Chapter 35 Learn to Swim Faster
Learn to Swim Faster
Sergei pulled out a small black and white TV and carried it to the table, huffing. “Mish, get the VCR.”
The setup took five (or so) minutes while I sat clutching my unopened soda. Something was happening, and it wasn’t good. Why was it never good?
Such is life.
The button popped and clicked, and a white dot in the middle of the screen expanded into horizontal static as Misha nudged in a new, unlabeled tape.
Sergei returned to the table with his greasy fingers plunged into three empty glasses with polka-dot rims and a bottle of mid-grade (but sealed) vodka.
“I don’t drink,” I said as he splashed it across one and shoved it toward me. I hadn’t, not since Vitali told me.
“Everyone drinks,” he said flatly. “Friends drink, don’t they, Misha?”
“Makes the day go by faster,” he replied and lifted his in cheers.
“To friends,” Sergei said, and waited a moment for me to pick mine up. “And justice to those who hit women!”
The vodka hadn’t even touched my tongue, and I already gagged. But Misha drank, and I didn’t need him tapping my foot to know this wasn’t an actual choice, only the illusion of one.
The VHS tape clicked, then situated itself to better play out my nightmares. The TV spat up static, and then the image appeared.
A gray concrete room came into focus from the angle of an overhead corner-set camera. The picture wasn’t great, and I would be thankful for that in a few minutes.
A few pipes led to two deep sinks crowned with several rusty faucets, but otherwise it looked empty aside from something only partially shown at the corner of the screen. Just an old laundry room with a packed dirt floor, too small to belong to a facility like a hospital, but too big for a home.
“This from yesterday?” Misha asked. The other man nodded.
“See, I found this nice fellow stashed in one of my warehouses. And I told Vitali, if he didn’t come get his things, I’d throw them away. I’m not running a hotel.”
Misha swore suddenly. The thing at the bottom of the screen crawled out into the middle on all fours, being hurried along by a long stick being jabbed at the man’s sides.
“Come on Sergei, really?” he said. “Don’t make her watch this. Blyad, don’t make me watch this.”
I realized it was a cattle prod just as Sergei topped off my vodka.
“Does this shit thing have sound?” he asked.
I hoped not, but it did. I also hoped it wasn’t Vitali holding the weapon, but it was.
The image swam with lines before steadying to show two men whose faces I couldn’t see standing at the wall. The one on the floor was obviously Baranov, although he looked much worse than the last time I’d seen him, and wore only his underwear and most of a shirt.
“I heard you were looking for me,” Vitali said, spreading his arms as he strolled toward him. “Well, here I am, you found me! Now what? You have some questions, mraz?”
I flinched. Hearing Vitali swear had an acidity to it, but I wasn’t going to sit there and be surprised because I’d been present for Clipboard, and this would undoubtedly be worse, or Sergei wouldn’t bother holding me hostage like that.
Baranov spat at him, far braver than the other man had been.
“You know who was in the apartment?” Vitali crouched beside him, obscuring the man’s face from view.
“My Kotik. And not only did you point a gun at her, Baranov, but you put your hands on her. I would have shot you if you’d just rang the doorbell and been polite about it.
Now, bullets are off the table—too good for swine. ”
The man hissed something unintelligible and kicked, but another man entered the screen and stomped—breaking Baranov across the knees. Someone else came in with a large, round mass, heavy enough to be carried in both arms. He dumped it in a sink.
I glanced at Sergei, horrified.
It was a pig’s head.
“See, Katya,” he said without looking at me, “I like to know what’s going on. Keep my eye on things. But I have more places than I do eyes, so I have to record them. Sometimes I get lucky—like this. Great film. My favorite star. Yours too, isn’t he, Kotik?”
The blood drained from my face, and my body would soon follow.
“You pass biology in primary school, Baranov?” the black and white Vitali asked. “Because I see a pig in front of me, but it only has thirty-two teeth. I don’t think that’s right. In my opinion, there should be forty-four. So, we’ll remove yours and start all over. Clean slate.”
The clank of a metal cart came ahead of the girl pushing it along, and I watched as the policeman shouted and thrashed against the two men who restrained him while Vitali helped the woman set up the table.
“I want him awake for the whole thing. Start out with a small ketorolac injection,” said Vitali’s voice, all business. I couldn’t see him. “Get ammonia and gauze. Pavel can keep him conscious.”
Another shot of vodka appeared before me. This time, it was Misha who poured it. We exchanged sad glances; a mournful ‘cheers’ for our mutual fate.
The static buzzed, and the image flickered, skipping a minute or two ahead.
No longer a concrete wash area, but a makeshift hospital room.
The pig’s head was set up beside the surgical equipment, within reach of the table where Baranov was strapped in.
Vitali stood to the side, watching the girl prepare her tools.
The man screamed profanities, but they went unheeded.
“See, the interesting thing about pigs is, their teeth aren’t that different from ours, on a structural level,” Sergei said.
“But their proportions are all off. They’re bigger, and often pointier.
I know this because I grew up in a posyolok.
We had lots of pigs. You know who shouldn’t know that?
A kid from a city slum. But he’s brilliant, you know?
Creative. If I had known how creative, I would have bought him before New Zealand did!
But maybe that’s where the inspiration came from.
Anyway, if you watch, he makes all forty-four of them fit.
Baranov won’t be able to close his mouth. ”
He laughed and passed me the bottle. I gulped down a few swigs and wondered if this was a part of my birthday present.
“I don’t want to watch anymore…” I mumbled.
“What’s that American saying? Never watch sausage being made?” Sergei whooped.
“What are you doing?” Misha asked. “Why are you showing her this? Come on.”
“You know why he isn’t just ripping them out? Bothering to go through the trouble—the fucking surgery?” Sergei asked me. I shook my head; he would tell me either way. “Because—OH I don’t want to spoil it, watch! Watch!”
Vitali leaned in and posed a similar question to my attacker.
Sergei spoke quietly, reciting the line along with the Vitali on screen.
“…you know why you need teeth, Oleg? Because I’m going to feed you your hands. The same ones you used so liberally on my future wife.”
“It only took a few hours, you know.” His wet chicken smacks resumed. “I thought he’d cut them off first, but no. Made the cop eat the cherries right off the stems.”
The image blinked and cut out. Misha cracked the tape in his hands and pulled out the reel in dark, billowing ribbons.
“Barbaric,” he said. “I’m taking her home.”
Sergei hooted, but didn’t stop us as we walked toward the front door. He only shouted as it closed.
“I’ll ask around about your friend, Katya! See you soon!”
My head swam, but not enough. Misha and I were silent for most of the drive, except when I asked him if I could have the crusty bread bun I found at the bottom of his lunch bag. I needed something to soak up the vodka.
We were a block away when I finally said, “If that was yesterday, why is he gone for two more days?”
Misha scratched his head. “Don’t think about it too much.
I know he put a bullet in him before midnight.
There’s just… cleanup. Never asks anyone to do a job he wouldn’t do.
Then, we have to use the cop-killing for something productive.
Let whoever know, get some money in the right hands.
Sergei likes to make a public spectacle, so he’ll probably hand the body over to the morgue and let the Senator explain himself.
Really puts it in people’s minds that there are monsters in the shadows.
Of course, in reality, monsters don’t need shadows. He’s right there, in the open.”
My future wife.
“No,” I said. “You had it right the first time. Vitali isn’t a monster. He’s a hungry dog. And hungry dogs guard their bones.”
* * *
About Russia,
posyolok - village/township outside of big cities, often farming communities