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Olga lifted her hand in a wave. Arkady raised his arm, then turned and trudged on. Olga hopped to her feet, slid the card between her bra and breast, and hurried for home. All these years she'd looked at Arkady as a friend, durable as the desk they shared, faithful but unimaginative as an oar to a lock. The idea that Arkady could provide, for her and her son, in such a significant and tangible way was such a surprise to Olga, who had learned over the years to expect so little from people, especially those who meant well. The idea that Arkady could surprise her, and that she might like this, that she could feel something for him and on such a hairpin turn, made her wonder what else about Arkady—about herself—she had miscalculated.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Azade

Azade leaned on her shovel and squinted at the festering heap. A real puzzle there, Mircha. Not at all following the rules of the old stories. She'd broken him with the needle. And in his body she could see that he was diminished. He clung to a rusted pogo stick anchored in the heap, looking very much like a human accordion bent by the wind. But his mouth! It still moved. And his voice carried all too well.

'Capitalism is brushing its teeth! Global corporate domination is on the march!' Mircha hooted towards the stairwell where Zoya emerged wearing a strapless dress with a bra that wasn't, as was the fashion. She stomped across the marshy courtyard to the latrine, where she rattled the handle.

Azade could smell the thermometer warming in the girl's pocket, the biting odour of mercury, and her quick irritation, which, as all things do, worked its complement through the bowels. Which is why Azade did not need to ask to know that Zoya would require ten squares of paper, at the very least.

Azade unlocked the door and held it open for Zoya.

Mircha cupped his hand to his mouth and hooted in their direction. 'Behold, we stand at the crossroads. I speak to you as a prophet! The Japanese are stealing our icebergs and auctioning them on the Internet!'

Azade tipped her head, considering the largesse Mircha had acquired in death. Bodily he was smaller, dwarfed inside his service coat, but the sheer verbage issuing from his mouth and the stink of it—their little courtyard filled as it was with the heap—could barely contain it all.

'A story! A story! This one I think you will like.' Mircha balanced on the top of the pile. 'Actually it's several stories bleeding into one, a popular architecture, and none of the stories really finishes, but that just proves the best stories are like life, completely unresolved.'

After a few moments Zoya emerged from the latrine. She shielded her eyes and gazed at the heap.

'God, what a nuisance,' she said, dropping fifty kopeks into Azade's collection tray with one hand and pinching her nose with the other. 'If he doesn't shut up, he'll ruin what little chance we have for the grant.'

***

Yuri stretched his body over the bench and listened to the clouds. They spoke to him in familiar voices. Correction. They spoke in a familiar voice. Just one. Mircha's. Yuri opened an eye.

Mircha sat on the heap and made music with empty tins of sprats. 'Fish are birds without wings!'

Yuri smiled at the noise. Who would have thought the man had done so much thinking in his as-yet short afterlife! And it was all so very profound!

'Yu—ri!' Zoya's voice rang out shrill and sharp, breaking his name into jagged halves. Yuri raised himself onto an elbow and listened to the sound of Zoya's shoes punching angry holes in the soft mud. Punch—squish, punch—squish. Heel—toe. Heel—toe. How she managed that full-throttle approach, complete with her trademark hip thrust and wearing those shoes in this mud—and all without a single break in her stride—it was enough to send him reeling. And then there she was, bench-side and not a bit out of breath. Under the May slant light her hair cast a metallic borscht-coloured sheen. Yuri winced.

Mircha flung his arm at Zoya. 'The Mongolians are bottling ordinary air and peddling it as medicinal oxygen!'

Zoya pointed her chin towards Mircha. 'Some people just don't know when to quit.'

'Oh, I don't know.' Yuri inhaled deeply. 'Even a fool can have a moment of primal wisdom.'

Zoya sat next to Yuri. 'But he doesn't make any sense.'

'Few prophets do. At least he's keeping all his clothes on.'

'Speaking of which,' Zoya said, whipping out her thermometer from her open purse. 'Look! I am ovulating. Right now.' Zoya hooked her finger between a shirt button and pulled. 'As in this moment exactly.' Now she had a hand on his knee. Who was this vixen with the sharp tongue and radiating hair, pulling on his shirt, yanking at his belt buckle?

Tick.

Yuri blinked.

Heapside, Mircha bellowed: 'Be a man! Fulfill your calling!'

Tick. Yuri blinked again. Yes, the ticking was back. Distinct as ever. 'Now? This moment exactly?'

'Yes!' Zoya and Mircha cried in unison.

Tick.

Yuri held his hands up, as if in protest. Or maybe surrender. 'But the art-loving Americans are coming.'

'Yes. I know. They want to see how real Russians live.' Zoya smiled and slid her hand along Yuri's thigh.

He swallowed. His voice shook. 'But the timing is so delicate and the need for social graces so severe. I mean, honestly, how would it look?'

Zoya leaned and licked first one eyebrow and then the other. Yuri felt his chest tighten, his heart gallop. 'Who cares?' Zoya unhitched his belt and pulled him towards the darkened stairwell where his muscles seemed to move of their own volition.

Off went the belt. Down came the trousers. And then they were doing what two young people do when they are in love, or at least amiable towards the idea of togetherness even if it has nothing to do with love. And then: horrors. Malfunction. Negative lift. Complete and absolute system failure.

With a snort Zoya pushed Yuri. 'You really are worthless, you know.' Zoya sidled her dress over her hips.

'I'm sorry.' Yuri tried steadying his hands over his knees. 'I just can't. Something's wrong, I don't know what. It might be that ticking.'

'Your problem is that you think too much. Or maybe not enough. Either way, you better pull your head out of your ass and soon!'

Yuri stood and yanked his trousers waistward. His face contorted with shame and more thinking. Yuri pulled on his space helmet. What did she mean, he did not think enough or possibly too much?

***

At the edge of the courtyard Tanya hesitated. Her every instinct told her to turn back now before it was too late. To herd the women to the city's only three-star hotel, where an earnest brass band and recently laundered bed sheets awaited them.

'Well,' the grandmother prompted.

Tanya cleared her throat. 'I suppose there are a few, er, things, I should mention.'

'Things? What things?' the mother asked, craning her neck.

The girl gazed over the top of Tanya's head for an unobstructed view of the portable latrine and Azade ferociously sweeping at the mud in front of it. Olga sat on the bench and contemplated the latest issue of the Red Star, the pages of which were utterly blank.

Lukeria leaned out her open window and shouted in English, 'Hey! American ladies! Are your suitcases made from real leather? Or are they Chinese imitations?'

The grandmother looked at the mother and the mother looked at Tanya.

'She says things. She is very ill,' Tanya whispered.

'Watch out for those conniving Jews!' Lukeria hooted. 'They engineered the revolution, you know.'

The girl turned to Tanya. 'Which revolution is she talking about?'

Tanya sighed. 'All of them, I think.'

The mother touched Tanya's elbow. 'Why don't you take her to the hospital?'

'Unthinkable.' Tanya shook her head. 'She'd never make it. One has to be extraordinarily healthy to survive a stay in a Russian hospital.'