Read Online The Secret History of Moscow by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological fiction, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Contemporary, Missing Persons, Moscow (Russia)
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Sovin said. “I hear in the thirties and forties we were getting refugees in droves. In the sixties it was better for a bit, but then in the seventies and eighties, there's always been a steady trickle. We were taking bets on how much the traffic will increase in the nineties, what with all the fucking insanity that's going on. But nothing, imagine that."
"What about birds?” Yakov said.
"That's the errant magic, and I really don't know much about it. Don't care about that shit-I'm a scientist."
"Who can we ask about them, then?” Galina asked.
Sovin spat a long stream of foul, brown saliva. “Ask David Michaelovich, the pub owner. He sells booze to everyone, even the freaky things."
Galina turned to Yakov to ask his opinion on what those freaky things might be, but was struck by the sudden change in his demeanor. He swallowed repeatedly, as if there were a fishbone stuck in his throat. “That's an unusual name,” he finally said. His voice came out stilted, unnaturally calm.
"Yeah,” Sovin said. “His last name is Richards, a naturalized Englishman-not many foreigners here all and all, but some. He used to live in Moscow, worked as a radio announcer or something. The stupid ass moved here in 1937, to help build communism, of all things. Guess three times how long until he was accused of espionage."
"That's dumb,” Fyodor said.
"Yeah,” Sovin agreed. “Still, the man had ideals, and you gotta admire that."
"He's dead,” Yakov said suddenly. “Dead and buried."
"That's what we all are, in a sense,” Sovin said. “We are underground."
"Do you know him?” Galina whispered to Yakov.
Yakov nodded, still swallowing the nonexistent bone. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “He's my grandpa, I think."
"Well, come along then,” Sovin said, and moved with great speed and decisiveness down a side road, his rough military boots clanking on the wooden pavement like charging cavalry. Only then did Galina notice that he had a pronounced limp, which didn't seem to affect his agility.
Galina thought that the town looked surprisingly normal, if one was willing to ignore the glowing, weeping trees, and the buildings designed by fancy rather than a robust engineering sense. The houses, coquettishly hiding behind wild tangles of weeds and brambles, winked at her with the warm buttery eyes of their windows, all different sizes. “You have electricity?” she asked Sovin.
"Of course we do; what the fuck do you think it is, the Middle Ages?” He spat again, but this time a small blue skeletal shape scuttled from under the wooden planks of the pavement and licked the brown, lumpy spit clean with its feathery tongue. “We have electricity,” Sovin continued. “You must've passed the station on your way here, haven't you?"
Galina remembered the cement and sailcloth monstrosity. “So that what it was. What does it run on?"
"Whatever falls from the surface,” Sovin said. “Never you mind that; now, go talk to David Michaelovich."
He stopped before a low brown building, sprawled like a giant starfish; one of its rays jutted into the street, halting any passerby on his way. The building bore a terse inscription made in bright yellow paint. “Pub” it announced to the world in Russian and English.
"Come on in,” Sovin said. “Don't be shy. It's like a fucking Casablanca in there, only with more beer and less music and pointless talk and shit."
Galina thought that for a scientist Sovin cursed an awful lot, but followed him through the heavy door, with Yakov and Fyodor behind her. On the threshold Galina turned to Yakov and whispered, “It's going to be all right."
"I know,” he said. “It's just… I've never even met my father, but here I am, about to be introduced to my grandpa who's been dead for fifty years. My mom comes to his grave every weekend."
Galina struggled for words, but failed to find anything appropriate. She followed Sovin inside, stepping carefully on the thick carpet of
"What about birds?” Yakov said.
"That's the errant magic, and I really don't know much about it. Don't care about that shit-I'm a scientist."
"Who can we ask about them, then?” Galina asked.
Sovin spat a long stream of foul, brown saliva. “Ask David Michaelovich, the pub owner. He sells booze to everyone, even the freaky things."
Galina turned to Yakov to ask his opinion on what those freaky things might be, but was struck by the sudden change in his demeanor. He swallowed repeatedly, as if there were a fishbone stuck in his throat. “That's an unusual name,” he finally said. His voice came out stilted, unnaturally calm.
"Yeah,” Sovin said. “His last name is Richards, a naturalized Englishman-not many foreigners here all and all, but some. He used to live in Moscow, worked as a radio announcer or something. The stupid ass moved here in 1937, to help build communism, of all things. Guess three times how long until he was accused of espionage."
"That's dumb,” Fyodor said.
"Yeah,” Sovin agreed. “Still, the man had ideals, and you gotta admire that."
"He's dead,” Yakov said suddenly. “Dead and buried."
"That's what we all are, in a sense,” Sovin said. “We are underground."
"Do you know him?” Galina whispered to Yakov.
Yakov nodded, still swallowing the nonexistent bone. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “He's my grandpa, I think."
"Well, come along then,” Sovin said, and moved with great speed and decisiveness down a side road, his rough military boots clanking on the wooden pavement like charging cavalry. Only then did Galina notice that he had a pronounced limp, which didn't seem to affect his agility.
Galina thought that the town looked surprisingly normal, if one was willing to ignore the glowing, weeping trees, and the buildings designed by fancy rather than a robust engineering sense. The houses, coquettishly hiding behind wild tangles of weeds and brambles, winked at her with the warm buttery eyes of their windows, all different sizes. “You have electricity?” she asked Sovin.
"Of course we do; what the fuck do you think it is, the Middle Ages?” He spat again, but this time a small blue skeletal shape scuttled from under the wooden planks of the pavement and licked the brown, lumpy spit clean with its feathery tongue. “We have electricity,” Sovin continued. “You must've passed the station on your way here, haven't you?"
Galina remembered the cement and sailcloth monstrosity. “So that what it was. What does it run on?"
"Whatever falls from the surface,” Sovin said. “Never you mind that; now, go talk to David Michaelovich."
He stopped before a low brown building, sprawled like a giant starfish; one of its rays jutted into the street, halting any passerby on his way. The building bore a terse inscription made in bright yellow paint. “Pub” it announced to the world in Russian and English.
"Come on in,” Sovin said. “Don't be shy. It's like a fucking Casablanca in there, only with more beer and less music and pointless talk and shit."
Galina thought that for a scientist Sovin cursed an awful lot, but followed him through the heavy door, with Yakov and Fyodor behind her. On the threshold Galina turned to Yakov and whispered, “It's going to be all right."
"I know,” he said. “It's just… I've never even met my father, but here I am, about to be introduced to my grandpa who's been dead for fifty years. My mom comes to his grave every weekend."
Galina struggled for words, but failed to find anything appropriate. She followed Sovin inside, stepping carefully on the thick carpet of
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