The woman’s singing—Jazz’s, or whatever her name was—was husky as always and undeniably alluring. Good singing was good singing, notwithstanding the scratchy quality of the rib record. Fidelity wasn’t something I’d worried about even once in my life. It was amazing enough just to hear the sound come out.
“Say, there, mister, you look like a discerning listener. How about it? A limited-edition print! Get it before it’s gone!”
“I’m thinking about it.”
I was in Cherkizovsky Market, letting the hawker’s voice roll off my back as I pondered. I wasn’t rich enough to always indulge in this sort of thing—but I wasn’t so poor that I couldn’t ever, either. And if Stasia was busy, I’d have to kill some time at home…
—Music. Someone’s feeling cultured, eh?
Might make me look more refined. Maybe I’d pick up a broken phonograph somewhere and ask Mariya to repair it for me. I’d pay her for the trouble, of course. Then I could listen to Jazz’s ribs.
I could lounge on the sofa in the room in our hole and listen to this husky-voiced foreign woman sing to me.
I’d put a glass of vodka to one side. No Kalashnikov.
As fantasies went, I thought it was pretty classy. I’d still be no Captain Ilya Murometz, but I wouldn’t look half bad.
Looking good was another way of saying that you had cool to spare. And having cool to spare meant you could feed your family decent food, and go see your woman, and listen to music.
“Whoops, prosti <sorry>, comrade!”
“Yeah, zhalko,” I said.
I buried an elbow in the solar plexus of the kid trying to reach into my pocket. I ignored him as he writhed; I just produced my envelope. I plucked out a few rubles and handed them to the shopkeeper. “Give me one,” I said.
“Spasibo, vsevo horoshevo <Thank you for your business, and excellent choice>!”
He took the X-ray tape record and put it in an oil-paper bag, then handed it to me. The tape showed the bones of someone I didn’t know and was engraved with the voice of a woman I didn’t know.
I mean, I knew her name. Jazz. That was enough.
I held the package close to my chest and started off.
I had less money than before, but I had one more record. That was all, but for some reason, it made my steps light.
I was seized by the urge to take the record out and look at it—not that I would do such a thing. If anyone thought I was carrying something valuable, it would only get me in trouble. Like with the kid a minute ago.
Instead, I picked up my pace, hurrying through the din of the black market. The folks here seemed energized somehow—maybe it was the impending 2160 Olympics.
“Step right up—buy your television before the Olympic Games! Chiba-made, clear as crystal even without a magnifying lens!”
“Watch the 1980 Moscow games snova televizor. Use this karmanniy proyektor.”
“We’re taking bets on who wins the medals, starting at one ruble!”
Never in my life had I had any special interest in sporting events. I’d assumed the Olympics would have nothing to do with me until the day I died. But here we were.
—If you think of it like a sort of festival, maybe it’s not so bad.
I wasn’t out to piss on other people just because they enjoyed something I didn’t.
Was that having cool to spare?
If you had money, you could be cool. Cool could be bought with money. And it had a price that matched its value.
—When I put it that way…
Suddenly it didn’t seem so bad, Mariya drinking that bitter mud-water.
My little sister made her own money, spent it on something she wanted, and enjoyed it. Filling her room with monitors and calculating machines was probably something she’d thought she could never dream of.
I plopped myself down next to her without a second thought, the scorched smell of the coffee stand filling my nostrils.
The black-haired girl stayed standing, arms crossed, looking down at me with a glare.
“Dobriy den’ <Good day>, comrade. Right on time today, I see.”
“I’ve learned the value of time, you see. Also, I was chased out.”
“Tsk.”
An annoyed click of the tongue. Mariya bit her lip, another sign of frustration. But she didn’t say anything else.
I looked at her, thinking maybe I would mention the singing woman, Jazz, and the phonograph. Then I set the package with the rib aside and gazed vacantly at the passing bustle. Everyone hurried along, finding what they needed or holding it fast.
“Urgent job?” I asked. Beside me, I noticed Mariya flinch.
“I haven’t said anything about it yet,” she pointed out.
I put my chin in my hands and watched the crowd, moving only my eyes to take in my little sister.
“You’re not drinking your coffee.”
“Dumbass,” she spat, and clicked her tongue again.
I guess she didn’t want to waste any extra time, or maybe she was a bit panicked, or maybe both—because she started talking in a fast mutter. “The client is Organ,” she said.
“Hey, I wasn’t asking for the details—”
“No, listen—please!” she said, almost in a shout. “GRU is nosing around near Stasia!”
For a second, sound seemed to disappear from the world. The bustle of the crowd, the husky singing I could hear in the distance. I sat there stupefied, like a good big brother indulging his little sister’s demand, completely silent.
“A military guy who’s involved with her is planning to seek political asylum—and bring with him the WTO’s most state-of-the-art technology.”
Now, that was a story. It sounded like something an MI6 double-O agent would do.
“And they think Stasia is involved?”
“Fortunately—if you can put it that way—she’s close enough to the KGB…”
Meaning Aquarium couldn’t make any moves right away, and if they did, it would be a political blow to Organ. So for now, they were just circling, keeping an eye on things.
Mariya trailed off. It was just as well—I wouldn’t have understood if she’d tried to explain it to me. I had a mountain of other things to think of besides politics.
“What does the client want?” I asked.
“…” Mariya paused, then said, “The assassination of the man involved. The confiscation of incriminating documents. And for us to get the drop on GRU.”
“Can they guarantee Stasia’s safety?”
“Probably. She’s renowned all over Moscow, so without proof, even GRU couldn’t…”
“And why do they want me for this job?”
“I assume because Organ wants a deniable asset in case you fail.”
“Reward?”
My almost mechanical response pulled the rug out from under Metel.
I looked up at Mariya, but I didn’t see her expression. She was sliding down next to me, like snow falling off a roof.
Her face was whiter than snow as she looked at me. Her eyes stared straight into mine. I realized how beautiful she had become.
“Wait, Big Brother,” she said. “You actually want to do this?”
“Da.”
I answered like it was nothing, just another assignment.
I felt a tug on my sleeve. “……Nyet.”
Of course, only Mariya would do that.
She repeated “nyet” over and over, shaking her head and sending ripples through her black hair. My little sister gripped my sleeve with her pale fingers, like she’d done all those years ago in our rathole.
“You might die,” she said finally.
“Stasia might,” I replied. “And then me… Then all of you, one after another.”
There’s a joke that goes like this: The general secretary is giving a speech when someone sneezes. He demands to know who did it. No one says anything, so he starts purging people, beginning with the guy closest to him and working his way down the line.
Finally, he gets to the last person in the room, who’s quivering and shaking.
The guy admits that it was him who sneezed. And the general secretary responded with:
—Oh, it doesn’t matter, comrade. Feel better soon!
“You brought the assignment to me because you knew I’d say yes, but then you make that face when I accept it. This is how I know you’re not all grown up yet.”
I was such a sucker for the face Mariya was making at that moment—always had been, since she was young.
Mariya bit her lip and looked at the ground. Her black hair cascaded over her face, covering it. She still hadn’t let go of my sleeve.
Then she let out a “Tsk” very deliberately, making sure I heard her. I smiled in spite of myself.
“I keep telling you to drop that habit,” I said.
“I will not,” she replied, then added, “It’s your fault, Danya.” Then she sniffed and rubbed her eyes with her palms. Finally, she looked up again.
I felt like I needed to say something, you know, appropriate. “Aw, c’mon,” I offered. “Don’t worry so much.” I rubbed her head, though somehow it felt wrong to do so with my big, rough fingers. “I’ll just have to do what I can.”