Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection - Dmitrii Taganov

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do away with him any time he wanted to. Levko was wrong. This youngster happened to be much cooler than anyone he ever met before, and very clever. Since then Levko never felt himself a total boss in his bank. The only argument his new partner and security chief ever proposed for all business conflicts was death. In fact, that was quite a common argument in the business circles during those wild ninetieth years.

      Rebrov didn't stay for a dessert, and Levko didn't implore him to. The moment he left Levko rushed to his computers and peered into figures appeared there during his absence. Today these figures, or maybe the stars in the sky, were favorable to him. With the eyes on the screens he familiarly groped for a long brass chain with the key of his Porsche, and whirled it around his finger. This cheap brass chain was very special for Levko, because it was bringing him luck. He noticed it twenty years ago when he was a black market money changer on the street. That’s when he bought his first car, secondhand Lada, and since then, standing in the street, waiting for customers, he whirled this brass chain with a car-key around his finger. Car-key was visible sign of his rising status, and a long brass chain was a clear warning to anybody who would approach him with malicious intentions. Many thugs and trumps had such intentions on that street.

      Keeping his eyes glued to the figures, Levko quickly and cheerfully twirled the brass chain with a Porsche key in front of the computer screens.

      5. The Funeral

      Because of the heavy rain that showered me on the motorbike, I came to the crematorium later, and at once had to go the men’s room to wash my spattered with dirt face. When I found the assigned ritual hall, all the mourners were there, with bunches of flowers waiting for the doors to be opened.

      I saw many familiar faces there and solemnly nodded them. Those were twenty or so men and women I saw in the corridors of the party headquarters, all of them colleagues of the deceased. Although, there was nobody who looked like his relative, or fan, or lover. That seemed quite unnatural to me. After all, this Sergey was a poet, and not just another unhappy poet, but someone bearing striking likeness to the great, long dead Russian genius. One person there attracted my attention, because he wore a red turban on his head. Apparently, he was the Indian Consulate official, to testify the transition of his compatriot to another world. At last, the doors were slowly opened, and the solemn crowd was let inside the ritual hall.

      Poet lay in casket dressed in a black suit, with a white strip of cloth and a small wooden cross on his forehead. The wreaths and bouquets of flowers were heaped around, and still more was being laid, covering up the polished wood of the coffin.

      Just behind the head of deceased his portrait was placed on adjoining pedestal. It was black and white, and extraordinarily enlarged. When I looked at it closer I was just dumbfounded. “My God,” I thought in amazement. “What a bad-taste spectacle!” Because it wasn’t a portrait of the unfortunate poet Sergey from India, but it was the portrait of great Sergey Yesenin himself, his widely known photograph that was made a hundred years ago, with his blond hair parted in the middle. In a deep amazement and shocked to the core, I looked around at the mourners: “Why don’t they notice it, they look like educated people!” All of them now silently and mournfully stood around the coffin, looking at the pale face there, at the portrait, and apparently awaiting for some speeches.

      I was also surprised yesterday, being introduced to the subject of my job in the party. Whatever I asked seemed to be the top secret no one had authority to disclose. All the day I was taken care of by the party official of high rank, comrade Myacheva. She was a tall and massive woman with a shock of a blond hair, in a bland dress and with a loud voice. Most noticeable about her were long and red shining nails, warning perhaps of some danger. I was put in some kind of a library, and Myacheva had brought me a pile of their election leaflets, flyers and a complimentary textbook on the history of the Communist Party in this country, and asked me to acquaint myself with it. I think that was a standard procedure for all new members of this party, because she wasn’t sure of my function here. With a feeling that I'm wasting my time in vain, I honestly flipped through all these glossy papers, and even read some pages of textbook, though I knew this embellished party history from my college years, and there was nothing new to me.

      Finally, when Myacheva was passing me by in the aisle, looking like a stern school teacher, I addressed her very politely, “Madam, I have acquainted with all these, thank you, but I was invited to work here. I was told there would happen something extraordinary very soon. What’s that? Who will tell me?”

      At first her eyes widened like angry teacher’s, then looked warily sideways, right and left, as if checking foes, and then her hand jerked with frightened gesture to her lips.

      “Who, who told you that!”

      “Your Secretary General told me that.” I said. It seemed as if I unintentionally offended her because her face turned red.

      “I am not authorized to discuss it with you.”

      “Who is authorized? Let me see that one, because I waste my time here.”

      “I’ll find out. You study meanwhile.” She turned around and almost ran out of the room.”

      To the end of a day I sat being bored at the table waiting for somebody with enough authority to introduce me to my job. Sometimes I left the room to stretch out and walked through the corridors, observing the colleagues. Finally, with no one coming to me, I gave up waiting and went home.

      At the head of the coffin, besides the portrait, was standing the Poliburo of this party: Fomin, Myacheva, and others that I had noticed yesterday. First was to speak Fomin, the Secretary General.

      “Comrades, friends! This is a sorrowful day for all of us, because we pay tribute to our young colleague, ardent Communist, the faithful Leninist Sergey Yesenin.”

      “Oh, my God,” I thought, “Why drag in the last name of the great poet, that’s over the top! He is out-of-time twin, a poet, a namesake, he got the same portrait at his head, but why Yesenin?” Of course, I did not know then that his last name by his Indian passport was also Yesenin.

      “He gave his life for our common righteous cause!” roared Fomin. “He fought to the last moments of his life. His words and verse in the leaflets and media publicity materials will long live, they will guide whole our nation to the Leninist goals. Duma elections are coming, and no doubt we will win. But Sergey will not rejoice with all of us, we shall never see again his disarming smile, nor hear his delicate voice. But you, Sergey, did not in vain live your short life, not in vain you came to us from far away India. You’ve struggled honestly and courageously.”

      That was a recurring and lengthy speech, and I observed the people around the coffin. The sorrowful faces of men and women were now brighter, and chins were up, eyes glistening. Drizhinniki, party militia with red bands on the sleeves, drew closer from their post at the doors, their faces shining blissfully.

      I noticed also four new mourners who just entered the doors and were standing behind. These were altogether different: in expensive black suits, with grim and bored faces, one of them with his hands in the pockets. It was easy to guess: professionals, sponsor-bank’s Security. One of them was huge and powerful like a hog, another two tall muscular athletes, and the fourth was strangely both sinewy and thin, with a dead face as if cut of stone.

      Suddenly mourning silence that was strained by General Secretary's firm echoing voice was pierced by shrill hysterical cries. I heard some strange sounds some minutes before, but I thought they come from adjoining ritual hall: nervous breakdowns and hysterics were commonplace here. The sounds seemed muffled at first, but then they rang out closer, and I could make out two arguing shrill female voices. Suddenly the door of our ritual hall banged open, and I saw in the doorway two women that were nearly fighting. One of them was breaking her way forward to the hall, and another one was pulling her backwards trying to stop her. Finally the first one freed herself, and with shrill “A-ah!” pushing everybody aside ran to the coffin. Dark shawl slipped from her head, but being caught by the collar flapped on her back like a black bird.

      I was standing near the coffin, at the feet of the deceased, in the aisle, and she ran nearby. I closely saw the curled and luminous hair of this young blond. She ran around the

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