The Case of the Curse in Stalin Skyscraper
1.
I awoke to the sharp, piercing cries of crows. Their calls echoed in my ears long after they faded into the distance. Darkness had already fallen outside. Massive, somber clouds hung over the building, and an inexplicable feeling of alarm washed over me at the sight of the ominous mass spreading across the sky.
My head was pounding, and I was desperately thirsty. I rubbed my temples, trying to quell the pain, and pushed myself up from a wide, round bed, taking in the unfamiliar bedroom. Bathed in the bright light of a neon sign on a neighboring skyscraper, which practically peered in at me through a huge floor-to-ceiling window, I began to examine the spacious room, furnished with exquisite mahogany furniture. With each step, my feet sank into a soft, luxurious handmade rug.
My head was pounding, and I was desperately thirsty. I rubbed my temples, trying to quell the pain, and pushed myself up from a wide, round bed, taking in the unfamiliar bedroom. Bathed in the bright light of a neon sign on a neighboring skyscraper, which practically peered in at me through a huge floor-to-ceiling window, I began to examine the spacious room, furnished with exquisite mahogany furniture. With each step, my feet sank into a soft, luxurious handmade rug.
What the hell am I doing here?
I rubbed my temples again, desperately trying to recall recent events, but my memory eluded me, stubbornly tumbling into a dark abyss. Emptiness. Not a single image surfaced. I frantically searched my mind for any hint of a recollection, anything I could latch onto, something to which my past or present could anchor itself. But, alas, my mind preferred to remain enigmatic, steadfastly refusing to give me even the slightest clue.
WHAT IS MY NAME?! WHO AM I?!
Panic seized me, because I couldn't find the answers to these questions either. It seemed my entire existence had been wiped clean. As if I had never existed before this evening. I had become a lost soul, a ghost, a character in a book stuck on the pages, waiting for the author of "The Rough Draft" to write my story, granting me meaning and purpose.
Okay, breathe deeply! Your memory will come back to you now!
Perching on the edge of the bed, I clutched my head in my hands, as if that might somehow help. But no matter how hard I strained my memory, I couldn't dredge anything up from the past.
Barely managing to suppress the mounting panic attack that threatened to engulf me entirely, I fumbled for the switch on the bedside table. Soft, golden light filled the room, casting playful shadows on the walls.
I walked over to the mirror and began to scrutinize myself. My eyes were an unusually beautiful sapphire color – bright blue like cornflowers. But before I could even rejoice at this discovery, upon closer inspection, I realized they were just contact lenses. I hastily removed them and stared at myself. One hazel eye, reflecting my confusion, the other emerald green, which glimmered enigmatically as if it held the key to my locked memories.
"Surpriiiiise!" flashed through my mind with a mocking sneer.
My memory remained treacherously silent, offering no clues, not even about the color of my eyes. How could you forget something like having two different colored eyes?
Could I be so drunk last night that now I can remember nothing?!
But my appearance showed no signs of wild revelry. The elegant floor-length silk dress in a delicate turquoise color remained almost perfectly smooth.
Nope, most likely I was drinking. A small stain from red wine had spread on the side of the hem.
If I was so dressed up, it meant I was at some kind of party. I wouldn't wander around the city in an evening gown without a reason... But who knows me?
Closing my eyes, I tried again to stir up my memory, again without success.
What day is it today? What month?
I glanced out the window. A deserted street, surrounded by luxurious residential skyscrapers, stretched before me. The wind howled, frantically whipping the bare branches of the trees, and, in the light of the dim streetlights, dirty-gray patches of snow were melting on the dark asphalt.
November? Or the end of February? Or maybe March?
I decided not to guess, but to explore the apartment.
Slowly turning the doorknob, I cautiously opened the bedroom door and, stepping into the unknown, heard a slight creak that echoed down the quiet hallway. In the darkness of the apartment, there was a ringing silence. No faint hum of a television, no songs on the radio, no whispers, no footsteps or rustling in the neighboring rooms - a suffocating silence, devoid of human presence. Only crows cawed desperately outside the window, and somewhere nearby the hands of a wall clock ticked rhythmically.
In the gloom, I moved towards them and after a few moments found myself in a spacious living room with a wall-to-wall window, offering a breathtaking view of the night skyline of Moscow with its shimmering skyscrapers and the winding ribbon of the river in a necklace of bright lights.
"Hello! Is anybody here?" I asked cautiously, and mentally chuckled, imagining myself as the stupid girl from a horror movie, who always shouts "Is anybody here?", thereby giving themselves away to the evildoers.
But in response, there was still such silence, as if even the air had held its breath.
However, a few moments later, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and a silhouette appeared in an armchair by the window, comfortably settled in. Someone in the room was deliberately silent, ignoring my question! I felt uneasy.
"Sorry, I don't know how I got here. Can you tell me where I am?"
The silhouette continued to sit ominously in silence. A shiver ran down my spine.
What if this person attacks me?
Primal instinct suggested that the first thing to do was to urgently get rid of the chilling darkness. Frantically feeling for the switch on the wall, I flicked it, and in the same second that the light illuminated the room, I screamed in horror.
A young man, barely thirty, was sitting in the armchair, his throat slashed open. His once pristine white shirt was now soaked crimson. His eyes, glassy and vacant, stared straight at me, forever frozen in a mask of surprise, as if the final, fatal moment had caught him completely unawares.
Backpedaling, I was like a creature hypnotized, unable to tear my gaze from the dead guy.
Oh my God! While I was sleeping, someone killed him here!
I could have been next! Maybe sleep had saved me, keeping me hidden from the killer’s gaze. Or perhaps he hadn't known there was anyone else in the apartment.
My thoughts swirled like scalded cats, a chaotic jumble of panic and confusion. My heart hammered against my ribs, as if I’d just sprinted a marathon.
Then, my gaze snagged on a small table beside the sofa. A bottle of Moët & Chandon sat there, uncorked, alongside two elegant champagne flutes. A smear of red lipstick clung to the rim of one of the glasses. The same shade as the one I was wearing.
So, we'd been drinking champagne together, then I'd stumbled off to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed in my dress, and while I slept, someone had broken into the apartment and murdered the guy. Someone he knew well, judging by that look of utter surprise etched on his face. The killer had caught him completely off guard; the poor guy hadn't even had time to react before his throat was slashed.
Stop!
A terrifying realization pierced through the fog of my fear. Time seemed to grind to a halt as my eyes landed on a dark stain on my dress, near the hem. It was small, almost insignificant, but it radiated a dark, sinister energy.
We'd been drinking champagne, not red wine! What if… what if that stain wasn't spilled wine at all? What if it was... his blood?!
A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me.
DID I KILL HIM?!
The thought turned my legs to jelly, and I slid down the cold wall, collapsing into a crouch. My mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the fragmented puzzle of events that had led to this horrific climax. The silence of the night pressed in around me, amplifying the frantic pounding of my heart as I braced myself to face a brutal reality.
If I'd slashed his throat, my hands would be covered in blood! Or had I killed him, washed off the evidence, and then simply gone to sleep?! Am I capable of such cold-bloodedness? Am I truly a monster?
Summoning a sliver of courage, fueled by a desperate need to know, I cautiously crawled back towards the armchair and began to examine the scene more closely. At least there was no knife in sight. That meant the killer had taken it with him! Or thrown it out the window?
If I was the murderer, why hadn’t I fled? Why would I have calmly gone to sleep? It didn't make sense. No, it couldn't be me! I could have spilled red wine on myself at the party earlier, that's all! I had to believe that.
In my panic, I grasped at any thread of doubt, any possibility that could free me from the suffocating weight of guilt and terror.
Or maybe… maybe he had slipped something into my champagne? That would explain why I’d blacked out. And while I was unconscious, the killer had arrived and taken the murder weapon with him! Yes! That had to be it! That was the only explanation that allowed me to breathe.
I tried to convince myself I had nothing to do with the guy's murder, but even I barely believed it.
What am I supposed to do now? They'll accuse me of murder!
Suddenly, as if a lightbulb flickered on in the darkest corners of my subconscious, it hit me.
I must have a phone! I'll call someone from my contacts, and they'll tell me who I am. They'll help me! I just need to find my cell. Where is it? Probably in my purse! But where could that be?
I rushed to the hallway.
Yes!!!
On the entryway table, I saw a satin purse, patterned to match my dress. I snatched it up and opened it with a pounding heart, holding my breath.
No phone, no ID. Just a set of keys, a red Guerlain lipstick, and two five-thousand-ruble notes in the pocket.
In frustration, I threw the purse to the floor. The keys tumbled out and skittered across the gleaming parquet, practically begging me to pick them up.
What if...?
I paused for a moment, then bent down and picked up the beckoning keys. I held them up to the keyholes in turn - first one key, then the other. Both fit perfectly into the locks, as if they were made just for them.
Consumed by a new hunch, I flung open the closet in the hallway and discovered women's outerwear mixed with men's, and shoes in my size.
Do I live here?!
Maybe this guy with the slit throat isn't a stranger at all? Maybe I loved him?
My imagination gathered together, like shards of a shattered mirror, pieces of a life we might have shared. Images of us, gently falling asleep to a TV series on that very round bed, enveloped in each other's warmth, bathed in the light of the plasma screen on the wall. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the rays of the morning sun, dancing on his face as I lovingly prepared breakfast for him. Our evening strolls, hand in hand, along the embankment, admiring the magnificent sunset painting the Moscow River in golden and purple hues.
Who is he?
I returned to the living room and began searching the cabinets.
There had to be some kind of documents here, letters, or receipts. Anything with names and surnames written on it.
Desperation fueled my frantic search through the drawers and shelves, but my hope dwindled with each passing moment. I longed to find papers with our names, bills, letters, or snapshots that would attest to the life we once had. But all my efforts proved futile. Disappointment washed over me once more. The search of the apartment yielded nothing. Absolutely nothing! Not a single clue. Not even a photograph could be found. No headache pills either. Or any other medications, for that matter.
There's no way I don't have a phone. Let's say I didn't take it to the party because I forgot it at home. And I don't carry my ID with me. So, they must be here. But they aren't. Does that mean I don't live here? Or did I lose my phone at the party?... Or did the murderer deliberately take it with him?!...
Standing in the center of the room, where even the air felt heavy with my countless unanswered questions, I knew only one thing for sure - I needed to get out of here.
But where was I supposed to go?
I was faced with a choice - stay with the corpse until they arrested me, or wander the night streets without a roof over my head. A quote miraculously surfaced in my memory. I think Thomas Jefferson once said, "I prefer dangerous freedom over peaceful slavery in prison."
I chose freedom.
Hastily throwing a few things from the wardrobe into a duffel bag, I changed into jeans and a turtleneck. In the hallway, I put on a fur coat and pulled on low-heeled boots.
After a moment's thought, I decided to grab the stained evening dress and get rid of it along the way. Just in case. Rolling it up, I was about to stuff the dress into the side compartment of the bag and… discovered several stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
I whistled in astonishment, mentally thanking my guardian angels for arranging such a gift for me.
Stuffing the keys and the money from the purse into my pocket, I was going to leave the apartment, but as my hand touched the cold metal of the doorknob, it suddenly dawned on me that it wouldn't hurt to wipe away my fingerprints first. Just in case, too.
I brought a towel from the kitchen and began meticulously wiping away traces of my presence from the doorknobs, light switches, and all other surfaces I could reach. At that moment, it seemed like a sensible action to protect myself from potential future accusations.
But then rationality stirred within me – how necessary was this action, really?
If I live here, then, of course, my fingerprints should be everywhere.
Wiping them away now seemed pointless. I stopped my frantic cleaning and sighed with a sense of hopelessness.
Nevertheless, I still took the wine glass with lipstick stains and shoved it into the side pocket of the bag with the rolled-up dress, and replaced it on the table with another one, holding it with that same towel from the kitchen.
At that moment, my eyes fell again on the guy's corpse. He continued to stare at me with surprise, and I cringed under his gaze. His lifeless eyes, a reminder of the fragility of life, bored into mine, and that unblinking stare seemed accusing, piercing through my armor of innocence.
I sincerely felt sorry for him. He was attractive. Girls probably used to go crazy for him. Once upon a time. Could he have imagined, as he opened that bottle of champagne, that he only had a few hours left to live?
I tried to push away the disturbing thought that he might have been my boyfriend. My mind resisted returning to the vision of the two of us living in this very apartment, sharing a bed, watching "Game of Thrones" together after work, enjoying delicious breakfasts in the sun-drenched kitchen, or sweetly cooing after evening runs along the Moscow River. Perhaps we were madly in love with each other, or perhaps I ruthlessly took his life, slitting his throat.
I probably should have closed his eyes, but I couldn't bring myself to touch the dead guy.
"Rest in peace!" I said softly and was about to leave the room when, from somewhere, I heard a faint buzzing.
It was a series of barely perceptible vibrating sounds, as if a phone was silently ringing somewhere nearby!
It began as a series of faint, vibrating sounds, like a phone buzzing silently somewhere nearby.
I strained my ears, trying to pinpoint the source of the elusive noise.
Then I realized: the sounds were coming from under the armchair.
Could it be the dead guy’s phone? Had it slipped down there, overlooked by the killer in his haste? Or... could it be mine?
Carefully, I reached under the chair, my fingers brushing against something smooth and cold. I pulled it out – a Samsung, displaying a missed call from someone named Stas.
Please, no password. Please, no password...
I chanted silently.
Yes! Lucky break!
But just as the screen flickered to life, revealing the phone's contents and I was ready to delve into its secrets, a new sound pierced the silence. It came from the hallway – someone was fumbling with the lock, trying to open the front door!
I scrambled to my feet, every nerve on high alert, and listened, frozen in place. All I could hear was the frantic thumping of my own heart, a deafening drumbeat in the stillness.
WHAT DO I DO NOW?!
I rubbed my temples again, desperately trying to recall recent events, but my memory eluded me, stubbornly tumbling into a dark abyss. Emptiness. Not a single image surfaced. I frantically searched my mind for any hint of a recollection, anything I could latch onto, something to which my past or present could anchor itself. But, alas, my mind preferred to remain enigmatic, steadfastly refusing to give me even the slightest clue.
WHAT IS MY NAME?! WHO AM I?!
Panic seized me, because I couldn't find the answers to these questions either. It seemed my entire existence had been wiped clean. As if I had never existed before this evening. I had become a lost soul, a ghost, a character in a book stuck on the pages, waiting for the author of "The Rough Draft" to write my story, granting me meaning and purpose.
Okay, breathe deeply! Your memory will come back to you now!
Perching on the edge of the bed, I clutched my head in my hands, as if that might somehow help. But no matter how hard I strained my memory, I couldn't dredge anything up from the past.
Barely managing to suppress the mounting panic attack that threatened to engulf me entirely, I fumbled for the switch on the bedside table. Soft, golden light filled the room, casting playful shadows on the walls.
I walked over to the mirror and began to scrutinize myself. My eyes were an unusually beautiful sapphire color – bright blue like cornflowers. But before I could even rejoice at this discovery, upon closer inspection, I realized they were just contact lenses. I hastily removed them and stared at myself. One hazel eye, reflecting my confusion, the other emerald green, which glimmered enigmatically as if it held the key to my locked memories.
"Surpriiiiise!" flashed through my mind with a mocking sneer.
My memory remained treacherously silent, offering no clues, not even about the color of my eyes. How could you forget something like having two different colored eyes?
Could I be so drunk last night that now I can remember nothing?!
But my appearance showed no signs of wild revelry. The elegant floor-length silk dress in a delicate turquoise color remained almost perfectly smooth.
Nope, most likely I was drinking. A small stain from red wine had spread on the side of the hem.
If I was so dressed up, it meant I was at some kind of party. I wouldn't wander around the city in an evening gown without a reason... But who knows me?
Closing my eyes, I tried again to stir up my memory, again without success.
What day is it today? What month?
I glanced out the window. A deserted street, surrounded by luxurious residential skyscrapers, stretched before me. The wind howled, frantically whipping the bare branches of the trees, and, in the light of the dim streetlights, dirty-gray patches of snow were melting on the dark asphalt.
November? Or the end of February? Or maybe March?
I decided not to guess, but to explore the apartment.
Slowly turning the doorknob, I cautiously opened the bedroom door and, stepping into the unknown, heard a slight creak that echoed down the quiet hallway. In the darkness of the apartment, there was a ringing silence. No faint hum of a television, no songs on the radio, no whispers, no footsteps or rustling in the neighboring rooms - a suffocating silence, devoid of human presence. Only crows cawed desperately outside the window, and somewhere nearby the hands of a wall clock ticked rhythmically.
In the gloom, I moved towards them and after a few moments found myself in a spacious living room with a wall-to-wall window, offering a breathtaking view of the night skyline of Moscow with its shimmering skyscrapers and the winding ribbon of the river in a necklace of bright lights.
"Hello! Is anybody here?" I asked cautiously, and mentally chuckled, imagining myself as the stupid girl from a horror movie, who always shouts "Is anybody here?", thereby giving themselves away to the evildoers.
But in response, there was still such silence, as if even the air had held its breath.
However, a few moments later, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and a silhouette appeared in an armchair by the window, comfortably settled in. Someone in the room was deliberately silent, ignoring my question! I felt uneasy.
"Sorry, I don't know how I got here. Can you tell me where I am?"
The silhouette continued to sit ominously in silence. A shiver ran down my spine.
What if this person attacks me?
Primal instinct suggested that the first thing to do was to urgently get rid of the chilling darkness. Frantically feeling for the switch on the wall, I flicked it, and in the same second that the light illuminated the room, I screamed in horror.
A young man, barely thirty, was sitting in the armchair, his throat slashed open. His once pristine white shirt was now soaked crimson. His eyes, glassy and vacant, stared straight at me, forever frozen in a mask of surprise, as if the final, fatal moment had caught him completely unawares.
Backpedaling, I was like a creature hypnotized, unable to tear my gaze from the dead guy.
Oh my God! While I was sleeping, someone killed him here!
I could have been next! Maybe sleep had saved me, keeping me hidden from the killer’s gaze. Or perhaps he hadn't known there was anyone else in the apartment.
My thoughts swirled like scalded cats, a chaotic jumble of panic and confusion. My heart hammered against my ribs, as if I’d just sprinted a marathon.
Then, my gaze snagged on a small table beside the sofa. A bottle of Moët & Chandon sat there, uncorked, alongside two elegant champagne flutes. A smear of red lipstick clung to the rim of one of the glasses. The same shade as the one I was wearing.
So, we'd been drinking champagne together, then I'd stumbled off to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed in my dress, and while I slept, someone had broken into the apartment and murdered the guy. Someone he knew well, judging by that look of utter surprise etched on his face. The killer had caught him completely off guard; the poor guy hadn't even had time to react before his throat was slashed.
Stop!
A terrifying realization pierced through the fog of my fear. Time seemed to grind to a halt as my eyes landed on a dark stain on my dress, near the hem. It was small, almost insignificant, but it radiated a dark, sinister energy.
We'd been drinking champagne, not red wine! What if… what if that stain wasn't spilled wine at all? What if it was... his blood?!
A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me.
DID I KILL HIM?!
The thought turned my legs to jelly, and I slid down the cold wall, collapsing into a crouch. My mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the fragmented puzzle of events that had led to this horrific climax. The silence of the night pressed in around me, amplifying the frantic pounding of my heart as I braced myself to face a brutal reality.
If I'd slashed his throat, my hands would be covered in blood! Or had I killed him, washed off the evidence, and then simply gone to sleep?! Am I capable of such cold-bloodedness? Am I truly a monster?
Summoning a sliver of courage, fueled by a desperate need to know, I cautiously crawled back towards the armchair and began to examine the scene more closely. At least there was no knife in sight. That meant the killer had taken it with him! Or thrown it out the window?
If I was the murderer, why hadn’t I fled? Why would I have calmly gone to sleep? It didn't make sense. No, it couldn't be me! I could have spilled red wine on myself at the party earlier, that's all! I had to believe that.
In my panic, I grasped at any thread of doubt, any possibility that could free me from the suffocating weight of guilt and terror.
Or maybe… maybe he had slipped something into my champagne? That would explain why I’d blacked out. And while I was unconscious, the killer had arrived and taken the murder weapon with him! Yes! That had to be it! That was the only explanation that allowed me to breathe.
I tried to convince myself I had nothing to do with the guy's murder, but even I barely believed it.
What am I supposed to do now? They'll accuse me of murder!
Suddenly, as if a lightbulb flickered on in the darkest corners of my subconscious, it hit me.
I must have a phone! I'll call someone from my contacts, and they'll tell me who I am. They'll help me! I just need to find my cell. Where is it? Probably in my purse! But where could that be?
I rushed to the hallway.
Yes!!!
On the entryway table, I saw a satin purse, patterned to match my dress. I snatched it up and opened it with a pounding heart, holding my breath.
No phone, no ID. Just a set of keys, a red Guerlain lipstick, and two five-thousand-ruble notes in the pocket.
In frustration, I threw the purse to the floor. The keys tumbled out and skittered across the gleaming parquet, practically begging me to pick them up.
What if...?
I paused for a moment, then bent down and picked up the beckoning keys. I held them up to the keyholes in turn - first one key, then the other. Both fit perfectly into the locks, as if they were made just for them.
Consumed by a new hunch, I flung open the closet in the hallway and discovered women's outerwear mixed with men's, and shoes in my size.
Do I live here?!
Maybe this guy with the slit throat isn't a stranger at all? Maybe I loved him?
My imagination gathered together, like shards of a shattered mirror, pieces of a life we might have shared. Images of us, gently falling asleep to a TV series on that very round bed, enveloped in each other's warmth, bathed in the light of the plasma screen on the wall. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the rays of the morning sun, dancing on his face as I lovingly prepared breakfast for him. Our evening strolls, hand in hand, along the embankment, admiring the magnificent sunset painting the Moscow River in golden and purple hues.
Who is he?
I returned to the living room and began searching the cabinets.
There had to be some kind of documents here, letters, or receipts. Anything with names and surnames written on it.
Desperation fueled my frantic search through the drawers and shelves, but my hope dwindled with each passing moment. I longed to find papers with our names, bills, letters, or snapshots that would attest to the life we once had. But all my efforts proved futile. Disappointment washed over me once more. The search of the apartment yielded nothing. Absolutely nothing! Not a single clue. Not even a photograph could be found. No headache pills either. Or any other medications, for that matter.
There's no way I don't have a phone. Let's say I didn't take it to the party because I forgot it at home. And I don't carry my ID with me. So, they must be here. But they aren't. Does that mean I don't live here? Or did I lose my phone at the party?... Or did the murderer deliberately take it with him?!...
Standing in the center of the room, where even the air felt heavy with my countless unanswered questions, I knew only one thing for sure - I needed to get out of here.
But where was I supposed to go?
I was faced with a choice - stay with the corpse until they arrested me, or wander the night streets without a roof over my head. A quote miraculously surfaced in my memory. I think Thomas Jefferson once said, "I prefer dangerous freedom over peaceful slavery in prison."
I chose freedom.
Hastily throwing a few things from the wardrobe into a duffel bag, I changed into jeans and a turtleneck. In the hallway, I put on a fur coat and pulled on low-heeled boots.
After a moment's thought, I decided to grab the stained evening dress and get rid of it along the way. Just in case. Rolling it up, I was about to stuff the dress into the side compartment of the bag and… discovered several stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
I whistled in astonishment, mentally thanking my guardian angels for arranging such a gift for me.
Stuffing the keys and the money from the purse into my pocket, I was going to leave the apartment, but as my hand touched the cold metal of the doorknob, it suddenly dawned on me that it wouldn't hurt to wipe away my fingerprints first. Just in case, too.
I brought a towel from the kitchen and began meticulously wiping away traces of my presence from the doorknobs, light switches, and all other surfaces I could reach. At that moment, it seemed like a sensible action to protect myself from potential future accusations.
But then rationality stirred within me – how necessary was this action, really?
If I live here, then, of course, my fingerprints should be everywhere.
Wiping them away now seemed pointless. I stopped my frantic cleaning and sighed with a sense of hopelessness.
Nevertheless, I still took the wine glass with lipstick stains and shoved it into the side pocket of the bag with the rolled-up dress, and replaced it on the table with another one, holding it with that same towel from the kitchen.
At that moment, my eyes fell again on the guy's corpse. He continued to stare at me with surprise, and I cringed under his gaze. His lifeless eyes, a reminder of the fragility of life, bored into mine, and that unblinking stare seemed accusing, piercing through my armor of innocence.
I sincerely felt sorry for him. He was attractive. Girls probably used to go crazy for him. Once upon a time. Could he have imagined, as he opened that bottle of champagne, that he only had a few hours left to live?
I tried to push away the disturbing thought that he might have been my boyfriend. My mind resisted returning to the vision of the two of us living in this very apartment, sharing a bed, watching "Game of Thrones" together after work, enjoying delicious breakfasts in the sun-drenched kitchen, or sweetly cooing after evening runs along the Moscow River. Perhaps we were madly in love with each other, or perhaps I ruthlessly took his life, slitting his throat.
I probably should have closed his eyes, but I couldn't bring myself to touch the dead guy.
"Rest in peace!" I said softly and was about to leave the room when, from somewhere, I heard a faint buzzing.
It was a series of barely perceptible vibrating sounds, as if a phone was silently ringing somewhere nearby!
It began as a series of faint, vibrating sounds, like a phone buzzing silently somewhere nearby.
I strained my ears, trying to pinpoint the source of the elusive noise.
Then I realized: the sounds were coming from under the armchair.
Could it be the dead guy’s phone? Had it slipped down there, overlooked by the killer in his haste? Or... could it be mine?
Carefully, I reached under the chair, my fingers brushing against something smooth and cold. I pulled it out – a Samsung, displaying a missed call from someone named Stas.
Please, no password. Please, no password...
I chanted silently.
Yes! Lucky break!
But just as the screen flickered to life, revealing the phone's contents and I was ready to delve into its secrets, a new sound pierced the silence. It came from the hallway – someone was fumbling with the lock, trying to open the front door!
I scrambled to my feet, every nerve on high alert, and listened, frozen in place. All I could hear was the frantic thumping of my own heart, a deafening drumbeat in the stillness.
WHAT DO I DO NOW?!
2.
It felt like the moment fell frozen in time and an eternity had passed since I'd first heard those suspicious sounds coming from the hallway, sounds that now echoed in my chest, drowning out the frantic beat of my heart. There was no mistaking it: someone was tampering with the lock, their movements a strange mix of hurriedness and hesitation.
If it was someone who belonged here, why were they taking so long? It shouldn't be this difficult to open the door with your own key. Which meant... they were trying to break in?
My imagination ran wild, conjuring up gruesome scenarios, painting vivid pictures of whoever might be standing on the other side of that door.
Police or intruders?
Logic dictated that the police would call out first, or knock, their authoritative voices shattering the silence with a stern order to open up. I could almost hear those words echoing in the hallway, as if they'd already been spoken: "Open the door! Police!"
Thieves? Or were these something else entirely, people with intentions far more sinister than mere robbery?
With each passing second, the tension in the air thickened, squeezing me in a vise grip of fear and morbid curiosity.
Without much hesitation, I shoved my phone into a coat pocket, grabbed a large ceramic vase from the floor, tiptoed silently into the hallway, and froze behind the door, clutching my improvised weapon. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
I had to escape from here, by any means necessary!
When the door finally burst open and a male figure appeared on the threshold, I swung the vase with all my might, slamming it into his head, and bolted out of the apartment. I didn't even glance at the uninvited guest collapsing onto the hallway floor like a large rag doll, unwilling to waste a single second. My heart hammered in my ears as I hurtled down the stairs, covering seven floors in what felt like mere moments. As I ran, the thoughts in my head raced along with me, jumping and skipping.
There are definitely cameras in the entryway. And the concierge. She'll report that I was in the apartment at the time of the murder and only ran out in the evening. The police won't bother looking for the real killer; it will be easier to pin everything on me.
I'm the perfect scapegoat.
I was still pushing away the thought that I might have stabbed the guy myself.
Finally, gasping for breath, I reached the end of a dimly lit alleyway. Only after darting behind the last building did I stop to catch my breath. I needed to figure out where I was and which direction to head in to find a quiet, secluded place to examine the phone.
I pulled out the Samsung and opened Yandex Maps. The app pinpointed my current location: Moscow, Marshal Biryuzov Street[1], just a couple of hundred meters from the "Oktyabrskoye Pole"[2] station.
[1] Sergey Semyonovich Biryuzov was a Marshal of the Soviet Union and Chief of the General Staff.
[2] Oktyabrskoye Pole (October Field, named after October Revolution) is a station of the Moscow metro in the North-Western distict of Moscow. The station received its name from a nearby locality which was initially known as Voyennoye Pole (Military Field).
If it was someone who belonged here, why were they taking so long? It shouldn't be this difficult to open the door with your own key. Which meant... they were trying to break in?
My imagination ran wild, conjuring up gruesome scenarios, painting vivid pictures of whoever might be standing on the other side of that door.
Police or intruders?
Logic dictated that the police would call out first, or knock, their authoritative voices shattering the silence with a stern order to open up. I could almost hear those words echoing in the hallway, as if they'd already been spoken: "Open the door! Police!"
Thieves? Or were these something else entirely, people with intentions far more sinister than mere robbery?
With each passing second, the tension in the air thickened, squeezing me in a vise grip of fear and morbid curiosity.
Without much hesitation, I shoved my phone into a coat pocket, grabbed a large ceramic vase from the floor, tiptoed silently into the hallway, and froze behind the door, clutching my improvised weapon. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
I had to escape from here, by any means necessary!
When the door finally burst open and a male figure appeared on the threshold, I swung the vase with all my might, slamming it into his head, and bolted out of the apartment. I didn't even glance at the uninvited guest collapsing onto the hallway floor like a large rag doll, unwilling to waste a single second. My heart hammered in my ears as I hurtled down the stairs, covering seven floors in what felt like mere moments. As I ran, the thoughts in my head raced along with me, jumping and skipping.
There are definitely cameras in the entryway. And the concierge. She'll report that I was in the apartment at the time of the murder and only ran out in the evening. The police won't bother looking for the real killer; it will be easier to pin everything on me.
I'm the perfect scapegoat.
I was still pushing away the thought that I might have stabbed the guy myself.
Finally, gasping for breath, I reached the end of a dimly lit alleyway. Only after darting behind the last building did I stop to catch my breath. I needed to figure out where I was and which direction to head in to find a quiet, secluded place to examine the phone.
I pulled out the Samsung and opened Yandex Maps. The app pinpointed my current location: Moscow, Marshal Biryuzov Street[1], just a couple of hundred meters from the "Oktyabrskoye Pole"[2] station.
[1] Sergey Semyonovich Biryuzov was a Marshal of the Soviet Union and Chief of the General Staff.
[2] Oktyabrskoye Pole (October Field, named after October Revolution) is a station of the Moscow metro in the North-Western distict of Moscow. The station received its name from a nearby locality which was initially known as Voyennoye Pole (Military Field).
22:55. The metro is still running. Great!
A bustling subway was the ideal refuge, a place where I could dissolve into the crowd and disappear into a sea of nameless faces.
On the deserted road to the station, I first got rid of the vase, smashing it in a trash can. Then, at the end of the next building, I tossed the blood-stained dress into a dumpster. Unfortunately, I didn't encounter a single pharmacy along the way. The headache was intensifying with each passing minute, and it was becoming clear that I wouldn't be able to manage without pills.
Finally, I descended into the metro, expecting chaos and a throng of passengers rushing about their business. To my surprise, however, the station was completely empty. The teeming mass I had planned to lose myself in was nowhere to be seen. In my mind, this should have been a bustling place, but apparently, people had chosen to spend this weekend evening at home, giving me the opportunity to wander the deserted underground in solitary splendor.
The cashier, wearing a white medical mask, frowned sternly at me and eyed the five-thousand-ruble bill with suspicion when I asked for a single ride.
"I advise you to get a 'Troika' card. Soon you won't be able to get around without it. And put on a mask," the woman added, casting a disapproving glance at me as she counted out my change with disposable gloves.
"Crazy!" I thought, stuffing the money into my pocket.
Passing through the turnstile, I pulled the hood of my fur-trimmed coat over my eyes. It belatedly occurred to me that I should have done this sooner, perhaps even before I'd descended into the underground. There were cameras everywhere, their lenses capturing every movement, every face. I was risking being caught by facial recognition software and sent to prison for a murder I didn't commit.
Probably didn't commit.
Rushing down to the platform, where a train was already waiting, I noticed the same mask on the train operator's face as the cashier had worn.
A second person in a mask in the last few minutes! What was this? Flu season?
Before I could recover from one surprise, another awaited me – entering the train, I discovered I was the only passenger in the empty car.
Weird! It isn't 1 AM, after all. Where is everyone?!
Only after the train started moving did I breathe a sigh of relief and reach for the phone.
I wondered, whose was it – mine or that poor guy's?
To my deep disappointment – a feeling I was already growing accustomed to over the last hour – the phone contained no photos, no messages, no emails. It was as if it had just been purchased.
I scrolled through the call log. Some meaningless names – Stas, Dmitry, Aeroflot, Vasily, Bank, Lyubimaya[1]... A call to her had been made yesterday afternoon.
So, it definitely wasn't my phone. Unless I was a lesbian[2]...
Just in case, I memorized Lyubimaya's number. After all, if that dead guy was my boyfriend, then he most likely called me, which meant that was my phone number. At least it was a lead.
Without much hope, I went into the apps. A bunch of games, books, entertainment. The more I scrolled, the more despair overwhelmed me.
How could Candy Crush Soda or a Russian-Italian translator possibly help me?
But Facebook was a different matter entirely!
Of course, the account was fake, under the name Sergio Marquina, with a photo of a dark-haired man in glasses holding a Salvador Dalí mask. According to the description of the second picture, Professor Sergio Marquina was a character from a Spanish Netflix series. It wasn't possible to gather any more information from his page. The blank wall was devoid of any posts or photos. No messages in nonexistent chats, no information in the "About" section, no notifications, no friends. This account had been created to reveal ab-so-lute-ly nothing.
On a whim, I dialed Lyubimaya's number (what if someone answered?) and held my breath in anticipation, but a woman's voice announced that the number was no longer in service.
Weird! He'd talked to her for almost seven minutes yesterday, and today the number is out of service...
Then I decided to call Stas, hoping he could give me some information about the murdered guy. At least his name. And then, if I was lucky, I'd be able to trace back to myself.
Stas answered quickly. As if he'd been sitting with his phone in his hand, waiting for this call.
"Where the hell have you been? It's impossible to get ahold of you!" he growled into the phone in an angry voice.
"Uh... I'm calling about this phone... The thing is, I found it on the street and want to return it to the owner. Could you tell me his name and how I can contact him?"
"What an idiot! Losing his phone on such an important day!" my interlocutor cursed in exasperation.
"Could you answer me faster? The battery is dying," I lied, to hurry the guy along.
"Where are you? I'll come pick up the phone and give it to Nikita myself when he gets in touch."
I hung up the call.
So, his name is Nikita. Was Nikita...
I strained my memory, as if wringing out a damp cloth, hoping the name would unlock some buried recollection. But nothing. The silence in my head remained unbroken.
Then it hit me, a jolt of ice water down my spine.
What if Stas went to Nikita's place? Discovered the body and called the cops? They'd trace this cell, hunt me down like a dog, and slam the cage shut before I even had a chance to use the information. It would be beyond idiotic to get caught over something so trivial, something that had given me nothing but the dead guy's name.
I switched off my phone and, as I stepped off the train, let it slip through my fingers as if by accident, down into the dark abyss between the platform and the train. A short, dull thud was the only sound. Goodbye, little spy.
The way to the Circle Line was usually a swarm of bodies, a human ant colony where you had to queue just to reach the escalator. But today... today it was eerily quiet.
I met only three people. A young woman descending the escalator steps on the opposite side. A lone guy standing on the platform. And at the far end of the concourse, a police officer, from whom I quickly ducked behind a thick pillar.
But all three shared a common detail. Dark, heavy masks covered the lower halves of their faces.
What the hell is going on? What is this, some kind of bizarre masquerade? Is it a new trend? Or something far more sinister lurking in the air?
I decided to change lines and head to Kievskaya station. From there, the train station was just a stone's throw away. I wanted to get on a train and get as far away from this cursed Moscow as possible.
But then it dawned on me: without a passport, they wouldn't sell me a ticket. I could try going through a train attendant, slip her a hundred bucks as a thank you for her "help," but where would I even go? I had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, because the hotel would present the same problem due to the lack of documents.
I felt completely lost. Where could I go, with night already falling? I didn't have internet access to search for suitable lodging. No phone to call the information desk, either.
Do they even exist anymore?
The only payphone I stumbled across was missing its receiver.
I made the decision to find temporary refuge in the "European" shopping center. At least for a couple of hours, a late-night movie would provide warmth and comfort while I figured out my next move.
[1] Lyubimaya means Beloved Girl.
[2] LGBT movement is recognized as extremist and banned in the Russian Federation.
A bustling subway was the ideal refuge, a place where I could dissolve into the crowd and disappear into a sea of nameless faces.
On the deserted road to the station, I first got rid of the vase, smashing it in a trash can. Then, at the end of the next building, I tossed the blood-stained dress into a dumpster. Unfortunately, I didn't encounter a single pharmacy along the way. The headache was intensifying with each passing minute, and it was becoming clear that I wouldn't be able to manage without pills.
Finally, I descended into the metro, expecting chaos and a throng of passengers rushing about their business. To my surprise, however, the station was completely empty. The teeming mass I had planned to lose myself in was nowhere to be seen. In my mind, this should have been a bustling place, but apparently, people had chosen to spend this weekend evening at home, giving me the opportunity to wander the deserted underground in solitary splendor.
The cashier, wearing a white medical mask, frowned sternly at me and eyed the five-thousand-ruble bill with suspicion when I asked for a single ride.
"I advise you to get a 'Troika' card. Soon you won't be able to get around without it. And put on a mask," the woman added, casting a disapproving glance at me as she counted out my change with disposable gloves.
"Crazy!" I thought, stuffing the money into my pocket.
Passing through the turnstile, I pulled the hood of my fur-trimmed coat over my eyes. It belatedly occurred to me that I should have done this sooner, perhaps even before I'd descended into the underground. There were cameras everywhere, their lenses capturing every movement, every face. I was risking being caught by facial recognition software and sent to prison for a murder I didn't commit.
Probably didn't commit.
Rushing down to the platform, where a train was already waiting, I noticed the same mask on the train operator's face as the cashier had worn.
A second person in a mask in the last few minutes! What was this? Flu season?
Before I could recover from one surprise, another awaited me – entering the train, I discovered I was the only passenger in the empty car.
Weird! It isn't 1 AM, after all. Where is everyone?!
Only after the train started moving did I breathe a sigh of relief and reach for the phone.
I wondered, whose was it – mine or that poor guy's?
To my deep disappointment – a feeling I was already growing accustomed to over the last hour – the phone contained no photos, no messages, no emails. It was as if it had just been purchased.
I scrolled through the call log. Some meaningless names – Stas, Dmitry, Aeroflot, Vasily, Bank, Lyubimaya[1]... A call to her had been made yesterday afternoon.
So, it definitely wasn't my phone. Unless I was a lesbian[2]...
Just in case, I memorized Lyubimaya's number. After all, if that dead guy was my boyfriend, then he most likely called me, which meant that was my phone number. At least it was a lead.
Without much hope, I went into the apps. A bunch of games, books, entertainment. The more I scrolled, the more despair overwhelmed me.
How could Candy Crush Soda or a Russian-Italian translator possibly help me?
But Facebook was a different matter entirely!
Of course, the account was fake, under the name Sergio Marquina, with a photo of a dark-haired man in glasses holding a Salvador Dalí mask. According to the description of the second picture, Professor Sergio Marquina was a character from a Spanish Netflix series. It wasn't possible to gather any more information from his page. The blank wall was devoid of any posts or photos. No messages in nonexistent chats, no information in the "About" section, no notifications, no friends. This account had been created to reveal ab-so-lute-ly nothing.
On a whim, I dialed Lyubimaya's number (what if someone answered?) and held my breath in anticipation, but a woman's voice announced that the number was no longer in service.
Weird! He'd talked to her for almost seven minutes yesterday, and today the number is out of service...
Then I decided to call Stas, hoping he could give me some information about the murdered guy. At least his name. And then, if I was lucky, I'd be able to trace back to myself.
Stas answered quickly. As if he'd been sitting with his phone in his hand, waiting for this call.
"Where the hell have you been? It's impossible to get ahold of you!" he growled into the phone in an angry voice.
"Uh... I'm calling about this phone... The thing is, I found it on the street and want to return it to the owner. Could you tell me his name and how I can contact him?"
"What an idiot! Losing his phone on such an important day!" my interlocutor cursed in exasperation.
"Could you answer me faster? The battery is dying," I lied, to hurry the guy along.
"Where are you? I'll come pick up the phone and give it to Nikita myself when he gets in touch."
I hung up the call.
So, his name is Nikita. Was Nikita...
I strained my memory, as if wringing out a damp cloth, hoping the name would unlock some buried recollection. But nothing. The silence in my head remained unbroken.
Then it hit me, a jolt of ice water down my spine.
What if Stas went to Nikita's place? Discovered the body and called the cops? They'd trace this cell, hunt me down like a dog, and slam the cage shut before I even had a chance to use the information. It would be beyond idiotic to get caught over something so trivial, something that had given me nothing but the dead guy's name.
I switched off my phone and, as I stepped off the train, let it slip through my fingers as if by accident, down into the dark abyss between the platform and the train. A short, dull thud was the only sound. Goodbye, little spy.
The way to the Circle Line was usually a swarm of bodies, a human ant colony where you had to queue just to reach the escalator. But today... today it was eerily quiet.
I met only three people. A young woman descending the escalator steps on the opposite side. A lone guy standing on the platform. And at the far end of the concourse, a police officer, from whom I quickly ducked behind a thick pillar.
But all three shared a common detail. Dark, heavy masks covered the lower halves of their faces.
What the hell is going on? What is this, some kind of bizarre masquerade? Is it a new trend? Or something far more sinister lurking in the air?
I decided to change lines and head to Kievskaya station. From there, the train station was just a stone's throw away. I wanted to get on a train and get as far away from this cursed Moscow as possible.
But then it dawned on me: without a passport, they wouldn't sell me a ticket. I could try going through a train attendant, slip her a hundred bucks as a thank you for her "help," but where would I even go? I had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, because the hotel would present the same problem due to the lack of documents.
I felt completely lost. Where could I go, with night already falling? I didn't have internet access to search for suitable lodging. No phone to call the information desk, either.
Do they even exist anymore?
The only payphone I stumbled across was missing its receiver.
I made the decision to find temporary refuge in the "European" shopping center. At least for a couple of hours, a late-night movie would provide warmth and comfort while I figured out my next move.
[1] Lyubimaya means Beloved Girl.
[2] LGBT movement is recognized as extremist and banned in the Russian Federation.
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I emerged from the subway and turned toward the shopping center, where a shocking revelation awaited me. It was closed! Yes, it was nearly midnight, but late-night showings were always playing here. Usually shimmering with bright lights, like a Christmas tree draped in garlands, the "European" now loomed over the square as a dark, desolate structure in an ominous silence. A security guard (wearing a black mask!) called out to me from the darkness behind the glass door, informing me that the stores and cinema had been closed for weeks!
"How is it that you don't know?" he asked, examining me with surprise through the glass. "All the shopping centers in Moscow are closed. And the cinemas. And the restaurants. Everyone is staying home."
Stunned, I stepped back from the entrance and looked around. Now, I felt uneasy at the sight of the deserted streets, which I hadn't noticed at first, lost as I was in my troubled thoughts. I stood within a necklace of streetlights and neon signs of the city that never sleeps. Or rather used to never sleep. Life had been boiling and bubbling here twenty-four hours a day, and the noise of rushing cars never subsided, even at night. But now the sidewalks seemed completely deserted, and the streams of cars had noticeably thinned, as if a huge, invisible monster had ripped the heart out of the bustling metropolis and turned it into a fading, lifeless, ghostly shell.
"What the hell is going on?" I blurted out.
A growing unease gnawed at me. Everything around me felt like a dream! Or a zombie apocalypse movie. What could have possibly happened to make the capital's life suddenly freeze in place?
To my immense relief, I spotted a 24-hour pharmacy on the opposite side of the street, its windows glowing with light—a beacon of hope for salvation, a lighthouse for my desperate, lost soul. For headache pills, I was ready to run headlong across the street, even against a red light, but I still descended into the underpass to avoid attracting the attention of any patrol officers lurking in the darkness.
I wasn't even surprised to see the masks on the faces of the cashier and a customer, a drunken teenager who was greedily eyeing the display case of condoms. But the markings on the floor, "Maintain a distance of 1.5 meters," baffled me.
However, I didn't have time to dwell on it, because the kid, seeing me, made an incomprehensible exclamation and, rushing towards me, tried to hug me, saying, "Beauty, will you brighten my evening?" Before I could recover, he suddenly whispered conspiratorially in my ear, "Beware of the scolopendra!" and abruptly left the pharmacy, colliding with a new customer in the doorway.
Crazy or high! What the heck is a scolopendra?
I bought the painkillers with a bottle of mineral water and, without leaving the checkout, greedily swallowed two pills at once, hoping to ease the throbbing headache that had plagued me all evening.
And at that very moment, as I was contemplating whether to ask the pharmacist why everyone was wearing masks, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.
"What a small world!"
"How is it that you don't know?" he asked, examining me with surprise through the glass. "All the shopping centers in Moscow are closed. And the cinemas. And the restaurants. Everyone is staying home."
Stunned, I stepped back from the entrance and looked around. Now, I felt uneasy at the sight of the deserted streets, which I hadn't noticed at first, lost as I was in my troubled thoughts. I stood within a necklace of streetlights and neon signs of the city that never sleeps. Or rather used to never sleep. Life had been boiling and bubbling here twenty-four hours a day, and the noise of rushing cars never subsided, even at night. But now the sidewalks seemed completely deserted, and the streams of cars had noticeably thinned, as if a huge, invisible monster had ripped the heart out of the bustling metropolis and turned it into a fading, lifeless, ghostly shell.
"What the hell is going on?" I blurted out.
A growing unease gnawed at me. Everything around me felt like a dream! Or a zombie apocalypse movie. What could have possibly happened to make the capital's life suddenly freeze in place?
To my immense relief, I spotted a 24-hour pharmacy on the opposite side of the street, its windows glowing with light—a beacon of hope for salvation, a lighthouse for my desperate, lost soul. For headache pills, I was ready to run headlong across the street, even against a red light, but I still descended into the underpass to avoid attracting the attention of any patrol officers lurking in the darkness.
I wasn't even surprised to see the masks on the faces of the cashier and a customer, a drunken teenager who was greedily eyeing the display case of condoms. But the markings on the floor, "Maintain a distance of 1.5 meters," baffled me.
However, I didn't have time to dwell on it, because the kid, seeing me, made an incomprehensible exclamation and, rushing towards me, tried to hug me, saying, "Beauty, will you brighten my evening?" Before I could recover, he suddenly whispered conspiratorially in my ear, "Beware of the scolopendra!" and abruptly left the pharmacy, colliding with a new customer in the doorway.
Crazy or high! What the heck is a scolopendra?
I bought the painkillers with a bottle of mineral water and, without leaving the checkout, greedily swallowed two pills at once, hoping to ease the throbbing headache that had plagued me all evening.
And at that very moment, as I was contemplating whether to ask the pharmacist why everyone was wearing masks, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.
"What a small world!"
3.
It made me jump.
Has someone tracked me down?
I turned around and saw a long-haired blond guy in his 30s. Somehow I had no doubt that his black mask was hiding a grin on his face.
'You're wrong. I've never seen you before.'
I turned my back to make it clear that our conversation was over.
'Come on, Sabrina! Don't you remember Eric's birthday out of town two weeks ago? I made you cocktails.'
He removed a mask and showed his face.
'Still don't recognize me?'
My heart missed a beat. I turned to him again.
'Are you sure that I'm Sabrina?'
'At least you said so. Or did you lie?' He winks.
Sabrina! Seriously? I was probably fooling him.
'I wasn't there. You must have me confused with someone else.'
'No way! You don't have a mask. I can see your whole face. It was you!' He shrieked with laughter. 'Oh, I see! You say that it was not you because you broke the stay-at-home order and don't want to get a fine, do you?
What a crap he's talking! What stay-at-home order? What fine??
'You were there with your friend,' the Blond keeps insisting. 'She's Eric's neighbor. He invited her. She has a space name. Nebula?... Universe?... Galaxy! A jewelry designer or something.'
'And who am I?'
'You didn't tell me. You said that girls should be mysterious.'
'Ok, it's a very funny story, but it wasn't me.'
I headed to the exit.
'Ok, let it be so! Actually, I was drunk that night, so maybe I'm wrong. Say hello to Galaxy!'
I left the drugstore and hurried to a taxi-rank.
I need to get away ASAP. What a weird guy! Sabrina, Galaxy! The world went crazy!
I got into the first cab I saw.
'I need a hotel.'
'Which one?'
'You know, there's a problem,' I said taking out two hundred bucks from my bag. 'I have no ID right now, it was stolen, but I need to stay somewhere for a night. I have cash. Enough cash to thank you, if you help me.'
The driver, of course, in a mask, gave me a searching look at the money in my hand, then at my fur coat with a brand-name bag and nodded in approval.
'I have contacts. It's not a seedy hotel. Four stars, by the way. Let's try it.'
'Thank you!'
We moved ahead. I turned around. The blond guy was still inside the drugstore, and it looked like nobody was following me.
Has someone tracked me down?
I turned around and saw a long-haired blond guy in his 30s. Somehow I had no doubt that his black mask was hiding a grin on his face.
'You're wrong. I've never seen you before.'
I turned my back to make it clear that our conversation was over.
'Come on, Sabrina! Don't you remember Eric's birthday out of town two weeks ago? I made you cocktails.'
He removed a mask and showed his face.
'Still don't recognize me?'
My heart missed a beat. I turned to him again.
'Are you sure that I'm Sabrina?'
'At least you said so. Or did you lie?' He winks.
Sabrina! Seriously? I was probably fooling him.
'I wasn't there. You must have me confused with someone else.'
'No way! You don't have a mask. I can see your whole face. It was you!' He shrieked with laughter. 'Oh, I see! You say that it was not you because you broke the stay-at-home order and don't want to get a fine, do you?
What a crap he's talking! What stay-at-home order? What fine??
'You were there with your friend,' the Blond keeps insisting. 'She's Eric's neighbor. He invited her. She has a space name. Nebula?... Universe?... Galaxy! A jewelry designer or something.'
'And who am I?'
'You didn't tell me. You said that girls should be mysterious.'
'Ok, it's a very funny story, but it wasn't me.'
I headed to the exit.
'Ok, let it be so! Actually, I was drunk that night, so maybe I'm wrong. Say hello to Galaxy!'
I left the drugstore and hurried to a taxi-rank.
I need to get away ASAP. What a weird guy! Sabrina, Galaxy! The world went crazy!
I got into the first cab I saw.
'I need a hotel.'
'Which one?'
'You know, there's a problem,' I said taking out two hundred bucks from my bag. 'I have no ID right now, it was stolen, but I need to stay somewhere for a night. I have cash. Enough cash to thank you, if you help me.'
The driver, of course, in a mask, gave me a searching look at the money in my hand, then at my fur coat with a brand-name bag and nodded in approval.
'I have contacts. It's not a seedy hotel. Four stars, by the way. Let's try it.'
'Thank you!'
We moved ahead. I turned around. The blond guy was still inside the drugstore, and it looked like nobody was following me.
I jumped in surprise when someone tapped me on the shoulder with the words “What a small world!”
Had I been tracked down?!
I spun around sharply and saw a long-haired, tanned blonde, about thirty years old, wearing a puffy down jacket with a tiger print. For some reason, I had no doubt that the black mask on his face concealed a smirk.
"You've mistaken me for someone else. I've never seen you before," I said, turning back to the cashier, letting him know that the conversation was over.
But that didn't stop him.
"Come on, Elsa! How could you forget? The weekend before last, Grisha's birthday party at his dacha in Serebryany Bor[1]. You were delighted with my cocktails!"
My heart froze.
Elsa?
I turned to face him. He removed his mask, revealing his entire face.
"Well? Do you recognize me?" he flashed a dazzling smile. "Damn, Elsa, it wasn't that long ago. Don't tell me I'm so easily forgettable!"
"Are you sure my name is Elsa?"
"At least, that's what you introduced yourself as. Or did you lie?" Tiger, pulling his mask back over his face, winked.
Elsa! The name echoed in my mind with images of a sea of snow and ice, a galloping ice horse, and the song "Show yourself" from the second part of Disney's "Frozen".
"I'm not Elsa. And I wasn't at a dacha the weekend before last. You've mistaken me for someone else."
"How could I be mistaken! You're not wearing a mask, I can see your face, it was definitely you!" he chuckled, and suddenly, as if struck by some realization, winked at me again. "Aha! I get it. You're covering your tracks, like it wasn't you, which means there was no violation of self-isolation, right? Don't worry, you will not get fined! I won't rat you out."
I stared at him in horror.
WTF! Self-isolation? Fine? To whom he won’t rat me out?
But the blond man was stuck on repeat, relentlessly pursuing his own strange narrative.
"You were there with your friend," he insisted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "She's Grishka's neighbor at the dacha. You were visiting her, and then he invited you both over. She has that interesting name, something cosmic, like Galaxy... She's a jewelry designer or something... Andromeda! That's it!"
"And what about me?" I asked, struggling to maintain a neutral expression.
"You never said what you do," he replied with a shrug. "You said girls should remain mysterious."
I barely managed to conceal the wave of disappointment that washed over me at his utterly unhelpful response.
"Okay, that's a funny story, but it really wasn't me," I said, turning towards the exit, feeling the pharmacist's curious gaze boring into my back.
"Alright, alright, whatever! Maybe it was just someone who looked like you, and I had a bit too much to drink that night and got confused..." Tiger guy called after me, his voice echoing in the small space. "Say hi to Andromeda from Yuri, it’s me. Tell her to give me a call!"
I hurried out of the pharmacy and started walking away briskly. The encounter with that shady Yuri had left me feeling uneasy. Luckily, I spotted a taxi stand nearby and rushed towards it.
I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. He is a really weird guy! Why did he start talking about some Elsa, Andromeda?... The world had gone mad!
I climbed into the first taxi I saw. The driver, wearing a white medical mask, glanced at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for my instructions. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. I needed to find a safe place to spend the night.
"I need a hotel."
"Which one?"
"Well, here's the thing," I began, taking two hundred-dollar bills out of my bag, "my documents were stolen, and I need a place to stay. I have the money. And enough to show my gratitude if you can help me out."
The driver's gaze lingered on me for a moment, a glint of curiosity and calculation in his eyes. He scrutinized the bills in my hand, assessed my appearance – a decent coat, a branded bag – and finally nodded in approval.
"I have some connections at a hotel. It's not some run-down place, four stars. We can try to get you checked in there."
A spark of hope ignited within me. I hadn't dared to dream of a four-star hotel, expecting more of a seedy hostel where they might turn a blind eye to the lack of documents.
"Thank you so much!" The words burst from me with genuine gratitude.
We set off. I glanced back. Tiger Yuri remained in the pharmacy. Through the wide window, I could see him engrossed in choosing cough syrup near the cold remedies display, looking as if my existence had already slipped his mind. This reassured me. Convinced that no one was following, I leaned back with relief, settling into the seat.
The driver skillfully navigated the deserted city. Gazing out the taxi window as it weaved through streets illuminated by champagne flute-shaped lamps, I replayed the conversation with the strange Yuri over and over in my head. It sparked a torrent of new questions that only intensified my headache.
Who is he, really? What did he want from me? And why did he mention some Andromeda?
Unlike Elsa from "Frozen," the name evoked absolutely no associations for me.
Soon, the driver's raspy voice, thick with the scent of cigarettes, pierced through my thoughts, dragging me back to reality.
"We're here. The 'Eagle' Hotel."
I pressed close to the window and saw the skyscraper rising before us, beckoning with the shimmering lights of a colorful neon sign.
[1] Serebryany Bor ("Silver Pinewood") is a large forest park in north-west Moscow. The park is a natural monument of regional significance and a protected area of the city of Moscow. Serebryany Bor covers an area of 328.6 hectares. It is also a concentration of luxury real estate owned by wealthy businessmen and government officials.
Had I been tracked down?!
I spun around sharply and saw a long-haired, tanned blonde, about thirty years old, wearing a puffy down jacket with a tiger print. For some reason, I had no doubt that the black mask on his face concealed a smirk.
"You've mistaken me for someone else. I've never seen you before," I said, turning back to the cashier, letting him know that the conversation was over.
But that didn't stop him.
"Come on, Elsa! How could you forget? The weekend before last, Grisha's birthday party at his dacha in Serebryany Bor[1]. You were delighted with my cocktails!"
My heart froze.
Elsa?
I turned to face him. He removed his mask, revealing his entire face.
"Well? Do you recognize me?" he flashed a dazzling smile. "Damn, Elsa, it wasn't that long ago. Don't tell me I'm so easily forgettable!"
"Are you sure my name is Elsa?"
"At least, that's what you introduced yourself as. Or did you lie?" Tiger, pulling his mask back over his face, winked.
Elsa! The name echoed in my mind with images of a sea of snow and ice, a galloping ice horse, and the song "Show yourself" from the second part of Disney's "Frozen".
"I'm not Elsa. And I wasn't at a dacha the weekend before last. You've mistaken me for someone else."
"How could I be mistaken! You're not wearing a mask, I can see your face, it was definitely you!" he chuckled, and suddenly, as if struck by some realization, winked at me again. "Aha! I get it. You're covering your tracks, like it wasn't you, which means there was no violation of self-isolation, right? Don't worry, you will not get fined! I won't rat you out."
I stared at him in horror.
WTF! Self-isolation? Fine? To whom he won’t rat me out?
But the blond man was stuck on repeat, relentlessly pursuing his own strange narrative.
"You were there with your friend," he insisted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "She's Grishka's neighbor at the dacha. You were visiting her, and then he invited you both over. She has that interesting name, something cosmic, like Galaxy... She's a jewelry designer or something... Andromeda! That's it!"
"And what about me?" I asked, struggling to maintain a neutral expression.
"You never said what you do," he replied with a shrug. "You said girls should remain mysterious."
I barely managed to conceal the wave of disappointment that washed over me at his utterly unhelpful response.
"Okay, that's a funny story, but it really wasn't me," I said, turning towards the exit, feeling the pharmacist's curious gaze boring into my back.
"Alright, alright, whatever! Maybe it was just someone who looked like you, and I had a bit too much to drink that night and got confused..." Tiger guy called after me, his voice echoing in the small space. "Say hi to Andromeda from Yuri, it’s me. Tell her to give me a call!"
I hurried out of the pharmacy and started walking away briskly. The encounter with that shady Yuri had left me feeling uneasy. Luckily, I spotted a taxi stand nearby and rushed towards it.
I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. He is a really weird guy! Why did he start talking about some Elsa, Andromeda?... The world had gone mad!
I climbed into the first taxi I saw. The driver, wearing a white medical mask, glanced at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for my instructions. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. I needed to find a safe place to spend the night.
"I need a hotel."
"Which one?"
"Well, here's the thing," I began, taking two hundred-dollar bills out of my bag, "my documents were stolen, and I need a place to stay. I have the money. And enough to show my gratitude if you can help me out."
The driver's gaze lingered on me for a moment, a glint of curiosity and calculation in his eyes. He scrutinized the bills in my hand, assessed my appearance – a decent coat, a branded bag – and finally nodded in approval.
"I have some connections at a hotel. It's not some run-down place, four stars. We can try to get you checked in there."
A spark of hope ignited within me. I hadn't dared to dream of a four-star hotel, expecting more of a seedy hostel where they might turn a blind eye to the lack of documents.
"Thank you so much!" The words burst from me with genuine gratitude.
We set off. I glanced back. Tiger Yuri remained in the pharmacy. Through the wide window, I could see him engrossed in choosing cough syrup near the cold remedies display, looking as if my existence had already slipped his mind. This reassured me. Convinced that no one was following, I leaned back with relief, settling into the seat.
The driver skillfully navigated the deserted city. Gazing out the taxi window as it weaved through streets illuminated by champagne flute-shaped lamps, I replayed the conversation with the strange Yuri over and over in my head. It sparked a torrent of new questions that only intensified my headache.
Who is he, really? What did he want from me? And why did he mention some Andromeda?
Unlike Elsa from "Frozen," the name evoked absolutely no associations for me.
Soon, the driver's raspy voice, thick with the scent of cigarettes, pierced through my thoughts, dragging me back to reality.
"We're here. The 'Eagle' Hotel."
I pressed close to the window and saw the skyscraper rising before us, beckoning with the shimmering lights of a colorful neon sign.
[1] Serebryany Bor ("Silver Pinewood") is a large forest park in north-west Moscow. The park is a natural monument of regional significance and a protected area of the city of Moscow. Serebryany Bor covers an area of 328.6 hectares. It is also a concentration of luxury real estate owned by wealthy businessmen and government officials.
The taxi driver had really worked. I got a luxurious room on the top floor with a mesmerizing view of nighttime Moscow. The hotel manager, Anastasia, a tall, long-legged blonde who looked like she'd just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, personally escorted me to the door of the room and informed me that I was a VIP guest, so I would receive top-class service. Ah, the wonders that generous tips could work!
The driver was so inexpressibly pleased with his bonus that he left his business card in case I needed anything else. Like, say, an underground beauty salon. I nearly choked on my mineral water when he said that, and at first, I thought I’d misheard him.
An underground beauty salon??? I'm definitely not dreaming, am I?!
Usually, this kind of thing happens in dreams – very strange people turn up everywhere, and absurd events occur. Although, no, in dreams, all the strangeness seems normal, par for the course. It's only later, waking up, that you realize that what happened in the dream was absurd.
I doubted I'd ever need that taxi driver's services, but I took his card anyway, tucking it into my pocket. Just in case.
The first thing I did in the hotel room was switch on the television, flicking through channels until I landed on the news. What unfolded before my eyes was beyond comprehension. My legs buckled, and I collapsed onto the edge of the bed like a sack of potatoes, unable to absorb the blow of a reality so alien, so inexplicable.
It was as if I'd woken up in a parallel world ripped straight from the pages of a science fiction novel. Just a few frames were enough to understand that something of unimaginable scale had shaken the entire planet, and I was in the front row, witnessing a historical event I couldn't have conceived of in my wildest dreams.
Life had stopped, not just in Moscow. The whole world was frozen, as if some celestial being had grabbed the Earth's remote control and pressed pause. Humanity was in utter disarray: people, feeling helpless, powerless, and gripped by panic, were locking themselves in their homes. Cities all over the world were deserted – Rome, Venice, London, New York, Paris, Vienna, Athens, Brussels, Barcelona... Now their streets, once teeming with energy, but now devoid of the lifeblood that had once pulsed through their veins, had become desolate ghost towns, like abandoned sets from science fiction movies about zombie apocalypses and deadly viruses.
My brain refused to accept this reality.
THIS CAN'T BE REAL!
I couldn't believe my eyes as news stories flashed across the screen: Moscow paramedics arriving at emergency calls in protective gear resembling astronauts' suits, complete with helmets, as if they risked encountering unknown dangers lurking in the air. And police officers chasing down pedestrians who'd strayed more than a hundred meters from their homes, slapping them with fines for violating self-isolation rules.
So that's the fine Tiger Yuri was talking about!
Stunned by this grim reality, I quickly switched off the television, desperate to rid myself of the disturbing images, and swallowed another pill for the throbbing headache that had returned with a vengeance. I hoped for relief, but deep down, after everything I'd seen on the news, I knew that a headache was now the least of my worries.
This can't all be real! I must be dreaming!!!
Feeling a desperate need to silence the torrent of anxious thoughts pursuing me, I stumbled towards the shower. But the hot water cascading over my body offered only fleeting solace. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I returned to the room and gratefully dove under the warm, cozy blanket. My eyelids immediately grew heavy, pulling me down into sleep.
How tired I was! If only I could fall asleep now and wake up at home, tell my family over breakfast about the absurd dream I'd had, about losing my memory and having to flee an apartment with a dead body, and then laugh with them about the ridiculous nightmare...
Thinking of this, I drifted off to sleep. All night, I was plagued by nightmares and strange visions, where I found myself caught in a web of lost memories, face to face with the lifeless body of the guy from that ill-fated apartment.
In the morning, I was jolted awake by the shrill ringing of the telephone. The piercing sound shattered the silence and, dragging me from my sleep, instantly filled me with a heavy sense of dread. I struggled to open my eyes, and for the first few seconds, seeing the bright morning light flooding the room through the massive panoramic window, I couldn't figure out where I was. Remnants of the dream still clung to my mind, blurring the lines between reality and illusion, and then the events of the previous evening crashed over me with the merciless, destructive force of a tsunami. I'd hoped that my memory would restore itself after sleep, but my recollections before yesterday remained a black hole.
The phone continued to ring, its anxious trill relentless.
Who could it be?
A thousand questions swirled through my head as, after a few seconds of hesitation, I finally answered the call.
"Good morning!" a brisk voice chirped over the line. "There's an envelope for you at the reception desk."
"For me?!" I asked, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. "Are you sure there isn't some mistake?"
"Your room is 1724, correct? Then the envelope is for you," he replied, a note of unwavering certainty in his voice.
I frowned.
"Who is it from?"
"I'm afraid I can't say. I don't have this information, unfortunately. Our bellboy delivered the envelope. It was handed to him at the hotel entrance."
The taxi driver?
That was the only plausible explanation; after all, he was the only one who knew my room number. Probably spent the night dreaming up what other strange services, like an underground beauty salon, he could try to foist on me.
"What time is it?"
"12:05 PM."
"Thank you!"
I ordered breakfast to be delivered to my room and switched on the television. Desperate to prevent the horrifying news about the virus engulfing the world from cornering me in another panic attack, I hurriedly flicked through the channels until I landed on a music TV, where the Top 10 Russian singers was being led by a certain Max Korsakov with his summer hit "You're Somewhere". What was strange was that I remembered the lyrics to this song so well that I could sing along.
As I danced my way over to the window, I was struck breathless by the stunning view of Moscow, and then a shiver ran sharply down my spine as the realization hit me that the city was deserted and frozen in time. The bright rays of the sun had already melted the remnants of yesterday's snow, and this clear April day, with its vast blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see, beckoning people to rejoice in life, the warm weather, and the height of spring, created a chilling contrast to the lifelessness of the capital.
After breakfast and an invigorating contrast shower, I decided to walk to the nearest electronics store and buy a smartphone to gain access to the Internet and stay connected with the outside world. I was eager to browse the news. Maybe the crime report had already mentioned the murder on Biryuzova Street.
I had paid for the room three days in advance, so I left my belongings at the hotel. However, I couldn't risk relying on the honesty of the cleaning lady, and I took the bag with the money with me.
Descending into the deserted lobby, I was only halfway to the revolving door of the main entrance when I remembered the envelope at the front desk.
What if the taxi driver actually wanted to offer something useful this time?
Curiosity got the better of me, and I returned to the lobby, where the concierge, wearing a protective mask, handed me the envelope. I quickly tore it open and found a note.
"We need to talk. Meet me at our place at 1:30 PM. Nikita."
The driver was so inexpressibly pleased with his bonus that he left his business card in case I needed anything else. Like, say, an underground beauty salon. I nearly choked on my mineral water when he said that, and at first, I thought I’d misheard him.
An underground beauty salon??? I'm definitely not dreaming, am I?!
Usually, this kind of thing happens in dreams – very strange people turn up everywhere, and absurd events occur. Although, no, in dreams, all the strangeness seems normal, par for the course. It's only later, waking up, that you realize that what happened in the dream was absurd.
I doubted I'd ever need that taxi driver's services, but I took his card anyway, tucking it into my pocket. Just in case.
The first thing I did in the hotel room was switch on the television, flicking through channels until I landed on the news. What unfolded before my eyes was beyond comprehension. My legs buckled, and I collapsed onto the edge of the bed like a sack of potatoes, unable to absorb the blow of a reality so alien, so inexplicable.
It was as if I'd woken up in a parallel world ripped straight from the pages of a science fiction novel. Just a few frames were enough to understand that something of unimaginable scale had shaken the entire planet, and I was in the front row, witnessing a historical event I couldn't have conceived of in my wildest dreams.
Life had stopped, not just in Moscow. The whole world was frozen, as if some celestial being had grabbed the Earth's remote control and pressed pause. Humanity was in utter disarray: people, feeling helpless, powerless, and gripped by panic, were locking themselves in their homes. Cities all over the world were deserted – Rome, Venice, London, New York, Paris, Vienna, Athens, Brussels, Barcelona... Now their streets, once teeming with energy, but now devoid of the lifeblood that had once pulsed through their veins, had become desolate ghost towns, like abandoned sets from science fiction movies about zombie apocalypses and deadly viruses.
My brain refused to accept this reality.
THIS CAN'T BE REAL!
I couldn't believe my eyes as news stories flashed across the screen: Moscow paramedics arriving at emergency calls in protective gear resembling astronauts' suits, complete with helmets, as if they risked encountering unknown dangers lurking in the air. And police officers chasing down pedestrians who'd strayed more than a hundred meters from their homes, slapping them with fines for violating self-isolation rules.
So that's the fine Tiger Yuri was talking about!
Stunned by this grim reality, I quickly switched off the television, desperate to rid myself of the disturbing images, and swallowed another pill for the throbbing headache that had returned with a vengeance. I hoped for relief, but deep down, after everything I'd seen on the news, I knew that a headache was now the least of my worries.
This can't all be real! I must be dreaming!!!
Feeling a desperate need to silence the torrent of anxious thoughts pursuing me, I stumbled towards the shower. But the hot water cascading over my body offered only fleeting solace. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I returned to the room and gratefully dove under the warm, cozy blanket. My eyelids immediately grew heavy, pulling me down into sleep.
How tired I was! If only I could fall asleep now and wake up at home, tell my family over breakfast about the absurd dream I'd had, about losing my memory and having to flee an apartment with a dead body, and then laugh with them about the ridiculous nightmare...
Thinking of this, I drifted off to sleep. All night, I was plagued by nightmares and strange visions, where I found myself caught in a web of lost memories, face to face with the lifeless body of the guy from that ill-fated apartment.
In the morning, I was jolted awake by the shrill ringing of the telephone. The piercing sound shattered the silence and, dragging me from my sleep, instantly filled me with a heavy sense of dread. I struggled to open my eyes, and for the first few seconds, seeing the bright morning light flooding the room through the massive panoramic window, I couldn't figure out where I was. Remnants of the dream still clung to my mind, blurring the lines between reality and illusion, and then the events of the previous evening crashed over me with the merciless, destructive force of a tsunami. I'd hoped that my memory would restore itself after sleep, but my recollections before yesterday remained a black hole.
The phone continued to ring, its anxious trill relentless.
Who could it be?
A thousand questions swirled through my head as, after a few seconds of hesitation, I finally answered the call.
"Good morning!" a brisk voice chirped over the line. "There's an envelope for you at the reception desk."
"For me?!" I asked, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. "Are you sure there isn't some mistake?"
"Your room is 1724, correct? Then the envelope is for you," he replied, a note of unwavering certainty in his voice.
I frowned.
"Who is it from?"
"I'm afraid I can't say. I don't have this information, unfortunately. Our bellboy delivered the envelope. It was handed to him at the hotel entrance."
The taxi driver?
That was the only plausible explanation; after all, he was the only one who knew my room number. Probably spent the night dreaming up what other strange services, like an underground beauty salon, he could try to foist on me.
"What time is it?"
"12:05 PM."
"Thank you!"
I ordered breakfast to be delivered to my room and switched on the television. Desperate to prevent the horrifying news about the virus engulfing the world from cornering me in another panic attack, I hurriedly flicked through the channels until I landed on a music TV, where the Top 10 Russian singers was being led by a certain Max Korsakov with his summer hit "You're Somewhere". What was strange was that I remembered the lyrics to this song so well that I could sing along.
As I danced my way over to the window, I was struck breathless by the stunning view of Moscow, and then a shiver ran sharply down my spine as the realization hit me that the city was deserted and frozen in time. The bright rays of the sun had already melted the remnants of yesterday's snow, and this clear April day, with its vast blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see, beckoning people to rejoice in life, the warm weather, and the height of spring, created a chilling contrast to the lifelessness of the capital.
After breakfast and an invigorating contrast shower, I decided to walk to the nearest electronics store and buy a smartphone to gain access to the Internet and stay connected with the outside world. I was eager to browse the news. Maybe the crime report had already mentioned the murder on Biryuzova Street.
I had paid for the room three days in advance, so I left my belongings at the hotel. However, I couldn't risk relying on the honesty of the cleaning lady, and I took the bag with the money with me.
Descending into the deserted lobby, I was only halfway to the revolving door of the main entrance when I remembered the envelope at the front desk.
What if the taxi driver actually wanted to offer something useful this time?
Curiosity got the better of me, and I returned to the lobby, where the concierge, wearing a protective mask, handed me the envelope. I quickly tore it open and found a note.
"We need to talk. Meet me at our place at 1:30 PM. Nikita."
4.
I reread the note again.
Who is Nikita?! A guy with a slit throat?! But how could he have written this message if he's dead?
Questions swirled in my head like a tempest. My mind desperately sought answers that were impossible to find.
In the ensuing silence, a chilling thought crept into my consciousness.
So, the phone I found didn't belong to the dead guy? Then where did it come from in the apartment? And most importantly, how did it end up under the armchair next to the corpse?
Or was it the killer's phone?! So, the killer's name is Nikita, and he knows where I am, including my room number! What's more, he wants to meet me at "our place," whatever that means. Am I his accomplice?!
A barrage of questions attacked me, continuing to rain down from all sides.
Or let's look at the situation from another angle – what if some Nikita just lives in that apartment and it was his phone? But then what was the dead guy doing there? Or is the deceased Nikita, whose phone I found, and the one who wrote the note is just his namesake?
All these questions threatened to make my brain explode. The tentacles of this horrific story wrapped around me in a tight embrace, and, constricting, pulled at the threads of my mind, making my already fragile mental state even more vulnerable.
The only thing that was perfectly clear to me was that someone had somehow tracked me from the apartment to the hotel room.
Tiger Yuri? Unlikely. I checked to see if he followed me or not.
And if not him, then who? And what does "at our place" mean?
This Nikita is somehow being secretive. He didn't come into the hotel, he had the envelope delivered near the hotel entrance by a bellboy to avoid being seen. But at the same time, he knows my room number for sure!
And what does "we need to talk" mean? What could it mean? A threat? A plea for help? Or an attempt to establish contact? It looks as if we stopped communicating a long time ago, and now he urgently needs me for something. In that case, it means he wasn't the one living with me in that apartment.
"Meet me at our place." How am I supposed to know what that place is?!
A feeling of frustration tore at me. I finally held a key to unlocking my past, but I couldn't use it. A person had appeared, the only person who could tell me who I was, but he was impossible to find.
But a spark of hope ignited within me.
Maybe, after I don't show up for the meeting, he'll try to contact me again?
With these thoughts, encouraging myself, I left the hotel.
The day was already in full swing, and, forgetting myself for a moment, I imagined that life on the streets of Moscow on a Monday would be bustling and seething as usual, but reality brought me back down to earth. The sun cast long shadows on the deserted streets of Moscow, painting a bleak picture of a metropolis consumed by an invisible enemy. The city seemed to have died out and turned into a ghost, just like in the opening credits of "The Walking Dead."
Who is Nikita?! A guy with a slit throat?! But how could he have written this message if he's dead?
Questions swirled in my head like a tempest. My mind desperately sought answers that were impossible to find.
In the ensuing silence, a chilling thought crept into my consciousness.
So, the phone I found didn't belong to the dead guy? Then where did it come from in the apartment? And most importantly, how did it end up under the armchair next to the corpse?
Or was it the killer's phone?! So, the killer's name is Nikita, and he knows where I am, including my room number! What's more, he wants to meet me at "our place," whatever that means. Am I his accomplice?!
A barrage of questions attacked me, continuing to rain down from all sides.
Or let's look at the situation from another angle – what if some Nikita just lives in that apartment and it was his phone? But then what was the dead guy doing there? Or is the deceased Nikita, whose phone I found, and the one who wrote the note is just his namesake?
All these questions threatened to make my brain explode. The tentacles of this horrific story wrapped around me in a tight embrace, and, constricting, pulled at the threads of my mind, making my already fragile mental state even more vulnerable.
The only thing that was perfectly clear to me was that someone had somehow tracked me from the apartment to the hotel room.
Tiger Yuri? Unlikely. I checked to see if he followed me or not.
And if not him, then who? And what does "at our place" mean?
This Nikita is somehow being secretive. He didn't come into the hotel, he had the envelope delivered near the hotel entrance by a bellboy to avoid being seen. But at the same time, he knows my room number for sure!
And what does "we need to talk" mean? What could it mean? A threat? A plea for help? Or an attempt to establish contact? It looks as if we stopped communicating a long time ago, and now he urgently needs me for something. In that case, it means he wasn't the one living with me in that apartment.
"Meet me at our place." How am I supposed to know what that place is?!
A feeling of frustration tore at me. I finally held a key to unlocking my past, but I couldn't use it. A person had appeared, the only person who could tell me who I was, but he was impossible to find.
But a spark of hope ignited within me.
Maybe, after I don't show up for the meeting, he'll try to contact me again?
With these thoughts, encouraging myself, I left the hotel.
The day was already in full swing, and, forgetting myself for a moment, I imagined that life on the streets of Moscow on a Monday would be bustling and seething as usual, but reality brought me back down to earth. The sun cast long shadows on the deserted streets of Moscow, painting a bleak picture of a metropolis consumed by an invisible enemy. The city seemed to have died out and turned into a ghost, just like in the opening credits of "The Walking Dead."
The once noisy streets, usually filled with a sea of bustling passers-by, now looked completely devoid of life. Cars drove by, but there were few of them, people were rarely seen, and all were wearing protective masks. I still couldn't get used to them on the faces of everyone I met, and their sight made me feel numb.
Continuing to walk along the avenue, I kept stumbling upon shocking announcements on the doors of cafes and shops, which emphasized the seriousness of the situation.
"In accordance with the Decree of the Government of the Russian Federation, we are closed from March 28 to April 30, 2020."
I still couldn't believe the reality of what was happening, as if everything around me was a continuation of a ridiculous dream, the kind you have when you have a fever of 39,4 °C[1]. But every step I took reinforced the reality of this surreal existence. How could this become our new normal? Even the air seemed heavy with unbearable tension.
The silence was broken only by the distant siren of an ambulance rushing to save someone's life. I mentally wished luck to the person they were rushing to, and sighed. This eerie atmosphere was depressing, mercilessly forcing me to realize that our world had changed irrevocably.
And then, to my great happiness, completely unexpectedly, a cell phone store near the metro turned out to be open. I couldn't even believe my luck when I pulled on the door handle and it suddenly swung open. Judging by the overly cheerful greeting of the masked employee, there hadn't been any visitors here in a long time, and he had already started to miss work. As if afraid that he might dissolve into thin air, I started babbling to him a pre-prepared heartbreaking story about how I urgently needed a SIM card, but I couldn't register it in my own name, otherwise my all-powerful ex-husband-tyrant would track me down again.
The salesman's eyes widened with each new detail of the persecutions I had fabricated. After listening to me to the end with a sympathetic look, Pavel, as his badge said, exclaimed excitedly:
"And with these digital passes, it's a real mess! He'll be able to find you with it if he has connections."
"What are digital passes?" I asked, tensing up.
They were also mentioned in the news yesterday, but I understood very little from what was said.
"You haven't heard of them?!" the salon employee was amazed. "How is that possible? The whole internet is discussing it. Everyone is outraged that they want to drive us into digital slavery!"
The last thing I need!
His words knocked the ground out from under my feet, but passing out was an unaffordable luxury for me, so I took a breath and slowly exhaled after a pause, so as not to succumb to a panic attack. I needed to understand what these digital passes were and how they could affect me in order to be prepared for everything that awaited me.
"Okay, I'll confess to you. I've been out of life for a few weeks. I was in a coma," I began to make up on the spot. "After my husband beat me up. When I started to recover, the doctor forbade me to watch the news so as not to worry, and I had no way to read it because my husband broke my phone the night I was admitted to intensive care. That's why I came to you for a new one."
The young man's eyes widened in horror.
"Son of a bitch! Such scumbags should be put in jail!" he exclaimed in his heart with a face distorted with anger.
Apparently, my fictional story deeply resonated with him, awakening some personal memories.
"I know how you feel. My stepfather was the same, he constantly raised his hand to my mother, and she endured everything, forgave him," Pavel explained, confirming my hunch. "I wouldn't wish such a childhood on anyone, when every day is like sitting on a powder keg - you completely depend on the mood of this asshole, never knowing what will anger him this time. Thank God, a car ran him over when I was thirteen. Mom wouldn't have left him herself."
"Yes, it's all terrible. I hope she's okay now," I sighed heavily and tried to get the conversation back on track. "And what about these digital passes?"
"They're being put into effect this week. Now you won't be able to take a step without them. You can only move around the city if you have received digital passes," Pavel said irritably.
"And how do you get one?" I frowned.
"To do this, you need to register on the State Services website Gosuslugi, and there you need to indicate your full name, passport details, date of birth plus the number of your car or a "Troika" travel card."
So that's why the cashier in the subway advised me to purchase a "Troika" card!
But the absence of this travel card was the least of my worries, because I didn't remember my name, date of birth, or passport number. My past remained a sealed book, and I still had to open it, page by page.
"And if there's no pass?"
The guy shook his head with a gloomy look.
"Then they'll fine you. There will be police at every turn checking. But these digital passes would not save us from the virus! But, to be honest, I don't believe in any kind of Covid at all. The government is deliberately scaring people in order to impose these passes on this wave and track our every move."
Whether it was because I'd listened attentively to the end of his lecture on the pressing issue of impending digital enslavement, or because he was genuinely moved by the story of my fake abusive husband, Pavel defied the rules and sold me two unregistered SIM cards for my new phones – one for the Xiaomi, the other for the simple Nokia, which I immediately activated on the spot.
On the street, on my way back to the hotel, I decided to contact the quick-witted taxi driver and take advantage of his offer regarding the underground beauty salon. After a long conversation about digital slavery and the surveillance of our every move, I felt an urgent need to change my appearance. If the body had already been discovered, the police had surely reviewed the security camera footage, and my photographs were undoubtedly being scrutinized under a microscope. I would have a better chance of remaining unnoticed by them and blending into the crowd (Damn! What crowd was I dreaming of, when everyone was now staying home!), by transforming from a brunette into a light brown-haired woman and shortening my hair to shoulder length, and even more so if I could get my hands on contact lenses to avoid attracting attention with my mismatched eyes. A protective mask wouldn't be superfluous, either.
The taxi driver arrived ten minutes later and, weaving through the labyrinth of narrow streets as if following Ariadne's thread, brought me to a beauty salon that was literally underground – it was located in the basement of a two-story brick building that housed a pharmacy, a butcher shop, and a local family cafe, now closed.
While the stylist worked her magic on my hair, I pulled out my smartphone to skim through the crime reports, and was about to insert the second SIM card into it, but decided to bother with that later at the hotel, and use the salon's Wi-Fi for now.
To my disappointment, there was absolutely nothing about the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street. Although, maybe that was for the best, who knew.
Out of sheer boredom, I picked up a glossy magazine and began flipping through the slick pages, until I stumbled upon a tempting advertisement for jewelry. At the sight of the sparkling jewels, the words of Tiger Yuri from the pharmacy suddenly echoed clearly in my mind:
"You were there with your friend... She has such an interesting name, related to space, like Galaxy... A jewelry designer or something like that... Andromeda! That's it!"
I took out my phone again, and my fingers hurriedly danced across the screen, typing "jewelry designer Andromeda" into the search bar.
Yuri hadn't lied. Such a person really existed! Designer, of course, was a bit of an exaggeration. Elsa's friend crafted some trinkets related to celestial symbols, into which she hardly put a piece of her soul with love, and proudly displayed them on her homemade website called Andromeda's Universe.
I didn't bother looking at the gallery of her creations and went to the "About Me" tab. A page opened before me with a huge portrait of a pretty, coquettish blonde, who invited visitors to her site to embark on a "celestial journey" through the Universe of her jewelry.
If I'm Elsa, and this is my friend, why doesn't her face seem familiar to me...
I went to the "Contact" section. To my delight, the website listed a mobile phone number, and I immediately dialed it. Andromeda herself answered. I didn't even have to persuade her to meet. I pretended to be interested in her jewelry, concocting a story about a birthday gift for my grandma, and she, seizing the opportunity to earn some money, scheduled a meeting for 7:00 PM near the Auchan in the shopping center on Leninsky Avenue. She probably decided to combine selling jewelry with a grocery trip, or scheduled the meeting precisely in the supermarket to avoid problems with the police due to violating the self-isolation regime.
My mood lifted. So far, everything was working out perfectly.
If Lady Luck continues to be kind to me, tonight I'll find out my name.
After a successful visit to the beauty salon, I returned to the hotel in a new guise. The lightness of the new haircut, barely touching my shoulders, and the radiance of the golden-brown locks, casually framing my face, gave me a feeling of freshness and freedom.
[1] 103 °F
Continuing to walk along the avenue, I kept stumbling upon shocking announcements on the doors of cafes and shops, which emphasized the seriousness of the situation.
"In accordance with the Decree of the Government of the Russian Federation, we are closed from March 28 to April 30, 2020."
I still couldn't believe the reality of what was happening, as if everything around me was a continuation of a ridiculous dream, the kind you have when you have a fever of 39,4 °C[1]. But every step I took reinforced the reality of this surreal existence. How could this become our new normal? Even the air seemed heavy with unbearable tension.
The silence was broken only by the distant siren of an ambulance rushing to save someone's life. I mentally wished luck to the person they were rushing to, and sighed. This eerie atmosphere was depressing, mercilessly forcing me to realize that our world had changed irrevocably.
And then, to my great happiness, completely unexpectedly, a cell phone store near the metro turned out to be open. I couldn't even believe my luck when I pulled on the door handle and it suddenly swung open. Judging by the overly cheerful greeting of the masked employee, there hadn't been any visitors here in a long time, and he had already started to miss work. As if afraid that he might dissolve into thin air, I started babbling to him a pre-prepared heartbreaking story about how I urgently needed a SIM card, but I couldn't register it in my own name, otherwise my all-powerful ex-husband-tyrant would track me down again.
The salesman's eyes widened with each new detail of the persecutions I had fabricated. After listening to me to the end with a sympathetic look, Pavel, as his badge said, exclaimed excitedly:
"And with these digital passes, it's a real mess! He'll be able to find you with it if he has connections."
"What are digital passes?" I asked, tensing up.
They were also mentioned in the news yesterday, but I understood very little from what was said.
"You haven't heard of them?!" the salon employee was amazed. "How is that possible? The whole internet is discussing it. Everyone is outraged that they want to drive us into digital slavery!"
The last thing I need!
His words knocked the ground out from under my feet, but passing out was an unaffordable luxury for me, so I took a breath and slowly exhaled after a pause, so as not to succumb to a panic attack. I needed to understand what these digital passes were and how they could affect me in order to be prepared for everything that awaited me.
"Okay, I'll confess to you. I've been out of life for a few weeks. I was in a coma," I began to make up on the spot. "After my husband beat me up. When I started to recover, the doctor forbade me to watch the news so as not to worry, and I had no way to read it because my husband broke my phone the night I was admitted to intensive care. That's why I came to you for a new one."
The young man's eyes widened in horror.
"Son of a bitch! Such scumbags should be put in jail!" he exclaimed in his heart with a face distorted with anger.
Apparently, my fictional story deeply resonated with him, awakening some personal memories.
"I know how you feel. My stepfather was the same, he constantly raised his hand to my mother, and she endured everything, forgave him," Pavel explained, confirming my hunch. "I wouldn't wish such a childhood on anyone, when every day is like sitting on a powder keg - you completely depend on the mood of this asshole, never knowing what will anger him this time. Thank God, a car ran him over when I was thirteen. Mom wouldn't have left him herself."
"Yes, it's all terrible. I hope she's okay now," I sighed heavily and tried to get the conversation back on track. "And what about these digital passes?"
"They're being put into effect this week. Now you won't be able to take a step without them. You can only move around the city if you have received digital passes," Pavel said irritably.
"And how do you get one?" I frowned.
"To do this, you need to register on the State Services website Gosuslugi, and there you need to indicate your full name, passport details, date of birth plus the number of your car or a "Troika" travel card."
So that's why the cashier in the subway advised me to purchase a "Troika" card!
But the absence of this travel card was the least of my worries, because I didn't remember my name, date of birth, or passport number. My past remained a sealed book, and I still had to open it, page by page.
"And if there's no pass?"
The guy shook his head with a gloomy look.
"Then they'll fine you. There will be police at every turn checking. But these digital passes would not save us from the virus! But, to be honest, I don't believe in any kind of Covid at all. The government is deliberately scaring people in order to impose these passes on this wave and track our every move."
Whether it was because I'd listened attentively to the end of his lecture on the pressing issue of impending digital enslavement, or because he was genuinely moved by the story of my fake abusive husband, Pavel defied the rules and sold me two unregistered SIM cards for my new phones – one for the Xiaomi, the other for the simple Nokia, which I immediately activated on the spot.
On the street, on my way back to the hotel, I decided to contact the quick-witted taxi driver and take advantage of his offer regarding the underground beauty salon. After a long conversation about digital slavery and the surveillance of our every move, I felt an urgent need to change my appearance. If the body had already been discovered, the police had surely reviewed the security camera footage, and my photographs were undoubtedly being scrutinized under a microscope. I would have a better chance of remaining unnoticed by them and blending into the crowd (Damn! What crowd was I dreaming of, when everyone was now staying home!), by transforming from a brunette into a light brown-haired woman and shortening my hair to shoulder length, and even more so if I could get my hands on contact lenses to avoid attracting attention with my mismatched eyes. A protective mask wouldn't be superfluous, either.
The taxi driver arrived ten minutes later and, weaving through the labyrinth of narrow streets as if following Ariadne's thread, brought me to a beauty salon that was literally underground – it was located in the basement of a two-story brick building that housed a pharmacy, a butcher shop, and a local family cafe, now closed.
While the stylist worked her magic on my hair, I pulled out my smartphone to skim through the crime reports, and was about to insert the second SIM card into it, but decided to bother with that later at the hotel, and use the salon's Wi-Fi for now.
To my disappointment, there was absolutely nothing about the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street. Although, maybe that was for the best, who knew.
Out of sheer boredom, I picked up a glossy magazine and began flipping through the slick pages, until I stumbled upon a tempting advertisement for jewelry. At the sight of the sparkling jewels, the words of Tiger Yuri from the pharmacy suddenly echoed clearly in my mind:
"You were there with your friend... She has such an interesting name, related to space, like Galaxy... A jewelry designer or something like that... Andromeda! That's it!"
I took out my phone again, and my fingers hurriedly danced across the screen, typing "jewelry designer Andromeda" into the search bar.
Yuri hadn't lied. Such a person really existed! Designer, of course, was a bit of an exaggeration. Elsa's friend crafted some trinkets related to celestial symbols, into which she hardly put a piece of her soul with love, and proudly displayed them on her homemade website called Andromeda's Universe.
I didn't bother looking at the gallery of her creations and went to the "About Me" tab. A page opened before me with a huge portrait of a pretty, coquettish blonde, who invited visitors to her site to embark on a "celestial journey" through the Universe of her jewelry.
If I'm Elsa, and this is my friend, why doesn't her face seem familiar to me...
I went to the "Contact" section. To my delight, the website listed a mobile phone number, and I immediately dialed it. Andromeda herself answered. I didn't even have to persuade her to meet. I pretended to be interested in her jewelry, concocting a story about a birthday gift for my grandma, and she, seizing the opportunity to earn some money, scheduled a meeting for 7:00 PM near the Auchan in the shopping center on Leninsky Avenue. She probably decided to combine selling jewelry with a grocery trip, or scheduled the meeting precisely in the supermarket to avoid problems with the police due to violating the self-isolation regime.
My mood lifted. So far, everything was working out perfectly.
If Lady Luck continues to be kind to me, tonight I'll find out my name.
After a successful visit to the beauty salon, I returned to the hotel in a new guise. The lightness of the new haircut, barely touching my shoulders, and the radiance of the golden-brown locks, casually framing my face, gave me a feeling of freshness and freedom.
[1] 103 °F
Hope for a message from Nikita flickered in my heart as I walked through the deserted lobby, but no notes had been left for me at the reception desk.
Crossing the threshold of my luxurious room, I felt fatigue wash over me like a sea wave. The soft bed in the sunlight beckoned to me, its impeccably white sheets teased, promising peace and sweet sleep. I collapsed onto it, and a midday nap, like a gentle shadow, covered me until the insistent ringing of the hotel phone shattered the silence, tearing me from Morpheus's embrace.
"Good afternoon! This is the concierge," a polite voice sounded. "We apologize for intruding on your rest, but a delivery has arrived for you."
Thoughts of a new message from Nikita whirled in my head. I immediately jumped up, shaking off the remnants of sleep. But, alas, it was just my order – gray contact lenses and black face masks. I had placed the online order on the way to the hotel, but didn't expect such a quick delivery, so I left the money for the courier at the reception, confident that it would be delivered in the evening during my meeting with Andromeda.
The concierge offered to send a bellboy, and a few minutes later I was eagerly tearing open the package, extracting the lenses the color of a cloudy autumn sky. Carefully putting them on, I instantly saw my reflection shimmer with new colors. With this hairstyle, to which I was not yet accustomed, and with this unfamiliar eye color, a completely alien, unfamiliar person looked back at me from the mirror. But I was pleased with my transformation. The golden strands perfectly harmonized with the peach tone of my skin and, casually framing my face, gave me an effortless charm.
With several hours left until my meeting with Andromeda, I decided to order lunch in the room and turned on the TV. All the news channels were anxiously broadcasting about the COVID-19 situation and the rapid increase in new cases. The world continued to grapple with the pandemic, and I desperately wanted to distract myself from the news in order to maintain a positive attitude. Switching to a musical channel, I couldn't resist the temptation to goof off in front of the mirror, dancing and singing along to the remix "Con Calma”.
It was a silly pastime, but it allowed me to forget myself for a while and not think about problems as my own personal ones, or those of all humanity.
I was so hungry I could have eaten an entire ox, but I couldn't manage the cold borscht and oversalted roast. So I turned to Yandex Maps for help. To my delight, a charming cafe called "Le Petit Prince" was discovered in the neighboring building. The very name "The Little Prince" was intriguing, and a quick glance at the menu finally convinced me – this was exactly the place to satisfy my hunger.
Not wanting to wait for delivery, I decided to walk to the cafe and called the waitress to take away the trays of food. To my surprise, it wasn't a room service employee who came for the tray, but the hotel manager Anastasia, who had checked me into the room yesterday.
Does she work around the clock?
"Didn't you like it?" she asked, noticing that I had barely touched the food.
"I just lost my appetite," I said, not wanting to go into details, and left her a thousand rubles so she would quickly take the dishes and leave.
"Thank you!" she smiled gratefully. "There's a good coffee shop nearby, 'The Little Prince', it's open. And I'll tell you a secret, this information isn't for everyone, only for VIP guests, but just in case you're interested. The bar on the tenth floor is open 24-7. It's kind of closed, officially, but you can knock and say the password 'Gunther'."
"Gunther?" I asked, surprised. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. That was the name of the coffee shop manager in 'Friends'. The bartender loves that TV series."
"Le Petit Prince" was a three-minute walk from the hotel. I imagined a window for accepting orders, like at a McDonald's drive-thrus, but the cafe was open, only the non-working area with tables was cordoned off by stands with illustrations by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and the space in front of the display case and cash register was marked with dividers so that those waiting for their order did not violate the distance.
The air here was filled with the divine aroma of freshly brewed coffee, intertwined with the tempting smells of exquisite pastries and dishes being prepared. My stomach even rumbled in anticipation.
While waiting for my lunch – fettuccine, generously sprinkled with succulent mussels and porcini mushrooms – I scrolled through the crime reports. Maybe the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street had already been mentioned somewhere, and I could find at least some tiny piece of information about the deceased. But again, there was no mention of the found corpse in the news. Maybe it just hadn't been discovered yet?
In aimless wandering through the news feed, my gaze snagged on a post in Yandex Zen, which told of the amazing unexpected friendship of a goat named Timur and a tiger named Amur, which once made a lot of noise. They even wanted to launch a reality show about them a few years ago.
Indeed, it was an unusual case – Timur, originally intended for Amur as prey, not only avoided the fate of a victim, giving the predator a decisive rebuff, but also boldly occupied his overnight stay, forcing the striped beast to sleep outside under the open sky. The most interesting thing was that the goat, who was given the name Timur for his bravery, eventually became friends with the tiger Amur. But, as experts noted, if the goat recalled for even a moment that he was a victim, the tiger would immediately sense it and tear him to pieces. The slightest weakness could awaken Amur's dormant predatory instincts, ending this friendship as suddenly as it began.
That is, as long as Timur thought he was in control of the situation, that's how it was - he lived, enjoyed life, and everything was fine with him.
I need to be the same. If I give myself slack, I'll be cornered. No way! I'm not a victim, and I won't surrender without a fight!
I slowly glided through the vastness of the Internet from one link to another. At the moment when I was making my way through the thickets of political news, I wanted a hot blueberry muffin with a scoop of pistachio ice cream. I placed another order, and was just about to plunge back into reading, when my gaze was attracted by a tall, fragile girl, like a Japanese girl, waiting for an order near the stands. In a ginger leather jacket and with a scarlet scarf wrapped around her long neck, she involuntarily evoked the image of Mikasa from the anime "Attack on Titan". The black mask, which hid part of her face, emphasized the extraordinary color of her eyes, reminiscent of shimmering emeralds.
Probably contact lenses, too.
Crossing the threshold of my luxurious room, I felt fatigue wash over me like a sea wave. The soft bed in the sunlight beckoned to me, its impeccably white sheets teased, promising peace and sweet sleep. I collapsed onto it, and a midday nap, like a gentle shadow, covered me until the insistent ringing of the hotel phone shattered the silence, tearing me from Morpheus's embrace.
"Good afternoon! This is the concierge," a polite voice sounded. "We apologize for intruding on your rest, but a delivery has arrived for you."
Thoughts of a new message from Nikita whirled in my head. I immediately jumped up, shaking off the remnants of sleep. But, alas, it was just my order – gray contact lenses and black face masks. I had placed the online order on the way to the hotel, but didn't expect such a quick delivery, so I left the money for the courier at the reception, confident that it would be delivered in the evening during my meeting with Andromeda.
The concierge offered to send a bellboy, and a few minutes later I was eagerly tearing open the package, extracting the lenses the color of a cloudy autumn sky. Carefully putting them on, I instantly saw my reflection shimmer with new colors. With this hairstyle, to which I was not yet accustomed, and with this unfamiliar eye color, a completely alien, unfamiliar person looked back at me from the mirror. But I was pleased with my transformation. The golden strands perfectly harmonized with the peach tone of my skin and, casually framing my face, gave me an effortless charm.
With several hours left until my meeting with Andromeda, I decided to order lunch in the room and turned on the TV. All the news channels were anxiously broadcasting about the COVID-19 situation and the rapid increase in new cases. The world continued to grapple with the pandemic, and I desperately wanted to distract myself from the news in order to maintain a positive attitude. Switching to a musical channel, I couldn't resist the temptation to goof off in front of the mirror, dancing and singing along to the remix "Con Calma”.
It was a silly pastime, but it allowed me to forget myself for a while and not think about problems as my own personal ones, or those of all humanity.
I was so hungry I could have eaten an entire ox, but I couldn't manage the cold borscht and oversalted roast. So I turned to Yandex Maps for help. To my delight, a charming cafe called "Le Petit Prince" was discovered in the neighboring building. The very name "The Little Prince" was intriguing, and a quick glance at the menu finally convinced me – this was exactly the place to satisfy my hunger.
Not wanting to wait for delivery, I decided to walk to the cafe and called the waitress to take away the trays of food. To my surprise, it wasn't a room service employee who came for the tray, but the hotel manager Anastasia, who had checked me into the room yesterday.
Does she work around the clock?
"Didn't you like it?" she asked, noticing that I had barely touched the food.
"I just lost my appetite," I said, not wanting to go into details, and left her a thousand rubles so she would quickly take the dishes and leave.
"Thank you!" she smiled gratefully. "There's a good coffee shop nearby, 'The Little Prince', it's open. And I'll tell you a secret, this information isn't for everyone, only for VIP guests, but just in case you're interested. The bar on the tenth floor is open 24-7. It's kind of closed, officially, but you can knock and say the password 'Gunther'."
"Gunther?" I asked, surprised. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. That was the name of the coffee shop manager in 'Friends'. The bartender loves that TV series."
"Le Petit Prince" was a three-minute walk from the hotel. I imagined a window for accepting orders, like at a McDonald's drive-thrus, but the cafe was open, only the non-working area with tables was cordoned off by stands with illustrations by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and the space in front of the display case and cash register was marked with dividers so that those waiting for their order did not violate the distance.
The air here was filled with the divine aroma of freshly brewed coffee, intertwined with the tempting smells of exquisite pastries and dishes being prepared. My stomach even rumbled in anticipation.
While waiting for my lunch – fettuccine, generously sprinkled with succulent mussels and porcini mushrooms – I scrolled through the crime reports. Maybe the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street had already been mentioned somewhere, and I could find at least some tiny piece of information about the deceased. But again, there was no mention of the found corpse in the news. Maybe it just hadn't been discovered yet?
In aimless wandering through the news feed, my gaze snagged on a post in Yandex Zen, which told of the amazing unexpected friendship of a goat named Timur and a tiger named Amur, which once made a lot of noise. They even wanted to launch a reality show about them a few years ago.
Indeed, it was an unusual case – Timur, originally intended for Amur as prey, not only avoided the fate of a victim, giving the predator a decisive rebuff, but also boldly occupied his overnight stay, forcing the striped beast to sleep outside under the open sky. The most interesting thing was that the goat, who was given the name Timur for his bravery, eventually became friends with the tiger Amur. But, as experts noted, if the goat recalled for even a moment that he was a victim, the tiger would immediately sense it and tear him to pieces. The slightest weakness could awaken Amur's dormant predatory instincts, ending this friendship as suddenly as it began.
That is, as long as Timur thought he was in control of the situation, that's how it was - he lived, enjoyed life, and everything was fine with him.
I need to be the same. If I give myself slack, I'll be cornered. No way! I'm not a victim, and I won't surrender without a fight!
I slowly glided through the vastness of the Internet from one link to another. At the moment when I was making my way through the thickets of political news, I wanted a hot blueberry muffin with a scoop of pistachio ice cream. I placed another order, and was just about to plunge back into reading, when my gaze was attracted by a tall, fragile girl, like a Japanese girl, waiting for an order near the stands. In a ginger leather jacket and with a scarlet scarf wrapped around her long neck, she involuntarily evoked the image of Mikasa from the anime "Attack on Titan". The black mask, which hid part of her face, emphasized the extraordinary color of her eyes, reminiscent of shimmering emeralds.
Probably contact lenses, too.
The girl stood with her phone in her outstretched hand, as if taking a selfie, and chatted animatedly into the camera in pure Russian.
"Yes, I'll post a new update on the weekend, as usual... Arda, you're just incredible! I admire how selflessly you help homeless animals! Thank you so much!... Okay, next question. What am I working on now? Let's just say, it's a case involving stolen jewels... Shah15, you're annoying me with writing nasty things to everyone, I'm going to ban you!.. No, LeonParai, I can't reveal the details of my new investigation yet, you'll read about it on my blog on Saturday..."
"That's blogger Nomad Belka," the cafe employee whispered to me, packing my dessert into a paper bag, "she's on Instagram[1], live-streaming with her followers. She lives in the next building, near the hotel. Belka comes to us almost every day or orders delivery. By the way, she also loves blueberry muffins with pistachio ice cream."
While waiting for my fettuccine, out of curiosity, I downloaded Instagram, quickly created a faceless page called Nameless, and easily found Nomad Belka's account. For fun, I sent her a message, "Tie your shoelace on your right sneaker," and chuckled inwardly when she discovered that it was indeed untied. The blogger looked around with a surprised expression, but the other visitors, languishing in anticipation of their orders, were all, without exception, absorbed in the flickering screens of their smartphones.
"Don't look for me, Big Brother is watching you," I sent a second message in pursuit.
"Well, who is a fan of George Orwell here?" Belka exclaimed. "Nameless, you can join me, we can discuss '1984'."
At that very moment, my fettuccine order was called from the kitchen. I quickly typed a reply, "Maybe next time," grabbed the paper bag, and left the cafe.
I arrived at the "Gagarinsky" shopping mall by taxi fifteen minutes before the meeting. Surely, in the old days, it had been crowded, noisy, and bustling, but now, with only "Auchan," pharmacies, mobile phone shops, and a pet store open, the flow of people had noticeably thinned.
Andromeda was already standing by the entrance to the supermarket, talking on the phone. I stopped to scrutinize her, trying to catch something familiar in her face, but to no avail. Elsa's friend was arguing with someone, nervously tapping a bottle of mineral water against the metal railing of a shopping cart, completely unaware that she was being watched. When she hung up the call with a frustrated curse, I approached her.
Upon seeing me, Andromeda broke into a wide smile and gave me a light peck on the cheek.
“Are you into pranks now? An exclusive necklace for Grandma! You thought I didn't recognize your voice? By the way, the new look suits you. Let me take a good look at you. Wow! You've blossomed! Did Pierre work his magic on you? I want a haircut like that too. When did you even come back to Moscow?"
I understood absolutely nothing! What the heck was this Pierre?
"I... I really came to discuss the necklace. You've mistaken me for someone else," I stammered, utterly bewildered.
"Oh, OK, Elsa, is this like 'You're on Candid Camera'?" Andromeda giggled. "I’m blonde, but I'm not brainless to fall for a prank like 'I'm your best friend's doppelganger' or 'I'm her long-lost, now-found twin sister.' Or are you going to tell me Elsa was kidnapped by reptilians, and you're her clone? By the way, have you read about that? Bloggers have gone crazy and are preaching about reptilians and 5G on every corner."
I studied her face intently. The girl seemed very convincing.
Could it be that I really am Elsa? But why couldn't I remember anything about it?
"Okay," I conceded. "I'll tell you straight. Something happened to me..."
Before I could finish the sentence, Andromeda interrupted me, grabbing my hand with wide, horrified eyes.
"Elechka, honey, what an idiot I am! How didn't I notice it? Your stomach!"
I stopped understanding anything.
"What's wrong with my stomach?!" I asked, frightened.
"Did you already give birth?! Wait, I didn't see any happy posts on social media, either from you or Nikita... Oh, God!" She widened her eyes and gasped. "You lost the baby! Elechka, honey, I'm so sorry!"
I stood frozen, as if struck by lightning, staring at Andromeda in bewilderment, feeling like my brain was about to explode.
"What baby?!" I gasped.
"What do you mean, 'what baby'? Yours and Nikita's!" Elsa's friend looked at me in confusion.
"Who is Nikita?!"
"Are you kidding? Your husband, of course! Last week you went to Sochi, your hometown, to prepare for the birth. What happened there? Did you give birth?"
I couldn't believe my ears. Without asking, I snatched the bottle of water from her hand and frantically took several gulps.
What the hell is going on?! I have a child?!
At that moment, my gaze caught on a couple leisurely strolling through the supermarket with a cart containing a bottle of children's champagne featuring Elsa from Disney's "Frozen." In an instant, it triggered a chilling image from that ill-fated apartment – a dead guy in an armchair, and next to him on a table, a bottle of Moët & Chandon with a pair of crystal glasses.
Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. It became difficult to breathe. I was suffocating. My vision blurred. And Andromeda just didn't stop, continuing to chatter something right in my face.
"Elechka, honey, let me call Nikita to pick you up. Or no, better yet, let me take you myself. You don't look well."
Her endless chatter made my head spin.
"I need to go to the restroom. I'll be right back."
Under Andromeda's sympathetic gaze, I hurried towards the WC signs. Once inside, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I had a frightened, lost look.
I can't be Elsa, the wife of some Nikita. Or that murdered guy from the apartment? If I am her, then where is my child? Did I really give birth? Alive or dead? Or did he die after birth?
And where is she planning to take me? Back to that apartment with the murdered Nikita? No, I'm not going back there! They'll arrest me and imprison me for murder!...
Or maybe I'm not Elsa at all? Maybe we just look very similar, that happens! No one can tell by looking at me that I was pregnant with a belly just last week! So, I'm not Elsa!
Gradually, my composure began to return.
It's just a coincidence! It happens. I don't have a child. Or maybe this Andromeda is high, and her friend Elsa is just a figment of her imagination? Maybe we actually have a resemblance, and because of the pills, she thinks I am Elsa? I need to stay away from this crazy girl.
I turned off the tap and left the ladies' room. While Andromeda, propping her beloved cart with her hip, was once again enthusiastically chattering on the phone, I slipped unnoticed towards the exit and darted into a taxi I had called in advance.
As I was driving back to the hotel, my Nokia rang loudly, and Andromeda's number appeared on the screen, filling me with anxiety. I opened the window and threw the phone out.
I returned to the hotel distraught. I had been so happy to get a lead but I had reached a dead end again. Only one hope remained: that the mysterious Nikita had left me another message after all. But the receptionist replied that nothing had been passed on to me.
Apparently, I looked so dejected that the concierge, with a sympathetic look, handed me a glossy celebrity magazine, hoping to cheer me up.
"Take a magazine. Fresh issue!"
I mechanically took it and headed towards the elevator. In the cabin, to distract myself from my gloomy thoughts, I began to flip through the magazine.
And then, suddenly, something familiar flashed before my eyes. Overcome with excitement, I turned back a few pages and in the social chronicle section, I stumbled upon a photo of myself! I was wearing that very silk dress in which I had woken up yesterday, without any memory, in that strange apartment with the corpse in the armchair. In the photograph, I was standing arm in arm with a young man whose face, for some reason, seemed painfully familiar to me.
"Singer Max Korsakov with his girlfriend," I read under the picture.
[1] Instagram and Facebook social networks owned by Meta Platforms Inc. were declared extremist by the Tverskoy Court of Moscow on March 21, 2022 and banned in Russia.
"Yes, I'll post a new update on the weekend, as usual... Arda, you're just incredible! I admire how selflessly you help homeless animals! Thank you so much!... Okay, next question. What am I working on now? Let's just say, it's a case involving stolen jewels... Shah15, you're annoying me with writing nasty things to everyone, I'm going to ban you!.. No, LeonParai, I can't reveal the details of my new investigation yet, you'll read about it on my blog on Saturday..."
"That's blogger Nomad Belka," the cafe employee whispered to me, packing my dessert into a paper bag, "she's on Instagram[1], live-streaming with her followers. She lives in the next building, near the hotel. Belka comes to us almost every day or orders delivery. By the way, she also loves blueberry muffins with pistachio ice cream."
While waiting for my fettuccine, out of curiosity, I downloaded Instagram, quickly created a faceless page called Nameless, and easily found Nomad Belka's account. For fun, I sent her a message, "Tie your shoelace on your right sneaker," and chuckled inwardly when she discovered that it was indeed untied. The blogger looked around with a surprised expression, but the other visitors, languishing in anticipation of their orders, were all, without exception, absorbed in the flickering screens of their smartphones.
"Don't look for me, Big Brother is watching you," I sent a second message in pursuit.
"Well, who is a fan of George Orwell here?" Belka exclaimed. "Nameless, you can join me, we can discuss '1984'."
At that very moment, my fettuccine order was called from the kitchen. I quickly typed a reply, "Maybe next time," grabbed the paper bag, and left the cafe.
I arrived at the "Gagarinsky" shopping mall by taxi fifteen minutes before the meeting. Surely, in the old days, it had been crowded, noisy, and bustling, but now, with only "Auchan," pharmacies, mobile phone shops, and a pet store open, the flow of people had noticeably thinned.
Andromeda was already standing by the entrance to the supermarket, talking on the phone. I stopped to scrutinize her, trying to catch something familiar in her face, but to no avail. Elsa's friend was arguing with someone, nervously tapping a bottle of mineral water against the metal railing of a shopping cart, completely unaware that she was being watched. When she hung up the call with a frustrated curse, I approached her.
Upon seeing me, Andromeda broke into a wide smile and gave me a light peck on the cheek.
“Are you into pranks now? An exclusive necklace for Grandma! You thought I didn't recognize your voice? By the way, the new look suits you. Let me take a good look at you. Wow! You've blossomed! Did Pierre work his magic on you? I want a haircut like that too. When did you even come back to Moscow?"
I understood absolutely nothing! What the heck was this Pierre?
"I... I really came to discuss the necklace. You've mistaken me for someone else," I stammered, utterly bewildered.
"Oh, OK, Elsa, is this like 'You're on Candid Camera'?" Andromeda giggled. "I’m blonde, but I'm not brainless to fall for a prank like 'I'm your best friend's doppelganger' or 'I'm her long-lost, now-found twin sister.' Or are you going to tell me Elsa was kidnapped by reptilians, and you're her clone? By the way, have you read about that? Bloggers have gone crazy and are preaching about reptilians and 5G on every corner."
I studied her face intently. The girl seemed very convincing.
Could it be that I really am Elsa? But why couldn't I remember anything about it?
"Okay," I conceded. "I'll tell you straight. Something happened to me..."
Before I could finish the sentence, Andromeda interrupted me, grabbing my hand with wide, horrified eyes.
"Elechka, honey, what an idiot I am! How didn't I notice it? Your stomach!"
I stopped understanding anything.
"What's wrong with my stomach?!" I asked, frightened.
"Did you already give birth?! Wait, I didn't see any happy posts on social media, either from you or Nikita... Oh, God!" She widened her eyes and gasped. "You lost the baby! Elechka, honey, I'm so sorry!"
I stood frozen, as if struck by lightning, staring at Andromeda in bewilderment, feeling like my brain was about to explode.
"What baby?!" I gasped.
"What do you mean, 'what baby'? Yours and Nikita's!" Elsa's friend looked at me in confusion.
"Who is Nikita?!"
"Are you kidding? Your husband, of course! Last week you went to Sochi, your hometown, to prepare for the birth. What happened there? Did you give birth?"
I couldn't believe my ears. Without asking, I snatched the bottle of water from her hand and frantically took several gulps.
What the hell is going on?! I have a child?!
At that moment, my gaze caught on a couple leisurely strolling through the supermarket with a cart containing a bottle of children's champagne featuring Elsa from Disney's "Frozen." In an instant, it triggered a chilling image from that ill-fated apartment – a dead guy in an armchair, and next to him on a table, a bottle of Moët & Chandon with a pair of crystal glasses.
Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. It became difficult to breathe. I was suffocating. My vision blurred. And Andromeda just didn't stop, continuing to chatter something right in my face.
"Elechka, honey, let me call Nikita to pick you up. Or no, better yet, let me take you myself. You don't look well."
Her endless chatter made my head spin.
"I need to go to the restroom. I'll be right back."
Under Andromeda's sympathetic gaze, I hurried towards the WC signs. Once inside, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I had a frightened, lost look.
I can't be Elsa, the wife of some Nikita. Or that murdered guy from the apartment? If I am her, then where is my child? Did I really give birth? Alive or dead? Or did he die after birth?
And where is she planning to take me? Back to that apartment with the murdered Nikita? No, I'm not going back there! They'll arrest me and imprison me for murder!...
Or maybe I'm not Elsa at all? Maybe we just look very similar, that happens! No one can tell by looking at me that I was pregnant with a belly just last week! So, I'm not Elsa!
Gradually, my composure began to return.
It's just a coincidence! It happens. I don't have a child. Or maybe this Andromeda is high, and her friend Elsa is just a figment of her imagination? Maybe we actually have a resemblance, and because of the pills, she thinks I am Elsa? I need to stay away from this crazy girl.
I turned off the tap and left the ladies' room. While Andromeda, propping her beloved cart with her hip, was once again enthusiastically chattering on the phone, I slipped unnoticed towards the exit and darted into a taxi I had called in advance.
As I was driving back to the hotel, my Nokia rang loudly, and Andromeda's number appeared on the screen, filling me with anxiety. I opened the window and threw the phone out.
I returned to the hotel distraught. I had been so happy to get a lead but I had reached a dead end again. Only one hope remained: that the mysterious Nikita had left me another message after all. But the receptionist replied that nothing had been passed on to me.
Apparently, I looked so dejected that the concierge, with a sympathetic look, handed me a glossy celebrity magazine, hoping to cheer me up.
"Take a magazine. Fresh issue!"
I mechanically took it and headed towards the elevator. In the cabin, to distract myself from my gloomy thoughts, I began to flip through the magazine.
And then, suddenly, something familiar flashed before my eyes. Overcome with excitement, I turned back a few pages and in the social chronicle section, I stumbled upon a photo of myself! I was wearing that very silk dress in which I had woken up yesterday, without any memory, in that strange apartment with the corpse in the armchair. In the photograph, I was standing arm in arm with a young man whose face, for some reason, seemed painfully familiar to me.
"Singer Max Korsakov with his girlfriend," I read under the picture.
[1] Instagram and Facebook social networks owned by Meta Platforms Inc. were declared extremist by the Tverskoy Court of Moscow on March 21, 2022 and banned in Russia.
5.
I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a real shock, like a bolt of lightning out of the blue. How, by what miracle, did I end up on the pages of a well-known magazine next to this idol of millions from the television, and as his girlfriend?
The issue is fresh, she doesn't have a belly, the dress is mine, so it's not Andromeda's friend. It turns out, it's me??? How do I know Max Korsakov?!
I entered my room and collapsed wearily onto the bed, feeling completely drained. With each passing hour, the tangle of mysteries and riddles became more intricate and complex. And what to do now? Hunt down Korsakov and ask him what my name is?
But that's an idea!
Desperately needing answers, I took my phone out of my bag and in an instant was on his website. With a faint hope, I clicked on the "Contacts" tab and feverishly scanned the list. And there it was! The phone number of his manager. Finally! I had found someone who might be able to help me.
"Good evening, Marina! I'm the editor of the new weekly magazine 'Star's Love Story.' We would like to interview Max and his girlfriend, with whom he was at the party celebrating producer Rodion Larin's anniversary. By the way, what's her name?"
"Hi! I haven't heard of such a magazine. Please e-mail me information about it and a link to your website. Max and I will discuss your proposal and let you know our decision."
"Uh... Yes, yes, sure! But could you at least tell me his girlfriend's name?"
"You'll definitely find it out if Max agrees to your offer. Excuse me, I have another call. Goodbye!" The manager hung up.
"Damn!”
I couldn't outsmart her. Apparently, representatives of the yellow press had already tried by hook or by crook to find out who this girl was. After all, if he had a serious relationship, the magazine would have definitely mentioned her name, and not signed the photo with the faceless phrase "with his girlfriend."
Just in case, I googled information about Max's girlfriends, but I only found old links to articles about his romances with photo models, the lead singer of a pop group, a beauty blogger from a reality show, and a TV presenter, with whom he had even planned to marry three years ago. I studied their photos. I wasn't among them.
So, my assumption turned out to be correct. I haven't been dating Korsakov for very long and have only recently started appearing with him in public, if not for the first time ever.
I found information that the party in honor of the producer's anniversary took place four days ago.
Seriously? Have I been hanging out in this dress for three days?
Or maybe I was kidnapped? That's it! If I'm a pop star's girlfriend, I could well have been kidnapped for ransom. That's why I ended up in someone else's apartment!
Maybe we even fought with the kidnapper, and I killed him in self-defense?
If it was me who killed him.
Yet, this version was falling apart at the seams. If I had been kidnapped, my hands would have been tied, and my mouth would have been taped shut, not being given expensive champagne.
No, I need to somehow meet Max Korsakov and talk to him.
But where on earth can I run into this Mr. Superstar?
I went back to his website and found an announcement for an upcoming online charity concert from the "Tonight" nightclub, supported by a music TV channel. Under self-isolation conditions, viewers were not invited to the club; a live broadcast of the concert was arranged for them with a real sale of digital tickets with connection links, and the funds raised were to be donated to orphanages for the purchase of personal protective equipment against COVID-19.
I would hardly be able to get into the club; I wasn't counting on that, but now I held in my hands the thread of Ariadne that would lead me to Korsakov, because I found out in what place and at what time I could lie in wait for him at the entrance. So as not to confuse anything, I wrote down the name of the club and the date of the concert right on the magazine page under our photo and put it in the bedside table drawer. All that remained was to be patient and wait for Friday, which stretched on for a long four days!
Encouraged by the new lead, I decided to go to Andromeda's page on VKontakte and look for Elsa among her friends. It was strange that this idea hadn't occurred to me earlier. The account I needed popped up instantly as soon as I typed the letters "El" into the search engine. Apparently, Andromeda only had one friend with a name starting with those letters.
The resemblance was striking!
Was it really possible for two strangers to look so much alike? It was as if this girl in the photos was my clone! How could that be?!
I began to examine Elsa's few pictures, trying to make out the color of her eyes. If at least one photo showed her with one eye brown and the other green, then it was definitely me.
But the search was unsuccessful. Apparently, she was also fond of contact lenses—pictures with blue and gray eyes were more common, while others showed them green, brown, and even violet.
There wasn't much information about her. Elsa Kurkova was born in Moscow. She studied at MGIMO at the International Business and Business Administration Faculty. In 2018, she married Nikita Kurkov.
Elsa wasn't keen on maintaining her social media page; there were only a few photos, mostly old ones, and posts appeared in her feed every few months, mainly in the form of reposts from various public pages.
But I still managed to find a clue. Scrolling through her feed, I came across a funny meme about penguins that Elsa had shared from her own Twitter account, and by clicking on it and going to the account page, I found her last tweet: "My love and I are at the show in honor of Rodion Larin's anniversary."
This was posted four days ago!
I stared at Elsa's tweet without blinking, as if suspended outside of time. Myriad thoughts swirled in my head, each more insane than the last. It couldn't be a simple coincidence! There's no such thing as that kind of chance!
Elsa stopped tweeting four days ago. I also disappeared that same evening, judging by the fact that I ended up in an unfamiliar apartment in the same dress I was wearing at Larin's party. And we were both at the same event at the same time. Could it mean... that I am Elsa?!
I fell back against the pillow, gazing at the ceiling. I had no idea where to find answers to all these questions tormenting my mind, and it was driving me crazy.
No, I couldn't be Elsa. She was in her last month of pregnancy. But in the photo with Korsakov, there was no belly. Where had it gone? A few days ago, Elsa, along with Andromeda, had been seen with a belly at the dacha of Tiger Yuri’s friend. And on Thursday, she, if it was me, was posing without a belly with Korsakov at Larin's anniversary, and there was no trace of the belly. Theoretically, Elsa could have given birth and been discharged from the hospital in those days. But where was the baby then? Was he or she even alive? Or had died? Then it’s weird too —if something had happened to the baby, she would be grieving, plus this self-isolation, but instead she was partying in an evening dress. Or maybe she went to the party to avoid dwelling on it and somehow distract herself from the tragedy? Or maybe there was no pregnancy at all? She was just pretending to be pregnant for some reason. No, that is also silly. Then she would have worn a fake belly to Larin's party; she knew there were paparazzi everywhere.
No, still doesn't match up.. If I was Elsa, then why the hell did I go with Korsakov and not my husband, Nikita? And even wrote on Twitter, "My love and I." Or did she and her husband break up? Yes! After losing the baby, Elsa might have decided to leave Nikita and stop hiding her relationship with Korsakov. So if I am her, then I was pregnant and cheating on my husband.
Or everything is okay with the baby, he or she is at home with a dad, Nikita, while I was hanging out with Korsakov? Or maybe I didn't want to leave Nikita, and Korsakov killed him out of jealousy?
I sighed. My head was in complete chaos, and only utter rubbish came to mind. Not a single sane thought. It was all because I was tired. My brain had completely shut down.
I need to go to sleep. Morning is always wiser than evening.
Just as I began to drift into sleep, it suddenly struck me: I hadn't seen any photos of Elsa's husband... that is, my husband.
I went back to her profile and found Nikita Kurkov among her friends. He looked nothing like that dead guy, and his face didn't seem even remotely familiar to me. Well, great news: Elsa is not a widow.
Or is it me who is not a widow?
It had only been a day since I woke up in that apartment on Marshal Biryuzov Street, but it felt like it had been several days ago. And what awaits me ahead is unknown.
When will my memory return, and when will I return to a normal life?
With these thoughts, I fell asleep, and for the first time since I remembered myself, I had a dream that felt like reality.
In the dream, I was a little girl, about eight years old, I think. I'm lying on my stomach on a carpet with colorful, shaggy patterns, with an open book and a plate of fruit in front of me. Sunbeams, piercing through the window glass, dance on the parquet floor in a scattering of golden sparks. I polished the floor to a shine, and now I'm resting, reading and enjoying the taste of a juicy peach and the soothing sounds of a summer day from the open window: the chirping of restless birds and the cheerful cries of boys on the playground.
My nose catches the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, where my mother, singing, is busy preparing a festive dinner. We are both in excellent spirits, excited about the expectation of something wonderful that is supposed to happen today. The atmosphere is filled with this anticipation of the upcoming holiday, as if electrified by it.
Then Mom peeks into the room.
"Princess, I'm going to the store for flour, I'll be back in about ten minutes."
I nod, without taking my eyes off the book. I hear the front door slam, Mom hurrying down the stairs, Mom screaming... Her piercing scream echoes in my head. The sounds of a struggle reach me from the entrance, I clearly hear the scuffling, blows against the railings, the crash of fallen mailboxes, and the slamming of the iron door...
I jump to my feet, rush to the window, and frantically try to see what's happening near the entrance. We live on the ground floor, and the thick emerald foliage of the poplars doesn't block my view of two men dragging my mom toward a dark van, while she desperately tries to break free. My heart stops in my chest when I notice with horror how a sinister crimson stain of blood spreads on her blue dress the color of the evening sky, right above her stomach...
The issue is fresh, she doesn't have a belly, the dress is mine, so it's not Andromeda's friend. It turns out, it's me??? How do I know Max Korsakov?!
I entered my room and collapsed wearily onto the bed, feeling completely drained. With each passing hour, the tangle of mysteries and riddles became more intricate and complex. And what to do now? Hunt down Korsakov and ask him what my name is?
But that's an idea!
Desperately needing answers, I took my phone out of my bag and in an instant was on his website. With a faint hope, I clicked on the "Contacts" tab and feverishly scanned the list. And there it was! The phone number of his manager. Finally! I had found someone who might be able to help me.
"Good evening, Marina! I'm the editor of the new weekly magazine 'Star's Love Story.' We would like to interview Max and his girlfriend, with whom he was at the party celebrating producer Rodion Larin's anniversary. By the way, what's her name?"
"Hi! I haven't heard of such a magazine. Please e-mail me information about it and a link to your website. Max and I will discuss your proposal and let you know our decision."
"Uh... Yes, yes, sure! But could you at least tell me his girlfriend's name?"
"You'll definitely find it out if Max agrees to your offer. Excuse me, I have another call. Goodbye!" The manager hung up.
"Damn!”
I couldn't outsmart her. Apparently, representatives of the yellow press had already tried by hook or by crook to find out who this girl was. After all, if he had a serious relationship, the magazine would have definitely mentioned her name, and not signed the photo with the faceless phrase "with his girlfriend."
Just in case, I googled information about Max's girlfriends, but I only found old links to articles about his romances with photo models, the lead singer of a pop group, a beauty blogger from a reality show, and a TV presenter, with whom he had even planned to marry three years ago. I studied their photos. I wasn't among them.
So, my assumption turned out to be correct. I haven't been dating Korsakov for very long and have only recently started appearing with him in public, if not for the first time ever.
I found information that the party in honor of the producer's anniversary took place four days ago.
Seriously? Have I been hanging out in this dress for three days?
Or maybe I was kidnapped? That's it! If I'm a pop star's girlfriend, I could well have been kidnapped for ransom. That's why I ended up in someone else's apartment!
Maybe we even fought with the kidnapper, and I killed him in self-defense?
If it was me who killed him.
Yet, this version was falling apart at the seams. If I had been kidnapped, my hands would have been tied, and my mouth would have been taped shut, not being given expensive champagne.
No, I need to somehow meet Max Korsakov and talk to him.
But where on earth can I run into this Mr. Superstar?
I went back to his website and found an announcement for an upcoming online charity concert from the "Tonight" nightclub, supported by a music TV channel. Under self-isolation conditions, viewers were not invited to the club; a live broadcast of the concert was arranged for them with a real sale of digital tickets with connection links, and the funds raised were to be donated to orphanages for the purchase of personal protective equipment against COVID-19.
I would hardly be able to get into the club; I wasn't counting on that, but now I held in my hands the thread of Ariadne that would lead me to Korsakov, because I found out in what place and at what time I could lie in wait for him at the entrance. So as not to confuse anything, I wrote down the name of the club and the date of the concert right on the magazine page under our photo and put it in the bedside table drawer. All that remained was to be patient and wait for Friday, which stretched on for a long four days!
Encouraged by the new lead, I decided to go to Andromeda's page on VKontakte and look for Elsa among her friends. It was strange that this idea hadn't occurred to me earlier. The account I needed popped up instantly as soon as I typed the letters "El" into the search engine. Apparently, Andromeda only had one friend with a name starting with those letters.
The resemblance was striking!
Was it really possible for two strangers to look so much alike? It was as if this girl in the photos was my clone! How could that be?!
I began to examine Elsa's few pictures, trying to make out the color of her eyes. If at least one photo showed her with one eye brown and the other green, then it was definitely me.
But the search was unsuccessful. Apparently, she was also fond of contact lenses—pictures with blue and gray eyes were more common, while others showed them green, brown, and even violet.
There wasn't much information about her. Elsa Kurkova was born in Moscow. She studied at MGIMO at the International Business and Business Administration Faculty. In 2018, she married Nikita Kurkov.
Elsa wasn't keen on maintaining her social media page; there were only a few photos, mostly old ones, and posts appeared in her feed every few months, mainly in the form of reposts from various public pages.
But I still managed to find a clue. Scrolling through her feed, I came across a funny meme about penguins that Elsa had shared from her own Twitter account, and by clicking on it and going to the account page, I found her last tweet: "My love and I are at the show in honor of Rodion Larin's anniversary."
This was posted four days ago!
I stared at Elsa's tweet without blinking, as if suspended outside of time. Myriad thoughts swirled in my head, each more insane than the last. It couldn't be a simple coincidence! There's no such thing as that kind of chance!
Elsa stopped tweeting four days ago. I also disappeared that same evening, judging by the fact that I ended up in an unfamiliar apartment in the same dress I was wearing at Larin's party. And we were both at the same event at the same time. Could it mean... that I am Elsa?!
I fell back against the pillow, gazing at the ceiling. I had no idea where to find answers to all these questions tormenting my mind, and it was driving me crazy.
No, I couldn't be Elsa. She was in her last month of pregnancy. But in the photo with Korsakov, there was no belly. Where had it gone? A few days ago, Elsa, along with Andromeda, had been seen with a belly at the dacha of Tiger Yuri’s friend. And on Thursday, she, if it was me, was posing without a belly with Korsakov at Larin's anniversary, and there was no trace of the belly. Theoretically, Elsa could have given birth and been discharged from the hospital in those days. But where was the baby then? Was he or she even alive? Or had died? Then it’s weird too —if something had happened to the baby, she would be grieving, plus this self-isolation, but instead she was partying in an evening dress. Or maybe she went to the party to avoid dwelling on it and somehow distract herself from the tragedy? Or maybe there was no pregnancy at all? She was just pretending to be pregnant for some reason. No, that is also silly. Then she would have worn a fake belly to Larin's party; she knew there were paparazzi everywhere.
No, still doesn't match up.. If I was Elsa, then why the hell did I go with Korsakov and not my husband, Nikita? And even wrote on Twitter, "My love and I." Or did she and her husband break up? Yes! After losing the baby, Elsa might have decided to leave Nikita and stop hiding her relationship with Korsakov. So if I am her, then I was pregnant and cheating on my husband.
Or everything is okay with the baby, he or she is at home with a dad, Nikita, while I was hanging out with Korsakov? Or maybe I didn't want to leave Nikita, and Korsakov killed him out of jealousy?
I sighed. My head was in complete chaos, and only utter rubbish came to mind. Not a single sane thought. It was all because I was tired. My brain had completely shut down.
I need to go to sleep. Morning is always wiser than evening.
Just as I began to drift into sleep, it suddenly struck me: I hadn't seen any photos of Elsa's husband... that is, my husband.
I went back to her profile and found Nikita Kurkov among her friends. He looked nothing like that dead guy, and his face didn't seem even remotely familiar to me. Well, great news: Elsa is not a widow.
Or is it me who is not a widow?
It had only been a day since I woke up in that apartment on Marshal Biryuzov Street, but it felt like it had been several days ago. And what awaits me ahead is unknown.
When will my memory return, and when will I return to a normal life?
With these thoughts, I fell asleep, and for the first time since I remembered myself, I had a dream that felt like reality.
In the dream, I was a little girl, about eight years old, I think. I'm lying on my stomach on a carpet with colorful, shaggy patterns, with an open book and a plate of fruit in front of me. Sunbeams, piercing through the window glass, dance on the parquet floor in a scattering of golden sparks. I polished the floor to a shine, and now I'm resting, reading and enjoying the taste of a juicy peach and the soothing sounds of a summer day from the open window: the chirping of restless birds and the cheerful cries of boys on the playground.
My nose catches the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, where my mother, singing, is busy preparing a festive dinner. We are both in excellent spirits, excited about the expectation of something wonderful that is supposed to happen today. The atmosphere is filled with this anticipation of the upcoming holiday, as if electrified by it.
Then Mom peeks into the room.
"Princess, I'm going to the store for flour, I'll be back in about ten minutes."
I nod, without taking my eyes off the book. I hear the front door slam, Mom hurrying down the stairs, Mom screaming... Her piercing scream echoes in my head. The sounds of a struggle reach me from the entrance, I clearly hear the scuffling, blows against the railings, the crash of fallen mailboxes, and the slamming of the iron door...
I jump to my feet, rush to the window, and frantically try to see what's happening near the entrance. We live on the ground floor, and the thick emerald foliage of the poplars doesn't block my view of two men dragging my mom toward a dark van, while she desperately tries to break free. My heart stops in my chest when I notice with horror how a sinister crimson stain of blood spreads on her blue dress the color of the evening sky, right above her stomach...
6.
"Mommy! Mommy!"
I screamed in terror, choking on tears, and it was the sound of my own sobs that tore me from the clutches of the nightmare. And in reality, tears streamed down my cheeks, and my heart pounded wildly in my chest, like a bird trapped in a small cage. But even after waking up, I continued to mutter "Mommy!", unable to shake off the chilling fear that had seized me in my sleep, until I finally realized that it was just a nightmare.
Reaching out, I grabbed my phone, and the bright light of the screen pierced the darkness of the room. 2:05 AM.
After such a shock, sleep was gone as if by magic. Why did I dream it anyway? Is it like a reflection of my subconscious fears? I'm like a defenseless little girl, alone in this vast world where strangers want to harm me, and there's no Mom nearby - the closest person, capable of protecting and supporting me. And why a peach in the dream? I can't stand them at all.
Wiping away the tears, I sat in the silence of the hotel room, in the embrace of all-consuming darkness, trying to quell the oppressive feeling of anxiety that was tormenting my heart. And then I remembered the words of the room service employee about a secret place on the tenth floor with the code word "Gunther" for entry. The thought came to me to go down to the "underground" bar and have something stronger to drive away the unpleasant aftertaste of the nightmare. I quickly washed my face, put on jeans with a cozy warm sweater that matched the color of my gray lenses, took some cash, and left the room.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing an elderly couple locked in a heated argument. My entrance didn't faze them in the slightest; they simply continued their quarrel as I stepped inside.
"You were fleeced like a fool! Unbelievable! Fifty thousand down the drain!" the woman exclaimed, her voice laced with indignation.
"Just shut up already! It's your fault, all your fault! You dragged me there!" the man retorted, his tone sharp and defensive.
It was convenient, living in a hotel. Everything was at your fingertips. And to get to the bar, you didn't need to hail a taxi; a simple elevator ride would suffice. Judging by the couple's squabble, there was even a clandestine casino somewhere upstairs. But the cost! Three days here had set me back as much as a month's rent for a one-room apartment.
Then, an idea struck me.
What if I tried to rent an apartment through the taxi driver? He was quick, resourceful, and likely had connections in real estate agencies.
Deciding to call him in the morning, I exited on the tenth floor. Only seconds later did it dawn on me that the arguing couple had been speaking French.
What the heck? Do I know French? Where did I learn it? Did I study at MGIMO? Am I Elsa?
Here we go again. Once more, the same questions, like a flock of maddened crows, cawed in unison in my head. I longed to close my eyes, cover my ears, and find some semblance of peace. If only I could quiet this whirlwind of thoughts!
Using the magic code word "Gunther," I gained entry to the bar. Surprisingly, it was quite crowded. And I didn't spot any masks on the patrons. They seemed to belong to that category of people who didn't believe in the virus and, like Pavel from the mobile phone store, considered it a means of manipulation, used to frighten the public and "digitize" the population on that wave.
I approached the bar, adorned with a double-headed eagle, like everything else in this "Eagle" hotel, from the doorknobs and shampoos to the towels, and ordered a bottle of Redd's.
"Rough day?" a young man with a dazzling Hollywood smile slid onto the stool next to me.
I remained silent, letting him know that I wasn't in the mood for conversation, let alone flirting.
"If you need to vent, I'm all ears!" the stranger flashed his dazzling veneers.
He seemed remarkably friendly, with that open smile, as if we'd known each other for an eternity. Undeniably charismatic. Surely, countless women had succumbed to his charms. But I had no desire to engage with a hotel Lothario.
"No offense, but I don't need company," I replied.
"Okay. I’ll leave you alone. But first, we're going up to your room, and you'll hand over what belongs to us. You know what I'm talking about."
This time, the pickup artist spoke without a smile. His gaze turned cold and ruthless. He stepped back and casually opened his jacket just enough for me to see that he was armed, and that he wasn't to be trifled with.
I’ve gotten myself into some kind of mess again! What should I do now???
In response, I simply smiled. It was foolish to argue with a guy who was threatening you with a weapon and, judging by his expression, was determined. It was hard to believe that just a few seconds ago, this guy had been charmingly smiling and a friendly cutie.
And then, finally, a long-awaited silence descended in my head. My thoughts froze, and I heard the gentle voice of Suzanne Vega, flowing from the radio.
I screamed in terror, choking on tears, and it was the sound of my own sobs that tore me from the clutches of the nightmare. And in reality, tears streamed down my cheeks, and my heart pounded wildly in my chest, like a bird trapped in a small cage. But even after waking up, I continued to mutter "Mommy!", unable to shake off the chilling fear that had seized me in my sleep, until I finally realized that it was just a nightmare.
Reaching out, I grabbed my phone, and the bright light of the screen pierced the darkness of the room. 2:05 AM.
After such a shock, sleep was gone as if by magic. Why did I dream it anyway? Is it like a reflection of my subconscious fears? I'm like a defenseless little girl, alone in this vast world where strangers want to harm me, and there's no Mom nearby - the closest person, capable of protecting and supporting me. And why a peach in the dream? I can't stand them at all.
Wiping away the tears, I sat in the silence of the hotel room, in the embrace of all-consuming darkness, trying to quell the oppressive feeling of anxiety that was tormenting my heart. And then I remembered the words of the room service employee about a secret place on the tenth floor with the code word "Gunther" for entry. The thought came to me to go down to the "underground" bar and have something stronger to drive away the unpleasant aftertaste of the nightmare. I quickly washed my face, put on jeans with a cozy warm sweater that matched the color of my gray lenses, took some cash, and left the room.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing an elderly couple locked in a heated argument. My entrance didn't faze them in the slightest; they simply continued their quarrel as I stepped inside.
"You were fleeced like a fool! Unbelievable! Fifty thousand down the drain!" the woman exclaimed, her voice laced with indignation.
"Just shut up already! It's your fault, all your fault! You dragged me there!" the man retorted, his tone sharp and defensive.
It was convenient, living in a hotel. Everything was at your fingertips. And to get to the bar, you didn't need to hail a taxi; a simple elevator ride would suffice. Judging by the couple's squabble, there was even a clandestine casino somewhere upstairs. But the cost! Three days here had set me back as much as a month's rent for a one-room apartment.
Then, an idea struck me.
What if I tried to rent an apartment through the taxi driver? He was quick, resourceful, and likely had connections in real estate agencies.
Deciding to call him in the morning, I exited on the tenth floor. Only seconds later did it dawn on me that the arguing couple had been speaking French.
What the heck? Do I know French? Where did I learn it? Did I study at MGIMO? Am I Elsa?
Here we go again. Once more, the same questions, like a flock of maddened crows, cawed in unison in my head. I longed to close my eyes, cover my ears, and find some semblance of peace. If only I could quiet this whirlwind of thoughts!
Using the magic code word "Gunther," I gained entry to the bar. Surprisingly, it was quite crowded. And I didn't spot any masks on the patrons. They seemed to belong to that category of people who didn't believe in the virus and, like Pavel from the mobile phone store, considered it a means of manipulation, used to frighten the public and "digitize" the population on that wave.
I approached the bar, adorned with a double-headed eagle, like everything else in this "Eagle" hotel, from the doorknobs and shampoos to the towels, and ordered a bottle of Redd's.
"Rough day?" a young man with a dazzling Hollywood smile slid onto the stool next to me.
I remained silent, letting him know that I wasn't in the mood for conversation, let alone flirting.
"If you need to vent, I'm all ears!" the stranger flashed his dazzling veneers.
He seemed remarkably friendly, with that open smile, as if we'd known each other for an eternity. Undeniably charismatic. Surely, countless women had succumbed to his charms. But I had no desire to engage with a hotel Lothario.
"No offense, but I don't need company," I replied.
"Okay. I’ll leave you alone. But first, we're going up to your room, and you'll hand over what belongs to us. You know what I'm talking about."
This time, the pickup artist spoke without a smile. His gaze turned cold and ruthless. He stepped back and casually opened his jacket just enough for me to see that he was armed, and that he wasn't to be trifled with.
I’ve gotten myself into some kind of mess again! What should I do now???
In response, I simply smiled. It was foolish to argue with a guy who was threatening you with a weapon and, judging by his expression, was determined. It was hard to believe that just a few seconds ago, this guy had been charmingly smiling and a friendly cutie.
And then, finally, a long-awaited silence descended in my head. My thoughts froze, and I heard the gentle voice of Suzanne Vega, flowing from the radio.
My name is Luka
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you
Yes I think you've seen me before
If you hear something late at night
Some kind of trouble. some kind of fight
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was...
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you
Yes I think you've seen me before
If you hear something late at night
Some kind of trouble. some kind of fight
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was
Just don't ask me what it was...
"Okay," I paid the bartender and picked up the bottle of Redd's. "Are we going up together, or you can't take a step without your nannies?"
I nodded towards the two thugs at a nearby table, who hadn't taken their eyes off us and were closely monitoring our conversation.
Cutie ignored my question.
"Leave the bottle here."
"Security measures?" I laughed. "That’s right, your TT doesn't stand a chance against my Redd's! By the way, that's a really odd choice these days! Did you inherit it from your grandpa?”
Wait! How do I even know it's a TT? Do I know a lot about weapons?!
"Don't be a smartass with me! Let's go!"
Accompanied by three strangers, I left the bar and headed for the elevator.
Great! Now they'll take the money, and what will I do? They obviously came for it, not for the clothes from that apartment. But how did they even find me? I wasn't being followed... What if I have some kind of microchip implanted in me?!
The thought made me feel sick.
No, no, that’s impossible! That only happens in movies. Most likely, they followed me to the "European" shopping mall, and there they saw me get into a taxi, then they ran the car's license plate, found the driver, and he sold me out completely. That's the only explanation!
In the elevator, I turned to Cutie.
"Do you even know my name?"
"Trying to intimidate us?" he rolled his eyes affectedly. "Won't work! We don't give a damn who your ancestors, brothers, sisters, lovers, or whatever are. You took what belongs to us. And we're getting it back, no matter what."
His teeth flashed so captivatingly that I wanted to punch them and watch a flight of the pearly scattering.
Idiot! He thought I was trying to scare them off with my connections. All I needed was to hear my name.
"In short, you don't know," I smirked deliberately, pretending I didn't care.
"We know. Your name is Bitch!" one of the thugs with a short, thick neck, corrugated with fat folds, chimed in.
The elevator shuddered to a halt, and the bruiser shoved me into the hallway.
"Hey!" I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. "Keep your paws to yourself if you don't want trouble."
Cutie erupted in laughter.
“Ms. Tough-Talker, you picked the wrong people to threaten! Python will just breathe in your direction, and you'll be nothing but a wet spot."
"The only one leaving a wet spot is you, wetting yourself from fright."
Now it was the second thug's turn to choke on his laughter.
"Shut up!" Cutie hissed at him, his anger palpable. "Let's go! I'm already sick of this place."
I pulled the keycard from my pocket and entered the room first. The trio followed. Inside, I flopped onto the sofa and spread my arms wide. "
Take whatever you want!"
"What do you mean?" Cutie frowned, clearly confused.
"Well, I take a lot of things that don't belong to me. So it's hard to guess what exactly you're here for."
"For what you took from the apartment on Biryuzova Street."
"Ah, you should have said so earlier. I stashed it in the bathroom. I'll get it. Wait here."
I rose from the sofa and headed for the hallway, but Cutie had no intention of following my instructions. As soon as he stepped into the bathroom behind me, I stopped abruptly, and Mr. Veneers nearly crashed into me. I spun around in an instant, driving my knee into his groin. Taking advantage of the moment he doubled over in agony, I snatched the gun from under his jacket. I cocked the hammer with my thumb. The metallic click, like the cracking of ice, shattered the silence, and the barrel of the gun stared him right in the forehead. Cutie's face contorted with surprise and stretched into a grotesque mask, all his former charm vanishing.
I nodded towards the door, gesturing for him to leave the bathroom.
The thugs gaped, seeing their boss at gunpoint. Their faces stretched in silent question. They couldn't understand what had happened; it had only been seconds since we'd vanished into the bathroom. Their bewildered expressions were so comical, I couldn't help but laugh.
"Guns on the floor!" I ordered. "Or your buddy will have an audience with Fedor Tokarev right now. He'll be admiring the daisies from below."
"Who the hell is Fedor?" Python frowned, drawling the words.
"The one who gave the TT pistol to the world. Guns on the floor, I said! And phones."
Good heavens, where did I even learn about this Tokarev?!
"Do what she says!" Cutie almost shrieked in hysteria. "Or do you want her to blow my brains out?"
Reluctantly, the thugs dropped their Glocks and cell phones onto the floor.
"Now, take off your belts. Hands behind your backs. And you," I kicked Cutie, "tie their hands tightly with the belts and buckle them. If you slack off, I'll shoot you in the butt."
Scared to death, he eagerly began to obey, his hands trembling. When it was done, I made all three of them kneel.
"Well, guys, it's time to say goodbye to Bitch."
Before the goons could even utter a word, I kicked them each in the head, one after the other, with such force that they immediately slumped, as if scythed down, and collapsed to the side in unison.
"And good night to you too!"
Next, I knocked out Cutie, sending him on a long journey through the world of dreams. When he crashed, like a sack of potatoes, I wasted no time in pulling his belt from his pants and tightly wrapping his hands behind his back. After that, I searched him. The guy had two cell phones. I gathered them together with the thugs' phones, took the SIM cards out of each one, cut them in half, and stomped on the phones, giving them no chance to survive. Just in case, I searched the couple of goons, but didn't find anything that could pose a danger to me.
So, what to do with the weapons? Take them with me? Maybe they'll come in handy... But what if they killed someone with it, and the police stop me somewhere to check this damn digital pass?"
I nodded towards the two thugs at a nearby table, who hadn't taken their eyes off us and were closely monitoring our conversation.
Cutie ignored my question.
"Leave the bottle here."
"Security measures?" I laughed. "That’s right, your TT doesn't stand a chance against my Redd's! By the way, that's a really odd choice these days! Did you inherit it from your grandpa?”
Wait! How do I even know it's a TT? Do I know a lot about weapons?!
"Don't be a smartass with me! Let's go!"
Accompanied by three strangers, I left the bar and headed for the elevator.
Great! Now they'll take the money, and what will I do? They obviously came for it, not for the clothes from that apartment. But how did they even find me? I wasn't being followed... What if I have some kind of microchip implanted in me?!
The thought made me feel sick.
No, no, that’s impossible! That only happens in movies. Most likely, they followed me to the "European" shopping mall, and there they saw me get into a taxi, then they ran the car's license plate, found the driver, and he sold me out completely. That's the only explanation!
In the elevator, I turned to Cutie.
"Do you even know my name?"
"Trying to intimidate us?" he rolled his eyes affectedly. "Won't work! We don't give a damn who your ancestors, brothers, sisters, lovers, or whatever are. You took what belongs to us. And we're getting it back, no matter what."
His teeth flashed so captivatingly that I wanted to punch them and watch a flight of the pearly scattering.
Idiot! He thought I was trying to scare them off with my connections. All I needed was to hear my name.
"In short, you don't know," I smirked deliberately, pretending I didn't care.
"We know. Your name is Bitch!" one of the thugs with a short, thick neck, corrugated with fat folds, chimed in.
The elevator shuddered to a halt, and the bruiser shoved me into the hallway.
"Hey!" I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. "Keep your paws to yourself if you don't want trouble."
Cutie erupted in laughter.
“Ms. Tough-Talker, you picked the wrong people to threaten! Python will just breathe in your direction, and you'll be nothing but a wet spot."
"The only one leaving a wet spot is you, wetting yourself from fright."
Now it was the second thug's turn to choke on his laughter.
"Shut up!" Cutie hissed at him, his anger palpable. "Let's go! I'm already sick of this place."
I pulled the keycard from my pocket and entered the room first. The trio followed. Inside, I flopped onto the sofa and spread my arms wide. "
Take whatever you want!"
"What do you mean?" Cutie frowned, clearly confused.
"Well, I take a lot of things that don't belong to me. So it's hard to guess what exactly you're here for."
"For what you took from the apartment on Biryuzova Street."
"Ah, you should have said so earlier. I stashed it in the bathroom. I'll get it. Wait here."
I rose from the sofa and headed for the hallway, but Cutie had no intention of following my instructions. As soon as he stepped into the bathroom behind me, I stopped abruptly, and Mr. Veneers nearly crashed into me. I spun around in an instant, driving my knee into his groin. Taking advantage of the moment he doubled over in agony, I snatched the gun from under his jacket. I cocked the hammer with my thumb. The metallic click, like the cracking of ice, shattered the silence, and the barrel of the gun stared him right in the forehead. Cutie's face contorted with surprise and stretched into a grotesque mask, all his former charm vanishing.
I nodded towards the door, gesturing for him to leave the bathroom.
The thugs gaped, seeing their boss at gunpoint. Their faces stretched in silent question. They couldn't understand what had happened; it had only been seconds since we'd vanished into the bathroom. Their bewildered expressions were so comical, I couldn't help but laugh.
"Guns on the floor!" I ordered. "Or your buddy will have an audience with Fedor Tokarev right now. He'll be admiring the daisies from below."
"Who the hell is Fedor?" Python frowned, drawling the words.
"The one who gave the TT pistol to the world. Guns on the floor, I said! And phones."
Good heavens, where did I even learn about this Tokarev?!
"Do what she says!" Cutie almost shrieked in hysteria. "Or do you want her to blow my brains out?"
Reluctantly, the thugs dropped their Glocks and cell phones onto the floor.
"Now, take off your belts. Hands behind your backs. And you," I kicked Cutie, "tie their hands tightly with the belts and buckle them. If you slack off, I'll shoot you in the butt."
Scared to death, he eagerly began to obey, his hands trembling. When it was done, I made all three of them kneel.
"Well, guys, it's time to say goodbye to Bitch."
Before the goons could even utter a word, I kicked them each in the head, one after the other, with such force that they immediately slumped, as if scythed down, and collapsed to the side in unison.
"And good night to you too!"
Next, I knocked out Cutie, sending him on a long journey through the world of dreams. When he crashed, like a sack of potatoes, I wasted no time in pulling his belt from his pants and tightly wrapping his hands behind his back. After that, I searched him. The guy had two cell phones. I gathered them together with the thugs' phones, took the SIM cards out of each one, cut them in half, and stomped on the phones, giving them no chance to survive. Just in case, I searched the couple of goons, but didn't find anything that could pose a danger to me.
So, what to do with the weapons? Take them with me? Maybe they'll come in handy... But what if they killed someone with it, and the police stop me somewhere to check this damn digital pass?"
I meticulously wiped the weapon clean of fingerprints with a towel, erasing every trace of my presence, then tossed it out the window.
No time to waste, not until that trio woke up. Untangling themselves from the restraints would take them a while, and without their phones, calling for backup was out of the question, unless they somehow remembered numbers by heart and used the room's phone. But who knew? I figured I had at least fifteen minutes.
I threw my belongings into a duffel bag and left the room. As I headed for the elevator, Suzanne Vega's song started playing in my head again.
No time to waste, not until that trio woke up. Untangling themselves from the restraints would take them a while, and without their phones, calling for backup was out of the question, unless they somehow remembered numbers by heart and used the room's phone. But who knew? I figured I had at least fifteen minutes.
I threw my belongings into a duffel bag and left the room. As I headed for the elevator, Suzanne Vega's song started playing in my head again.
If you hear something late at night
Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight
Just don't ask me what it was...
Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight
Just don't ask me what it was...
In the elevator, it struck me that going through the main doors was a bad idea. What if some of Cutie’s people were waiting in a car near the main entrance? I'd be walking right into their arms.
In the lobby, I approached one of the security guards, reading his name tag before speaking in a low voice.
"Sergey, I'll give you a hundred bucks if you get me out through the service entrance."
He scratched the back of his head, thought for a couple of seconds, and then nodded in agreement.
"Manager Anastasia warned us about you. Said to fulfill your every whim. The tanning salon behind the Italian restaurant, five minutes."
As the guard led me to the service parking lot, I promised him another hundred if he could get me the phone number of the messenger who had picked up the note for me that morning and brought it to the front desk.
Moments later, I was speeding through the parking lot, heading towards the residential blocks. This time, I was sure I wasn't being followed. But I wasn't about to take any chances by hailing a cab on a busy street, where surveillance cameras, like all-seeing eyes, could help Cutie track me down later. The best course of action was to lie low, far from the cameras, and wait until morning.
And then what? It was almost 3 a.m. I'd have nowhere to go in the morning either. There was no point in calling the taxi driver about the apartment. If that Judas had betrayed me now, he'd do it again.
I decided to hide in some courtyard, search for a hostel online, call a taxi, and go there to figure out a plan in a more comfortable setting than the cold street in the middle of the night. I hoped that, due to the outflow of guests because of self-isolation, and thanks to a generous bonus, the hostel staff would be cooperative.
With these thoughts, I turned into a dark archway and practically collided with a strange couple rummaging in the shadows.
In the lobby, I approached one of the security guards, reading his name tag before speaking in a low voice.
"Sergey, I'll give you a hundred bucks if you get me out through the service entrance."
He scratched the back of his head, thought for a couple of seconds, and then nodded in agreement.
"Manager Anastasia warned us about you. Said to fulfill your every whim. The tanning salon behind the Italian restaurant, five minutes."
As the guard led me to the service parking lot, I promised him another hundred if he could get me the phone number of the messenger who had picked up the note for me that morning and brought it to the front desk.
Moments later, I was speeding through the parking lot, heading towards the residential blocks. This time, I was sure I wasn't being followed. But I wasn't about to take any chances by hailing a cab on a busy street, where surveillance cameras, like all-seeing eyes, could help Cutie track me down later. The best course of action was to lie low, far from the cameras, and wait until morning.
And then what? It was almost 3 a.m. I'd have nowhere to go in the morning either. There was no point in calling the taxi driver about the apartment. If that Judas had betrayed me now, he'd do it again.
I decided to hide in some courtyard, search for a hostel online, call a taxi, and go there to figure out a plan in a more comfortable setting than the cold street in the middle of the night. I hoped that, due to the outflow of guests because of self-isolation, and thanks to a generous bonus, the hostel staff would be cooperative.
With these thoughts, I turned into a dark archway and practically collided with a strange couple rummaging in the shadows.
"Well, well, another chick!" the guy chuckled, and suddenly lunging at me, held a knife to my throat. "You too, hand over your bag. And don't even think about screaming, or I'll slit both your throats."
Great! If there was a Championship for getting into trouble, I'd win the gold medal.
What should I do now?!?
Great! If there was a Championship for getting into trouble, I'd win the gold medal.
What should I do now?!?
7.
I froze, rooted to the spot as if struck by lightning. Only then did I notice that the girl I'd mistaken for the robber's accomplice was actually standing there, trembling like a leaf. To my surprise, I recognized her as the blogger from the cafe – the same mask on her face, the same huge, slanted eyes. I wondered what twist of fate had brought this "Belka" to a back alley at 3 AM.
I mentally scolded myself for not bringing the Glock.
Damn! If this psycho starts waving the knife around, I'll have to give him the bag with all the money!
"What are you standing there for? Hand over the bag!" He pressed the cold edge of the knife harder against my neck, showing he wasn't joking, and the chilling touch made my breath catch in my throat.
"Okay, okay, I don't need any trouble," I said reluctantly, extending the bag towards him.
The guy snatched it from my hands, tugging at the straps with such force that I nearly lost my balance. He was on edge, completely wired. Either it was his first robbery, or he was some kind of junkie high as a kite. Or both.
The robber took a couple of steps back. Still holding the knife menacingly in his outstretched hand, he threw my bag to the ground and opened it. He couldn't wait to see what he had just acquired.
No way! I’m not going down that easily!
At the very moment he leaned down to peer into my bag, with a lightning-fast movement, I knocked the knife out of his hand. Not giving him a chance to recover, I kicked him full force in the face, and when he fell back onto the asphalt, I repeated the movement several times until he lost consciousness. Instead of a final "shot," I kicked him in the stomach a couple more times, grabbed the bag from the asphalt, and turned to the girl, who still couldn't come to her senses and was watching the scene with wide, horror-stricken eyes.
"What are you standing there for, sleeping beauty? Wake up! We need to get out of here!"
At my words, the blogger snapped to attention and pointed the way.
"To the right and to the end of the building!"
We hurriedly left the scene of the failed robbery. I sincerely hoped that Cutie and his buddies hadn't managed to come to by now and pick up my trail.
I need to find some kind of safe haven, like an all-night pharmacy, and call a taxi.
"Thank you for saving me! I thought I was done for," my companion said gratefully, as we walked.
"No problem."
"No problem?! You are my guardian angel. God sent you to me. I was standing there praying for a miracle to happen. And then you appeared. You fight really well, like Bruce Lee!" she exclaimed with admiration.
"Nah, it was just a lucky break. What were you doing out here alone at this hour?"
Instead of answering, Belka suddenly turned towards the gates of a residential complex, entered a code, and opened the door.
"Here we are, home!" She gestured for me to enter.
I hadn't expected this turn of events.
Ah, right!
The words of "The Little Prince" employee flashed back to me, about the blogger living nearby and visiting the cafe every day.
"I was held up at a meeting," Belka replied as we rode the elevator to the top floor. "We were discussing project details until two in the morning. And I felt like taking a walk in the fresh air before bed. When I turned into the archway, suddenly this creep with the knife jumped out. And you? How did you happen to be there?"
"Long story!" I waved it off.
"Well, I have plenty of time now. Thanks to you."
I sighed.
“I had a fight with my boyfriend. I left him, wanted to get a hotel room, but he took away my passport," I made up on the spot.
"So you have nowhere to go? Stay here!" Belka offered, delighted at the chance to somehow repay the person who had saved her.
The elevator stopped, and we entered a spacious, two-level loft. I was amazed by the size of the place, but there was no time for sightseeing. As soon as we crossed the threshold, a huge German Shepherd came racing towards us at full speed. I could have sworn he was charging straight at me, and I frantically looked for cover, but to my relief, Belka stepped forward cheerfully and, intercepting her pet, wrapped him in an embrace.
"Hello! Did you miss me, Malysh[1]? Listen, this is my guest," the blogger pointed to me. "She's good. Understand? She saved me today."
The Shepherd broke free from her arms and ran over to me, wagging his tail happily. Usually, dogs are wary of strangers, but this one was surprisingly friendly and welcoming. He had expressive, intelligent eyes, he looked as if he understood everything, and for some reason, the presence of this formidable dog instilled a sense of security in me.
"Well, hello, Malysh! Although you don't look like a baby at all," I said with a laugh, patting him on the head.
In response, the dog happily jumped up and licked my face, whimpering plaintively as if we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in a hundred years. Of course, he'd be happy to have guests if blogger Belka was gone for days at a time, leaving him home all alone. At least this way, there was some kind of human interaction.
They say that dogs can sense people. If this German Shepherd accepted me, does that mean I'm a good person and not a murderer? Maybe it really wasn't me who killed that guy in the apartment?
"According to his passport, he's Konon Von Wetzell Bella Deutsch," Belka explained. "But I call him Malysh or Balbes[2]."
"He's not Balbes at all! You can see that he's a very intelligent boy," I exclaimed.
The dog seemed to understand me and barked approvingly.
"You said exactly what my friend used to say!" Belka marveled. "Actually, he was originally her dog, but circumstances turned out that she's no longer with us, she died a couple of years ago, and I took Konon in. Nika always protested when I called her pet Balbes. Come on!"
She led me into a spacious hall that flowed smoothly into a dining room and a cute, cozy kitchen. The apartment was striking in its magnificence and the beautiful view of nighttime Moscow from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
[1] Malysh means “baby” in Russian.
[2] Balbes means a stupid boy.
I mentally scolded myself for not bringing the Glock.
Damn! If this psycho starts waving the knife around, I'll have to give him the bag with all the money!
"What are you standing there for? Hand over the bag!" He pressed the cold edge of the knife harder against my neck, showing he wasn't joking, and the chilling touch made my breath catch in my throat.
"Okay, okay, I don't need any trouble," I said reluctantly, extending the bag towards him.
The guy snatched it from my hands, tugging at the straps with such force that I nearly lost my balance. He was on edge, completely wired. Either it was his first robbery, or he was some kind of junkie high as a kite. Or both.
The robber took a couple of steps back. Still holding the knife menacingly in his outstretched hand, he threw my bag to the ground and opened it. He couldn't wait to see what he had just acquired.
No way! I’m not going down that easily!
At the very moment he leaned down to peer into my bag, with a lightning-fast movement, I knocked the knife out of his hand. Not giving him a chance to recover, I kicked him full force in the face, and when he fell back onto the asphalt, I repeated the movement several times until he lost consciousness. Instead of a final "shot," I kicked him in the stomach a couple more times, grabbed the bag from the asphalt, and turned to the girl, who still couldn't come to her senses and was watching the scene with wide, horror-stricken eyes.
"What are you standing there for, sleeping beauty? Wake up! We need to get out of here!"
At my words, the blogger snapped to attention and pointed the way.
"To the right and to the end of the building!"
We hurriedly left the scene of the failed robbery. I sincerely hoped that Cutie and his buddies hadn't managed to come to by now and pick up my trail.
I need to find some kind of safe haven, like an all-night pharmacy, and call a taxi.
"Thank you for saving me! I thought I was done for," my companion said gratefully, as we walked.
"No problem."
"No problem?! You are my guardian angel. God sent you to me. I was standing there praying for a miracle to happen. And then you appeared. You fight really well, like Bruce Lee!" she exclaimed with admiration.
"Nah, it was just a lucky break. What were you doing out here alone at this hour?"
Instead of answering, Belka suddenly turned towards the gates of a residential complex, entered a code, and opened the door.
"Here we are, home!" She gestured for me to enter.
I hadn't expected this turn of events.
Ah, right!
The words of "The Little Prince" employee flashed back to me, about the blogger living nearby and visiting the cafe every day.
"I was held up at a meeting," Belka replied as we rode the elevator to the top floor. "We were discussing project details until two in the morning. And I felt like taking a walk in the fresh air before bed. When I turned into the archway, suddenly this creep with the knife jumped out. And you? How did you happen to be there?"
"Long story!" I waved it off.
"Well, I have plenty of time now. Thanks to you."
I sighed.
“I had a fight with my boyfriend. I left him, wanted to get a hotel room, but he took away my passport," I made up on the spot.
"So you have nowhere to go? Stay here!" Belka offered, delighted at the chance to somehow repay the person who had saved her.
The elevator stopped, and we entered a spacious, two-level loft. I was amazed by the size of the place, but there was no time for sightseeing. As soon as we crossed the threshold, a huge German Shepherd came racing towards us at full speed. I could have sworn he was charging straight at me, and I frantically looked for cover, but to my relief, Belka stepped forward cheerfully and, intercepting her pet, wrapped him in an embrace.
"Hello! Did you miss me, Malysh[1]? Listen, this is my guest," the blogger pointed to me. "She's good. Understand? She saved me today."
The Shepherd broke free from her arms and ran over to me, wagging his tail happily. Usually, dogs are wary of strangers, but this one was surprisingly friendly and welcoming. He had expressive, intelligent eyes, he looked as if he understood everything, and for some reason, the presence of this formidable dog instilled a sense of security in me.
"Well, hello, Malysh! Although you don't look like a baby at all," I said with a laugh, patting him on the head.
In response, the dog happily jumped up and licked my face, whimpering plaintively as if we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in a hundred years. Of course, he'd be happy to have guests if blogger Belka was gone for days at a time, leaving him home all alone. At least this way, there was some kind of human interaction.
They say that dogs can sense people. If this German Shepherd accepted me, does that mean I'm a good person and not a murderer? Maybe it really wasn't me who killed that guy in the apartment?
"According to his passport, he's Konon Von Wetzell Bella Deutsch," Belka explained. "But I call him Malysh or Balbes[2]."
"He's not Balbes at all! You can see that he's a very intelligent boy," I exclaimed.
The dog seemed to understand me and barked approvingly.
"You said exactly what my friend used to say!" Belka marveled. "Actually, he was originally her dog, but circumstances turned out that she's no longer with us, she died a couple of years ago, and I took Konon in. Nika always protested when I called her pet Balbes. Come on!"
She led me into a spacious hall that flowed smoothly into a dining room and a cute, cozy kitchen. The apartment was striking in its magnificence and the beautiful view of nighttime Moscow from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
[1] Malysh means “baby” in Russian.
[2] Balbes means a stupid boy.
"I couldn't have imagined that you lived in such a palace," I admitted. "You could hold bike races in your hall. Do bloggers really earn that much? Oh, sorry, it's none of my business."
"You know who I am?" Belka exclaimed in surprise. "Actually, I'm not that popular, I only have a few thousand followers..."
"I heard it in 'The Little Prince' today when you were doing a live stream."
"What synchronicity! So, you know that my name is Belka. And what's yours?"
"Luka," without batting an eye, I mechanically said the first name that came to mind.
Luka? What the hell, Luka?!
It's Suzane Vega with her sticky song "My name is Luka" to blame!
"Luka?!" my new acquaintance exclaimed in amazement.
In the light of the lamps that hung chaotically from the ceiling, she looked like a fragile Japanese doll with her porcelain face framed by black silky hair and plump, bow-shaped lips. From under an unruly, mischievous fringe, slanting emerald eyes looked at me in surprise.
"You know who I am?" Belka exclaimed in surprise. "Actually, I'm not that popular, I only have a few thousand followers..."
"I heard it in 'The Little Prince' today when you were doing a live stream."
"What synchronicity! So, you know that my name is Belka. And what's yours?"
"Luka," without batting an eye, I mechanically said the first name that came to mind.
Luka? What the hell, Luka?!
It's Suzane Vega with her sticky song "My name is Luka" to blame!
"Luka?!" my new acquaintance exclaimed in amazement.
In the light of the lamps that hung chaotically from the ceiling, she looked like a fragile Japanese doll with her porcelain face framed by black silky hair and plump, bow-shaped lips. From under an unruly, mischievous fringe, slanting emerald eyes looked at me in surprise.
"Luka? Lukerya? If my memory serves me right, that name is of Greek origin and means 'sweet'. Cool! I've never met a Lukerya before!"
"No, my last name is Lukyanova," I began to wriggle out of it. "So everyone calls me Luka."
"Good thing it's not Cipollino[1]. It suits you! Let’s go to the kitchen. Would you like tea or something stronger? Or maybe you're hungry?"
Suddenly, a wave of tranquility washed over me, as if a cozy, warm blanket enveloped my tired body, surrounded me with peace, lulled me, and I suddenly felt like sleeping. Only then did I realize how exhausted I was after the last 24 hours.
"No, thank you! To be honest, I'm just falling off my feet. Don't you want to sleep? It's already three in the morning."
"I still need to finish writing a couple of things, and then take Konon outside for at least five minutes," Belka sighed. "Besides, I'm conducting an experiment – acting like the Pirahã."
Hearing his name, the dog wagged his tail happily again in anticipation of the upcoming walk.
"Pirahã?" I asked, having no idea what that even was.
"The Pirahã are a people from the Amazon rainforest in Brazil. They believe that when we fall asleep, we die and wake up as someone else. That's why they only sleep for 20-30 minutes a day."
"Naaah, I'll pass," I replied with a laugh. "I could use a few hours of sleep."
"Then let's go upstairs. To the right is my bedroom and study, and to the left is the guest room. The bathroom is at the end of the hall."
"Thank you, Belka! Not everyone would take a stranger into their home."
"Firstly, not everyone saves my life, and secondly, when I invited you, I didn't just mean for tonight. You can stay here for as long as you need. There's plenty of room here, and I'll be happy to help my savior with at least a roof over her head."
"So, you are my guardian angel too, and it’s you whom God sent to me, after all!" I smiled in response.
I was definitely lucky. The housing problem was solved, at least for a few days, and now I could continue my investigation in a calm environment.
The next morning, I was awakened by a rustling at the door...
[1] Cipollino is an onion boy, the hero of an Italian children's fairy tale. Onion in Russian is Luk.
"No, my last name is Lukyanova," I began to wriggle out of it. "So everyone calls me Luka."
"Good thing it's not Cipollino[1]. It suits you! Let’s go to the kitchen. Would you like tea or something stronger? Or maybe you're hungry?"
Suddenly, a wave of tranquility washed over me, as if a cozy, warm blanket enveloped my tired body, surrounded me with peace, lulled me, and I suddenly felt like sleeping. Only then did I realize how exhausted I was after the last 24 hours.
"No, thank you! To be honest, I'm just falling off my feet. Don't you want to sleep? It's already three in the morning."
"I still need to finish writing a couple of things, and then take Konon outside for at least five minutes," Belka sighed. "Besides, I'm conducting an experiment – acting like the Pirahã."
Hearing his name, the dog wagged his tail happily again in anticipation of the upcoming walk.
"Pirahã?" I asked, having no idea what that even was.
"The Pirahã are a people from the Amazon rainforest in Brazil. They believe that when we fall asleep, we die and wake up as someone else. That's why they only sleep for 20-30 minutes a day."
"Naaah, I'll pass," I replied with a laugh. "I could use a few hours of sleep."
"Then let's go upstairs. To the right is my bedroom and study, and to the left is the guest room. The bathroom is at the end of the hall."
"Thank you, Belka! Not everyone would take a stranger into their home."
"Firstly, not everyone saves my life, and secondly, when I invited you, I didn't just mean for tonight. You can stay here for as long as you need. There's plenty of room here, and I'll be happy to help my savior with at least a roof over her head."
"So, you are my guardian angel too, and it’s you whom God sent to me, after all!" I smiled in response.
I was definitely lucky. The housing problem was solved, at least for a few days, and now I could continue my investigation in a calm environment.
The next morning, I was awakened by a rustling at the door...
[1] Cipollino is an onion boy, the hero of an Italian children's fairy tale. Onion in Russian is Luk.
8.
I woke to a rustling sound outside the door. For the first few seconds, I was disoriented, glancing around the room. Through the haze of morning sleepiness, my mind struggled to grasp where I was: in a cozy, spacious room where a striking black-and-white poster dominated the wall, featuring John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson from "Pulp Fiction" seeming to aim their guns straight at me, a stark reminder of the previous night's events. Memories flooded back: the escape from the hotel, the rescue of the blogger Belka during the robbery, and her generous invitation to her chic loft.
A soft scratching on the parquet floor suggested that the German Shepherd Konon was strolling leisurely down the hall. I heard the dog heave a sigh and plop down on the landing, from where he could survey the apartment's first floor, and I realized he was lonely. Apparently, Belka, the restless adventurer, had already flown the coop to greet a new day.
I checked the time on my phone. 12:10 PM.
Well, I certainly slept in! But at least I finally got a good night's rest in peace and quiet.
I felt completely safe in this apartment.
When I left the room, Konon excitedly jumped up and rushed towards me, wagging his tail. He even whined and yipped reproachfully, as if to say, "I'm dying of boredom here, and you're sleeping!" After ruffling his fur, I went downstairs accompanied by my four-legged bodyguard and shuffled into the kitchen.
As I suspected, Belka wasn't home. On the table lay the apartment keys and a note with her phone number:
"If you get hungry, order delivery from 'The Little Prince,' put it on my tab. If you need anything else, call me."
I turned on the stove, put on the kettle, and delved into the news feed. Headlines screamed about the virus, with not a single mention of the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street.
Have they still not discovered the body?
The kettle whistled to a boil at the same time my phone started to ring. I jumped at the sudden noise. My Xiaomi, vibrating, trembled in my hand, desperately urging me to answer the call, as I froze in place, staring at the unknown number.
Who could be calling me? The messenger! Could it be him?!
"Hello!" I turned off the kettle to stop it from whistling in my ear.
"Good afternoon! I was told you asked me to call. About the envelope."
"Hi!" I sank into a chair with relief. "So, you're the one who delivered the note? Could you describe the person who gave you the envelope? What was it like?"
"I helped some guests carry their luggage outside and was heading back to the hotel when a young man approached me and asked me to take an envelope to the front desk. It had a room number written on it."
"What did he look like? Did he have any distinguishing features? A mole on his face or a scar, for example?"
"Just a regular guy. Maybe 25-30 years old, about 185 cm tall, wearing a down jacket, jeans, sneakers. Dressed like most people. There are tons of them in Moscow. He was wearing a baseball cap with a hood pulled over it, plus a mask – it was hard to get a good look at his face."
"I see. Did this happen in the parking lot? Maybe you saw what kind of car he got into?" I was trying to grab onto anything.
"If he came by car, he definitely left it outside the hotel."
I frowned and bit my lip in frustration.
Who is this elusive Nikita?
"Listen, could you get me a video of this guy?"
"Are you kidding me? Where would I even get that? I don't have access to video recordings!" the delivery boy chuckled.
A wave of frustration washed over me. Nikita seemed to slip through my fingers like sand, but I wasn't ready to admit defeat just yet.
"Maybe you have some contacts in security? It's just a matter of copying a minute-long video onto a flash drive. If you can get it for me, I'll give you a hundred bucks."
"I'll see what I can do," he immediately sobered up, sensing the scent of easy money.
After talking to him, I brewed myself a cup of fragrant tea, took a vanilla cheesecake out of the fridge, and checked the Telegram news channels again, still without any luck. Maybe this murder just wasn't considered interesting enough to write about?
And then a crazy idea struck me. I jumped up from my chair and ran to the room, forgetting all about the tea.
Criminals are drawn back to the scene of the crime, right?
I hoped it wasn't me who killed that guy, but that apartment definitely beckoned me, and I couldn't resist the call.
I checked the time on my phone. 12:10 PM.
Well, I certainly slept in! But at least I finally got a good night's rest in peace and quiet.
I felt completely safe in this apartment.
When I left the room, Konon excitedly jumped up and rushed towards me, wagging his tail. He even whined and yipped reproachfully, as if to say, "I'm dying of boredom here, and you're sleeping!" After ruffling his fur, I went downstairs accompanied by my four-legged bodyguard and shuffled into the kitchen.
As I suspected, Belka wasn't home. On the table lay the apartment keys and a note with her phone number:
"If you get hungry, order delivery from 'The Little Prince,' put it on my tab. If you need anything else, call me."
I turned on the stove, put on the kettle, and delved into the news feed. Headlines screamed about the virus, with not a single mention of the murder on Marshal Biryuzov Street.
Have they still not discovered the body?
The kettle whistled to a boil at the same time my phone started to ring. I jumped at the sudden noise. My Xiaomi, vibrating, trembled in my hand, desperately urging me to answer the call, as I froze in place, staring at the unknown number.
Who could be calling me? The messenger! Could it be him?!
"Hello!" I turned off the kettle to stop it from whistling in my ear.
"Good afternoon! I was told you asked me to call. About the envelope."
"Hi!" I sank into a chair with relief. "So, you're the one who delivered the note? Could you describe the person who gave you the envelope? What was it like?"
"I helped some guests carry their luggage outside and was heading back to the hotel when a young man approached me and asked me to take an envelope to the front desk. It had a room number written on it."
"What did he look like? Did he have any distinguishing features? A mole on his face or a scar, for example?"
"Just a regular guy. Maybe 25-30 years old, about 185 cm tall, wearing a down jacket, jeans, sneakers. Dressed like most people. There are tons of them in Moscow. He was wearing a baseball cap with a hood pulled over it, plus a mask – it was hard to get a good look at his face."
"I see. Did this happen in the parking lot? Maybe you saw what kind of car he got into?" I was trying to grab onto anything.
"If he came by car, he definitely left it outside the hotel."
I frowned and bit my lip in frustration.
Who is this elusive Nikita?
"Listen, could you get me a video of this guy?"
"Are you kidding me? Where would I even get that? I don't have access to video recordings!" the delivery boy chuckled.
A wave of frustration washed over me. Nikita seemed to slip through my fingers like sand, but I wasn't ready to admit defeat just yet.
"Maybe you have some contacts in security? It's just a matter of copying a minute-long video onto a flash drive. If you can get it for me, I'll give you a hundred bucks."
"I'll see what I can do," he immediately sobered up, sensing the scent of easy money.
After talking to him, I brewed myself a cup of fragrant tea, took a vanilla cheesecake out of the fridge, and checked the Telegram news channels again, still without any luck. Maybe this murder just wasn't considered interesting enough to write about?
And then a crazy idea struck me. I jumped up from my chair and ran to the room, forgetting all about the tea.
Criminals are drawn back to the scene of the crime, right?
I hoped it wasn't me who killed that guy, but that apartment definitely beckoned me, and I couldn't resist the call.
9.
A few bills slipped into the courier's hand, and there it was, the precious pizza box, finally mine. We stood near the "Oktyabrskoye Pole"[1] metro station. The attached order form showed the address I needed – the apartment next door to that ill-fated one where I'd found myself less than two days ago. It was all part of my carefully crafted cover story. I'd placed the order, then called the courier and suggested meeting near the subway. He readily agreed to save time on delivery, but that didn't stop him from being almost fifteen minutes late, leaving me shivering in the cold.
The pizza was my entry ticket to the building.
I had to play the role of a delivery girl, and I'd done a decent job creating the right look. Just yesterday, Belka, in a moment of pre-sleep generosity, had given me free rein to use anything in her apartment that I might need. Following the example of the enigmatic Nikita – a master of blending into the crowd – I'd donned jeans, Belka's dark blue puffer jacket, and a black baseball cap I'd found among her headwear, pulling it down low over my eyes. "Be like everyone else" was my motto in this game. With a backpack slung over my shoulder, I could pass for one of the thousands of students working as delivery guys.
The closer I got to the building, the harder my heart pounded. By the entrance, it was thumping so fiercely I felt like a frantic frog, desperate to leap out, was jumping around in my chest instead.
What if someone is watching me? No, a sane person wouldn't return to that apartment. I took the money they are after. What else could I need there? So, they aren't expecting me to come back.
I didn't even have to buzz – just as I reached the door, a young mother with a stroller emerged from the building, inexplicably venturing out while the country was isolating at home. I held the door open for her and slipped inside. Only then did it hit me.
What if someone recognize me? What if I lived here?
My imagination began to paint a picture: a resident calling out to greet me, throwing in a barbed comment like, "What, Mashenka, decided to become a pizza delivery girl?"
On the other hand, why would they assume I am a courier? Maybe I just bought a pizza and going home. My baseball cap doesn’t have a sign "Delivery Service".
A gruff shout shattered my train of thought.
"Where you’re going?!" the concierge barked at me, leaning out of her booth.
This stern woman in glasses, with a gaze that could burn right through you, was like a dog on a chain, eager to pounce on any outsider who slipped into the building.
This was what the whole pizza charade was for. I shoved the "Wonder Pizza" company order form with the address under her nose, my heart pounding as I waited to be exposed.
But the concierge, after reading the address on the form, lost all interest in me. Her gaze instantly dimmed. In her eyes, I'd transformed into just another faceless courier. There's a certain category of people you could classify as "invisibles." Cleaners, for example. Eternally silent, in their familiar uniforms, they move almost noiselessly and become invisible to those around them; they're simply no longer noticed. And for the concierge, it seemed, pizza delivery people fell into this category.
"Wasn't it your building that was on NTV?"[2] Now that she hadn't recognized me as a resident, I grew bold enough to speak to her.
"When? What happened?" The woman's eyes immediately lit up with curiosity.
"Yesterday. They say they found a body," I said as nonchalantly as possible, while waiting for the elevator. "Apparently, some guy was stabbed."
"No, we haven't had any bodies found here," she replied with regret, even a hint of disappointment, and sighed.
It seemed to me that the woman was upset that the murder hadn't happened here, and that some other concierge was in the epicenter of events, able to observe the flurry of police and television journalists. What a spectacle, even better than the "Dom 2"[3] reality show, had fallen into someone else's lap, unlike her – just a monotonous swamp of boredom.
I entered the elevator.
So, the body hasn't been discovered yet. I need to talk to the neighbors. Let's see what they say. Maybe I can dig up some information about the residents of that strange apartment. If, of course, they don't recognize me as a neighbor. Just because the concierge hasn't identified me doesn't necessarily mean I haven't lived here. Maybe she is just new, started working recently.
The door of the apartment next to the one where I'd woken up two days ago was opened by a sleepy teenager, sixteen at the most, wearing a hoodie with a bloody "Tokyo Ghoul" print. He looked annoyed. Probably had a ton of homework, and after his online school classes, he'd laid down for a nap before tackling his assignments, and now some courier (i.e., me) had shown up and woken him.
[1] Oktyabrskoye Pole (October Field, named after October Revolution) is a station of the Moscow metro in the North-Western distict of Moscow.
[2] A Russian TV channel that often shows criminal news.
[3] "House-2" - a Russian reality TV show, known for its numerous scandals.
The pizza was my entry ticket to the building.
I had to play the role of a delivery girl, and I'd done a decent job creating the right look. Just yesterday, Belka, in a moment of pre-sleep generosity, had given me free rein to use anything in her apartment that I might need. Following the example of the enigmatic Nikita – a master of blending into the crowd – I'd donned jeans, Belka's dark blue puffer jacket, and a black baseball cap I'd found among her headwear, pulling it down low over my eyes. "Be like everyone else" was my motto in this game. With a backpack slung over my shoulder, I could pass for one of the thousands of students working as delivery guys.
The closer I got to the building, the harder my heart pounded. By the entrance, it was thumping so fiercely I felt like a frantic frog, desperate to leap out, was jumping around in my chest instead.
What if someone is watching me? No, a sane person wouldn't return to that apartment. I took the money they are after. What else could I need there? So, they aren't expecting me to come back.
I didn't even have to buzz – just as I reached the door, a young mother with a stroller emerged from the building, inexplicably venturing out while the country was isolating at home. I held the door open for her and slipped inside. Only then did it hit me.
What if someone recognize me? What if I lived here?
My imagination began to paint a picture: a resident calling out to greet me, throwing in a barbed comment like, "What, Mashenka, decided to become a pizza delivery girl?"
On the other hand, why would they assume I am a courier? Maybe I just bought a pizza and going home. My baseball cap doesn’t have a sign "Delivery Service".
A gruff shout shattered my train of thought.
"Where you’re going?!" the concierge barked at me, leaning out of her booth.
This stern woman in glasses, with a gaze that could burn right through you, was like a dog on a chain, eager to pounce on any outsider who slipped into the building.
This was what the whole pizza charade was for. I shoved the "Wonder Pizza" company order form with the address under her nose, my heart pounding as I waited to be exposed.
But the concierge, after reading the address on the form, lost all interest in me. Her gaze instantly dimmed. In her eyes, I'd transformed into just another faceless courier. There's a certain category of people you could classify as "invisibles." Cleaners, for example. Eternally silent, in their familiar uniforms, they move almost noiselessly and become invisible to those around them; they're simply no longer noticed. And for the concierge, it seemed, pizza delivery people fell into this category.
"Wasn't it your building that was on NTV?"[2] Now that she hadn't recognized me as a resident, I grew bold enough to speak to her.
"When? What happened?" The woman's eyes immediately lit up with curiosity.
"Yesterday. They say they found a body," I said as nonchalantly as possible, while waiting for the elevator. "Apparently, some guy was stabbed."
"No, we haven't had any bodies found here," she replied with regret, even a hint of disappointment, and sighed.
It seemed to me that the woman was upset that the murder hadn't happened here, and that some other concierge was in the epicenter of events, able to observe the flurry of police and television journalists. What a spectacle, even better than the "Dom 2"[3] reality show, had fallen into someone else's lap, unlike her – just a monotonous swamp of boredom.
I entered the elevator.
So, the body hasn't been discovered yet. I need to talk to the neighbors. Let's see what they say. Maybe I can dig up some information about the residents of that strange apartment. If, of course, they don't recognize me as a neighbor. Just because the concierge hasn't identified me doesn't necessarily mean I haven't lived here. Maybe she is just new, started working recently.
The door of the apartment next to the one where I'd woken up two days ago was opened by a sleepy teenager, sixteen at the most, wearing a hoodie with a bloody "Tokyo Ghoul" print. He looked annoyed. Probably had a ton of homework, and after his online school classes, he'd laid down for a nap before tackling his assignments, and now some courier (i.e., me) had shown up and woken him.
[1] Oktyabrskoye Pole (October Field, named after October Revolution) is a station of the Moscow metro in the North-Western distict of Moscow.
[2] A Russian TV channel that often shows criminal news.
[3] "House-2" - a Russian reality TV show, known for its numerous scandals.
"Hello! Your pizza," I said, as if nothing was amiss.
"Nope, didn't order anything," the kid replied, but he didn't close the door.
It only took a few moments for the irresistible, tantalizing aroma of hot pizza to work its magic, and now he was staring at the box like a zombie, with a hungry gleam in his eyes.
I took it as a good sign. As well as the fact that he didn't recognize me as a neighbor.
"Weird, the order shows your apartment number. Let me check," I pretended to call the office.
"But I'm willing to buy your pizza," the teenager declared. "How much?"
I ignored him, continuing to feign a conversation with a colleague from the delivery service, and only after finishing the fake call did I look at the hungry teenager.
"There's been a mistake. It was ordered for apartment 27."
"No way! Nobody lives there," he protested.
What did he mean, nobody lives there?! Then whose belongings were in the apartment? Or was he deliberately messing with me so that I'd sell him the pizza?
I felt annoyed. Now I wouldn't get the truth out of him. Maybe the kid had even seen them carrying out the body the night before last (after the concierge's shift ended), and now, because of this stupid pizza, he was going to insist that nobody lived there.
Right in front of the neighbor, I walked towards apartment 27, pressed the doorbell, and held my breath as I waited.
What if Cutie and his thugs are inside right now? That would be fun...
Thank God, nobody opened the door. The teenager shot me a triumphant look and smiled.
"I told you, nobody lives there! So, how much?"
I agreed to sell the pizza to him, just to get rid of the boy as quickly as possible. A new plan had already formed in my head. As soon as the "Tokyo Ghoul" fan disappeared into his apartment with his coveted treat in hand, I pulled the keys out of my pocket.
Now we'll see if they've found the body or not.
I mentally wished myself luck and opened the door to the mysterious apartment.
"Nope, didn't order anything," the kid replied, but he didn't close the door.
It only took a few moments for the irresistible, tantalizing aroma of hot pizza to work its magic, and now he was staring at the box like a zombie, with a hungry gleam in his eyes.
I took it as a good sign. As well as the fact that he didn't recognize me as a neighbor.
"Weird, the order shows your apartment number. Let me check," I pretended to call the office.
"But I'm willing to buy your pizza," the teenager declared. "How much?"
I ignored him, continuing to feign a conversation with a colleague from the delivery service, and only after finishing the fake call did I look at the hungry teenager.
"There's been a mistake. It was ordered for apartment 27."
"No way! Nobody lives there," he protested.
What did he mean, nobody lives there?! Then whose belongings were in the apartment? Or was he deliberately messing with me so that I'd sell him the pizza?
I felt annoyed. Now I wouldn't get the truth out of him. Maybe the kid had even seen them carrying out the body the night before last (after the concierge's shift ended), and now, because of this stupid pizza, he was going to insist that nobody lived there.
Right in front of the neighbor, I walked towards apartment 27, pressed the doorbell, and held my breath as I waited.
What if Cutie and his thugs are inside right now? That would be fun...
Thank God, nobody opened the door. The teenager shot me a triumphant look and smiled.
"I told you, nobody lives there! So, how much?"
I agreed to sell the pizza to him, just to get rid of the boy as quickly as possible. A new plan had already formed in my head. As soon as the "Tokyo Ghoul" fan disappeared into his apartment with his coveted treat in hand, I pulled the keys out of my pocket.
Now we'll see if they've found the body or not.
I mentally wished myself luck and opened the door to the mysterious apartment.
10.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside the apartment, cautiously, half-expecting someone to be lurking behind it, ready to clobber me over the head, just as I had done a couple of days ago. But as I crossed the threshold, a wave of relief washed over me: the coast was clear.
I’m safe. For now.
The first thing that struck me as I entered the hallway was the absence of the vase shards. The very same vase that had crashed down on the head of the uninvited guest who had broken into the apartment. There was no trace of our fleeting encounter anywhere, which baffled me. Could he have possibly regained consciousness and decided to sweep up the mess before making his escape?
The impeccable cleanliness of the hallway felt like an ominous sign, and I hurried into the living room. It was empty! No dead guy in an armchair! No armchair, no furniture, nothing at all! I stood in an utterly bare room.
So, they found the body. But in that case, the apartment should have been sealed off. And the concierge would have known about a murder, even if she hadn't been working the day the police arrived. Such rumors spread like wildfire. Some gossipy neighbor, taking her old poodle for a walk, would have surely shared such an incredible event.
Completely bewildered, I opened the built-in closets in the hallway. They were empty. The same emptiness reigned in the bedroom, where a round bed and a luxurious rug once resided, and in the bathroom. No furniture, no clothes, no shoes, no shampoos, no bath bombs, and no toothbrushes. A void yawned throughout the entire apartment. As if no one had ever lived there.
So, the boy from the neighboring apartment wasn't lying?
Or perhaps that night was just a figment of my imagination? Just like the corpse itself? Maybe it never even existed?
After losing my memory, when I couldn't even recall my name for the third day in a row, while the whole world was locked down at home to avoid contracting some deadly virus, like in the horror movies and science fiction novels, very little could surprise me anymore.
Maybe I'm just going crazy and having hallucinations? Maybe even the self-isolation and the virus are just a mirage? After all, it had never happened before that the whole planet was confined to their homes, and ambulances in Moscow were arriving with people dressed in eerie astronaut-like suits.
Stop! I need to rely on the facts! I have the keys to the apartment! So, I was definitely here!
I decided to leave the apartment as quickly as possible.
Maybe there are hidden cameras here, and Cutie and his cronies have already discovered that I'm here. It's quite possible that he's rushing here.
But still, against my better judgment, I gave in to an impulse and returned to the living room. I simply had to check again the place where I had found a mobile phone under the armchair last time.
Maybe I’ll get lucky this time too?
I wasn't holding out much hope, so I stared in surprise at the photograph I pulled out from under the low radiator. It was a snapshot, printed at one of those Insta-booths[1] often found in shopping malls. At least, they used to be, before the world was consumed by the coronavirus.
In the photo, three guys were taking a selfie in a fitness club. The one on the far right, leaning against an elliptical trainer, was the very same unfortunate guy I had found in the apartment with his throat slashed.
Underneath the photograph, the date was printed. Not the date of the photo print, but the date it was posted on social media, which was Saturday, the day before the murder. On the white space beneath the photo were the characteristic icons of a heart, a speech bubble, and a paper airplane, signifying likes, comments, and shares. Unfortunately, there was no name that would allow me to identify the account, and therefore, the guys.
I shoved the snapshot into my backpack and left the apartment. Just in case, to make sure I wasn't being followed, I rode the subway for an hour, making all sorts of transfers, and then, at the Krasnopresnenskaya ring station, I got into a taxi I had called in advance and went home.
[1] Instagram and Facebook social networks owned by Meta Platforms Inc. were declared extremist by the Tverskoy Court of Moscow on March 21, 2022 and banned in Russia.
I’m safe. For now.
The first thing that struck me as I entered the hallway was the absence of the vase shards. The very same vase that had crashed down on the head of the uninvited guest who had broken into the apartment. There was no trace of our fleeting encounter anywhere, which baffled me. Could he have possibly regained consciousness and decided to sweep up the mess before making his escape?
The impeccable cleanliness of the hallway felt like an ominous sign, and I hurried into the living room. It was empty! No dead guy in an armchair! No armchair, no furniture, nothing at all! I stood in an utterly bare room.
So, they found the body. But in that case, the apartment should have been sealed off. And the concierge would have known about a murder, even if she hadn't been working the day the police arrived. Such rumors spread like wildfire. Some gossipy neighbor, taking her old poodle for a walk, would have surely shared such an incredible event.
Completely bewildered, I opened the built-in closets in the hallway. They were empty. The same emptiness reigned in the bedroom, where a round bed and a luxurious rug once resided, and in the bathroom. No furniture, no clothes, no shoes, no shampoos, no bath bombs, and no toothbrushes. A void yawned throughout the entire apartment. As if no one had ever lived there.
So, the boy from the neighboring apartment wasn't lying?
Or perhaps that night was just a figment of my imagination? Just like the corpse itself? Maybe it never even existed?
After losing my memory, when I couldn't even recall my name for the third day in a row, while the whole world was locked down at home to avoid contracting some deadly virus, like in the horror movies and science fiction novels, very little could surprise me anymore.
Maybe I'm just going crazy and having hallucinations? Maybe even the self-isolation and the virus are just a mirage? After all, it had never happened before that the whole planet was confined to their homes, and ambulances in Moscow were arriving with people dressed in eerie astronaut-like suits.
Stop! I need to rely on the facts! I have the keys to the apartment! So, I was definitely here!
I decided to leave the apartment as quickly as possible.
Maybe there are hidden cameras here, and Cutie and his cronies have already discovered that I'm here. It's quite possible that he's rushing here.
But still, against my better judgment, I gave in to an impulse and returned to the living room. I simply had to check again the place where I had found a mobile phone under the armchair last time.
Maybe I’ll get lucky this time too?
I wasn't holding out much hope, so I stared in surprise at the photograph I pulled out from under the low radiator. It was a snapshot, printed at one of those Insta-booths[1] often found in shopping malls. At least, they used to be, before the world was consumed by the coronavirus.
In the photo, three guys were taking a selfie in a fitness club. The one on the far right, leaning against an elliptical trainer, was the very same unfortunate guy I had found in the apartment with his throat slashed.
Underneath the photograph, the date was printed. Not the date of the photo print, but the date it was posted on social media, which was Saturday, the day before the murder. On the white space beneath the photo were the characteristic icons of a heart, a speech bubble, and a paper airplane, signifying likes, comments, and shares. Unfortunately, there was no name that would allow me to identify the account, and therefore, the guys.
I shoved the snapshot into my backpack and left the apartment. Just in case, to make sure I wasn't being followed, I rode the subway for an hour, making all sorts of transfers, and then, at the Krasnopresnenskaya ring station, I got into a taxi I had called in advance and went home.
[1] Instagram and Facebook social networks owned by Meta Platforms Inc. were declared extremist by the Tverskoy Court of Moscow on March 21, 2022 and banned in Russia.
Belka hadn't returned yet. I decided to walk the bored Konon, and the dog greeted the idea with such enthusiasm that his tail wagged from side to side like the pendulum of a clock, counting the minutes of happiness. He thrust his ball into my hands. Either it was a sign of gratitude, or just a hint that I should take his toy outside and play with him in the park.
After a long walk in the park, I settled on the bed, took the snapshot of the dead guy out of my backpack, and once again immersed myself in my thoughts, trying to unravel the mystery captured in the photo.
Who are you? And why was your corpse hidden?
While I was pondering these questions, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when dusk had already fallen outside the window. My memory still remained silent about who I was and what my name was. However, a growling stomach persistently reminded me that I hadn't eaten a crumb all day.
I left the room to go down to the kitchen and have a bite to eat, and I noticed a thin strip of light in the dark hallway, seeping out from under the door of Belka's study. I froze in place, wondering whether I should knock and say hello, or leave her alone with her creative process.
While I was weighing the pros and cons, the door swung open, and Belka and Konon appeared in the hallway.
"Luka, hi! What are your plans for the evening?" she asked right away.
"Hi! No plans, I guess," I replied, bewildered, forgetting that I was going to soothe my rebellious stomach.
"Want to come with me to Kitay-Gorod[1]? The taxi will be here in a couple of minutes."
"Okay, I'll just grab my backpack."
I went down the stairs after Belka. Konon trudged behind us, realizing that we were about to leave him alone.
"Honestly, your company would be very helpful to me. Thanks for agreeing to come with me!"
"Only on one condition! If after this we go somewhere for some hot, delicious food."
"Deal! I know a super place just nearby in Kitay-Gorod."
In the taxi, Belka took a tablet out of her bag and began to work her magic on it, flipping through one web page after another, with such a focused look, as if she were searching for the key to unraveling a universal mystery. She was lost somewhere in her thoughts and completely forgot that I had no idea where we were going or why.
"Where we're going?" I asked, breaking the prolonged silence.
Belka turned her impassive face to me and replied as if nothing had happened:
"On an investigation. We need to find a missing schoolgirl."
[1] It’s a cultural and historical area within the central part of Moscow. It is separated from the Kremlin by the Red Square.
After a long walk in the park, I settled on the bed, took the snapshot of the dead guy out of my backpack, and once again immersed myself in my thoughts, trying to unravel the mystery captured in the photo.
Who are you? And why was your corpse hidden?
While I was pondering these questions, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when dusk had already fallen outside the window. My memory still remained silent about who I was and what my name was. However, a growling stomach persistently reminded me that I hadn't eaten a crumb all day.
I left the room to go down to the kitchen and have a bite to eat, and I noticed a thin strip of light in the dark hallway, seeping out from under the door of Belka's study. I froze in place, wondering whether I should knock and say hello, or leave her alone with her creative process.
While I was weighing the pros and cons, the door swung open, and Belka and Konon appeared in the hallway.
"Luka, hi! What are your plans for the evening?" she asked right away.
"Hi! No plans, I guess," I replied, bewildered, forgetting that I was going to soothe my rebellious stomach.
"Want to come with me to Kitay-Gorod[1]? The taxi will be here in a couple of minutes."
"Okay, I'll just grab my backpack."
I went down the stairs after Belka. Konon trudged behind us, realizing that we were about to leave him alone.
"Honestly, your company would be very helpful to me. Thanks for agreeing to come with me!"
"Only on one condition! If after this we go somewhere for some hot, delicious food."
"Deal! I know a super place just nearby in Kitay-Gorod."
In the taxi, Belka took a tablet out of her bag and began to work her magic on it, flipping through one web page after another, with such a focused look, as if she were searching for the key to unraveling a universal mystery. She was lost somewhere in her thoughts and completely forgot that I had no idea where we were going or why.
"Where we're going?" I asked, breaking the prolonged silence.
Belka turned her impassive face to me and replied as if nothing had happened:
"On an investigation. We need to find a missing schoolgirl."
[1] It’s a cultural and historical area within the central part of Moscow. It is separated from the Kremlin by the Red Square.
The end of the introductory section.
