MATRYOSHKA’S SPECIAL BOY

Sasha Zakharkin was eleven years old, and he was sitting in the corner of his and his mother’s communal apartment room, playing with his matryoshka doll. He was a little plump for his age, and the boys in the yard never passed on a chance to laugh at him, call him nasty names, and sometimes even throw rocks at him, but he turned a deaf ear to their insults. In fact, this week they were a little afraid of him, and he knew that and cherished that knowledge. It was no accident, of course. This week he was a special boy. He had his matryoshka, and she could hide inside her skins better than any of those dirty, loudmouthed boys could. She was magical, he knew that the moment he found her in the garbage pile, and he was the only boy in the whole of Moscow—that’s what matryoshka told him—to learn how to take off the skins just like she did. She was going to teach him, she said. And Sasha politely nodded, took matryoshka home, washed her in the dirty, aluminum sink, the soap grime still caked on it from their neighbor Varvara Andreevna washing her undies, and he cleaned matryoshka properly, wiping her many smiling faces with his hanky, and then settled in the corner of their room, on his special, padded chair by his desk—his mother was afraid he’d bruise himself, her dear little boy—and watched the little ruby-red painted lips move and give him instructions on where to cut the skin, and how to twist it so it would open, and how to pull it off whole and find the next matryoshka inside, and the next, and the next, until only one remained—the smallest one, the little heart.

The next morning, after Mama prepared for Sasha his special breakfast—thick cream-of-wheat and a hearty slice of white bread with butter sprinkled with sugar—Sasha was walking across the yard to school, his matryoshka safely tucked into his school bag, the yard was in an uproar. There were two militiamen talking to the hysterical old lady, babka Darya, who was wailing over her dog Mishka, presumably killed by some madman, which of course wasn’t true. Everyone knew that babka Darya was crazy. No one even remembered how old she was anymore, and how old her dog Mishka was—they seemed to be the permament features of their yard, always there, shuffling around, the pair of them.

Sasha skirted the crowd and overheard two boys talk to one another, when he walked by them.

“The skin just pulled off like a sock, I tell you. I saw it myself,” one was saying.

“No way!” The other one whistled.

“Pioneer’s honor,” the first one saluted. “Cut in two parts, too. I tell you, it’s Saveliy the bum. He wanted to eat Mishka.”

“No way!” said the other one again.

Sasha smirked and walked on, and he had a great day at school, with his matryoshka at his side. She whispered to him the whole time, congratulating him on good practice, and teaching him how to open the next skin. It would be harder this time, she said. He had to be brave. Sasha promised her he would be brave. He was a big boy. He was turning twelve this summer. How could she doubt him? He was special! Matryoshka fell silent and wouldn’t talk to Sasha for the rest of the day. Sasha understood to never doubt matryoshka again and act superior. He was afraid she’d never talk to him again, but she did in the evening, when Mama started snoring lightly on her bed, and Sasha quietly climbed out from under his blankets, carefully dressed, picked up his matryoshka and quietly left the room.

It wasn’t until three days later that the body of babka Darya was found. It was cut in half. It was skinned, too, and as the excited boys told Sasha, forgetting their fear and hate of him, talking one over another, it looked like someone tried to peel off her flesh, only it got stuck to her old bones and wouldn’t go, or maybe he was interrupted. The militiamen chased the boys away, and they didn’t get to see much more, but it was a horrible sight, all right, for poor Tatiana Borisonva to stumble on in the morning when she took out the trash. Wasn’t she sick after that? And why didn’t she scream? All women scream, don’t they? Tatiana Borisovna was Sasha’s mother, and he pressed his lips together and turned away from the boys. He wouldn’t tell them how Mama cried and swallowed pills and cried more all day today, and how annoyed he was at her and how he wanted her to stop, but it wasn’t time yet. Matryoshka said he had to learn to do his job better, and do it on a special day, so he’d remember it later. Sasha agreed.

In the next month Moscow’s district Perovo was gripped with fear. The newspapers were quiet, but people talked, and soon Mama forbade Sasha to go to school and locked their door, only leaving for necessities, like milk and flour and sugar. There was a killer at large, a sick, sadistic killer. Three bodies were found so far, all dumped onto garbage piles, and all cut in half and scraped clean to the bones, that’s what some people said, and some others said it only looked like their flesh was scarped off, but it was really peeled off, and very cleanly, too. What kind of a man could do such horrid thing? And why didn’t someone see him or heard something? Something evil was afoot. Mama called the school and told the director that her special little boy was sick with bad flu and wasn’t coming to school for the next few weeks, and who knew, maybe even next few months. Sasha quietly listened to Mama drone on in the corridor, speaking loudly into the communal phone, and he smiled, his matryoshka at his side. Tomorrow was the special day he was waiting for. Tomorrow Papa was coming home after chasing bad people across the whole country and putting them into prison—Mama called them bandits and worried sick over Papa getting shot—and tomorrow at last Sasha would show Papa that he was a special boy, deserving of Papa’s love. Papa would never be ashamed of him again, of his soft girly manners and of his plumpness, he would walk with him across the yard proudly, telling everyone who it was his boy who fooled the whole of Moscow. It was his boy who could shuck anyone’s skins like the skins of matryoshka and who could find the smallest matryoshka inside, the still-beating heart. His special boy, Sasha Zakharkin, was better than all of militia. His special boy could hide inside those skins like no one else! Yes, that’s right! Would they like to see? And he’d show them.

That night Sasha slept well, and after eating his special breakfast he complained of bellyache and trudged to the communal bathroom. He heard the bell ring in the apartment, heard Mama open the door and call out, “Sasha! Sasha! Papa is here.” Sasha smiled. Now he’d show him. Now he’d know. He looked at his matryoshka, and she give him his last instructions, and he got to work.

For the longest time the occupants of apartment number twelve on the third floor on Snayperskaya street, 7, couldn’t talk of the terrible tragedy that befell the Zakharkin family that day, but one thing was clear to them and to the whole district of Perovo. After this the killings had stopped. Tatiana and Arkady divorced, of course, and who would blame them? When they broke in the door to the communal restroom, there was Sasha all right, only he was cut in half, stacked like a matryoshka: his skin first, then his flesh, then his bones, and then in the middle, in the puddle of blood on the dirty, tiled floor, lay his still-beating heart—his present to his Papa, and right next to it stood his matryoshka doll, smiling.