“What are you doing?” the old lady shouted in surprise.
“Mama, there’s a man with a gun here!” the woman shouted in her ear.
The old lady turned around. Merog stood in the door with the automatic. The old lady stared at him.
“We’ll sit in the bathroom until he leaves!” the woman shouted into the old woman’s ear.
Holding a fork and a dirty kitchen towel in her hand, the old lady looked at Merog. He opened the bathroom door wide and turned on the light.
“Quick.”
“Mama, go, quick!” the woman shouted, nudging the old lady.
A drop of chicken fat fell from the fork.
Without taking her eyes off the stranger or letting go of the fork and towel, the old lady entered the bathroom. The mother and daughter followed her.
“Are you from Chechnya?” asked the daughter.
“No,” Merog answered. “Where are the tools?”
“What tools?” asked the woman.
“Carpenter’s.”
“We don’
t...
have an
y...
here, but in the wall cabinet there must be something left.”
Merog closed the door on them, fished around in the cabinet, found a hammer and a couple of nails. Setting the automatic on the dirty, scratched parquet floor, he quickly nailed the door to the bathroom shut.
The girl began to cry. The mother comforted her. Then started crying herself.
“What does he want? What does he need? What are they going to do — blow something up?” The old woman asked in a loud voice.
Merog lifted the suitcase and carried it into the living room. He swept a vase with a bouquet of daisies off the table, along with a pile of women’s magazines and a machine for measuring blood pressure. He put the suitcase on the table. He opened it. The boy slept facedown in the blanket. Merog carefully turned him on his back. Paying no attention to the sleeping boy’s face, he carefully examined his chest. He ran his fingertips along the shoulder blades and touched his cheekbones. Merog’s fingers froze. And trembled. His whole body shuddered, and he stepped back from the boy. He fell on his knees. He vomited on the floor.
He quickly wiped his mouth, inhaled and exhaled deeply. He got up. He found the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number.
“I’m alone.”
“Is he with you?” a voice asked.
“Yes. Academic Vinogradov Street. At the very end.”
“Wait.”
Merog replaced the receiver. He exhaled in relief, went over to the window, and looked about. In the courtyard and on the street everything was quiet and calm. The sun was warming things up, the poplar fluff floated in the air, a few people strolled by at a leisurely pace. A Volkswagen and two bicyclists passed by.
Merog yawned nervously, wiped his wet hair with the curtains. He returned to the suitcase. Once again he approached the boy but, clenching his teeth, moaned, stepped away, and punched the back of a chair. The chair cracked and flew into pieces. Rubbing his hand, Merog went into the kitchen. In the bathroom the women sobbed and whined quietly. Glancing at the pan of fried chicken with disgust, Merog took a basket of tomatoes and an apple from the table. Looking out the window he bit off pieces of each. Along Academic Vinogradov Street came a wide six-wheeler pulling a trailer that carried an orange Caterpillar excavator with a huge bucket. The vehicle moved with caution, barely avoiding scraping the parked cars. In the woodland park you could hear the growing roar of diesel engines. Two powerful bulldozers, breaking young trees and mutilating the older ones, crawled across from the wooded area to the street and headed toward the trailer. After them, skidding and crushing the bushes, came a crane with a boom. Merog stopped eating. He threw down the unfinished tomato and apple. Across the courtyard, moving backward toward the entrance, were two cement mixers. The mixers were on and turning. Another cement mixer rounded the corner of the neighboring building and began to turn onto the street, stopping in front of the slowly crawling bulldozers. One of the bulldozer drivers stuck out his head and shouted something at the driver of the third cement truck. That driver turned off his motor, got down, lit a cigarette, and smiled at the halted bulldozers. The bulldozer driver who had shouted also got out and approached the other man.
“Where’d you come from?”
“I’m from the sixth,” the smiling fellow answered.
“Well?” the bulldozer driver said, squinting in confusion. “What did you get in the way for? How can I make the turn?”
“Don’t get all steamed up, man. There’s a shitload of other stuff still on the way!”
“So where are we supposed to go?”
“Khokhriakov will tell us everything. Let’s have a smoke.”
“What the hell do I want Khokhriakov fo
r...
I still have three trips to make!” the bulldozer driver complained irritably.
“The bosses know best,” said the other guy with a grin, yawning.
“Think they’re so fucking smar
t..
.” The bulldozer driver sighed, taking a cigarette.
A truck drove into the courtyard from around the corner of the next building. Workers in yellow overalls holding shovels stood in the back. The truck stopped.
“Come on, guys, quick, quick!” a voice shouted. Two of the workers jumped down immediately and began digging up the courtyard like maniacs. Two women pushing strollers stared at them in bewilderment. From the cabin of the truck a fat little man got out with a gas-powered saw; waddling along on his short legs, he started it up with a roar, rushed over to a linden tree, and the blade’s serrated teeth bit into the trunk. Sawdust began to collect.
“So much for that, goddamnit,” the short man cried out. “Bobrov, Egorych, chop ’em up! Cut down the rest.”
“They’re chopping down trees!” one of the women with a carriage said in horror.
“Hey, what are you doing?” said her friend.
The workers continued without answering. A window on the second floor opened and an old lady stuck her head out. After her a man, chewing and naked to the waist, also looked out.
“Why are the
y...
?”
“Like I said — those bastards will stop at nothing to defend their garages!” the old lady grumbled with defiance.
Two trucks with covered trailers drove into the courtyard. From the cabins two Tajik guys with picks slowly emerged. Spitting on their hands and exchanging a few words, they reluctantly shouldered their picks and began to break up the pavement. Two asphalt crushers drove out of the forest onto the street; their steel tips grabbed the asphalt. In the building the tenants began to look out of open windows. The sawed linden tree swayed and tumbled, its crown demolishing the swings of the playground. The tenants shouted indignantly. The little fat man ran up to an old poplar with his whining saw and furiously set to it. The orange excavator rolled off its base, knocking over giant, overfilled dumpsters. The containers tipped over and the trash fell onto the street. A long-nosed and very unhappy old man in an old BMW drove up to the cement mixers and gave them orders: “Pour it there, where you’re standing!”
Cursing, the drivers climbed into the cabins. The crane’s boom began to turn in between two tin garages, snagging them as it moved; a GAZelle reversed and pushed its way in backward. The vehicle’s cabin held a steel basket with ten Azerbaijanis in red hard hats and protective suits. The crane picked up the basket and began to raise it quickly. The basket swayed, the Azerbaijanis shouted at the crane operator. Concrete flowed from the churning mixers onto the square in front of the building. The crawling excavator hooked two cars, and their alarms rang out. The old poplar swayed, cracked loudly, and began to collapse slowly, its branches catching on telephone and electrical wires, trees and balconies. With tremendous force, its crown hit the glassed-in balcony of the apartment where Merog was hiding. The window frames cracked, the glass shattered. Shouts rang out from open windows.
Observing everything happening around the building, Merog grew pale. Dashing over to the suitcase, he closed it, grabbed it, and ran to the front door. He opened the door and immediately slammed it shut: indignant tenants were running down the staircase. Someone rang the doorbell. Merog froze. Then they knocked. And a woman’s voice sounded: “Nina Vasilevna, they crashed into your balcony! Nina Vasilevna!”
The doorbell rang again.
On tiptoe, Merog went into the kitchen and with suitcase in hand cautiously looked out the window. Down below, immersed in the din of the asphalt crushers, a growing crowd of tenants followed the machine operators back and forth; someone tried to climb into the cabins with them; cement poured out of the mixers and crawled toward the building; human feet sludged through it; the Tajiks hammered away with their picks, the earth diggers dug, the short guy sawed through the next poplar, shouting angrily. Merog took a close look: the short guy’s face was all red, his head shook, and he was frothing at the mouth. A woman in a dark-blue robe decorated with silver dragons ran up to him, grabbed his reddish, bristling hair, and pulled him off the poplar. Shorty dug his heels in, resisting; the saw in his hands was still roaring. He jerked away with his whole body, drew back, and slashed the woman across the face with the saw. She screamed, grabbed her face, and sat on the ground. The crowd gasped and screamed. The short guy, muttering and pulling his head into his shoulders, stared at the woman with a crazed look. He let out a sob. The men in the crowd rushed at him, shouting. And suddenly that very same long-nosed and extremely unhappy old man, who had arrived in the dusty BMW, stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle so unexpectedly loud that for a moment it cut through the roar of the machines and the cries of the crowd. The crowd shuddered and froze. As if by command, the machines stopped crunching the asphalt. Everyone stared at the old man. He had obviously not realized his strength: his extraordinarily strong whistle turned out to be too much for his skinny body. Blood spurted from the old man’s large nose, his eyes rolled back; he raised his thin hand, clenched his bony fist, snorted, tottered, and fell flat on his back. Immediately, with furious cries, the people with shovels and the Tajiks attacked the building’s tenants. Picks and shovels flashed above the crowd, the cries of the wounded could be heard. The excavator’s bucket, after smashing a balcony on the second floor, crashed into the window and pushed farther into the apartment. With loud cracking and crunching it scooped household articles onto the lawn in front of the house. The asphalt crushers crawled over to the building, placed their steel tips against the walls, and with a crash began to destroy them. From the next courtyard a red fire engine approached, directing a stream of water at the windows of the building. Firemen in helmets nimbly unrolled the fire hoses. The Tajiks and people with shovels, scattering the crowd, burst into the entryway with their bloody picks and shovels. Simultaneously, the Azerbaijanis used the electric saw to rip the roof to pieces.
Merog’s whole body shuddered; he licked his dry lips. The doorbell kept ringing and fists pounded on the door.
“Nina! Ninochka! Nina! Save us!” a woman’s voice howled.
Merog grabbed the automatic and threw the door open wide. On the other side three women were crowded together. Screaming and wailing, they pushed in through the doorway. Merog fired straight at each of them in succession. Clumps of meat flew into the stairwell, the women fell one by one. Picking up the suitcase in his left hand, Merog ran across their dying bodies and flew up the stairs. Other neighbors were running down the stairs. Some of them were holding axes and knives. Merog began to shoot them, climbing higher and clearing the way. Crashes, cracks, and cries sounded through the building. Merog climbed several flights and saw four Azerbaijanis with pistols entering the building from the roof. They fired at him. Dodging out of the way, he fired his last round. The Azerbaijanis collapsed with cries and groans, but there were others coming in after them. Shots rang out and a bullet hit Merog in the neck. He tossed the empty automatic, held the wound, and rushed downstairs with the suitcase. Another bullet pierced his side. Moaning, he kept on going. The Azerbaijanis didn’t give up. The lower floors of the building shook; cracks snaked across the walls; the firemen’s water spray beat at the windows; the tenants who were still alive screamed. Merog looked down — a crowd of Tajiks with picks in hand was climbing up from the second floor.
“Catch him!” they shouted on seeing him. Holding on to the suitcase with both hands, he raced through the first open apartment door and froze: in front of him rose the bucket of a bulldozer, raking out the contents of the apartment. Merog held the suitcase tightly to his chest. The bucket moved forward with a grinding sound. It crumpled some low shelves loaded with dishes, bookshelves cracked, a leather sofa popped open, and a television exploded. The bulldozer’s huge teeth came closer. Merog took a step and rushed back. But the sweaty dark-faced Tajiks were already very close.
They struck his head with a pick and Merog fell. Countless swarthy hands grabbed the blue suitcase. With his last bit of strength Merog fought them. Shrugging him off, the Tajiks opened the suitcase, shaking the boy onto the floor. Merog clutched, clutched, clutched with his bloody hands.
“That’s him, the fucking bastard!” a woman’s voice screamed in English, and through the Tajiks’ filthy hands, a pretty hand with a gold-plated Browning stretched, stretched, and stuck the barrel to the pale, rosy, defenseless chest of the sleeping boy and pulled the trigger.
“Noooooo!!!” Merog screamed wildly, jerked forward, and sunk his teeth into someone’s stinking foot in a worn-out sneaker.
“Filthy dog!” came a roar from above, and the sharp end of a pickax entered Merog’s temple with a crunch.
Merog opened his eyes.
The Mercedes was still driving along the MKAD.
And the boy was still asleep next to Merog in the open suitcase. Merog exhaled with a heavy moan and shook himself. He leaned over and pressed his head to the boy’s body.
“What is it?” said Tryv, looking back from the front seat. “
I can see
: your heart is uneasy.”