The Museum of Doubt (10 page)

She could hear the general snoring. She put the phone down and wiped her face with a tissue.

The balcony door opened and a fireman with a mask and breathing apparatus, drenched in foam, stepped out of opaque curls of smoke. He looked at the Queen for a while, hands on his hips. He reached into the fog and pulled a choking, writhing sinner out of the cauldron. He shoved Hrynyuk into a chair. Next he ushered in a hybrid imp, half maid, half fireman. Natalie wore the black skirt, black tights and heels and a fireman’s jacket and mask. She was carrying the cooked shashlyk on a tray. She laid it down carefully on a table next to the Queen, forked the meat off the skewers onto a plate, arranged it with bread and green herbs and hot sauce and a white napkin, pulled off the mask and collapsed onto the
floor. The fireman went over and began administering artificial respiration.

Press conference, croaked Hrynyuk. They’re waiting.

The Queen stood up. The fireman had one knee clamped high between Natalie’s thighs. Her fingernails were picking at the fastenings of his suit while they ate each other.

Give the meat to the poor people of New York, said the Queen.

Petya and Taras followed Mykola down Karla Marla, through an arch into a dark yard lit only by the light from upstairs windows. Cat kings of the wheelybins scattered at their approach from mounds of potato peel and carrot scrapings. At the entrance way Mykola felt for the doorknob and the conscripts closed in behind him, their hands reaching for his back and elbows to reassure themselves he was still there. Inside it was still dark, the bulbs stolen. There was a stench of urine. They shuffled up a set of steps like the newly blind and by memory Mykola found the lift button. The rough, time-chewed plastic wobbled under his fingertip and glowed cigarette-weak when the lift began to descend from its station above, clanking like an iron horse.

In the lift there was a smell of old vegetables and rancid stains on old blankets. Taras put his nose into one of his five red roses and inhaled. From Azerbaijan, he said.

No, they bring them from the west now, said Petya. Africa or something.

Africa? said Taras, sniffing the flowers again, suspicious. Do they have roses in Africa?

Petya laughed. America! he said to Mykola. This probably seems like Africa to you. D’you have lifts like this in America? Bet you don’t.

Oh, we have all sorts of lifts in America, said Mykola.

Even before the lift opened they could hear the sounds of a woman screaming. They stood in front of the padded steel door to Mykola’s flat, Mykola with the silver key held out, Taras with his face half-hidden by the roses, Petya taking his hat off and holding it protectively in front of his heart. The door was shaking. Every time it shook, it rattled, and every time it shook and rattled, or just before, they could hear a woman screaming No! and a man shouting You bitch, I’ll kill you!

Mykola turned to the conscripts. You couldn’t go and wait in the yard? he said. It’s my roommate. She wasn’t supposed to be back till next week. I’ll be down in a minute.

Is it your wife? said Petya.

It’s a friend who lives in the same house, said Mykola.

Ah, a friend, said Petya. It’s a friend, he said to Taras, tugging his sleeve and turning to go.

Can we help? said Taras, waving the roses towards the door so the leaves and petals rustled.

Mykola smiled and shook his head. The door rattled and the woman screamed again, not a word this time, a higher scream. I’ll come down in a minute.

The boys went back to the lift and Mykola rang the bell. It’s Mykola! he shouted. I’m coming in.

Your mother, said Oleg. What the fuck do you want?

Mykola! called Stella. I came back early.

I’m coming in, said Mykola, pushing the key in the lock.

Tell him to fuck off, whispered Oleg. Tell him we’re busy. He shouted: We’re busy!

Mykola turned the key. He heard feet moving quickly across the carpet, a slamming door and running water. He went inside the flat and closed the front door. He held up his hand in front of his face to see what the stickiness on the doorhandle was. It was that.

Stella had locked herself in the bathroom. It’s Mykola, he said. She let him in. She locked the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the bath. She had a bloodstained wet towel wrapped around her head. She sat there with her back hunched and her hands between her legs. She smiled at him.

Hi, she said. How’s it going?

I thought you were in London for another week.

Yeah, said Stella, hunching further forward and lowering her head. But I couldn’t get his penis out of my mind. So I came back.

Are you OK?

Yeah, I’m OK.

Was he beating your head against the doorhandle?

Stella nodded, folded her arms across her stomach and sniffed.

Here, let me have a look. Mykola put out his hand and Stella pushed it gently away.

I’m fine, Mykola, honestly. He gets jealous.

He’s psychotic. He could have killed you.

Yeah, I suppose he could, said Stella. She smiled.

You’ve got to stop seeing him.

I couldn’t do that! What’d I do then? I’d just be thinking about him all the time. You think I’m crazy. He loves me, you know. I used to think once you were crazy that was it, you were crazy everywhere all the time. But it’s not like that. Now I know what my mind’s like, it’s like a big hotel. Down there in the ballroom it’s murder. But up in your own room it’s all quiet, and peaceful, and organised. You just lock the door, and take a shower, watch some TV, make some calls. She laughed. Then you’re all ready to go back to the ballroom again.

Hard and loud as a gunshot, the heel of a boot smashed against the door. You come out of there, you bitch! screamed Oleg. You and the shitstabber!

Go fuck yourself, you sick bastard! said Stella. Have you got a smoke? she said to Mykola.

No. I think we should call the police.

He’ll be fine, said Stella, putting her hand on Mykola’s wrist.

The boot went in again, twice. The wood began to splinter. Mykola pulled a cylinder out of his jacket pocket and when Oleg smashed through sprayed him in the face with Mace. Oleg screamed that he was blind and spun back through the corridor, stotting against corners and bookcases like a pinball. Stella ran after him, crying his name.

After a couple of minutes of the two of them shrieking together it went quiet. Mykola got up and went to the kitchen. He switched on the light and the roaches scattered across the table like a gang of nightbirds surprised by a helicopter. He rooted through the cupboards and shelves and poked around in the fridge. She’d brought back a stack of Marks & Spencer’s ready-to-eat curries but no coffee. He pulled the bottle of Stolichnaya out of the freezer. It was half empty.

He gathered up the vodka and a loaf of bread and filled a mug with some pickled cucumbers. He went out. On the way he passed Stella’s room. She was sitting on her bed, stroking Oleg’s forehead with one hand and fumbling inside his trousers with the other. The bloody towel lay on the rug. Mykola could see how her own forehead was messed up.

My little sweetie, baby, I love you, I love you, she was saying. Oleg moaned. Oh don’t worry, be quiet, don’t speak, I love you and I know you love me, I couldn’t leave you, I couldn’t live without you, I’m going to be with you for ever, don’t worry, my sweet, my dear, I’m yours, you’re mine, just lie still, my love, I love you and I’m going to make everything all right.

Mykola stepped out into the rotting darkness and into the lift.
He leaned against the flimsy veneer walls as it spooled its slovenly way groundwards. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing. Like a heroin rush the memory of the scent of a stranger’s perfumed body in the Hamptons one hot blue and white day sluiced through him and burst, a divesplash from sphincter to shoulderblades. He was immersed in the cool sunlit shallows of lost time and shoals of sensation darted away from his fingers, dust motes carouselling in the beams slanting through the SoHo window and coffeemaking lovers architecting his days, the warm peppery air of Manhattan evening on his face coming out after a matinée.

The yard was darker than before. Mykola called the conscripts’ names. A cat answered. Mykola clinked the bottle and the mug together.

Come and get it, he said. He sniffed the air. In the interstices of decay and smoke bulged the smell of roses.

The panther in the coal cellar. They had known what they were about, the makers of Soviet uniforms, aiding the assignations of adulterous admirals in the dimly-lit backyards of Sevastopol and Vladivostok. The Hard To See Fleet. Now he could make out buttons and faces.

Hey, he said.

The boys, suspicious again, came over. There was a playground with benches around it. They sat down, Mykola in the middle, the boys on either side. They passed around the spirit and zakuski. Taras and Mykola drank a few mouthfuls. Petya drained the bottle, belched and snatched a petal off one of Taras’ roses. He put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

Son of a bitch, said Taras.

Dessert, said Petya. To make me sweeter for the girls.
Nu
, ready? he said, slapping Mykola’s crotch.

I suppose, said Mykola.

Brother, said Petya, the American wants service.

Taras found Mykola’s zip. He got Mykola out, let go and looked at Petya.

Couldn’t do it with my hand? he said.

Business is business, said Petya.

It’s OK, said Mykola, if he doesn’t want to.

No! said Petya. A deal is a deal. That’s capitalism, isn’t it?

Devil, said Taras. He turned his head, hawked, held the bouquet away from Mykola and went down on him. He started chewing like a dog on a bone. Mykola felt an icy touch on his scalp.

Oho, said Petya. It’s snowing. He held the last cucumber out to Mykola. D’you want it?

No thanks, said Mykola. He winced as Taras nipped a bit of skin.

America, America, said Petya, chewing and nodding. I’d like to go there. I don’t understand why you came to Kiev. I’m a patriot, of course, but it’s shit here. Don’t you like New York? Are the girls pretty there?

It’s a wonderful place, said Mykola. It’s the centre of the world. Everything is there. He pushed Taras’ hat off and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, the snowflakes slipping between his knuckles. He came in the conscript’s throat. Everything.

So why did you leave?

So I could miss it.

Taras got up, took his hat and walked away, coughing it up.

So I could miss it, and so I could go back, said Mykola. It’s good to be there but it’s even better to keep on going back.

Ah, Kolya, you don’t want to do that. It’s unlucky to go back. You shouldn’t go back if you’ve left something behind. That’s what happened to Yuri Gagarin. He went back, and he crashed his plane.

People leave to change, said Mykola. But it works the opposite way. It’s like travelling at almost the speed of light. The faster and further away you go, the quicker the people you leave behind get old. It’s the law of Personal Relativity.

Better put that away, or it’ll freeze, said Petya, patting Mykola’s prick. He got up and walked off. Thanks for the drink, he said.

You’re welcome, said Mykola.

Petya started running towards the archway, shouting after Taras. He stopped under the arc and called to Mykola: Whose was that law?

The Queen’s, said Mykola. It was the Queen of Ukraine.

The Queen stopped outside the door to the function room. Hrynyuk introduced her to the cluster of people: the hotel manager, the representatives of the fire department, the mayor’s office, Human Rights Watch, the Ukrainian National Assembly, the World Bank, the Ukrainian parliament’s finance committee and a couple of dozen lawyers. The Queen smiled at them all and shook their hands.

They seem angry, she murmured in Hrynyuk’s ear.

Don’t worry, your Majesty, we’ll sort it out after the presser.

She walked into the lights and sat down. She began counting the lenses in the camera wall in the middle of the room. She lost track at twenty. Apart from Hrynyuk, she was alone. The ambassador hadn’t come. Natalie, Lieutenant Zagrebelny and Captain Gubenko were to have been in attendance. Their chairs were empty.

Ladies and gentlemen, Her Most Royal Majesty, the Queen of Ukraine, will now take questions, said Hrynyuk, getting to his feet. He leaned down and whispered: I’ll slip outside and start spinning those lawyers. He vanished. The questions began. The Queen felt her lips cracking.

THE NEW YORK TIMES: Hey, how’re you doing? I thought maybe you’d decided to stay out there for ever.

HM THE QUEEN: Thank you. Naturally my people are suffering great hardships but with the help of our friends abroad, particularly in the United States, we are confident that the present crisis can be overcome.

THE WASHINGTON POST: Good to see you, man. I’d forgotten what you looked like. Hey, you know how Meryl said she was going to keep your job open for you? Well, she didn’t.

HM THE QUEEN: Thank you. My visit here is essentially private. I shall be meeting with some very dear acquaintances. Nonetheless, I shall be attending a number of public functions, most of them connected with my post as honorary chairman of important Ukrainian charities.

THE BOSTON GLOBE: Son, we’re willing to overlook what’s happened, but how about you hold the gay deal for one weekend, and take your father bowling or something? He won’t mention you being a faggot if you don’t.

HM THE QUEEN: Thank you. There are a number of pretenders and communists who dispute my claim to the title, and even question whether the monarchy has a role in Ukraine in the 1990s. I need only point to such stable, prosperous societies as Holland, Denmark and the United Kingdom to illustrate my conviction that it has.

CNN: I was afraid this was going to happen. How can I put this? You’ve been away for so long and now you want just to jump right back in. We’re older now, we’re not as multi-partner as we were. I’m not saying I’m monogamous. It’s a kind of partial celibacy. I sleep around but I abstain from sex with you.