Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

The apartment was very small, surely smaller than the sanitary standard of 9 square meters allotted per person, and only marginally heated. After we maneuvered the sack to the balcony, I scanned the suite for a trace of Milena Markivna—a blouse thrown over a chair, the scent of an open jar of hand cream, perhaps—but saw only books upon books, bursting from shelves and boxes lining the already narrow corridor, books propping up the lame leg of an armchair, books stacked as a table for a lamp under which more books were read, books even in the bathroom, all of them poetry or on poetry, all presumably Konstantyn Illych’s. A corner of the main room had been spared for a glass buffet of fencing trophies and foils, and on top of the buffet stood a row of family portraits. I tried to find Milena Markivna in the sun-bleached photographs but these, too, belonged to Konstantyn Illych—the large head made him recognizable at any age. I wondered if she lived there, if she was even his wife.

Milena Markivna entered the apartment a few minutes later, with a soft scratch of keys. After shrugging off her long black raincoat to reveal the bleach-flecked smock underneath—a marvelous imitation of a custodial uniform—she appraised me as I imagined she might appraise a rug her husband had fished out of a dumpster. Would the piece be useful, or would it collect dust and get in the way? Her expression suggested the latter, but her husband was leading me into the kitchen, the point of no return. Once a guest steps into the kitchen, to let them leave without being fed and beveraged is of course unconscionable.

Milena Markivna leaned her hip against the counter, watching Konstantyn Illych mete out home brew into three cloudy shot glasses. “Lena, fetch the sprats, will you?”

Milena Markivna indicated she needed the stool, which I immediately vacated. She stepped up on it to retrieve a can from the back of the uppermost cupboard, then set the can down on the table, with some force, and looked at me, also with some force, presumably daring me to do something about the unopened sprats. I produced the eight-layer pocketknife I always kept on my person. In an elaborate display of resourcefulness, I flicked through the screwdriver, ruler, fish scaler and hook disgorger, scissors, pharmaceutical spatula, magnifying lens, hoof cleaner, shackle opener, and wood saw, before reaching the can opener. Its metal claw sank into the tin with so little resistance, I could have been cutting margarine. Milena Markivna must have noticed the surprise on my face. She asked if I knew about the exploding cans.

I conceded I did not.

“It’s something I heard,” she said, “something about the tin, how they don’t make it like they used to. People are getting shrapnel wounds.” After a pause, she gave a dry mirthless laugh and so I laughed as well.

Before Konstantyn Illych passed around the shots, I laid a sprat on my tongue and chewed it slowly to let the bitter oil coat the inside of my mouth and throat, minimizing the effects of the not-yet-ingested alcohol.

I took note that Milena Markivna also chewed a sprat before the first shot.

Three rounds later, Konstantyn Illych was speaking of the tenets of futurist philosophy. He was about to show how he employed them in his poetry when I jumped in to ask about the letter of apology, due in fifteen days.

“Mikhail Ivanovich,” he said. “Misha. Can I call you Misha?”

“You may.” The home brew was softening my judgment and there was only one sprat left.

“Fuck the letter, Misha. What is this, grade school?”

I told him about the possible repercussions, that he might be fired or arrested. “You’re lucky,” I said. “In earlier times, a political joke meant ten years.”

Konstantyn Illych set his empty shot glass upside down on his index finger like a thimble, twirled it in languid circles. “Once upon a time,” he began.

I wanted to shake the letter out of him.

“I got the flu,” he continued. “Ever get the flu?”

“Sure.”

“The flu turned into bronchitis and I ended up in the hospital. Not only did I get my own room, but by the end of the week the room was filled, and I mean floor-to-ceiling filled, with flowers and cards and jars of food from people I didn’t even know, people from all around the country.”

Milena Markivna placed the last sprat between her lips and sucked it in until the tip of the tail disappeared into her mouth.

Konstantyn Illych leaned in. “Imagine, Misha, what would happen if you tried to get me fired.”

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