FREEDOM

This excerpt is taken from the book's final section. Zhdanovich, the head of a marginal political party, is under attack from the authorities and a criminal organization. Following an anonymous final warning, he and his much younger girlfriend Olya, together with his aide Andrei, are about to leave Moscow.

Reception area. On the floor: scattered papers, a computer monitor, a keyboard, a broken chair-back. On the walls: dirty footprints. The TV screen: a black hole.
Sveta sits on the windowsill holding a wet handkerchief to her swollen cheek, a dried blood stain on her lower lip. The entire office has gathered in the doorway.
Sveta: "No, those weren't the mobsters. I remember them… Plus, they didn't have that look… All wearing suits, all silent… They were going through the papers, looking for something… Got a whole briefcase of documents… Only when I tried to interfere…"
Zhdan squeezes through the crowded office, to Sveta, and hugs her. Sveta sobs. The cigarette falls to the windowsill.
Zhdan yells, "Where were the security guards?! I'm asking - where were the security guards?! And you lot, don't hang around here. Everyone back to work!"

*

I sit with Olya on a bench, in a park off Arbat.
"He'll get off the hook. He should… He's got so many connections…"
A pause. We look at a bench across the path. A drunk in a "Deep Purple" T-shirt, sucking on a bottle with a crooked label. "777" it says. Next to him are two long-haired guys with swollen faces. Eager looks.
"How is he doing?" I ask, "You see him out of work hours as well…"
"It's hard to tell. He's quite an introvert…"
"Are you happy with him?"
"Don't ask ridiculous questions."
"Okay, I'm sorry. Here's what you asked me to bring."
I get a cassette tape out of my backpack. The soundtrack for the movie Pulp Fiction. On the cover, Mia Wallace reads a cheap crime novel.

*

A crashing sound. The windows crack and break, glass shards falling to the floor. I cover my head with my hands. Car alarms go off. Female cries beyond the wall.
I look out the window. The Volga is burning. Zhdan and the guards run towards it, stop. Covering their faces with their hands.
Zhdan and Gena were supposed to head to a meeting. Gena left the building first, got into the car. Zhdan was held up in the office. When Gena turned the ignition key, a bomb went off.
I stand up, slip on broken glass. I grab the desk and run out of the room.
Noise and fuss in the corridor.
Flames. Black plumes of smoke. The asphalt is covered with broken glass, patches of artificial leather from the car seats, Gena's shoe, his bare severed foot; it's smudged with blood and soot.

*

Police cars and an ambulance are parked in front of the building. Police technicians tinker with the soot-covered remains of the Volga. The area is cordoned off. A bunch of office people and gawkers have gathered on the lawn.
The phone rings again. I pick it up.
Ilyenko: "Hi, I already know. I'm calling to get a direct comment."
"Hi. Nothing is clear at the moment. The technicians are working, and the cops aren't saying anything."
"What does he think? Off the record, of course…"
"That the Kursk mob is behind it…"
"Can I quote 'a source close to Zhdanovich' on that?"
"No. Why overplay the mob angle?"
"Okay, you're right… But could I at least quote the 'source' as saying that it was an attempt on Zhdanovich's life?"
"Isn't that clear?"
"It is. But I still need a source."
"Okay, go ahead."
I look out the window. The crowd on the lawn makes way for a police Mercedes. A fat colonel gets out of the car.

*

It's become dark outside. I sit at the computer, mechanically playing a game. The phone rings.
Zhdan: "Let's go to the store to pick up some liquor. We have to have a drink for Gena."
I get up, take my denim jacket off the hook.

We sit on a bench in the courtyard. Zhdan didn't want to come back to the office.
Zhdan: "To Gena's memory."
We drink cognac from plastic cups.
"Basically, Andrei, things are too bad. I have to lie low for a while. And I don't know how long. Tomorrow, I have meetings with various people and after that… By the way, Marushevich got cold feet. Yesterday I talked to his aide… I didn't have a chance to tell you."
He takes the bottle, pours us more cognac. We drink again without toasting. I take a piece of chocolate and begin to chew on it.
"And now, Andrei, the main thing… You have to make up your mind… I'm not just going to lie low for a while, I'm leaving Moscow. The party's apparatus will carry on as usual, at least for the next month or two. For this time, the financing has been secured and all salary obligations will be met. But what next?… I am sure it's a temporary thing. But, you know, I can't guarantee anything. I would like you to come with me, but it's up to you. They don't have anything against you. You could continue in your role and then, if necessary, find another job. And everything is going to be fine."
"Is Olya coming as well?"
"Why do you ask? Yes, she is… I can tell you, between two guys, I've become very close to her, I just couldn't do without her. And if she said that she wouldn't go…"

*

I'm packing up. Over the last year and a half I haven't collected many things. The only item I'm sort of sorry to leave behind is the Hi-Fi, the most expensive thing purchased here.
I put clothes, a small old stereo and my favorite album cassette tapes into a duffel bag. No video cassettes or books.
It's twenty to four. At six pm I have to be at Komsomolskaya metro station. That's all I've been told so far.
I take a few steps around the room, kicking dust balls. No point cleaning up.
Yesterday I called my parents. I told them I'm going abroad on business and won't be able to call them for some time. They were worried. I tried to do whatever I could to comfort them.
I step out onto the balcony. It is crammed with crap left over from the previous tenants. Shoe boxes. A stack of papers and magazines. A big bag with a torn handle. Beer and vodka bottles.
The rent has been paid until early July. Then, if I don't come back, the landlady will take everything of value and dump the rest of my stuff here.

*

Olya exits the metro car and stops. I give her a slight nod. She is already on the other side of the platform. I stay where I am. Three Asian-looking guys block my view of Olya. They wear black jeans and black windbreakers and carry big duffel bags.
A train. Arriving. Slowing down. Doors opening. People getting off, getting on. Olya jumps into the car. I follow her, using another door. "Attention! The doors are closing. The next stop is Prospekt Mira."

Belorusskaya metro station. Going up the escalator. Olya is a few steps in front of me. Between us are three gypsy women, one holding a baby. I look behind me. A blond girl gnaws on a chocolate bar. Her lips smudged with chocolate.

The compartment. We sit in silence, as if not knowing each other. Zhdan with a newspaper. Olya with a portable CD player. The fourth passenger with a beer bottle. He finishes his beer, places the bottle on the floor, gets another one, opens it with his lighter. The cap falls onto the floor. The guy sucks on the bottle, belches, begins to speak.
"You know what's going on? The collective farms have been destroyed, and now what? And I'll tell you what. We're buying everything abroad, supporting their farmers. And who supports ours? Could you, please, tell me?"
A police uniform appears in the crack of the door. Gives me a start. I wait. Nothing happens. The cops go past the compartment.
"So, could you tell me? Why doesn't the Russian state support its farmers? I'll tell you why. This is called sabotage!"
The train starts moving.