And still he’s not home.
She should call Danil. He’s left a number to contact him on if anything unexpected comes up.
The ticking of the clock above the kitchen door resounds off all surfaces. A few ants walk determinedly along the floor, moving parallel to the kickboards at the bottom of their kitchen cabinets, then slipping away in a crevice at the corner. The cabinets are fronted with orange plastic. It gives the kitchen an oppressive air, makes the room feel even smaller. They’ve talked about this, talked through every aspect of this apartment, Alina always longing for better, Maria just wishing that every day would come to a close. Alina stands and starts opening the cupboards purposefully, and Maria doesn’t ask what she’s looking for, just watches her. She finds a long white plastic cylinder with a picture of a black ant on the front. She kneels down and pours a smooth, white line of the stuff into the seam between the floor and the kickboard.
Alina puts the cylinder back, sits down at the table again, and puffs out her cheeks.
“I’m past being annoyed. I’m worried now. Is he staying away or is he in trouble? Would he put his mother through this if he didn’t have to? That’s the question I’m asking myself.”
“I know.”
“It could be one or the other.”
“I know.”
Maria stands, goes into the hallway to grab her coat and hat, scarf and gloves.
She comes back in, wrapped up.
“I’m going to look for him.”
“I’ll stay here and wait.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour. If he comes home, get ready. I’ll change in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
The door closes. Alina stands and clears their plates, scraping food into the bin. She washes them, puts them on the draining board, and sits. This is an essential part of motherhood, the ability to sit and wait. Her life tied inextricably to that of her child.
She sits and waits. Then she stands and grabs a dishcloth and dries the two dishes.
YEVGENI REACHES the barber’s house, and the light is off, which is to be expected. He knocks on the door, a patterned knock with a 6/8 tempo that Iakov has taught him. There’s no answer, but Yevgeni perseveres and after a few minutes he can hear a shuffling and a little man with a sunken face opens the door and raises his eyebrows at the kid, asking Yevgeni what he wants without even having to speak.
The man’s name is Anatoly Ivanovich Nikolaenko—a permanent fixture of the district—who knows everything there ever was and anyone who ever could have been. Yevgeni always sees him on the street, walking that little mutt of his, which looks like half its parentage comes from rats. Yevgeni thinks the man might actually be three hundred years old, his face lined like bark.
“I have a message for Iakov.”
Anatoly whistles inside and calls Iakov’s name. He does this with a turn of the head and a slight arch backwards but otherwise doesn’t move, remains standing there with arms folded, both of them waiting, Yevgeni wanting to break the silence, Anatoly looking as if he had been born in this position.
Iakov emerges from the corridor, and Anatoly departs into the gloom.
“Come in,” Iakov says. He closes the door.
Yevgeni takes an envelope out of his jacket and hands it to Iakov.
“You’re a good one, Zhenya. You’re gonna grow up smart.”
Iakov puts an arm around Yevgeni, a fraternal act, but Yevgeni doesn’t like this, it feels unnatural, a gesture that he considers to be outside of his upbringing. Besides, Iakov’s not old enough himself to patronize him so much.
Yevgeni has been running packages for Iakov since their meeting in the junkyards. Some gambling thing he has going, Yevgeni knows better than to ask what. The job is totally uncomplicated. He knocks on a door, says Iakov sent him, and whoever is inside hands him a brown envelope, which he then delivers to Iakov. He never looks in the envelopes, but he knows there isn’t so much money in them: Iakov is too young to be allowed to run any kind of substantial operation. There are older men in the yards who would have control over these kinds of activities. Yevgeni knows all this; he knew it before he’d even been there. It’s the kind of common knowledge that floats about, one of those topics that cause adults to change their tone. Still, Iakov is good to Yevgeni, rewards him well, tells him to look after his mother.
Yevgeni hasn’t properly put it all to use yet. All he has bought are two pairs of gym shorts and, of course, the running shoes. Stupid idea. He thought he was being careful, staying within the limits of what’s acceptable, but he can’t blame himself for getting caught. It was just dumb luck that his mother happened to be home that evening. He panicked, he knows it. If he’d been more casual, said a couple of words, made nice, thought of a decent excuse for being back, then went to his room, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But he panicked. Understandable, though: I mean, when is she ever home?
He’s storing up the money. It’s not so much yet, but it will be; it’s steady, it’s growing. His bedside lamp has a hollow base, so he rolls up the money and hides it in there. He’ll probably soon have more saved than his mother does, which only goes to show how shit-poor her wages are. All that sweat over wrinkled clothes. It won’t be him. Already he’s got rid of the laundry run, fixed it so Ivan Egorov will do it for him instead, and the sweet justice of this situation causes a warm rush in his chest every time he thinks about it. He approached Ivan in the school yard, made him an offer. Ivan, of course, already knew about Yevgeni’s new contacts. He asked about his finger, mumbled his apology, which Yevgeni pretended not to hear, which Ivan then had to repeat, louder, more clearly. The most satisfying sentence Yevgeni has ever heard anyone speak. This is what Iakov means when he talks about influence.
Of course, his mother will find out that her boy is no longer delivering her laundry, but he’s prepared for this eventuality, he’ll pass it off as a favour: Ivan wants him to do well, they’ve become friends—this is what he’ll say, not that she’ll be convinced. But she’ll be fine. He’ll play the kiddie piece tonight and then have free rein to do what he wants. She’ll have even less reason to object when she finds out about the money. The Conservatory will probably mean more expenses.
So, not much will be said, she’ll ask her questions because she feels she has to and he won’t answer because he doesn’t have to, and she’ll take the money, take his help. Tonight will make everything all right. He’s been practicing hard. He knows the piece backwards. He’s not even really nervous, though that might change in front of all those people.