His shout woke Nastia up, and she poked her head out from under the sheets. Recognizing her, Kolia froze, surging forward in rage, leaving his bags of hospital things by the door. Mark’s reflexes were fast enough, but just barely—that bought him a split second, long enough to regroup, turn around, and tear through black hallways and dusty rooms toward the kitchen, with death at his heels. Kolia hopped over the suitcase, slipped on the pasta, banged into the wall, and then went flying in the other direction. Mark was stomping barefoot across the hardwood floor in the kitchen. Kolia got up and ran over to the closet—for his shotgun, what else? Mark ripped off the makeshift velvet curtain and tried opening the window, to no avail. Kolia had fallen behind, but not for long. He was going to catch up and start stomping Mark’s ribs in. Mark retreated slightly, but there were heavy, frantic footsteps behind him. Mark looked back and saw Kolia feverishly stuffing shells into his Izhevsk over-under, intoxicated by the hunt. Mark hopped onto the sill and rammed his knee through the window. The glass shattered like ice in March. He jumped forward, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “He won’t do anything to me,” he assured himself as he ran down the street. “He doesn’t have the guts.”
Mark spent the day at the shop, nursing his knee, lying on the couch, and listening to the voices coming in from the street. He looked at the furniture scattered around, touched the old wood, and took in the smell of aging. “Most of the people who owned these things left a long time ago,” he thought. “Something drove them out of this city, compelled them to leave their homes behind, pass through the fortress walls, get across the river, and dissolve into space. What was it that led them to that decision? Maybe it was all their misfortunes and failures. Maybe it was their need to be understood. Or their inability to endure the city’s climate—clouds and rain blanket the sky half the year and its black flames scorch you for the other half. Some bolted after inner peace. Some wanted to rid themselves of it. The voice of faith beckoned some. Others fled, sensing danger. Why didn’t they stay?” Mark thought. “What were they lacking? Inner peace? Confidence? Love?” Mark imagined how long it had taken them to reach that decision, how many setbacks they’d faced, and how much disillusionment their souls had imbibed. Some of them could only gather the strength slowly, and the process was especially painful for them, while others ventured out swiftly and effortlessly. Some people couldn’t admit to themselves for the longest time that they were indeed ready—ready to give up everything they’d accumulated over the years and willing to move forward, beyond the river, into the darkness, among strangers. They had to make tons of arrangements, set all kinds of things up, find secondhand dealers and movers, say goodbye to their friends and relatives, take only the essentials, and shed everything superfluous. Furniture was superfluous. You don’t set out in search of a better life with your own furniture. You leave it here to molder and die. Maybe I could flee and move forward. Maybe I could just bolt too, start anew, find my place in life, and claim my own territory. I might wind up in the big cities, live among the other refugees, look for my big break, test fate, and bounce around from place to place, forging on toward a blessed land where the sun will never set, where the raindrops will spare my house, and where the earth will be soft and the bread sweet. Of course I could,” Mark thought. “But what about everything I’d have to forgo? What about Mom? What about Kolia? I don’t like the idea of staying behind with them, but I like the idea of taking them along even less. What’s more important?” Mark thought. “Finding a new place for yourself or leaving the old one behind? It’s a good thing we always have a choice, that it’s always up to us.”
Nastia came by in the early evening. She was wearing a long, colorful, ankle-length dress and a see-through shirt. She was trying to act serious, though she couldn’t quite pull it off. She saw Mark’s swollen, bloody knee and got started on treating it. He took it like a man for a while, then he erupted with a scream. Then Nastia lay on top of him, as though taking cover from the evening heat, lying there and comforting Mark, lying there, piecing him back together, not letting him break down into hot chunks of clay. Mark was quieting down gradually and had even started to doze off when she spoke.
“Come with me. Leave everything and come with me.”
“What am I supposed to do when we get there?”
“You could do just about anything. I can teach you to cook, if ya want. I can get you a job at the port, if ya want. I can have your kid.”
“For real?”
“Yep, or I could not have a kid. I can interrupt my pregnancy. I can start it up again. I can put spells on spiders and scorpions. I can forge signatures.”
“Well, I definitely won’t be needing that.”
“We’ll live at my place. You’ll help me take care of my grandpa.”
“Since when do you have a grandpa?”
“It’s a long story. He’s really old. My mom wanted to put him in a home, but I felt sorry for him, so I started looking after him. He drools a lot when he talks. But he says some wise things that are worth listening to. So, whaddya say?”
“Nah,” Mark said after thinking for a bit, “you’d better move in here. And bring your grandpa with you, too.”
“Whatever you say,” Nastia answered calmly. “It’s your call.”
She left in the morning, trying not to wake him up. She did, though. Kolia came by in the early afternoon. He brought oranges. He sat there in silence for a while, clearly wanting to ask something, but then deciding against it. Finally, he suggested Mark start working with him. Mark thought for a bit and then agreed.
YURA
The deceased looked even worse in death than he had in life—gray hair, sunken eyes, pointy nose, sharp wrinkles on his sour face. His Adam’s apple had protruded, his fingers had elongated, and his nails had turned blue. He had been silent for two days, apart from occasional coughing fits that would rip his chest apart from the inside. Then even the coughing was gone. He lay there, breathing slowly, like a fish that had been caught but not yet soused with cooking oil. His heart stopped shortly after noon. The young guy crossed the room, bent over the deceased, and examined him with great interest. One could have thought that he was studying the patterns on his hospital gown.
“Why don’t ya take out a magnifying glass while you’re at it?” Yura suggested.
“Why don’t you?” The young guy got all offended. “What should we do?” he asked. “He’s gonna start decomposing.”
“He’s just skin and bones. There’s nothing there to decompose. Just leave him,” Yura answered.
Yura figured that whoever told the doctor about the deceased would have to help carry him out, so he opened a National Geographic from last year that someone had brought him, and stumbled upon a piece on the fauna of Mesopotamia. “Mesopotamia… what’s that? Something to do with water. Something made out of stones and sand,” he thought. The fauna of Mesopotamia was hardly having a bad time of it, according to the article, at least. Most of the livestock belonged to the monasteries; the locals sacrificed animals to express their appreciation to the gods for the bounty they bestowed and pay off their debt to heaven. The word debt made Yura anxious, so he put the magazine off to the side. Dozing off, facing the wall, he heard the young guy shuffling around the room, circling the deceased. We gravitate toward death—especially someone else’s.
He woke up in the early evening and peered out the window. Dark trees, early twilight, the beginning of July. The young guy was sitting on the next bed over, his eyes fixed on the corpse.