The Knocks of Midnight

This story is the result of an education in Russian history, growing up during the Cold War, and a very lively dinner conversation at a friend's house.  All the photos on this blog are my own, unless otherwise noted. 

Knocks of Midnight

Copyrighted

ВТОРНИК

Alex and I were ahead of the others—they lived closer and could walk whereas I had to take the streetcars—clanging my way through the ancient cobblestone streets that have seen everything and yet reveal nothing. Their mood was somber, I thought, reflected in the still pools gathering between the rounded stones. For me it is either arrive twenty minutes early or ten late, the schedule is not concerned with the needs of one, and even a man of my dark powers can not affect the machinery in this manner. Alex arrived early too, never said why and I didn’t ask, just gave him a curt nod in the day’s fashion and rested my pack of Delegatskiyes on my hat, then it on my knee. I felt a moment of panic when I couldn’t find my matches: if I didn’t have those I’d also left my papers. Then I smiled knowing Elena had taken the matches from the breast pocket, in which I also felt the comforting worn edges of my mandate, burrowed like an insect in a cotton cocoon…

Peter and Paul Fortress, River Neva.  St Petersburg, Russia.

Late at night, after I’d left, I knew she lay fully clothed on the bed, a solitary wavering column of smoke rising above her delicate hand. During the days—though she’d never admit it—she liked the perks: fresh ham and fewer lines. Real tobacco. And possibly more, such as the way our neighbors would not keep eye contact with either of us. Late at night however, was a different story.

Rostov was third to arrive, his pear-shaped form gliding through the yawning door on his still shiny calfskin shoes. He had a new watch, it was fixated on his beefy wrist like a cold silvery eel chasing its own tail. Rostov’s wife was no longer with him, and we speculated he had done well on the black market. He had menacing gray eyes.

That shit Peter had to arrive with the Boss. Alex and I shared a look, as I ground the remnants of the cigarette into the bare cement floor. There was a trace of moisture in it, seeping in through the basement walls giving the air a smell of earth. Peter was tough, tough to deal with unless you were the Boss in which case he’d cut up his dacha into halves and present it to him as a wonderful podarok. He was tough on our marks too, but not because he enjoyed it. Peter had places to go, and wanted to get there fast.

The rest of us greeted the Boss in the Slavic method, three quick pecks on the cheek, alternating sides. This was one of the few nods to the old system still allowed. The Boss always looked tired, his fleshy skin gray and drooping—rancid butter that needs a good stir. We’d usually sit and all share a smoke before heading out, but he said there was no time tonight.

We all piled into the jet black Lada, Rostov drove. He had light-brown driving gloves and made us all wait while he pulled them onto his sausage-like fingers. The Boss always sat in front and never spoke the address, just pointed which way to turn. This time of night there was no traffic, no pedestrians, we were the only thing moving, a solo wolf on wheels proceeding surely through the night. The drive was not far, and as always we parked a block back. Rostov was an expert at it, drove the last three blocks with the lights out, then killed the motor and drifted to a quiet stop, resting one of the hard rubber wheels against the curb. Rostov crawled out the Boss’s passenger-side door, and we in the back went out the rear right door; less noise to alert anyone. Even the light sounds of our footsteps seemed like a parade, the echoes dancing off the cobblestones and cinderblocks.

The Boss knew the assignment, would get the call earlier in the day with the address, the arrangement of the apartment and how many lived there. Never information on their infraction, but always how many males expected. We were the Volk, the wolf, fangs bared, choosing our time to descend upon the Barrashki, the sheep. Rostov, Alex and Peter would go up the front entrance this time, and I got the fire escape. The Boss gave us three minutes to get in position.

I knew this area, had known acquaintances that lived nearby. This section had been built after the war, and the designs were a little more varied than where Elena and I lived, but ours was much more spacious. Each building was five stories, with one central stairwell, which was now being ascended by men with intent, bipedal beetles approaching a burrow. Each floor had five or six kvartiri, depending on the size and layout of each. It was important to get inside fast, otherwise the barrashki could scatter or worse, think they still had a chance and try fighting back. Rostov carried a mini sledge for this purpose, which could knock aside the smattering of locks each door wore like so many medals on its chest.

Cold tonight, and my breath fogged in front of me, tiny stars jetting through the deep. Hugging the wall was necessary, less motion for someone upstairs to see, but it was very cold leaning against the quarried rock, no doubt set in place by men stripped to the waist chanting the Volga Boatmen. I actually had a smile from that thought when she sprinted past, her dress torn and an arm bleeding.

How she had been running so fast with little noise was apparent once I saw her feet, naked on the cold cobblestones. I pulled my pistol and shouted at her to stop, which she did, surprising me. I ordered her to turn, and she rotated slowly like Venus on exhibition, her locks jet black with a few strays clinging to crimson cheeks. She was a doe, slender and graceful, meant to roam free in the distant countryside, not here in the city. Her eyes were smooth as pearls, shiny and shimmering—pools of translucence that knew not where the depth ended. She was still panting, and held her wounded arm to her belly, which had a small yet telling outcrop. Her other hand she held out towards me, paused and then took a few short steps, like a drunken marionette approaching its master. Her outstretched arm made several downward motions.

I swallowed quickly, told her to stop. She took another step. I licked my lips, then brought the hammer back, the metallic click achieving to do what my voice had failed. She was so majestic, despite the cold, her wound, the events, she held herself in great repose. A moonbeam transited from parts unknown and fell upon my head, and I thought of releasing her into the dark safe night. What had her crime been, I pondered, taking in this queen, regal and refined. A night out with the wrong commissar? Turkmen condoms? Each explained her quiet maternity.

If I did it, it would have to be fast. I lowered my weapon and gave her a sharp motion with my head. I dared not say the word, to do so would mean that I was actually letting an enemy of the state go, and certainly this was not that. It was not that, could not be that. I was merely setting loose a woman; a nymph; a doe. She stared back at me, her velveteen lashes blinking a semaphore’s acknowledgment, and her tiny foot turned slightly: a ballerina readying for the pirouette.

The shot was fired from behind me, while I was still looking at her, and I did not see it of course, just the spasmodic shake as she fell backwards. Peter strode past, grounding me back to reality as his shoulder grazed mine. Instinctively I brought my weapon back up to waist level; an embarrassed actor realizing he’s still onstage…

Peter was jerking, electric twitches that traveled his entire body up and down. He stood over the woman, brandishing the weapon several times and calling her names that are reserved for a séance. I noticed he was cut as well, and asked him about it.

“Eto nichevo…” he answered, masochistic to the ends of his being, despite knowing that I knew he was seriously injured, the deep gash in his ribs and the dark stain on his outer coat that looked like it had had a brush with the Spear of Destiny. Peter spat on the woman and shot her twice more in the face. I looked away, and fell against the cold brick of the nearest wall.

The ride back was short and yet eternal, Rostov gripping the wheel like the driver of a runaway troika, Peter gasping out short blurts as each bump slapped his newest orifice, and in the very back, the gradually cooling remains of the woman, and her still warm but crying husband.

The Boss said nothing, explained nothing, and just sat in his insular gray orbit, thinking what I could not imagine. I would have given anything to know Peter’s thoughts, and in fact, could have… How differently things might have turned out.

At the station Peter and Rostov left for the infirmary—only then did I see that Rostov had also been shot—and I helped Alex clean out the mashina once the man had been turned over, his limp form surprisingly rigid as I held his elbow. The woman’s body would be burned in the morning; along with whatever pieces they took from the man. We worked without talking, without looking at one another, and as best we could without a thought as to the horrors we were mopping up.

I got back later than usual, almost a third of the day gone already and the trams packed with workers and laborers off for another day in the socialist salt mines. I kept to myself, didn’t bother eyeing anyone or forcing them to look away first. Nor did I return my neighbors’ greetings in the corridor, or Elena’s in the kvartira for that matter. I could not even untie my shoes, just kicked them from my feet and struggled with my tie, then my shirt—popping several buttons off as I wrenched it over my head. The cold ceramic sound they made as they bounced to a stop on the cold tile is the last thing I remember before my mind shut down altogether.

ВОСКРЕСЕНЬЕ

Five days have passed and the nightmares worse, except that they occur while awake and sleep brings nothing but darkness and strange noises—the plaintive cries of whales trapped beneath ice. Elena in the kitchen; I can hear the metallic scrapes and whistle of chai. She let me sleep, of that I was thankful, though the sleep was useless. Just thankful as it may have meant she has rethought our talk.

Others have done it with success, and as I explained we had a good shot, especially with her relations in Berlin. She has always been stoic, but never so much as she was that day, her granite features softening just a little as she took in the cigarette. You want to risk all this she coolly asked, brandishing the white weed like a majorette’s baton. Round and round we’d gone, voices rising into the danger level, carrying into others' domains and their finely tuned ears...ears that twitch like rabbits at the slightest sound of danger. Or twitch like the whiskers of a fox when sensing opportunity. Before the conversation is resolved Elena pushes herself from the table and strolls away, leaving me alone with my burden.

She assures me that Peter knows nothing, that he was crazed and even if he did think something, so what? The team already down one with Rostov out, and Peter himself only somewhat useful. Elena’s logic sound, but it is still wrong, flat, disharmonious. She would not leave, even if Peter would creep into the kvartira late one night and perch on the end of the bed like a raven, cawing his intent to inform on us in the morning. Even with an event such as that, hard and true as November rain, she would never leave… Even with the way that Peter looked at me Friday, telling me with his smug expression that the job is canceled due to a situation. Staring into my face, slowly annunciating “situation” twice. I nod calmly, and after walking clear of the room vomit in the washroom, catching the janitor by surprise. He looks up and then winks at me and taps his throat with a single finger, nodding in friendly camaraderie over what he assumes is binge drinking. I tell him to fuck off and speed home, where I confronted Elena for the first time with my plan.

We eat in silence that Sunday. Storm clouds gather in the west.

Late evening and I prepare to leave, it takes longer than usual to convince my arms, neck and legs to go into the gaping cavern of clothing that longs to swallow me up and consume my very essence. Elena kisses my cheek, whispers good night and slips into bed before I pull my hat down and wind the hallway clock. Thoughts betray me and make me slow, each step takes a firm guidance from my moon-beamed head, and I barely make the second streetcar in time, despite myself slowing down and consider taking the streetcar the other direction, taking it to the end of the line… And to what? There are no answers, only questions, swirling maddeningly within me, ducking my head under the water and I cannot breathe. I stop myself and head to the rendezvous. To my destiny.

Late I arrive, Peter standing next to the Boss who is slouched in a wooden chair, his dull gray hair plastered to his skull like blades of dead grass. No eye contact. No excuse. Get in the car and Peter drives, squealing the tires as he locks the brakes at the destination.

Boss says the number, points at me and tells me the back. Points to the others and says to the front. Points to his watch and says five. As I walk away I see Peter speak into the Boss’s ear, they both stare down, down into the depths of the cold dark street, as if using it as a board on which to lay a plan. The boss looks up suddenly. Straight at me, no smile in his eyes. He points me to the back.

Standing below the fire escape, wondering what it will be tonight, whose lives we will reach out and touch. Wondering what the looks on those faces are, faces who are sound asleep adrift on dreams of comfort and joy, suddenly shaken awake by the knocks of midnight. Wondering about the faces…what they look like, what they think. How they feel. Surprise? Relief? Do they know? Do they long for the relief that reality may suddenly bring a dark car to fling them away, so they can escape their fears?

Suddenly I climb the short steps of the fire escape and look into 4A, the number for the night. The kvartira appears empty, aside from a naked dining room and heavily laden bookshelf. I break the glass, stepping inside. A voice asks who’s there, a man in a white shirt and groggy expression staring at the gun I point right to his face, not understanding the first time I tell him to get out, take the fucking fire escape.

Dragging a wooden chair, I knock over the table, bring the chair near the front entrance and seat myself upon it. Directly in front of the door, from which the knocks will come, they are destined to come...they must come. Palpitations in my chest, and for a moment I worry they will give me away, but then I know better and adjust my seat, careful to make sure I can see my own face in the entryway mirror… I stare at my reflection, and feel comfort, the recognition of something familiar, and the relief—it's relief—that soon it will be all over.

Peter should be knocking any minute.