They saw the cabin from between barren trees frosted with sparkling ice, icicles festooning the branches like candy. Fyodor could taste the familiar crystalline pure flavor of them, unforgettable since childhood.
"You think anyone is in there? Oksana whispered.
Fyodor examined the snow on the path leading to the cabin's door. Nothing from this side, at least."
"That's good, Oksana said. Sergey said that other guy used to go there at night."
The door creaked on its hinges and opened under Fyodor's push. There was a smell of neglect-a sour stench of spilled beer and a whiff of stale air. The cabin-a small room with a soiled floor, strewn with beer bottles and rags-was empty.
Fyodor breathed with a mix of relief and disappointment. No one here, he said, and waited for Oksana to come in, stomping her feet and clapping her hands. Her long hair had frozen in a fringe of icicles, and he fought the temptation to break one off and suck it, like a child would.
"We should've come here at night, she said.
"Should've, Fyodor agreed, only you were too scared last night, remember?"
Oksana shot him a nasty look. I was not scared. It just didn't seem like a good idea, to rush into something dangerous in the middle of the night. Now, we at least know where everything is, and we can hide here and wait."
Fyodor shook his head. Why don't we go and find that Slava character?"
"Where would you find him?"
"Sergey said, he liked to hang out by the Tsaritsino marketplace. Let's go there, check it out. I'm not staying in this cabin all day. At the very least, we can find some food there. We'll leave a few rats to keep watch for us, yeah?"
"I haven't any money, Oksana said.
"Neither do I. We'll just have to improvise."
"If you're expecting me to steal, you're out of luck."
Fyodor laughed, the sound reverberating off the old walls. No, he said. Of course not. I'll do the honors."
They took the subway-just three stops. Unexpectedly the turnstile at the entrance of the station took the changeless coins Fyodor offered it, and for the first time in god knows how long he rode the subway lawfully-at least somewhat. It was past the rush hour, and they found seats, even though they did not have long to travel. Fyodor always found thinking on the train easy and pleasant, with the dark tunnel enclosing the rushing train securely, like a glove, and the lights on the walls of the tunnel whooshing by with comforting regularity. He let his mind drift then, images and thoughts traveling through his mind-he imagined himself rushing like the train, and his thoughts were just brief stationary flashes of light he was passing by, given an illusion of movement by his own unstoppable momentum.
He watched the faces of the people sitting across from him-old ladies, mostly, now that everyone else was at work; old ladies with eyes lost in nests of wrinkles, and thick woolen kerchiefs swathed around their heads; their darkened hands were folded on their laps or clutched grocery bags. There were also bums who smelled of urine and alcohol, and Fyodor thought that it had been almost twelve hours since he had his last drink. His hands felt itchy and restless, humming with some fool energy that would soon turn into shakes.
"I need a drink, he whispered to Oksana.
She eyed him with mild disgust. It can wait."
"No. He held up one hand, palm down, the trembling of his fingers now buzzing, subsonic, visible. It really can't."
Oksana sighed, and looked away. We'll get you something at the market, she said. Just don't fall apart on me, all right?"
He nodded and stared at the two teenagers sitting by the door at the end of the car. The rest depressed him too much.
Oksana's disapproval didn't bother him-he was used to tisking and looks that mixed disgust with pity; he was even bored with the regret and self-loathing that were common to the point of clich with every drinker he knew. He just wanted to get his drink and get on with the task at hand. It wasn't so bad, really; how many people needed to take their medication every day? How many couldn't get out of bed without their pills and unguents? Alcohol was his medication and unguent, and he saw nothing shameful in that.
The train pulled into the station, and he followed Oksana onto the platform. As he watched the train leave, he wondered briefly what would happen if he threw himself at the glistening windows once again-would he be transported back underground, or would he shatter the glass and plummet along with the waterfall of hard sharp shards onto the tracks that already hummed with the arrival of the next train? Would the two minutes between the trains be enough to scramble up the tall cement walls that separated them from the platform, or would he be too dazed to do anything but stand on the tracks, staring into the approaching lights and roar and brimstone of the next train?
Oksana tugged his sleeve. Let's go, she said. No point in waiting."
"There's always a point in waiting, he said, remembering all the times when he waited, vaguely, for something or someone to transport him, to steal him away. But the gypsies were not coming for him, and he followed her to the exit, slouching more with every step, his mind growing feverish in the absence of medication.
They ascended the stairs to the surface within a dense crowd-the market did a brisk business. Despite his shaking hands, Fyodor scoped the crowd. It was cold enough for people to wear bulky coats, and even a clumsy pickpocket could expect a measure of success. As they shuffled up the stairs, side by side, pressed together, waddling like penguins, he let his fingers slip into an old woman's pocket, warm and cavernous. There was no wallet, but his fingers closed on a piece of paper. A single note, barely enough for a drink, but it was all he wanted. He stuffed it into his pocket and slowed his step to fall behind in case his victim discovered the injury inflicted on her.
Oksana shook her head but said nothing, even as he stopped at a kiosk at the underground crossing and bought a gin-and-tonic in a can. He drank it on the spot, feeling the tremor leave his fingers almost instantaneously. He tossed the empty can in the direction of the several stray dogs sleeping peacefully by the kiosk.
"It's cute, Oksana said. I always see these strays in the subway crossings, and people always step around them so carefully. Even when their legs are outstretched no one ever steps on them."
"I just wish the vendors wouldn't feed them, Fyodor said. Look how fat they are. And if they keep feeding the lazy curs they'll never leave."
"And where would you like them to go? Oksana wanted to know.
He shrugged, indifferent. Should we go to the market?"
The rats shifted under his coat, eager to get on with it. Fyodor thought that he would've preferred some more substantial reinforcement than the rats-a gun, perhaps, would be welcome when dealing with career criminals.
They ascended the steps. The market entrance-an open gate made of hollow aluminum bars-was to their left, and through it they saw the snow on the ground kneaded by the multitude of feet into dirty slush, the makeshift counters which displayed a scattering of awkward co-op-produced clothing and shoes, lost amidst a sea of knockoff T-shirts, duffel bags, and jeans, with words like Nike and Jordache in careless stitching, more of a gesture than any genuine attempt at deception.
Oksana walked along the counters, her gaze occasionally lingering on a handbag or a blouse; Fyodor worried that she would be distracted by the abundance of shiny objects around her, but she held all right. Fyodor's gaze searched the crowd, looking for the obligatory maroon jackets and gold chains. He had never met Slava but he knew the type.