23

Marina bought a bottle of wine and a bag of sunflower seeds in a convenience store. She walked sipping from the bottle and spitting out the sunflower shells. They proceeded down Zubovskiy Boulevard as multiple lanes of cars sped by them. Mitya squinted at the car lights as they blended with the neon signs of the still-open stores, and felt peace and beauty.

“Thank you for taking me on this walk. I feel like I don’t know Moscow at all,” he told Marina, trying to shell the seeds using only his fingers.

“Dance while you’re young, boy,” she quoted from a pop song. “I like it too. It’s as if I didn’t have to think about my life. Just you, and the city, and wine. And sunflower seeds. Ooh, I love them. But the best thing is something you don’t have here in Moscow but we have in Donbass. Milk sunflower seeds. It’s when the sunflower is almost ripe: the seeds are tender and you can squeeze them out of the flower head. Chyort, I miss it.”

She drank from the bottle some more. They had reached the traffic light, and Marina looked at Mitya with eyes that seemed wet.

“You know, I’m becoming desperate. My life is not what I planned for when I came here. I wanted to help my parents and have some fun, I had a vague idea, but I did not think it would be so hard and so complicated.”

The light turned green, and they began moving forward. Mitya wasn’t sure how to respond. Which aspect of her life was she talking about precisely? He wanted to help, but he felt so useless and naive.

“Can you marry Gleb?” he finally asked. “You seem happy with him.”

“I wish. I mean, I love him, I do, but he doesn’t understand some of it. And his parents don’t want him to marry some village broad; they think I’m after the propiska—Moscow intelligentsia at their finest, chyort poderi. And I expected them to understand at least somewhat, because they’re from Uzbekistan originally. But he doesn’t reason with them, or anything. So if we do get married, we’d have to find another place to live, so we don’t crowd them. And his salary, you know how much he makes at the university doing his PhD? I make the same selling this stupid underwear part-time. The only difference is his boss isn’t grabby, like mine.” She sneered and drank more.

Mitya stayed silent.

“I know it could be worse. I’ve met some other Ukrainian girls here who have to prostitute themselves. And they’re not gorgeous putanas like on TV shows. They’re gross. Ugly, beaten up, some underage. It’s nauseating to see them. They come and buy lingerie from me, and then wear this cheap lace against their bruised popa, it’s sad. At least I don’t have to do that.”

Mitya caressed her arm.

“I wish you were older.” Marina smiled. “You would marry me, and you could be a model, rich and famous, and I would wear fur coats and drink champagne all day, and at night we’d take these walks.”

“I could never be a model,” Mitya corrected her. “They have to be manly and strong.”

“You’re so silly. You are way more beautiful than you can ever imagine. Don’t you see how people look at you, in the subway? Sometimes I’m jealous, I swear. I thought I was pretty. But you’re like a star child, an alien. They can’t stop staring; they want more.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m beautiful. It means I’m strange. People stare at freaks.”

“Say what you want. But as your model manager I prohibit you from slandering my client,” Marina said, pretending to be stern, and Mitya felt grateful because she managed to do it so easily: to say good things about him, but at the same time, to make it light, like a joke, so that he could choose to believe it or not.

They crossed from Zubovskiy Boulevard to Smolenskiy Boulevard in silence. Mitya decided he could talk to her about everything he wanted. First, he told her about the needle and how it was protecting him from harm. It came easy, and Marina responded to the story really well: interested, trusting. So Mitya carried on sharing.

“Remember how I tried to find Zolotoy?”

“Yeah, you told me you went looking and didn’t find him, right?”

“I think he is a prostitute too. When I went to the pleshka, that place he mentioned, many men wanted sex. One of them was a ment, and I barely made it away.”

Marina snatched him by the wrist and leaned down to him.

“Never go to places like that without me! What if something happens to you?” Her eyes were serious for a minute, but then she snorted with laughter again. “Or what if I miss all the fun? But wait, about Zolotoy. You didn’t tell me he was also . . . ?”

“I’m not goluboy; I don’t think.” Mitya blushed.

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out. But I like the idea of you having a crush,” she chuckled. “I didn’t know men could be prostitutes too, though. It makes sense. Men and their sex. What will they not do to get their ballsack empty? Back in Donbass, all the boys I knew were sex-obsessed by the age of ten or something. ‘Urine in their brains’ . . . Oof, I’m sorry, you don’t deserve me, I’m so indecent.”

“I touch myself,” Mitya said, without looking at her. He didn’t want her to think he was a child, but he also couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Good, it’s healthy. Better to touch yourself than touch others.”

“I want someone to touch me, though, but I don’t think anyone ever will.”

“Is this some weird way of asking me if I’ll take your virginity?” Marina’s eyes were so round and horrified that for a second Mitya thought she was serious. But then she cackled.

“No, I mean someone else.” He felt his face grow hot with blushing.

“Like Zolotoy?”

“No!” Mitya protested so defiantly that they both giggled.

“Don’t think about it too much. Goluboy, not goluboy. People should be allowed to have sex with whomever they want.”

“What if someone wants to have sex with me and I don’t?”

“Has someone been hurting you?” Marina asked.

Mitya didn’t have the heart to admit it and shook his head.

“Never let people have what they can’t have. And if they try, kick them in the balls. Like this.” Marina stopped walking and began kicking the air furiously. When she grew tired, Mitya noticed tears coming out of her eyes.

“You know, I’m one to talk,” she said quietly. “I have been sleeping with my boss again. I try to stop it, but he gives me money. Says that he loves me, and his wife is fat and sick, so she doesn’t give anything to him. Don’t I have any compassion? It’s not like he forces me. But I don’t want it. I feel so dirty.”

“Does Gleb know? What if Sasha finds out about him too?”

“Oh, Sasha. That’s the best part.” Marina took a big gulp from the bottle. “Remember how I threatened him with the Azeri gangsters when he had your cousin in jail? Rokovaya zhenzhina, femme, blin, fatale, starting wars between factions.”

“Wait, there is a war among the bratva?” Mitya said, worried that Zolotoy and Chervyak might be in the crosshairs.

“No. I mean, there could be. But not yet. Just if you read somewhere tomorrow that menty are battling the Azeri, don’t be surprised. Think of me.”

Mitya was relieved.

“I wish they would kill each other, though,” Marina continued with disdain. “Like, you know, in the kids’ poem: ‘Wolves were so afraid, they ate each other’s heads.’”

“I think Sasha loves you,” Mitya said. “He would never do anything to hurt you. I see it in his eyes.”

“Oh, Mitya, but it’s not about me. There’s more that you don’t know. I didn’t want to tell you, because you’d think less of me, or resent me. I should keep myself from getting involved with these shady men. Well, I’m drunk now, so khuy s nim, I’ll tell you.” She drank the last few gulps from the bottle and made a weird sound, as if her voice cracked from emotion. “You want to know who killed Valerka?”

Mitya felt tingles all over his body. He nodded.

Marina closed her eyes and started sobbing louder. Her face turned ugly, and yet it was the most beautiful thing in the world for Mitya. He felt angry and powerless because there was nothing that he could do to make her not cry.

“Sasha told me, when I was pushing him to investigate.”

She started sobbing again, and Mitya, as he waited, felt her pain as if it cut through his wrists. But at the same time he knew that she was about to say something that would make him hurt even more.

“It was him. Sasha . . . He accidentally—he says that it was an accident, at least, I don’t know—ran him over with his father’s car, when he wanted to park it in the courtyards of the Old Arbat, right between his apartment and Tsoi’s wall.” Marina paused, waiting for Mitya’s reaction, hoping that he would somehow make it easier for her to say this. He didn’t. “It was late and dark; he freaked out and told his father. He says that he didn’t want this, but because his dad is this big shishka, he called the militsionery and told them to take care of it. Valerka was not dead yet, but they finished him. Because that’s what they do.”

Mitya was stunned. It all made sense, but everything was just as he had anticipated it to be: terrible, or maybe even worse. Mitya didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find the words that would accurately describe what was inside of him at the moment and still not hurt Marina.

“I didn’t want to tell you because then what does it make me? I still ebus with Sasha. And it’s so horrible that I wanted to shelter you from this. I don’t want you to know how fucked up the world is, though I feel like you’re catching up fast. But Mitya, you are like the only good, pure thing in my life that isn’t tarnished by this shit, and there I go, drowning all faith in humanity left in you.”

“Was he at least sorry?” Mitya felt a wave of weak, fizzling anger inside of him. Not rage, but more of an irritation that didn’t make him want to do anything but wallow in his helplessness.

“He was. He cried. But if he’s so sorry, why did he ask the menty to do this thing with framing your cousin? Khuynya kakaya-to. It doesn’t solve anything, Mitya. But I’m the worst, you know. I keep sleeping with him. I hate him so much, but I think that he may be my one chance at a decent life here. I don’t think I have a choice. And it’s pretty rich coming from me when I say that the world is shit because I’m part of the problem.”

Mitya wanted to say so many things, but he didn’t know where to start. He put his arms around Marina, breathed in her smell mixed with that of wine, and held her. She had told him the truth, and she cared enough about him to want to shield him from the truth. That was way more than any other grown-up in the world had ever thought of him. And though he couldn’t have thought of a worse explanation for Valerka’s death, the relief of knowing was immense. Mitya felt as if he were recovering from an illness: he still felt weak, and everything hurt, but at least he had the strength to move now.

They stood like that, hugging, under the lights of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, for what could have been hours, or maybe mere minutes.

Finally, Marina pulled away from him.

“Thank you. I’ve never had a friend like you.”

“Me neither,” Mitya said through the tears.

“I’m glad we have no secrets anymore. Secrets poison friendship, and what we have is too good to lose.”

Mitya hesitated for a moment, but then figured that if he didn’t say anything at that point, he would never admit to it. He had to take the leap.

“I do have a secret, though.”

Marina squinted at him.

“This night is getting curiouser and curiouser. What is it? Spill it.”

“Remember how I told you that I like dressing up? Like a girl, for instance. Well, I don’t just dress up like a girl.”

“What do you mean?” Marina sniffled and wiped the bottom of her nose with the sleeve of her leather jacket.

“I like to be a girl. Sometimes. Not always.”

“See! I knew you were goluboy! Such a pretty boy can’t be normal.”

Mitya shrugged.

“Or wait, do you want to become a woman? Like, surgery and all that? My roommates were watching that stupid talk show with the guy with the mustache, you know, Moya Semya? And there was a guy who came on wearing the golden mask; they let people wear it for embarrassing stories. He said that he was born a boy but became a woman through surgery. I couldn’t see if he looked like a woman, though, because of the mask. But he had man hands. You can always tell by the hands. So do you want to be a woman?”

“I’m not sure. I like it sometimes. I wish I could do more things like that.”

“I’m sure you could pull it off!” Marina said and took one of his palms into hers. “See, even your arms are not manly. Maybe it’s because you’re little. But still. Wait, has anyone ever seen you? What do they say? Are you convincing?”

Though it felt nice sharing things with Marina, it grated Mitya that she approached everything in such a way, without sugarcoating it. He had never considered whether he looked convincing enough as a woman. It didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to dress up his body and put makeup on his face, not become someone else.

“Valerka. I don’t know. I think he thought it was me dressed differently.”

“Well, he wasn’t in his right mind, was he?”

There it was again. Mitya ignored that comment.

“My father beats me up for it. So I do it in secret. And Vovka, my cousin . . . Vovka beats me up too.”

Again, Mitya did not dare make the final step. He couldn’t tell her about the other experiences between him and Vovka. Owning up to Devchonka was one thing. It was a happy part of him. But the darkness where Vovka’s attacks tortured him was not a place where he wanted to take anyone, especially not after he’d learned about the circumstances of Valerka’s death.

“What right do they have?” Marina became aggrieved.

“They say it’s shameful.”

“They’re shameful. Just let your child explore, be himself, play around, experiment. It’s your son, who cares if he’s wearing a dress or pants? Makes me so angry.”

Mitya did not know what to say in response. But it was interesting that Marina noted that it made her angry. It never made him angry. Sad, yes, because in the beatings he saw shame, he understood that what made him happy would never be allowed to exist. But Marina’s indignation shifted this view. It allowed him to be angry, too, and that was a welcome change.

“Wait, so why have I not seen you as a girl yet? Should I feel offended? Here I go telling you you’re my best friend and get nothing in return, ‘a fig with butter’!”

She didn’t smile, but the earnest way she said it was so comforting, Mitya hugged her again.

“Okay, you will, I promise,” Mitya said into her hair.

Marina kissed him on the top of his head and retreated.

“Otherwise, you better beware!” She threatened him with a clenched fist. “But seriously. Thank you for sharing this with me. We’ll work it out together, okay? If you need to be a woman, or if you’re gay, we’ll work through it together. I know. And I know that while you’re by my side, it will all be good. I will sort it out for myself too. I will find a new job, won’t have to see my boss anymore, and I’ll move out of that apartment with those suki who hate me. I will break up with Sasha. And I will make Gleb be a man and face his parents. I will fix everything. And then I will have enough free time to manage you when you’re a bit older and even more stunningly beautiful. Female model or male model. Whatever.”

“Khorosho,” Mitya agreed and smiled weakly.

Mitya saw Marina to the metro and walked home. Before going up the stairs, he took a detour to Valerka’s playground. It was empty and still, only a bit of glow coming in from the lights on the building next door.

“I’m sorry,” Mitya said out loud, hoping that Valerka, wherever he was in spirit, could hear or feel it. He had thought it was so simple that there would be one, maybe two murderers who could be caught and apprehended. The bad apples who caused things to go wrong. But instead, it was all a system, rotten and screwed, in which little people had no chance. Especially if they were as kind and innocent as Valerka.

Mitya did not want to be kind and innocent, either, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.