Part 20 - Ivan: Gray, Lidless Eyes

I watch Mr. Chang’s eyes bulge and roll back. His mouth moves, but no words flow across the space between us. A fish out of water, he is. His arms flail against the grip of the Giant. Legs kicking. I wonder who will eat him when he falls still.

Like the days in Norilsk Gulag.

We tear a hole in the ice and pull up the fish with long taut lines and hunger in our bellies. One by one, they drop the burbot at my feet, but I make them wait until the little gray bodies fall silent, the gills stiffen, the white, lidless eyes go black. Only then do I step back and give the command, “съешь,” and they fall on the meal, ripping the little fishes to pieces. They eat the meat raw on days we don’t have fire. The bread alone is never enough.

Mr. Chang doesn’t know he is a burbot, but he is very much a thing between a bottom-feeding fish and an eel. Or he would never admit it.

His mirror is cracked, his view of himself no different. He stands here night after night in his warm office, the space heater keeping him warm and fat while his charges shiver in hunger below. I’ve watched him, heard his boasts, how proud his words when he speaks about his own “fish”. He doesn’t know. Until today.

I look down on the old gymnasium. The clusters of cots form neat rows of sorrow, the huddling masses thankful for the most fleeting graces. A stiff bed. A torn blanket. A haven from the autumn rain, the cold winter that will follow. These narrow windows are like holes in the ice. Ican feel the long lines slipping through my hands, wondering at what the catch will bring. A month ago, it brought six fish to my net. I watched them flop at my feet, their eyes blinded, their mouths gasping cold, damp air until they went still, resigned to their fates. The boys took them away. Someone else will eat. I will get деньги, the cash, and I will burn it for warmth.

But now the деньги is missing, and Mr. Chang will answer for it.

“Mr. Chang.” My eyes rest on the young mother, how she tends to her son, and for a moment, Mr. Chang’s failure slips away into the icy waters, lost to the gray below. She reaches into her coat and pulls out something in foil, unwrapping it carefully in front of the boy, presenting him with a spark of joy that lights up his face. She pushes the morsel into his mouth, and for a moment, I can taste the chocolate. And then all I can taste is her tears. And for the first time in years, I want to taste her cunt.

Maybe I will send away the Tatiana’s and keep this one. There is something about her. I feel the cool pull of the ice hole, the tug of the fish, and I want this one raw and wriggling. The boys will get none of her.

A croak from behind. I dismiss the sudden urge to go down to the floor below and talk to her again. What did she smell like? Fear. Desperation. What will she taste like? Hope. I will swallow her whole in time.

“Now, where were we?” The chair squeaks as I turn my attention back to thing pressed against the wall. His face is purple. He’s pissed himself as he dangles from the end of the Giant’s arm, his great paw gripping the идиот by the throat. “My деньги. My money.” I translate for the fool, but he knows the word. He’s known it for six years now, and he knows the penalty for touching it, for not protecting it, for letting anyone into this office to even sniff at it.

The Giant steals a glance, and I nod, lean back in the chair as Mr. Chang slumps to the floor, hacking, coughing, gasping. The burbot were so much more peaceful, more resigned. They understood better than this fat мудак. He clutches at his raw neck, clawing breath into his lungs with gray fingers. His face is reddish gray now, now more pinkish gray. The next time the Giant touches him will be his last breath.

“I didn’t.” Mr. Chang coughs, tries to sit up again. He reaches for his desk, trying to pull himself together and scramble back into his seat. There’s safety there, security, some sense of order. He thinks. “I swear.”

“Then who has?”

He swallows and winces, wiping at his face. He is stalling, but when he peeks through his fingers, his mouth opens, and he chokes on his words. “She. Her. Your…”

“шлюха.”

He nods. He knows. I know. I’ve always known. I’ve always been able to see them coming. Even Gretel. Does she know? Where does she take my money? Why does she think she can dance around me? Her little ballet of deception. Her mouth full of lies. My хуй in her mouth is its own lie, but it was the first truth she ever told me. I knew then what she was, what she wanted. She didn’t. She doesn’t now. She swims the icy waters, eyes lidless and gray where no light shines, and she searches for the hook, for the wriggling worm that will fill her mouth and draw her up to the light.

“She will be back with the money soon, Mr. Chang.” My eyes roll over his sullen face, his eyes focused on the floor between his feet. “You will let her slip in and return the money, and you will call me when it’s done.”

His grunt is enough. I’ve had enough of him today, and my eyes can’t stand the sight of this broken fish gulping air. They rest on her now, the boy pressed to her breast, her arms wrapped around him like a warm blanket. She will come, bring the boy, accept her fate. And Gretel, well, she will learn what happens when I pull on the string.

The night air is damp and chill. I wrap my coat tight around me as the door closes, the sounds and smells of the desperate still coursing through my blood. I close my eyes for a moment, and I’m back in Norilsk, staring down at the torn mask that was the commandant’s face. My gulag. My prison. He didn’t know then, but I knew what would happen when the bread ran out, when the ice was too thick to break. I know what happens when hope runs dry.

Hope is nothing. It’s a crutch, a weakness, a salve. Hope is a lie. Hope is a hammer that crushes the helpless and leaves them in bondage. I look out over the street at hope, the hope those in the shelter see through the murky, cracked windows that trap them inside. It lies to them. It will leave them to rot in their cots.

I turn, looking for Mr. Chang, but he is gone, and I gesture to the Giant. “See that he cleans those windows.” The Giant nods and slips away, silent as ever, through the main doors.

When I turn back, a vision stands before me. Golden hair that captures her cherubic face, an angel in a long black street coat, her blue eyes glowing white hot as she looks past, then at me.

“Is this the 63rd Street shelter?” Her voice is a melody I’ve not heard in a lifetime.

“It is.”

“My friend, Red, used to work here. Do you know who runs this place?” She licks her lips, pushes her hands into her coat pockets. Her eyes scan the faded facade, a drab gray in the daylight, the few windows to the street glowing with its inner light. Raindrops sparkle like diamonds in her hair.

“I do.”

“Oh. Um.” Her eyes light up as the Giant appears behind me. Not fear though. Wonder.

“I believe I know your friend, Red. I saw her last time.”

A shadow crosses across her face. The city is suddenly darker. “She’s…she died. She… I’m sorry.” The words fade away and she turns to go.

“A drink then? And a story to commemorate her passing.”

She hesitates, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

“For the ones we loved.”

The hint of a smile. She doesn’t move when my fingers slide across the smooth skin of her cheek and wipe away the tear. “For the ones we loved,” she said and nodded.