9
As usual, Moscow’s streets were crowded and chaotic. Barefoot gypsy kids huddled in packs at the crosswalks, and when cars stopped they surrounded them, sticking out their hands and begging for money. If they saw foreigners walking on the sidewalk, they literally blocked their way and quickly cleaned out their pockets. A gypsy woman wearing a gaudy skirt, with a reddish-brown kerchief over her dark black hair, cast predictions of ill fortune on whoever refused to give her alms.

Near a supermarket teenagers were washing cars belonging to foreigners and men of wealth. Scowling, an old woman passed by and muttered, “Don’t humiliate yourselves,” but they didn’t pay any attention to her. They washed the car up to its roof and cleaned it inside, and if they didn’t have enough change, they ran to a nearby shop. If one could have read their thoughts, they would have gone something like this: “This is how capitalism works, Grandma. Don’t belittle any kind of work. Don’t be ashamed of any work. Do an honest job of everything. Once you cheat, the next day you’ll lose all your customers. When I grow up, I’m going to start a company and trade with the whole world. Hello, dear customer, this is my company’s badge. Please keep it for the future.”

Even in the present chaos, however, new life took root. Here and there new stores were opening, backed by Russian capital. Their flashy signs and store windows were no worse than those in Paris and New York. Despite the high prices, not only the Mafiosi and the rich were frequent customers; ordinary shoppers came as well.

Swiss cheese, German ham and sausages—the brightly lit Western-made refrigerator cases contained everything, but nothing that made here. Even the mineral water was from the West. Perhaps even our taste needed to be reformed.

Look at that new store over there—the one with the classy sign with the penguin. The salesclerks even smiled. They actually gave out information about the goods on sale. They packed what you bought in beautiful plastic bags, and moreover said “Thank you for your purchase.” Just like in the Japanese stores on TV. It was like a dream. Suspicion even crept into your mind—were they by chance playing a trick?

What happened to the dirty floors, the old saleswomen in soiled white smocks whose apathetic expressions never changed? Where did they disappear?

Ah, there they were. The massive bodies of the unforgettable old aunties could be seen sticking out behind the backs of the friendly young girls. “Look at me,” they seemed to say. “I’m now a shareholder of this store.” This store was “privatized” with a “sponsor’s” money: now we live as we please. The only work is to keep an eye on the store and occasionally, for effect, reprimand a salesgirl who has made a mistake handing back change. Today’s youth liked to talk back, however.

“No problem. I already fixed it.”

The young people knew everything. About the old days. About the fact that these same aunts intentionally gave back only part of the change and pocketed a good share for themselves. About the fact that even today they were pocketing part of the young people’s wages.

Like mushrooms after the rain currency exchange booths sprouted up on the streets. Had someone thought up a way to get dollars—the object of people’s dreams—away from Muscovites again? But Western goods, which until recently could only be bought for dollars, were now only sold for our own gold rubles. Now people had to go to an exchange window to change their dollar savings into rubles or to turn their earned rubles into dollars. Walking down the street, people would drop in at modern stores and loudly admire the Sony televisions, Bosch refrigerators, and Phillips washing machines, touching them with their hands. Simple people dropped in at the Beryozka stores, which in Soviet times only served foreigners.

They used to chase us away like mangy dogs. And now we’re the owners! Look, the foreigners who can’t speak our language are helpless now. The market economy is great. If I work one more year, I’ll be able to buy that splendid red washing machine. Its motor is quiet and the hose never breaks, they say.

Those without money were in despair, however. As if they had become redundant in their own country. The only ones to flourish were the ones who stole the state’s property.

Early morning. After struggling into her ragged coat, Parasha shuffled down the street in her tattered boots, a bag over her shoulders. She was going to rummage through garbage containers again. Moving from place to place, she often came across cases made of metal and glass that stood on the sidewalks displaying advertisements. From behind the glass, bathing beauties and cowboys promoted Western cigarettes and chewing gum. The ad displays were beautiful; at night they were brightly lit.

So capitalism isn’t any different from communism. It’s all sheer lies. Take me—I can’t buy a thing. And now there’s all these Latin letters. If Roman were here, he’d explain them, but I can’t understand a darn thing. What if the upstart bosses—the new ones—plan to make our letters American?

Parasha’s friend Ira, a young Nenets woman, wandered through the city with her. Ira had an Eastern face with high cheekbones, though her name was Russian. Her black eyes reflected the ancient wisdom of the Eskimos. The Nenets tundra is covered with snow and ice. The Russians who came there dug up and polluted the earth, which is a repository of gas and oil. They damaged the earth and the water and destroyed the reindeers’ pasture, forcing the Nenets people to look for work in the city. Once there, cut off from their native soil, they quickly took to drink. Ira was lucky: she had learned how to be a shaman from here grandfather. And when all kinds of magic became fashionable in Moscow, she started to make good money and even bought an apartment. But the apartment was fraudulently taken away and without enough money to return to her native place, Ira became a vagrant.

Still, she wasn’t in despair. What was money, or an apartment? They were only things made by human hands. It was enough for her to have this earth and God.

“Parasha, don’t suffer so. You Russians spoiled the Nenets land and now Mother Earth is taking vengeance! In our times fortune is fickle. It will get better again.

“We Nenets make sleighs from logs floating down the rivers, and out of scraps of iron barrels we make stoves. So I think in Moscow, in such a rich city, it’s simply impossible to die of hunger. In our land even in April it’s five below zero and there’s no flour to bake bread, yet there is plenty of human warmth. Of course, everything has gotten worse for us, too, but still, Parasha, maybe we should go together to the Nenets. Find your beloved quickly.

———

That night even the lamps on the street seemed dim. Claiming that she had to go work, Yuliya left Igor at Aunt Vera’s and went out by herself. Suddenly she remembered lines from Marina Tsvetayeva.

In my enormous city—night.
From the sleeping building—flight.
And people think: a daughter, a wife.
But I remembered only: night.

She felt a dark, uncontrollable desire rise inside her. Yuliya came to a stop on the sidewalk. Her manager, Valentin, had been pursuing her persistently. A few days ago she couldn’t resist and she let him kiss her for the first time. The kiss left a bitter aftertaste.

Today we’re going out to a restaurant for the first time—this time on my own initiative. I’ve had enough. My future with Roman is clear. No word from him for half a year now. Is he alive, or dead, has he found another woman? It’s always been hard to understand him. And my father’s blood runs through my veins. The blood of betrayal. Roma, it’s all your own fault.

Yuliya walked along the street with determined steps, dressed in bright colors for a change, smelling of perfume, without her guitar. A Mercedes carrying Alliluyev and his guards passed right in front of her. Beside him sat Mariya, a beautiful woman of the night, who looked out the window indifferently.

Alliluyev was in seventh heaven. From the time he discovered Mariya a week earlier and dragged her off in his car, he hadn’t left her for a moment. Needless to say, her language was thoroughly vulgar, but if she were taught some manners she’d become a classic beautiful woman who you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with anywhere. She had golden hair that flowed down her back and sad brown eyes. An exact replica of Emma. Ah, Emma, a wound that hadn’t healed.

Alliluyev, poor man. As his name suggests, he was a man who had a feeling for God somewhere in his heart. And he would turn to him for mercy. In his ruthless business dealings he was pursuing an unfulfilled dream. But he didn’t know that his end was near. He didn’t know that Savva had hired an assassin who was diligently shadowing him and waiting for the right moment to finish him off. For everyone who knows too much about Savva’s secrets sooner or later disappears.

After sending the jealous Sveta off to London, Alliluyev gave Mariya an engagement ring and spent a blissful night with her. The next day, a bright Sunday morning, leaving her quietly sleeping, he went for a walk. He hadn’t taken a walk by himself for a long time—he lived under constant guard.

The leaves glittered in the sunlight and birds were singing. Alliluyev rubbed his eyes. It’s dazzling. It’s not just the sunlight. Life is dazzling. I haven’t paid any attention to all of this because I’m always so busy. I’ve just walked past all this beauty.

Stretching his arms up over his head, Alliluyev took a deep breath of fresh morning air. He felt peace in his soul as well as a long forgotten sensation that he knew from childhood when living with his mother. At last he had made peace with the world around him.

At this very moment, from behind the trunk of an old elm tree, a man appeared. He fires three bullets straight at Alliluyev’s back from a gun with a silencer. Then, as if nothing had happened, the gunman walked away. Alliluyev fell dead on the ground. White fluff from a poplar quietly landed down onto his face. Flies quickly gathered around the puddle of blood. In the bright sunshine a group of kids on roller skates flashed by with happy shouts and screams.

You’re also a child of your time, Alliluyev. A sacrifice to the Colossus whose name is time. Although greedy, this pathetic and in certain ways funny human being is one whom God will likely send to paradise.