Читать книгу Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection - Dmitrii Taganov - Страница 3

Ivan Rebrov woke up, as always too early, it was not yet six. Whenever he went to bed, sober or more often drunk, he woke up at this time and did not know where to put himself, especially recent years. He slid down from the wide bed and stepping over thick carpet went to the door. Passing by the high mirror, he glanced with no particular interest at his bare thirty-five-year lean and sinewy body. Without closing the door behind him in the toilet, he began to urinate, carefully examining the brown puddle in a toilet bowl. This morning it was almost of brick color, whether from the drugs or from the disease itself. Then for the first time in a day he cautiously, as if it was a child, touched his chubby and sore liver.

On the way back, before reaching his door, he grasped the door handle of the adjacent second of his bedrooms and jerked it open. On the wide bed lay a sleeping girl, scattered among the crumpled sheets. Last night his driver brought this night-butterfly for him. Rebrov did not even ask her name: she would have lied anyway. He called her Masha then as all of them before.

Yesterday Rebrov could not do anything with this girl. His right side ached badly after the dinner. He tried to fondle her, but immediately was overcome with nausea. So two of them just sat in silence and watched TV till midnight. When he paid and ushered her to the doors she started to beg him pitifully to stay till morning: she had no place to sleep. He did not like it, but thought maybe he will get stronger in the morning, could try again, and maybe that was the better time for him to have sex. So she stayed.

He entered the door, silently walked to the bed, stopped beside it and gently pulled off the sheet from her body. Asleep, she lay on her back, slightly bent at the knees, tanned, and with a sharp white strip where her panties should have been. Looking up and down at her beautiful naked body, he attentively listened to his own desire. There was none. He felt only that familiar big and cold, whining but not yet really aching, in his right side of the belly – the liver.

The rage silently aroused inside of him. His hand grabbed the edge of the sheet to tear it away, to wake her up, and then to give her more money, to get her away from his house, out to the highway to get herself a taxi and beat off to her Moscow. But it came to him that it will raise her crying, screams, noise, and it will destroy the soothing silence of his morning house. He gritted his teeth, then threw the bed sheet back over her body and went back to his room.

Rebrov sat down in a chair in front of the TV set, but didn't turn it on, and just stared out the window. From the second floor of his mansion he could see the far woods turning yellow, the milky clouds running in the dim morning sky. It distracted somehow his mind from the troubles, and he recalled yesterday's telephone conversation. His telephone rang late at night when he was sitting with the girl at TV set. That was Leonid Levko, the President of the bank, and his partner, though formally Rebrov was his subordinate. After some standard polite words Levko asked, “Can you drop to me around one o’clock? We can lunch together.”

Such a long time they didn’t lunch together – why all of a sudden tomorrow? They met this morning, and nothing important was said, they just shook their hands. So this late call could mean that something happened, good or bad. Rebrov didn’t expect good news from anywhere, so that will be bad news anyway.

“I’ll come,” he said curtly.

“Good. What cuisine do you prefer, French or Chinese?”

Levko had two personal chefs: Frenchman and Chinese, and they cooked lunches for him in turns. This question made Rebrov’s nausea to arise again in his stomach, and he almost banged the phone at the wall, but restrained himself and said quietly,

“It’s same to me, Leo. Bye.”

Rebrov owned half of their bank, more precisely forty-nine percent; the remaining percentages were Levko’s. Levko was the President, and Rebrov was a Chief of the bank’s security service. He didn’t care about more prestigious or sonorous positions, and has been bank’s head watchdog already for ten years.

Rebrov began to turn over in his mind what else could happen so suddenly, bad or dangerous, to their bank, or rather to his money. From the recent world financial crisis their bank got out plucked of thousands of unreturned credits, with great losses by depreciated shares in their portfolio, and with huge debts in dollars to foreign banks. Moreover, they were recently caught by Central bank authorities with factual criminal money-laundering business. If they will take away the banking license, it will be finishing smash for the bank and Rebrov’s own millions. He always kept all his money in this single bank, twenty million dollars in the beginning, ten years ago. But how much of it was still there? He never understood the bank’s mechanics, and reckoned it should be there in some vaults, but always felt with dread, it was not so. “And where’s Levko’s money?” Rebrov pondered. “Out in off-shores, and in Switzerland. Scoundrel!”

When Rebrov killed his first man he was sixteen. He ran away from the boarding school and began to work with a team of lumberjacks. It was in the early nineties. With perestroika, all state farms collapsed in their Novgorod remote villages. Half-broken tractors, rusty equipment, and hungry calves were then distributed among dumbfounded peasants, and everybody was invited to free-enterprising Capitalist world. With a great pump the land was distributed among them, though in the form of vouchers, pieces of paper with seals, nobody knew what to do with, and would gladly swap it away for a bottle of vodka if anybody then offered. Nobody of them became farmers after that, because one should be born a master to be one, or to be skilled enough, or hard-working. Seventy years of Communism wiped all of that, and there was only devastation and mess in their heads now. The only thing, that could support the families of these men, and supply them with vodka they depended on from their adolescence, was timber.

The most brave and cool of them bought old or stolen equipment, and hammered together teams of crazed from the lack of money men, alcohol-hungry and ruthless. Bribing or intimidating corrupt and defenseless foresters, getting permits from them, these predators chopped down twice or thrice as much, leaving only bald hills that have been once thick with beautiful north-Russian woods. In the nights, with the hysterical roaring, groans, and squeaks overloaded trucks hauled their lumber through long back roads to the Baltic ports. Reaching the pierces, trucks with no delay drew near to cargo ships with Scandinavian flags, and a sharp-clawed paw of the crane hurriedly grabbed northern fir-trees and carried them down to the deep holds. This hard men’s lumber was paid on the spot, immediately, with cash from the cheap canvas bags. Packs of the money, tied up by rope bands, were hurriedly counted by the truck’s head lights on its hot and steaming radiators. No one ever tried to cheat here, for these neat Europeans were really afraid of the wild men from the woods.

Ivan Rebrov worked in the team of arrogant and impudent guy, Stepan, who was just born to do this murky timber business. Everybody, who had any power on these long roads to the port, was well bribed by him, and his trucks with lumber roared to the sea almost every night. But he was always late paying his hardworking men, and that day their pay was badly delayed, too. His men, used to vodka from almost childhood, and now weeks from their last drinks, could only stealthily curse their boss: they wouldn’t get a job anywhere else here. Probably, their boss delayed money deliberately: less vodka, more timber to the port.

Ivan Rebrov, as young as he was, also couldn’t live and work in the frozen woods without vodka. Even in the boarding-school he frequently got drunk not only with his gang, but also with their “educators”. Those were local village guys that couldn’t get any other job before army enlistment. Sometimes they even drank together, or loaned money for a bottle when their pupils were out of money they usually got for cranberries or mushrooms sold to a girl at mobile shop.

In February once, late in the dark, Rebrov and the driver returned with a load of lumber from remote allotment; a severe frost in the woods, in their stomachs nothing but hunger, and both in great need of a drink. Their truck struggled forward over the narrow bumpy log-path in the snows, its headlights pushing aside crowded at the road black timber. Suddenly, behind the turn down the hill, where they worked all last week, two rubies of tail lights flared up under truck’s headlights. It was plain whose jeep stood there in this midst of dense forest: Stepan, the boss, arrived to inspect with master’s eye the stacks of his ready to howl timber.

“Stop here!” suddenly and unexpectedly for himself Rebrov said to the driver. The heavy truck groaned and stopped. In the dark Rebrov went by tractor trail to the timber stacks, and the anger as a cat with its claws tore on him. He was going just to get some money his boss owed them, because he badly needed a drink, and he was bored to death with potatoes’ meals of their team cook. But when he saw Stepan with a flashlight between the stacks he pulled out his knife. Rebrov thought that he would simply show this knife to Stepan, and the boss would understand: his hard workers are desperate, just on the edge without money. But boss, Stepan, had heard the roar of the truck, and now stood there looking cautiously at someone coming to him in the dark. In the forest a man senses a danger clearly, and Stepan sensed it immediately. When Rebrov was closer and he could make out in the dark his stony face, Stepan picked up two-yard long piece of timber and got ready. Closer, when they saw the eyes of each other, both men understood it was too late to talk. Stepan began to raise his timber, but Rebrov suddenly threw his fur-hat up and forward. Stepan glanced upwards, uncovering his bare neck under thick collar of sheepskin jacket, and immediately the knife entered his bare flesh under Adam’s apple.

Stepan still wheezed and spattered the snow with bloody foam out of his ripped throat, but Rebrov already threw open his jacket and fumbled through his pockets. From the wallet he threw everything out on the snow and picked up the money. There wasn’t much – who would go with money to the forest.

When they moved on, the driver asked, “Talked to him?”

“No.”

They drove in silence to the settlement, but nearing the store Rebrov said, “Stop here.”

With moans and groans heavy log transporter stopped. In the store Rebrov bought two bottles of vodka and a pair of pork stew cans, and he was out of money again. In the truck’s cab he handed one bottle and a can to the driver. Driver looked cautiously into Rebrov’s eyes and didn’t move to take it at first. But then took it all right, and shoved it under his seat.

“Utter a word that we stopped there, and I’ll saw your head off,” simply and softly said Rebrov.

The driver, huge middle-aged man, just looked into this youngster’s eyes, nodded and said nothing.

The jeep was soon found, and police came. They walked and looked over freshly and heavily snowbound allotment with high timber stacks and left it until spring. They found Stepan only at the end of April, when the snow melted in the clearings, and this snowdrop, as police call them, showed up.

“The lousy gambler!” Rebrov thought of the banker Levko, looking through the window. “It is my bank, mine. I beat all the money from the debtors ten years ago – they wouldn’t return you a cent!”

That was true. Indeed, after the default of a ninety-eighth, when even the state itself refused to repay its debts, the winged phrase emerged among shady businessmen, “Only cowards repay their debts”. Bankrupted Levko gave his new acquaintance a list with a dozen of names and multiple-digit sums against each one and said to bandit Rebrov, “Of the money you knock out of these gents half is yours. And then we’ll launch a new bank together.” Bandit Rebrov knocked the debts from almost all of these gentlemen. The only one who did not respond to his arguments was dead the next day. With this money they opened a new bank, which Levro proposed to name "Straight Credit". It sounded respectable, honest, but a banker and gambler Levko meant something different: a winning hand in a poker, Straight Flush.

Outside the window, down in the village, dogs barked, late roosters cried, and these simple homely sounds soothed Rebrov. Years ago this time in the mornings his mother returned home from the barn with a steaming bucket of milk. She kindled fire in the stove, and with the crackling of wood their dark morning hut turned bright and joyful.

When Rebrov by sheer chance came to Moscow, he could not really believe that one can permanently live in this city and stay normal and happy. When he pocketed his first millions, he immediately moved out of city. However, when the realtor took him to see a newly built house in the “elite” cottage settlement that sprang then around Moscow with mostly corrupt or criminal money, and when he saw these stone mansions with turrets, saw faces of this “elite”, that would become his neighbors, he didn't even bother to look what’s inside, and just turned and walked back to his car.

He told his realtor to find him better some land in a simple village, where he could build a house of his dream. Realtor found in a week this beautiful but crumbling village with four neighboring families dreaming to get out of here and become city dwellers. Rebrov bought them for a million greenbacks four apartments in the capital, burned all their huts, sheds, and started new construction. He built his house of the northern fir-trees, almost a yard thick. He hewed house frame himself beaming with pleasure, and the hired carpenters just smiled with amazement and clicked their tongues.

All of his land Rebrov planted with apple-trees. But then he made a mistake that he didn’t know so far how to set right. He fenced his land with a wall of pressed tin sheets. That was quite widespread way for newly rich to hide away from the peering eyes. Outside, such a brightly painted fence looked good. But inside, one’s look was obstructed everywhere by close and monotonous wall that immediately evoked a disturbing feeling of being confined to some penitentiary. Rebrov never had been in a jail being convicted, with God’s mercy. But he spent three months in Butyrka preliminary prison, waiting for a court, on charges of plunder. Nothing was proved, but Rebrov learned there to appreciate his freedom.

Rebrov was in love just once when he was eighteen, and as it turned out the last time too. She lived in the neighboring village, on other side of the lake. That village was much bigger, and there was even a food store and elementary school with two classes. Adolescent Ivan Rebrov went to his school on a horseback: every day six miles around the lake, and six back. Only in January, with wolf weddings in full play, when they ran baring their teeth even into the villages, his father harnessed his horse in a sledge, threw inside an old rusty shotgun and drove his son to the school. But that happened only if his father could be livened up in the morning, because in the evenings he was mostly dead drunk.

From May till late autumn, if there was no high winds, young Rebrov sailed to that village by boat. The boat was made of two thick aspens, hollowed out and fastened by steel bolt. They didn’t build boats any other way here. On the banks of numerous forest lakes one could always find such a boat, roiki, all of them for everyone’s use. Very stable and lifting, they did not require any maintenance: overturned in late autumn, with aspens bottoms up, they were left thus until spring. They were frequently used to transport cattle to far pastures, and less frequently, coffins, for the last trips by lake to the cemetery.

The cemetery was even further behind that village, on a hill by another lake. There were buried all Rebrov’s grandfathers and grandmothers, there also rested in peace his beloved mother. Near the cemetery once stood a beautiful church, that was seen miles away, but in the thirties atheist bolsheviks dismantled it to use the quality old bricks and its bells for scrap. They left only high bell-tower, obviously, for some military reasons. Now this tower, declined and decayed, with thin birches growing on the crumbling bricks high over the ground, stood as if looking with sorrow at surrounding forests, lakes, the depopulated villages, recalling better life there: proper, godly and sober.

Ivan and Masha went to school together for only two years. From the third year he was sent to boarding school, and Masha was taken to her relatives living in the district center, having there a good high school. They saw each other and played together every summer, but real love came to Ivan Rebrov only at eighteen.

He worked then again in the woods, but with another team. He worked hard, sawing the timber and hauling it by the trucks. They paid better there and more regularly after that grim incident. Rebrov did not drink much and saved all the money: he wanted to repair his house and add one more room, good enough to bring his wife into. They both were waiting for spring to marry, when Masha will be eighteen, too.

Rebrov worked all that winter on distant allotments. Almost every week someone of their team went back home for a short stay to one of the neighboring villages, and Rebrov exchanged with his Masha gentle and loving letters. Rebrov never went home himself and didn’t see her several months: he wanted to test their love, because he had to go to the Army soon. He tested their love all right, though it didn’t endure their winter parting. By the end of the winter fewer letters reached the snowbound woods, and they became kind of formal and dry, and by the early spring they stopped coming. In April one fellow that came from the neighboring village frankly revealed to it to Rebrov, “She’s having a good time, your Masha.”

Rebrov went home only on First of May holidays. That was both official and folk festivities stretching often well up to Ninth of May, the Victory day. He sailed to her village by roiki with his little brother, but he didn’t go to her house but stayed by the store with a bunch of his old half-drunk friends. He drank half a glass of vodka, then some more, but his soul was trembling. Then he suddenly saw her. She walked down the village main street, closely arm in arm with some guy. Rebrov’s friends, who knew about his love, stopped talking at once, and the dead silence fell on store’s porch. She saw Rebrov, too. As if trying to hide her boy from Rebrov she fussily turned, but then stepped forward, with a back to her boy, breasts to Rebrov, with worried and scared eyes, as a bird protecting her nestling.

Rebrov stepped forward. He just wanted to say “Hi!” to congratulate her with a May’s Day, and maybe to have some talk. But she warily backed from him, bumping at her boy. Rebrov, taken aback, stopped. Something flashed in his affected by vodka mind. And getting his knife out of pocket, he walked to them. Deeply insulted, with everybody around watching, Rebrov felt he should kill this guy now, because nothing else could lift his months-old pain, whatever happens with him afterwards.

Unexpectedly she flung herself at him, threw her arms around his neck, kissing his face and pushing him back. Rebrov couldn’t even to move away his knife in time and it stuck between them with its blade between their stomachs. She was kissing his face all over, pushing back, step by step, away from her boy. Rebrov felt his knife cuts her, but she did not stop kissing, silently pushing him further back from her boy. Finally, he threw out his hand with the knife sideways and cast a quick look at it. The blade was glittering red. With his other hand Rebrov gently pushed her back, just to take a look at her. Down her waist over her festive dress ran a bloody stain.

Something that was painfully strained for months suddenly snapped and broke in him. He reached out his hand down to her bloody stain, but she at once threw herself back from his hand, and Rebrov saw closely her eyes. There was nothing in it but unconcealed stony fear. Rebrov let down the knife from his hand and it fell on the ground. Then he closed his face with both hands, turned and slowly walked away. Feet brought him down to the lake and he got into his boat. Something hard and tight suddenly squeezed his neck and a lump rose in his throat. He clamped both his hands to the eyes and his body violently shook all over. Soon his little brother came running after him. Rebrov leaned overboard, drew a handful of cold water and splashed it on his face.

At home Rebrov packed his sporting bag, tried to wake up his drunken father, but then hugged his brother and went in the light spring night to the railway station some fifteen miles away. Passenger train stopped there once a day. On even days of a month the train went to Sankt-Petersburg, and on the odd days to Moscow. If it would have had happened to be an even day the train would have taken Rebrov to Petersburg, where his uncle lived, a non-drinking cheery fellow. Every time he came for vacation, to see his sister when she was alive, he always lured Rebrov to come and work with him at metal works. However, early morning of that day in May happened to be odd. Rebrov went to Moscow, became there firstly a burglar, and then a professional killer. He never came back to his village.