Chapter Text
Outside in the courtyard, a car alarm blared. It had been screeching for the last half hour in a variety of different patterns, each one loud enough to be heard through closed windows. Every now and again it would pause, and long-awaited silence would ring out in the kitchen. Just when it seemed like their living hell had come to an end, the alarm would ring out again. After a blessed moment of silence and the dull, distant slam of a car door, it would repeat itself. It wailed until Rzhavyi swore he could feel it in his teeth.
According to Rzhavyi’s count, this process had already happened seven times. It was now on the eighth.
With every round, his father tried to turn up the maxed out volume on the TV. The voices of the cops in the procedural he was watching rattled the speakers. Rzhavyi's father kept pushing the volume button, but the yellow bar on the screen already indicated one hundred percent and refused to move any further.
"Motherfucker!" His father slammed the remote down on the table. "Rot in hell, you fucking prick."
The alarm cut out. Rzhavyi's dad turned to look out the window. Their view from the first floor was completely blocked by a mud-covered Gazelle truck, but he kept staring as if the force of his hatred was enough to pass through the glass, through the truck bed and the trash bins, reaching all the way to the snowy courtyard to choke the life out of the car's miserable owner.
"That's that," he said finally, taking a swig from his beer, "I'm fucking sick of it."
Even if his father's telepathic rage could kill the car's owner, it hadn't been what turned off the alarm. Rzhavyi frowned down at his math textbook. Even before the noise, he'd been struggling. He was tired. The racket outside and the procedural on TV weren't helping him through this set of questions. Despite the words on the page being neatly printed in Russian, he couldn't understand a damn thing. He hadn't solved any of the questions, and his notebook was covered in failed attempts that he had scratched out. And there was the car alarm. Again.
He glanced up. His father's face—which had already been rosy from the beer—had turned beet red. Rzhavyi closed his textbook, shoving his notebook between the pages to mark his place.
"I'll go take care of it," Rzhavyi said, standing up and nearly knocking over the pyramid of pots and pans stacked on the floor by the stove.
The alarm shut off again. The car door slammed. This time though, the quiet didn’t even last seconds.
"Sock him right in the face," his father said. "Make sure he doesn’t forget any time soon."
"Of course."
Rzhavyi groped for his sneakers in the narrow, dark hallway. He pulled on his puffer jacket and sprinted out of the apartment and down the stairs, pulling open the heavy metal front door to the courtyard.
Outside, the sound of the alarm was splitting. Behind a row of dumpsters, he could see the offending car with its blinking headlights. It was a black Desyatka,[1] with blue LED lights glowing underneath it and custom parts mounted on every possible surface. Rzhavyi made straight for it across the courtyard. The freshly fallen snow immediately got into his sneakers, and his feet were wet and cold. He zipped up his jacket, walked around the blaring car, and pulled open the driver's door.
"Hey, asshole!" Rzhavyi rested his forearm on the roof of the car, looking inside.
The guy in the driver's seat was young and huge. He was the size of a fucking moose. He barely fit in the Desyatka. The seat was pushed all the way back, but even so, his knees brushed the steering wheel. Wires were sticking out of a massive hole in the dashboard, and tools were strewn across the passenger seat. Among them were random parts, electrical tape, and the removed paneling. Rzhavyi took an immediate dislike to the wrench and the screwdriver, feeling around in his pocket for his brass knuckles. He met the korytnik's unfriendly frown.[2]
"You're ruining everyone's peace and quiet, dickwad. Cut the alarm on this piece of shit, got it?"
"Yeah?" the korytnik side-eyed him but didn't move. "And if I don't, what then? Who the fuck are you?"
At that moment the alarm started up again, and Rzhavyi almost choked. The nerve of this asshole, ruining any chance that Rzhavyi had of a normal evening without even knowing who he was fucking with. Rzhavyi, on the other hand, knew exactly who this guy was: his father had mentioned that the geezer in apartment fifty-two had keeled over last year, and his grandson had moved in. Rzhavyi vaguely remembered that the old guy had been odd. He'd loomed large in the courtyard, limping across it with a cane. He'd worn a long coat and a leather cap year-round, removing them only in the dead of summer. Even then, he'd never worn short sleeves. Growing up, the older boys had speculated that he had either lost his arms or his legs (or both) in some freak industrial accident. He'd apparently worked at the AvtoVAZ factory his entire life, even after losing his arms. Or legs. Who the fuck cared.
Now his grandson had moved into the apartment on the fifth floor.[3]
Rzhavyi's mother mentioned that he'd just returned from army service. His parents had allowed him to have the apartment, and apparently, this fucking car, with its goddamn lowered suspension. The thing glowed like a Christmas tree and accelerated so loudly that it scared the neighborhood stray cats. While at first it had just blared weird and shitty music, now the car had graduated to flat out screeching.
“Who am I? Who the fuck are you?” Rzhavyi screamed over the alarm, leaning into the cabin of the car. “I'm Rzhavyi, and you're in my fucking courtyard!”
“Excuse me?”
The korytnik climbed out of the car—with surprising grace, considering his size—and unceremoniously shoved Rzhavyi in the chest. It was a decently strong hit, and Rzhavyi only held his ground because he was still clinging to the door of the car.
“I don't know you,” the korytnik growled, grabbing Rzhavyi by the jacket collar. “And I'm in my yard, got it?”
The expression on his face was furious, and he didn't look Russian.[4] Black curly hair stuck out from under his blue hat, which was embroidered with a “Lada” logo to match his car.[5]
He frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together, and then yanked Rzhavyi's collar so hard the fabric almost gave way.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” Rzhavyi lashed out at the korytnik's wrists, which should have hurt, but the korytnik didn't even blink. “Don’t make me say it again.”
The alarm kept blaring. Somewhere across the courtyard a window swung open, and Rzhavyi recognized the creative swearing of Uncle Valera, who was trying to drown out the noise from his apartment on the third floor.[6]
“It’s broken!” The korytnik screamed in Valera's direction while keeping a firm grip on Rzhavyi's collar. “I’m fixing it now, Christ!”
The korytnik’s mouth twisted in annoyance. It was clear that the noise was getting to him too, but Rzhavyi refused to sympathize. The distraction gave Rzhavyi a chance to assess the situation. He calculated that there was no use in going for the korytnik’s feet. The guy was wearing rugged army boots, which were a distinct advantage over Rzhavyi’s tattered sneakers. His only other options were the knees and the face. Rzhavyi wasn't in a position to strike him in the ribs or the gut.
He chose a multi-pronged attack. He drove a bent knee into the korytnik's leg, pulling his opponent forward by the wrists to headbutt him right in the nose.
The korytnik howled.
But he didn’t loosen his grip, or grab his face, or move his leg. Rzhavyi hadn’t expected overwhelming success, but this was humiliating. Was this asshole made of iron?
Rzhavyi didn’t have time to strategize. The next second, he found himself lying on his front with his face pressed into the snow, restrained on all sides so that he couldn’t move. He had to yell to Dead for backup. It might not be the cleanest fighting tactic, but maybe Mit'ka could sneak up on the korytnik from behind.
“If I see you near my car again, I’ll kill you,” the korytnik growled in his ear, and Rzhavyi grimaced as he felt blood drip down onto his cheek. That meant he’d nailed the bastard in the nose. “Got it, you little shit?”
“Fuck off,” Rzhavyi spoke with difficulty, trying to get out from under the korytnik. He was ashamed; he hadn’t lost a fight like this since the eighth grade. He hoped no was watching. This part of the courtyard was dark, and no one seemed to be taking out their trash. “I don’t give a fuck about your car. Just shut off the alarm, asshole.”
Dirty snow got in his mouth. His teeth were chattering from the cold. Rzhavyi's words were barely comprehensible, even to himself, and it was clear that the korytnik hadn't understood a word he said.
“What are you mumbling, dickhead?”
Rzhavyi put all his strength into his next move. He turned in the wet snow and pulled his right hand out from under the korytnik's knee. He swung at fist at his cheekbone and ear, knocking off the korytnik’s hat. He grabbed the korytnik’s curly, shoulder-length hair and yanked as hard as he could. How had he managed to grow it out when the army shaved everyone bald?
Hair pulling was a girl’s move, but Rzhavyi had always fought dirty. If he needed to, he’d bite without a second thought. Two years earlier, Rzhavyi had bitten through the ear of Baldie from the Shlyuzovoy district. The asshole had needed ten stitches, and it still hadn’t healed right. After that, no one who valued their ears, fingers, or ribs had bothered Rzhavyi again. Rzhavyi could snap the latter as readily as he would break a nose.
But now the korytnik had Rzhavyi in a grappling hold and didn’t seem concerned about the fate of his ears.
Rzhavyi pulled on the korytnik’s hair, grinning wickedly when he saw his opponent's shameful tears; the korytnik pressed his elbow to his throat. Rzhavyi’s vision was going dark and it was impossible to reach his brass knuckles with his free hand. The korytnik slammed Rzhavyi’s wrist into the snow with his knee, and Rzhavyi could only scratch at the pocket of his jacket with numb fingers. He didn’t want to pull the same trick twice, but apparently it was his only option: he could pull the korytnik’s head down towards him and bite his oversized ear.
Yes. That was exactly what he’d do.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
His head was buzzing. The pressure on his throat was gone, but it was still hard to breathe. Fingers touched his neck.
Rzhavyi opened his eyes.
With horror, the reality of the situation dawned on him.
He’d passed out. At the crucial moment. When he’d made the move to try and reach the korytnik’s ear.
“You awake?”
The korytnik let go of his throat. Had he tried to choke him? Or was he feeling for a pulse?
Rzhavyi was ready to curse him out, to damn his mother and his whole family to hell—including every last grandmother and grandfather—but instead of swearing, he wheezed and coughed. A fucking disgrace.[7]
And how long had he been out? Long enough for the korytnik to understand.
Fuck.
He wiped his lips with a trembling hand, humiliated to see drool and blood come away on his fist. If things hadn’t been so serious, Rzhavyi would’ve laughed at the expression on the korytnik’s long face.
It looked like the asshole was scared. If so, it means Rzhavyi had to leverage it so that the korytnik wouldn’t gossip and tell the entire neighborhood that Rzhavyi had passed out during a fight.
“What, are you fucking scared?” Rzhavyi turned his head to the side and spat blood into the snow. He licked his coppery teeth with his tongue and stared down the korytnik. “Were you imagining yourself in the slammer? With that hair, you’d be their favorite fuckhole.”
Rzhavyi laughed hoarsely, waiting for the korytnik to knock him out a second time. He didn’t give a fuck. He now knew whose car this was. He’d bust out the windows and slash the tires to make sure this asshole knew whose rules he was living under.
But the korytnik didn't hit him. He silently picked up his hat, wet from the snow, and pulled it on his head. Then he rose to his feet and stepped back.
Rzhavyi fumbled in the snow. His throat ached like someone had taken a sander to it. He was dizzy and both of his wrists ached terribly. Belatedly, he realized that the car alarm had stopped wailing. The Lada’s dome light had gone out, meaning the battery must have died.
He stumbled to his feet, blinking as the edges of his vision darkened. His brass knuckles slipped out of his pocket and into the snow. Rzhavyi frowned, trying to figure out how to pick them up without turning his back. The korytnik was faster, stomping on the brass knuckles, covering them with his boot. He leaned forward, looking at Rzhavyi with a dangerous expression on his face.
“Go on, get the fuck out of here,” His voice was so low, that if Rzhavyi had been a dog, his fur would have stood on end. “Without these.”
Rzhavyi wasn’t ready for a second round. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed with a nasty taste in his mouth. As a matter of principle, he wouldn’t back down.
“Take your foot off it.”
Blood was streaming from the korytnik’s nose. It flowed down over his fleshy lips—so large they were almost indecent. Rzhavyi shook his head. The korytnik continued to frown at him. He seemed in no hurry to lift his foot off the brass knuckles. He stared at Rzhavyi with that same attentive, heavy gaze. It was unnerving. Rzhavyi felt uncomfortable.
Rzhavyi was becoming frustrated with himself. That bald guy from Shlyuzovoy was almost as huge as the korytnik, and older, but Rzhavyi hadn’t been afraid. What was wrong with him?
“Do you not have enough going on?” He asked, clenching his hands into fists and sniffing. “You think I don’t have friends? If you don’t give it back, we’ll find you tomorrow. You’ll beg us to let you go.”
“What, are you scared?” the korytnik retorted, smiling unkindly. “Sure, take it. If you can find it.”
Rzhavyi didn’t have time to stop him. The korytnik snatched the brass knuckles from under the sole of his shoe, before straightening up and launched them over the garages. Pigeons took flight. The brass knuckles skittered across a rooftop and dropped. Firmly lodged somewhere far away.
It would have been humiliating to go looking for them at night with a flashlight. To just turn away and leave was just as bad. Rzhavyi exhaled, bowing his head. He was just about to knock the korytnik down, pin him to the side of the car, and—if he was lucky—shove his head into the car, when the korytnik suddenly waved his hand over his head. He looked behind Rzhavyi, and loudly shouted:
“Yo! Damirian! Hey! I need a jump start, help a buddy out!”
Rzhavyi grimaced. Rzhavyi could yell for his friends to come help now, but they would need time to get here. Fucking Damirian was right there.
“It’s your lucky day,” Rzhavyi said, bitterly spitting pink saliva into the snow.
The korytnik wiped at the blood under his nose, resting his thigh against the car. He smiled brazenly at Rzhavyi in response.
Rzhavyi wanted to warn him to cherish those teeth while he had them, but he didn't. Turning around, he walked back across the courtyard, frowning at Damirian as he passed him. The korytnik hadn’t even lived in his grandfather’s apartment for three months, and he’d had already managed to get in good with the local shopkeeper. Damirian had a kiosk [8] on the corner of Sverdlov and Revolution Street, and lived in one of the apartment buildings here. He never sold booze to minors—his employees always asked to see ID, the fucking assholes. Damirian himself seemed to be no older than twenty-five, but he had the audacity to act as if he’d forgotten what it was like to be eighteen and in search of a drink. Maybe he didn't drink. Armenians—weren’t they Muslims or something? And what about the korytnik? His grandfather looked Russian, but he looked like he was the product of Tatar-Mongol rule somewhere way back.
What had they said in that book they were forced to read at school? "They ate dried horse meat that they kept under their saddles." Rzhavyi didn’t know why he still remembered that line. It was funny. He pushed open the door to his building—the entry system hadn’t worked for a long time, and no one was going to repair it. He smiled and then winced. His split lip had hardened into a scab, his brass knuckles lay somewhere in the garbage, and his unfinished math homework waited for him at home. Tomorrow he had to pass a test at the sharag[9] and work a shift at the garage.
“Well, look at you.” In the kitchen, his father slid a bottle of beer in front of Rzhavyi and slapped his back with a heavy palm. “Hey, mother! We raised a man after all!”
Rzhavyi didn’t mention the fact that he had lost the fight. He wasn’t looking for another beating from his dad. He leaned on the cold neck of the bottle, looking at the notebook on the table in front of him—there was no way he’d finish his work by tomorrow.
“Here.” His mother shoved a cloth under his nose, soaked in peroxide. “I just wiped the table. And don't touch it with your dirty hands, you still haven’t had your tetanus shot.”
“He’ll be fine. It’s nothing,” his father waved a hand at her and leaned back against the wall on his creaking stool. “Our people were never afraid of dirt.” [10]
Rzhavyi nonetheless pressed the cloth to his lip. It stung. Bruises were blossoming across his wrists. He’d ended up with his mother's skin, thin and pale. He even had her figure—not his father’s wide shoulders and rough hands. Rzhavyi had gotten his height, and the same red hair—that's all that Rzhavyi had inherited from his father.
“Nice,” grumbled his dad. “It’s quiet!”
Rzhavyi nodded.
The next second, the car alarm wailed hysterically from the courtyard.
