Chapter 1
Having failed to penetrate the dense, narcotic haze that overshadowed these fields, the harsh solar radiation was filtered down to an eerie haze of white by the time it found its way to Zugorin. Needless to say, he felt quite out of place here.
Poorly laid turf had, in a few short days, been replaced by mud, military surplus tents, and flower children. This venue, previously a monument to selfless heroism, had all at once become a monument to man’s basest instincts.
Zugorin suspected that he was allergic to hashish, or rather, to the layabouts who sat around inhaling it. A group of junkies leeching second-hand syringes of their overpriced contents brought Zugorin’s arrogant gait to an abrupt pause. The brief siesta allowed his prudish stomach time to turn.
A moment passed in ponder, as his mind gave his fragile self-esteem a temporary boost by creating a bigoted equation of the psychological sequences that separated him from those who kept the job market stable. The latter, being more than equal to their given task, lay stoned between mud-splattered tents as if deliberately trying to obstruct his path.
In a combination of disgust and fear of disease, disease being the only thing that he feared, he terminated his reflection and hastened his pace. His gait hastened still until the muffled sound of cracking plastic alerted Zugorin to the fact that a syringe had just cracked beneath his weight and the hardened leather sole of his shoe. Upon hasty inspection he noticed (or was it merely a mirage created by his fears) that the disease-laden needle had pierced the soft leather uppers of his shoe.
For just a moment Zugorin allowed himself to consider this to be a bad omen. Perhaps some higher being was attempting to frighten him out of the task ahead. He did not pause long enough to pay any attention to this nonsensical thought. He had a job to do.
His destination was the small hotel that housed the performers during the length of this concert. His pessimistic, inaudible exclamations culminated in “…another surrender to the decadence of the young!” This was one of many complaints muttered under Zugorin’s breath.
As he climbed the steps that led to the restaurant’s terrace, Zugorin fought to free the sole of his shoe from the adhesive restraint of an over-chewed piece of bubble-gum, all the while shaking his head in pronounced antipathy. He was becoming more agitate with the climbing of each step. The masses that attended this twisted gala, with all of its’ twisted musicians playing twisted music, spanned the open countryside like an uneasy sea, moving in waves to the sounds of electric guitars and pounding drums. These peoples' every motion seemed strangely amplified by the sheer volume of them, not unlike the pseudo-music that was hurled at deafening volume from the mammoth loudspeakers framing the make-shift stages.
“A sea of trouble!” laughed Zugorin, drinking a shot of low-quality vodka. He poured some lumpy salt from a dirty, plastic dispenser and licked it off of the palm of his hand. Soon he would be back in Leningrad, where law and order, along with the peace and cleanliness that it provided, allowed for a pleasant break from his undesirable career.
Unwilling to spend another anxious moment betting on how much longer the plastic chair, a Chinese import, would bear his weight, he stood up and entered the dingy hotel. As he passed the reception desk, a few odd looks met his neat, grey suit. Entering an empty staff room, he proceeded to withdraw, seemingly out of nowhere, a pair of tight leather pants and a silk top. The blouse was cut short to reveal a deep navel topped by a streak of dark, curly hair. An aerosol of pigment took care of his hair. He left the room wearing an air of punk and dark sunglasses. Uninhibited, thanks to his disguise, Zugorin tossed a pass at a drowsy security guard and was admitted into the east wing, where a host of peculiar creatures would be devouring a beer-drenched supper.
It seemed to him that even the corridor smelled of mildew, urine, and vomit. Aside from the displeasing odour, the rest of the job was quite as easy. Casually greeting organizers and security guards all the way, Zugorin opened the door to the fifty-sixth room, and shut it behind him.
The room was empty, but the sound of water running in the bathroom and the steam seeping through the keyhole teased his senses. Without a second thought, he strode across the room and opened the bathroom door.
“Who the hell are you?” A young woman was peering through the gap between the mildewed shower curtain and the tiled wall.
“Where is Oleg?” Zugorin asked bluntly. “He told me to meet him here! I have something for him!”
Without replying, the girl stepped out of the shower stall, displaying, in Zugorin’s opinion, less dignity than the filthy street prostitutes of midnight totchkas. Though Zugorin possessed no particular weakness for women, he was still a man, and thus did his utmost not to indulge in the view, or at least to keep his eyes from focusing. She was very young; his guess was as young as fifteen or sixteen. The fact that the girl's hair was shoulder length rather than cropped and her skin was not studded with the steel thorns that were the rage this time round certainly made his job more bearable. If he were completely honest, he would have admitted that this unexpected contact with an unclothed and attractive member of the opposite sex was the highlight of the past year for him.
Rubbing herself down with a towel, she began. “The crowds insisted!” she stated casually as she dried her shaven armpits. “He ended up promising them an encore, whenever the others got through! I would bet you that he is off to that right now, the son of a bitch!”
Zugorin peered over his glasses just in time to catch her sudden, brown-eyed gaze.
“Well, go on!” she looked at him as one may look upon a midget or an imbecile, just the way that he felt in these clothes, “Is there something else? Get out of here and let me dress!”
Adjusting his sunglasses, he passed through the crusty plywood doorway, and pranced out of the hotel, stopping at the reception only long enough to sign an autograph for what must have been a fan of punks in general.
After being helped by a chauffeur into the ageing but comfortable Chaika that ferried musicians to the stage and back, he glanced at his watch. He had bought it when vacationing in Berlin. It was a beautiful, valuable watch. Less beautiful than the watch was the time. His comrade, Ivan, a lanky fellow whom he had never once met, would be on the spot in five minutes. Zugorin would report to his superiors in thirty.
“What a lousy chore, third-rate!” murmured Zugorin, stepping out of the limousine and onto a worn, cigarette-holed, red carpet. The forceful stray sound waves would have blown a man of lesser strength and weight back into the vehicle; he was only slightly shaken.
Both Zugorin, and the long-needled syringe in his hand, looked perfectly in place backstage.
“Formula Eighty-four! Someone wishes to make an example of Oleg!” Zugorin did not remember the young man’s surname; it was better that way. Surnames only bring mental pictures of crying mothers, relatives, and little sisters.
“Whoever his mother is, the crumpled petticoat, I'm sure her son is already dead to her!” chuckled Zugorin. It was humour that few would relate to, but humour was vital in his line of work.
He held the needle away from himself, although it was still capped. Strolling through the backstage area, he finally found the pop singer’s things.
“Padowski” Zugorin read the surname on the locker. Now the images came to him, and now he blew them away with a sneer. “Might have known he was a damn Pole, the little shit!”
As he had hoped, but not dared to expect, a syringe filled to about a fourth with heroine, or some equally hideous substitute, topped the songbooks and guitar strings in the way that a sour cherry tops a Pavlova. This would be easier than he had bargained for, much easier. He would complete this assignment without soiling his hands too badly.
Zugorin had always been one to take the easy way out, if it made sense to do so. Replacing the syringe, he tossed the former probe into a garbage container outside, taking great care to avoid contact with the capped needle. Returning to the limousine, he chatted with the chauffeur on the way back to the hotel. There he ordered a bubble-gum flavoured cool drink, and sat on the terrace to view the inevitable tragedy to the world of Russian pop music. It took a little longer than Zugorin would have liked, but eventually the yarn-haired noisemaker retreated to the backstage for a rest, “and no doubt a good dose!” Zugorin was sure that this punk would die regretting his addiction.
The artist had not looked too beautiful on television, much less so on stage, and after mounting the podium for his final and most desired performance, not a keen eye could have told him apart from Old Nick himself! The song began. Its unforgiving beat caused Zugorin’s chair to vibrate so strongly, that within a minute or two his back landed hard on the filthy concrete floor. Zugorin surveyed the damage. His drink had soiled his silk blouse, and its sugar was already attracting flies. He arose with a curse, not over the accident that he had just incurred, but because the screaming music, which had covered up his own racket until now, had suddenly forfeited its pledge to support him in this way. Rising to his feet, Zugorin’s eyes flowed over the ocean of hushed fans and onto the stage, where an ailing Oleg, his chin and neck bright red with freshly vomited blood, was already being examined by a white-clad paramedic.
“Ivan, always on time!” Zugorin breathed a sigh of disgusted relief. As the ailing musician was carried into a stubby estate ambulance, Zugorin loaded himself into his own car and began to change his clothes.
