The Incredible Events in Women's Cell Number 3


 
 
 
 
 The 
 incredible 
 Events in 
 Women’s 
 Cell 
 Number 
 3
 
 
 
 KIRA YARMYSH
 The 
 incredible 
 Events in 
 Women’s 
 Cell 
 Number 
 3
 A Novel
 Translated from the Russian
 by Arch Tait
 
 Grove Press
 New York
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2020 by Kira Yarmysh
 English translation copyright © 2023 by Arch Tait
 Jacket design by Becca Fox Design
 Jacket illustration by Peter Kraemmer
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
 This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between these fictional characters and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
 Originally published as Невероятные происшествия в женской камере № 3 by Corpus Publishing in Russia in 2020. 
 Published simultaneously in Canada
 Printed in the United States of America
 This book is set in 12-pt. Arno Pro by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.
 First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: February 2023
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title. 
 ISBN 978-0-8021-6073-7
 eISBN 978-0-8021-6074-4
 Grove Press
 an imprint of Grove Atlantic
 154 West 14th Street
 New York, NY 10011
 Distributed by Publishers Group West
 groveatlantic.com
 
 
 CONTENTS
 DAY ONE
 DAY TWO
 DAY THREE
 DAY FOUR
 DAY FIVE
 DAY SIX
 DAY SEVEN
 DAY EIGHT
 DAY NINE
 
 
 DAY ONE
 If you asked Anya which day in prison had been the most trying, she would say the first. It had seemed both insane and endless. Prison time was elastic: it stretched out interminably, only to then fly like an arrow.
 It started with her waking up on a clammy, impermeable mattress in a detention cell in a Moscow police department. She had been arrested the day before, but her efforts to outrun the riot police, her journey in the police bus, and her registration at the police department had kept her busy enough to all but overlook how it had ended. The reality of being in police custody struck her only once she was locked in that cell.
 She had spent the night tossing and turning on the mattress, trying to pull her top down to avoid her body coming into contact with the oilcloth. The mattress was on the floor, there were no pillows, no blankets, and it was impossible to get comfortable. Either the arm under her head went numb or she got pins and needles in her side. She could only tell that she had managed to get some fitful sleep when she jerked awake, which happened many times. 
 What the time was, she had no idea. The cell was windowless, with only a dim light bulb above the door, which stayed on night and day. Her phone had been taken from her. Each time she woke, for want of anything else to do, she entertained herself by inspecting the wall in front of her: the peeling paint that looked like crushed eggshells; the suspicious streaks whose origins she preferred not to think about; the graffiti: LEX, UP BIRYULYOVO!, Allahu Akbar. Waking up one last time with a jolt, Anya realized she was not imagining it: she could feel a tremor under the floor, the metro must be open, morning had arrived.
 The police department began coming to life, as Anya could hear through her cell door, which had been left ajar overnight. A kindly, older cop had not locked it but left it open a handbreadth. (A chain on the outside ensured she opened it no farther.) She lay, listening to the police arguing among themselves in the reception area, the telephone ringing off the hook, the rasping of a door lock, water flushing in a toilet she was eventually taken to visit. A policeman let her in and stayed outside to keep the door shut.
 Anya dithered and looked around her. A scene from Trainspotting came to mind, where the main character goes to “the worst toilet in Scotland.” He had clearly seen nothing like the one in the Tverskaya police department, with its chipped tile floor awash with murky fluid. A rusty chain hung from the water tank, and as for the toilet itself, it was a hole in the ground. Anya decided against going anywhere near it. Running the faucet for appearances’ sake, while avoiding all contact with the squishy remnant of soap on the filthy edge of the washbasin, she emerged, and the policeman took her back to the cell.
 Time passed with demoralizing slowness. Her cell door was now shut tight and did not allow in any outside sounds. She ran her eyes over the walls, which were barely visible in the dim light, but it was an unrewarding pastime. She felt heavy and clumsy from lack of sleep, and thoughts stirred sluggishly in her head. Anya could not tell how long she sat like that. Her heart seemed to begin beating more slowly and she felt she was sinking into a trancelike state; perhaps, indeed, suspended animation. When the door opened and a policeman came into the cell, Anya was startled, not sure what was happening.
 She was taken through to the reception desk and told to sit on a bench next to a sad-eyed woman who looked Roma, a young guy who was drunk, and