirty feet or so the mural was inter­rupted by windows of oneway glass that offered views of small gaudy rooms, some empty, others occupied by men and women engaged in sex. However, none of this distracted Chemayev from his illusory memory of death. It dominated his mental landscape, rising above the moil of lesser considerations like a peak lifting from a sea of clouds. He couldn’t escape the notion that it had been premonitory and that the possibility of death lay between him and a life of comfortable anonymity in Amer­ica.

  He rounded a bend and saw ahead an alcove fur­nished with a sofa, a coffee table, and a TV set—on the screen a husky bearded man was playing the accordion, belting out an old folk tune. Two women in white jumpsuits were embracing on the sofa, unmindful of Che­mayev’s approach. As he walked up the taller of the two, a pale Nordic blond with high cheekbones and eyes the color of aquamarines, unzipped her lover’s jumpsuit to expose the swells of her breasts . . . and that action trig­gered Chemayev’s memory. He’d seen this before. On the TV in the bar. Just prior to entering the garden where he had fought with March. The same women, the same sofa. Even the song was the same that had been playing then—the lament of a transplanted city dweller for the joys of country life. He must have cried out or made a noise of some sort, for the smaller woman—also a blond, younger and softer of feature—gave a start and closed her jumpsuit with a quick movement, making a tearing sound with the zipper that stated her mood as emphat­ically as her mean-spirited stare.