Propping himself up on the wall with one hand, Veltsev made his way out into the front hall. The door was still locked. He looked through the peephole, tugged at the bolt, opened and closed his mouth again, and listened. Somewhere far away, almost out of hearing range, in that rugged silence, he heard the gasping siren of an ambulance or the police. Suddenly the phone rang in the kitchen. Veltsev pushed away from the door but stopped half a step away. There was no second ring; the rugged silence had swallowed that up too.
He returned to the room and was about to lie down when the phone started wailing again, and again broke off after the first ring. Veltsev smeared the wallpaper with his blood as he hobbled to the kitchen. He could barely feel anything between his chest and knees, and it seemed like his legs were moving independently of his body, first lagging behind, then rushing ahead, which made it quite a trick to maintain his balance. The light was off in the kitchen, but the small room was illuminated by garlands of colored lights framing the window on the inside. The red light on the old telephone, below the dial, was shining. Sitting at the table, Veltsev picked up the receiver, brought it to his right ear, and held it with his shoulder. His left hand, stretching toward the dial, rested on the table. In the receiver he heard the nervous voices of Lana and Baba Agafia interrupting each other—the telephone was on an extension.
“… when I saw him I nearly pissed myself,” Lana rattled on, short of breath. “I thought, that’s it, he’s going to shoot me. My Phuket’s fucked. Can you imagine?”
“Oh, and about that card of his,” Baba Agafia chimed in, barely listening to her. “It fell out of his passport, but he didn’t notice. After I locked you in I found it in the snow, and when I got home I couldn’t believe it. Why go to a hotel, I thought, if you have a residency permit, and then, if you’ve already paid for the hotel, come all the way out here? Well, I’m no fool, so I went and turned on the television. And there—saints alive!—I saw his photograph and his name. And a number to call.” Baba Agafia sneezed loudly, with a chesty wheeze. “I nearly died.”
“And nice Farid, when he came over”—Lana spouted laughter—“after I called you I gave him a buzz right away and figured out about Sharfik’s debt … He was in the bathroom then … so I let that little fool Farid know”—she whispered wickedly—“and an hour and a half later he and Sharfik shoot it out.”
“You could have done it earlier, dummy,” Baba Agafia said reproachfully. “He and those downtown characters nearly fell into each others arms out there. Where are your brains?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have told such a massive lie then,” Lana snarled.
“Well, who knew they’d show up so fast, and in this blizzard?”
“Well, you just shouldn’t have. This guy wasn’t going anywhere.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he fell for me, that’s how. I don’t know why. But I can always sense what these lechers are up to. More than likely—it’s not all that complicated—it was my latest sew-up. Even I didn’t expect that this time. There was even a little blood.” Lana paused. “Yeah, by the way, what did you tell them, the ones who came in the Mercedes?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Baba Agafia sniffed. “They didn’t just not have three hundred thousand, they didn’t have a kopek. I said I wouldn’t let them in. Over my dead body. Well, I could see they realized they were barking up the wrong tree. They walked away, whispered their secrets, and drove off. And now, just before you, they called again. They said they’d be right over. With the money. What about yours?”
“Who?”
“Oh, little Farid’s mujahideen.”
“That’s why I’m calling. This guy fixed everything, looks like, finished them off. Amazing.”
“How do you know?”
“None of their cells answer.”
“That
He returned to the room and was about to lie down when the phone started wailing again, and again broke off after the first ring. Veltsev smeared the wallpaper with his blood as he hobbled to the kitchen. He could barely feel anything between his chest and knees, and it seemed like his legs were moving independently of his body, first lagging behind, then rushing ahead, which made it quite a trick to maintain his balance. The light was off in the kitchen, but the small room was illuminated by garlands of colored lights framing the window on the inside. The red light on the old telephone, below the dial, was shining. Sitting at the table, Veltsev picked up the receiver, brought it to his right ear, and held it with his shoulder. His left hand, stretching toward the dial, rested on the table. In the receiver he heard the nervous voices of Lana and Baba Agafia interrupting each other—the telephone was on an extension.
“… when I saw him I nearly pissed myself,” Lana rattled on, short of breath. “I thought, that’s it, he’s going to shoot me. My Phuket’s fucked. Can you imagine?”
“Oh, and about that card of his,” Baba Agafia chimed in, barely listening to her. “It fell out of his passport, but he didn’t notice. After I locked you in I found it in the snow, and when I got home I couldn’t believe it. Why go to a hotel, I thought, if you have a residency permit, and then, if you’ve already paid for the hotel, come all the way out here? Well, I’m no fool, so I went and turned on the television. And there—saints alive!—I saw his photograph and his name. And a number to call.” Baba Agafia sneezed loudly, with a chesty wheeze. “I nearly died.”
“And nice Farid, when he came over”—Lana spouted laughter—“after I called you I gave him a buzz right away and figured out about Sharfik’s debt … He was in the bathroom then … so I let that little fool Farid know”—she whispered wickedly—“and an hour and a half later he and Sharfik shoot it out.”
“You could have done it earlier, dummy,” Baba Agafia said reproachfully. “He and those downtown characters nearly fell into each others arms out there. Where are your brains?”
“Well, you shouldn’t have told such a massive lie then,” Lana snarled.
“Well, who knew they’d show up so fast, and in this blizzard?”
“Well, you just shouldn’t have. This guy wasn’t going anywhere.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he fell for me, that’s how. I don’t know why. But I can always sense what these lechers are up to. More than likely—it’s not all that complicated—it was my latest sew-up. Even I didn’t expect that this time. There was even a little blood.” Lana paused. “Yeah, by the way, what did you tell them, the ones who came in the Mercedes?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Baba Agafia sniffed. “They didn’t just not have three hundred thousand, they didn’t have a kopek. I said I wouldn’t let them in. Over my dead body. Well, I could see they realized they were barking up the wrong tree. They walked away, whispered their secrets, and drove off. And now, just before you, they called again. They said they’d be right over. With the money. What about yours?”
“Who?”
“Oh, little Farid’s mujahideen.”
“That’s why I’m calling. This guy fixed everything, looks like, finished them off. Amazing.”
“How do you know?”
“None of their cells answer.”
“That
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