I climbed into the birdcage elevator, put in a few coins, and descended to the first floor. Elevators were normally filthy, broken, and covered in graffiti and stickers. But the one in the thirty-four-floor skyscraper where Stasia lived was a sharp contrast. None of the good-for-nothings in the city would dare rough up the youngest of the Seven Sisters on the banks of the Moscow River. When it came to her, even the time the elevator spent descending felt elegant and exciting.
If you ask me, the secret ingredient was those few coins you had to pay to ride. People who paid for their elevators didn’t dirty them. And as for those who couldn’t pay, well, the stairs were free.
Still savoring the taste of the tea, I heard the pleasant ding of the bell as I reached my floor and stepped out.
“Ahhh. Finally got here, did you, Danila Kragin?”
“…Ugh, koshmar.”
As I got out of the elevator, I found my way blocked by a diminutive old lady.
“Oh my. What a ridiculous getup, Danila Kragin.”
We were standing in an elaborate lobby done in stone, with a painted ceiling—I guess it was called a fresco—above us. And this old lady was showing me her fangs.
She had gray hair, pulled back so far and so high that I thought maybe it was making her wrinkles worse. She looked as thin and fragile as a weathered branch, but she glared at me with eyes that glinted like a hawk’s.
“Your hair is everywhere, your vest is covered in dust and dirt, you’re wearing military-issue boots, and to top it all off, you’re dragging around that absurd toy.” As she spoke, she pointed twiglike fingers at my head, my shoulders, and my feet in turn.
“Madam Pisken,” I started, “I—”
“Ne nado <Enough>. I don’t want to hear any excuses,” she interrupted. Then she pursed her lips and snorted.
She was wearing the same black dress she always did, and I couldn’t help thinking she looked like an old witch. All she needed was a pointy hat. She must have been hiding one at home somewhere, I’d bet on it.
I never knew how to handle Madam Pisken. Stasia said she was like a mother, but I wasn’t sure that was true. If it was, though, then every kid in the world was in for a rough time from the day they were born.
“You realize who you come here to see, don’t you?” Madam Pisken said, her voice as loud and shrill as scraping metal. I didn’t understand how she could seem to be looking down on me when she was a head shorter than I was.
Once—quite a long time ago—I’d screwed up my courage and, hoping to make something happen, told her as much. Madam Pisken had only snorted and said, “I was born this way.” Her parents (if she had such a thing!) must have been very stouthearted people.
“She’s not some whore who opens her legs for just anyone,” Madam Pisken went on. “That girl is a first-class actress. Am I wrong?”
“Nyet,” I said.
“You think she’s fit for some random ugolovnik? Well?”
“Nyet.”
“If you know that, you could at least dress decently for her! That’s the pride of the Pisken Theater you’re dealing with.”
“I guess you figure nothing can ever happen to your reputation as long as you’ve got Stasia,” I said.
“I figure that Stasia is sweeter on you than you deserve.”
Cursing my careless tongue, I froze as the old witch glared at me again. I would rather be in the sights of a cyborg’s infrared vision.
“I tell you. That girl! Nothing good has ever come of her being sweet on a man.” Madam Pisken continued to fix me with a piercing glare as she griped on. “Let me tell you something, young man. There’s an endless supply of ‘top-class Janitors’ like you.”
—You know what’ll happen if you try to sponge off her?
Even I understood what she was silently asking. There was only one answer.
“Da.” Obviously.
Satisfied with my prompt reply, the madam spread her palms in an elegant gesture. It was her signal that the lecture was over. I breathed a sigh of relief and fished an envelope out of the pocket of my body armor. Then I counted out some bills—perfectly neat, not a wrinkle on them. Khorosho <Good>.
“Na,” I said.
“Good.” She took my rubles—again, elegant as she did so—and put them carefully away. I’d never seen Madam Pisken do anything so uncouth as counting them. “The fact that you actually have the money on you never, never ceases to amaze me.”
“Is there some fool who thinks he can see Stasia without paying?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t believe it.”
“Ah yes. You are an unbelievable fool, Danila Kragin.”
“…Tsk,” I grunted. Madam Pisken smirked, and I scowled in return.
She probably would have said she was paying me a compliment—but there wasn’t one person in Moscow who would have smiled and said thank you to get a compliment from this old bag.
—No, wait. Maybe one.
Stasia would have been thrilled to hear a few kind words from the woman who ran the Pisken Theatre.
“Gee, thanks,” I said. I had to admit defeat.
Madam Pisken snorted again and said, “Next time, take a couple of hours to come see one of her performances!”
I went through the entrance, feeling like I was being chased. I pulled up the collar of my body armor against the piercing cold.
—It’s because of the Moscow River.
The wind that came over the blue ribbon flowing past me picked up that bone-deep chill.
A real “top-class Janitor,” I thought, would be someone like Uchitel, “the Teacher.” A woman. Identity unknown. Some said she was an orphan. Absolutely unbeatable in close-quarters combat. She was like Baba Yaga.
I trotted along, my breath freezing as it came out of my mouth, and—as was my custom each time I visited—I looked up. There was a big, bright sign counting down the days until the 2160 Moscow Olympics. Not that I cared much about that. It was just sort of there in my vision.
I was focused on a much bigger sign, which showed the most beautiful girl in Moscow smiling at everyone but me.
“Tupoi <Fool>. Who am I kidding? Most beautiful girl in the world.”
I could have kissed the posters and signs for the Pisken Theatre, which were everywhere in this city.
That was about all a Janitor could do for Miss Moscow.
And maybe bring her some money.