This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
©2012 Akashic Books
Series concept by Tim McLoughlin and Johnny Temple
St. Petersburg map by Aaron Petrovich
ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-101-1
e-ISBN: 978-1-61775-122-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960950
All rights reserved
First printing
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
info@akashicbooks.com
www.akashicbooks.com
ALSO IN THE AKASHIC BOOKS NOIR SERIES
__________
BALTIMORE NOIR, edited by LAURA LIPPMAN
BARCELONA NOIR (SPAIN), edited by ADRIANA V. LÓPEZ & CARMEN OSPINA
BOSTON NOIR, edited by DENNIS LEHANE
BOSTON NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS, edited by DENNIS LEHANE, JAIME CLARKE & MARY COTTON
BRONX NOIR, edited by S.J. ROZAN
BROOKLYN NOIR, edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN
BROOKLYN NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS, edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN
BROOKLYN NOIR 3: NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH, edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN & THOMAS ADCOCK
CAPE COD NOIR, edited by DAVID L. ULIN
CHICAGO NOIR, edited by NEAL POLACK
COPENHAGEN NOIR (DENMARK), edited by BO TAO MICHAËLIS
D.C. NOIR, edited by GEORGE PELECANOS
D.C. NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS, edited by GEORGE PELECANOS
DELHI NOIR (INDIA), edited by HIRSH SAWHNEY
DETROIT NOIR, edited by E.J. OLSEN & JOHN C. HOCKING
DUBLIN NOIR (IRELAND), edited by KEN BRUEN
HAITI NOIR, edited by EDWIDGE DANTICAT
HAVANA NOIR (CUBA), edited by ACHY OBEJAS
INDIAN COUNTRY NOIR, edited by SARAH CORTEZ & LIZ MARTÍNEZ
ISTANBUL NOIR (TURKEY), edited by MUSTAFA ZIYALAN & AMY SPANGLER
KANSAS CITY NOIR, edited by STEVE PAUL
KINGSTON NOIR (JAMAICA), edited by COLIN CHANNER
LAS VEGAS NOIR, edited by JARRET KEENE & TODD JAMES PIERCE
LONDON NOIR (ENGLAND), edited by CATHI UNSWORTH
LONE STAR NOIR, edited by BOBY BYRD & JOHNNY BYRD
LONG ISLAND NOIR, edited by KAYLIE JONES
LOS ANGELES NOIR, edited by DENISE HAMILTON
MANHATTAN NOIR, edited by LAWRENCE BLOCK
MANHATTAN NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS, edited by LAWRENCE BLOCK
MEXICO CITY NOIR (MEXICO), edited by PACO I. TAIBO II
MIAMI NOIR, edited by LES STANDIFORD
MOSCOW NOIR (RUSSIA), edited by NATALIA SMIRNOVA & JULIA GOUMEN
MUMBAI NOIR (INDIA), edited by ALTAF TYREWALA
NEW JERSEY NOIR, edited by JOYCE CAROL OATES
NEW ORLEANS NOIR, edited by JULIE SMITH
ORANGE COUNTY NOIR, edited by GARY PHILLIPS
PARIS NOIR (FRANCE), edited by AURéLIEN MASSON
PHILADELPHIA NOIR, edited by CARLIN ROMANO
PHOENIX NOIR, edited by PATRICK MILLIKIN
PITTSBURGH NOIR, edited by KATHLEEN GEORGE
PORTLAND NOIR, edited by KEVIN SAMPSELL
QUEENS NOIR, edited by ROBERT KNIGHTLY
RICHMOND NOIR, edited by ANDREW BLOSSOM, BRIAN CASTLEBERRY & TOM DE HAVEN
ROME NOIR (ITALY), edited by CHIARA STANGALINO & MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI
SAN DIEGO NOIR, edited by MARYELIZABETH HART
SAN FRANCISCO NOIR, edited by PETER MARAVELIS
SAN FRANCISCO NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS, edited by PETER MARAVELIS
SEATTLE NOIR, edited by CURT COLBERT
STATEN ISLAND NOIR, edited by PATRICIA SMITH
TORONTO NOIR (CANADA), edited by JANINE ARMIN & NATHANIEL G. MORE
TRINIDAD NOIR (TRINIDAD & TOBAGO), edited by LISA ALEN-AGOSTINI & JEANNE MASON
TWIN CITIES NOIR, edited by JULIE SCHAPER & STEVEN HORWITZ
VENICE NOIR (ITALY), edited by MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI
WALL STREET NOIR, edited by PETER SPIEGELMAN
FORTHCOMING
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BOGOTÁ NOIR (COLOMBIA), edited by ANDREA MONTEJO
BUFFALO NOIR, edited by BRIGID HUGHES & ED PARK
JERUSALEM NOIR, edited by SAYED KASHUA
LAGOS NOIR (NIGERIA), edited by CHRIS ABANI
MANILA NOIR (PHILIPPINES), edited by JESSICA HAGEDORN
SEOUL NOIR (KOREA), edited by BS PUBLISHING CO.
TEL AVIV NOIR (ISRAEL), edited by ETGAR KERET
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
PART I: GANGSTERS, SOLDIERS & PATRIOTS
TRAINING DAY
BY ANDREI KIVINOV
Kupchino
THE SIXTH OF JUNE
BY SERGEI NOSOV
Moskovsky Prospect
WAKE UP, YOU'RE A DEAD MAN NOW
BY VADIM LEVENTAL
New Holland
THE WITCHING HOUR
BY ALEXANDER KUDRIAVTSEV
Dostoevsky Museum
PART II: A WATERY GRAVE
PEAU DE CHAGRIN
BY NATALIA KURCHATOVA & KSENIA VENGLINSKAYA
Rybatskoye
DRUNK HARBOR
BY LENA ELTANG
Drunk Harbor
BARELY A DROP
BY ANDREI RUBANOV
Liteyny Avenue
SWIFT CURRENT
BY ANNA SOLOVEY
Kolomna
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA FOREVER
BY JULIA BELOMLINSKY
Arts Square
PART III: CHASING GHOSTS
THE NUTCRACKER
BY ANTON CHIZH
Haymarket Square
PARANOIA
BY MIKHAIL LIALIN
Lake Dolgoe
THE HAIRY SUTRA
BY PAVEL KRUSANOV
Moika Embankment, 48
A CABINET OF CURIOSITIES
BY EUGENE KOGAN
Kunstkamera
HOTEL ANGLETERRE
BY VLADIMIR BEREZIN
Hotel Angleterre
About the Contributors
INTRODUCTION
INESCAPABLE ANGUISH
Indeed, the tradition of noir writing in St. Petersburg features the greatest names of Russian literature. Most obviously, one thinks of the nineteenth century: Fyodor Dostoevsky (you can hardly find a more obvious noir spirit than in Crime and Punishment’s Kolomna settings, where Raskolnikov kills an old lady with an ax), Alexander Pushkin (my grandmother likes to recall how scared she was walking home in the city before World War II following the Mariinsky Theater’s opera performance of Pushkin’s “The Queen of Spades”; and “The Bronze Horseman”—a long poem about a disastrous flood—is one of the creepiest stories in Russian literature), and Petersburg Tales by Nikolai Gogol. More recently, the early twentieth century contributed to the city’s noir tradition with Andrey Bely’s novel Petersburg; followed later by the absurd, bleak writings of Daniil Kharms and Mikhail Zoshchenko.
Speaking of the latter two—Petersburg somehow nurtures ironic, satirical, and darkly humorous interpretations of reality. The darker and harsher life gets, th
e more humorous its interpretations tend to be. Indeed, only at a Petersburg house party could writers argue enthusiastically over the most efficient way to get rid of a corpse (with the deceased taking vodka shots next to them, vividly participating in the discussion). This anthology is no exception: in Andrei Kivinov’s story, for instance, a dead body comes to life only to die again in an ironic salute to Gogol.
The origins of this rich noir tradition come from the city’s history, its urban landscape, and even the weather, as Petersburg’s climate undoubtedly affects local character. What morbid thoughts can freezing winds from the Baltics bring along? Which emotions swirl inside a person struggling through snowdrifts in the streets? How can one remain positive when the long-awaited northern “summer” offers less than a dozen sunny days?
St. Petersburg is an intentional city: established by the czar’s will as the inverse of Moscow’s old-style ruling, and an outpost to guard the country’s expansion to the north. But the initial purpose of the city has faded, and dwellers of St. Petersburg live in a place of broken grandeur incongruent with daily routine. Its denizens seek to move beyond the city’s limits—sometimes through cheap alcohol (as in Sergei Nosov’s “The Sixth of June”), sometimes with the help of drugs (check out Andrei Rubanov’s “Barely a Drop”).
Yet the conflict between the grandness, the imperial indifference of the city’s architecture, and its dwellers remains painful. Each stone and monument in the city center breathes of history and purpose—while locals are like exhibits of the Kunstkamera: oddities gathered for examination or research, the purpose of which remains unclear. (This conflict has been elegantly examined in Eugene Kogan’s and Alexander Kudriavtsev’s stories.) Enriching the city’s already vast postmodern treasury, the authors of the anthology bring monuments and museums to life: a bust of Pushkin takes on flesh and color in Lialin’s “Paranoia”; college students become material for new taxidermy projects in Pavel Krusanov’s “Hairy Sutra.”
Crime in Petersburg fiction is traditionally of a metaphysical nature. With a history densely filled with dark crimes, the city’s atmosphere is saturated by a poisonous miasma coming from the swamps upon which it is built—an ideal condition for ghosts to haunt the landscape and folklore. Quite a few contributors have introduced ghosts or spirits into their stories.
St. Petersburg is famous for its canals, rivers, embankments, and bridges. This romantic landscape offers poetic comparisons to Venice in Italy, but also implies fluctuation, unsteadiness, fluidity that diffuses the local character and its morals. Since Pushkin, water has contributed to the gloomy and desperate atmosphere of the city: in his poem “The Bronze Horseman,” a flood kills the protagonist’s beloved girl, driving the hero insane. Water becomes a character in Lena Eltang’s “Drunk Harbor,” and is also prominent in Kurchatova and Venglinskaya’s criminal tale, Anna Solovey’s theatrical drama, and Vadim Levental’s classic mystery investigation.
But reality, as often happens, proves more horrifying than any invented images. Crowded communal apartments in Kolomna (the statistics shock: in 2011 the number of citizens residing in such projects exceeded 660,000), drug abuse, sexual violence, and mandated killings in Russia’s “criminal capital” become a regular routine and give rich material for artistic interpretation. It is not surprising that many national TV crime shows have been set in St. Petersburg—including The Streets of Broken Lamps, now in its twelfth season, Gangster Petersburg (2000–2007), and Deadly Force (fifty-seven episodes in five years; the show is based on Andrei Kivinov’s script), to name a few.
Dark, grim, and terrifying—these stories concoct a unique noir space of the city, mapping a very untouristic route for those who dare to explore its narrow streets, haunted shadows, and the intricate web of its black water.
The city’s inescapable anguish will seize every reader of these stories, resonating to the maddening clopping sound of the Bronze Horseman.
Julia Goumen & Natalia Smirnova
St. Petersburg, Russia
May 2012
PART I
GANGSTERS, SOLDIERS & PATRIOTS
TRAINING DAY
BY ANDREI KIVINOV
Kupchino
Translated by Polly Gannon
"Rise and shine, Eagle Scouts! You’ve got a report.”
Leaving the door to the rec room open and not waiting for us to wake up, Evseyev returned to duty. I wasn’t asleep anyway. I was just lying there with my eyes closed on top of an ancient, disintegrating overcoat spread out on some chairs I had pushed together. That was in contrast to Farid Ismagilov, the Tatar, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I still hadn’t learned to fall asleep at three in the afternoon. That was understandable: I didn’t have enough practice. Although the idea of a postprandial nap made sense. If there’s an opportunity to sleep during the day, use it. That way, at night, you won’t keep yawning and nodding off if something happens. Farid, over there, was a guy with a lot of practice.
I got up off the chairs and put on my brown shoes. The standard-issue black ones didn’t fit me, so I had to settle for civilian ones. The officers frowned on them, but the civilian population didn’t give a damn, so I wasn’t worried. No big deal, it’s not like shoes are your uniform cap. I straightened my tie, then nudged Farid, still sleeping on the bench.
“Mister Driver, we’ve got a report to check out. Let’s get going.”
Farid woke up, rubbed his eyes, and yawned, exhaling a lethal reek of bacon and garlic. A Muslim, he scarfed down bacon for lunch despite the injunctions of the Koran. They called him Driver because he drove the official kozel jeep. In his free time, that is, when he wasn’t sleeping. Rank: sergeant; age: thirty-three; disposition: Nordic, sometimes gloomy, with a slight chance of showers. Inclined toward mild, daily drunkenness. Whether he was an athlete or a good family man, I didn’t know yet. Rooted for the Rubin Kazan soccer team.
“We’ll check it out later. It’s our legitimate quiet time.”
“Yeah, but felons don’t get a quiet time.”
Evseyev, the duty officer, was playing a game of erotic Tetris on an office computer, forming a naked minor on the screen. Or, in his words, drawing up a duty roster. This drawing up of a roster was not easy: every time Evseyev got above knee level, he had to start all over again. It irritated him to no end. His assistant was fastidiously interrogating a reticent drunkard who smelled of piss. He steered the man toward the “aquarium” (the drying-out tank) with a gentle kick, and sprayed apple-scented air freshener around the room.
“So, what’s with the report?” Farid said, kneading his neck.
Without glancing up from his “duty roster,” Evseyev handed us a piece of paper covered with what looked like chicken scratch.
“Here’s the address. The paramedics called. Dead on arrival. Forty-two-year-old male. Asphyxiation. Allegedly choked on meat dumplings. Go take a look. If anything seems suspicious, call and I’ll send the operative. And if there’s no sign of foul play, do the usual routine.”
The usual routine. It was my first day on duty, and I had no clue what the routine was. I mean, I knew it in theory—I had taken a three-month course for police investigators—but instructions and regulations were one thing, “the usual routine” was something else. I didn’t let on, naturally. I nodded and took the address as though it was something I did every day. If worse came to worst, Farid would tell me what to do. He’d been in the department more than ten years. He’d give me a shoulder to lean on.
When we went out into the courtyard, the weather was doing its best to discourage any sort of work ethic. It was like being in a thriller. Gray thunderheads, spitting rain, slithery mud, a screaming wind. Indian summer had given way to an abrupt early winter. I have to say that in St. Petersburg there’s no real spring, summer, or fall. It’s one eternal season of early winter. Even in the July heat people escape from here to warmer climes. You’ve just got to put up with it and not start howling when some Lexus speeds by, splashing you with dirty water. Because
St. Petersburg is the president’s hometown.
Sopping wet leather shoes were no match for the standardissue leather kersey boots. But they hadn’t given me those. Said there was a shortage of kersey leather in the country, and that kersey boots had gone out of style a long time ago, anyway. Not flashy enough, I was told.
Farid chased away a filthy crow sitting on the hood of the kozel and, cursing, tightened the metal wire around the bumper that fastened it to the body of the jalopy. The kozel was even more experienced than the driver. It had lost part of its engine in gang wars. Its gear box and suspension had been severely wounded, and its scratches and battle scars were too numerous to count. It had received a medal of honor for “Endurance,” undergone treatment in the field hospital, and continued to serve under the proud moniker of G-Wagen, which some witty cynic had spelled out in black paint on the yellow hood.
After he had tightened the wire, Farid loaded himself into the vehicle and passed me a hand crank. I stuck the crank under the bumper. Mustering up all my strength, I grabbed the handle with both hands and gave it a turn clockwise. Nada.
“Harder,” Farid said. “It’s not a beer bottle.”
“You shouldn’t have stopped the engine.”
“If you gave me more gas, I wouldn’t have to.”
Our jalopy started up on the fourth attempt. The joyful roaring of the engine resounded through the courtyard, its blue exhaust filling the air. I dropped the crank under the seat and jumped in. We were rolling. Finally.
We didn’t have too far to go. Our precinct was based in Kupchino, a Petersburg bedroom community, settled at one time, according to legend, by merchants. Or maybe not. In any case, nowadays the people who lived here were just the same as the people living in any other part of Petersburg, and probably the entire country. The places we inhabit have no bearing on the way we think and live. That’s a proven fact.
Our precinct covered fifty hectares, all told, and it counted about 100,000 people. They lived mainly in Khrushchev-era buildings—architectural monuments unprotected by either the government or UNESCO. The people who lived in them were responsible for their upkeep. The ones who didn’t drink. I had only spent a few weeks here as a police inspector when I understood that was a clear minority. Very clear.