Oksana approached an older woman, her head covered by a kerchief patterned in lurid red roses, a wide-mouthed handbag clutched in her hand. Oksana whispered to the woman, and it must've been something soothing because the woman's shoulders relaxed and her crooked fingers lost their desperate bone whiteness.
Fyodor looked around until his gaze met that of a middle-aged woman. During her ordeals her eye makeup had smudged, giving her a battered, haunted look. Fyodor stepped closer, noticing the fresh stitches on the seam of her light coat and her old-fashioned shoes with square toes and heels and that orthopedic look one usually associated with much older women.
"I'm Fyodor, Fyodor said. Are you all right?"
"I'm not sure, the woman said. What happened? I was going to work, and"
"Where do you work? he asked.
"Biryulevo, she said. Meat-packing plant. Where are we?"
"Kolomenskoe, he said. You'd have to take the subway back."
"And a bus, she said, looking straight through him distractedly. Still, he had a feeling that talking about routine matters grounded her.
"Route 162? he asked.
She nodded. There are a couple of new ones, too. What am I doing here?"
"Don't you remember anything? he said.
"I remember a man, she answered. The man who followed me to the plant. And then She ran her hand over her face. I had strange dreams-I dreamt of flying through the water, through a dark black river, and white pale faces stared at me-and I remember the city's rooftops-as if I were looking at them from the air."
"It sounds like a nice dream, he said. Do you have anyone waiting for you at home?"
"Just my daughter, Darya, the woman said and smiled a little. Good girl, very clever. Says she wants to be a mathematician. Want to see her picture?"
"Sure, Fyodor said and waited as the woman rifled through her roomy handbag, shuffling combs, compact cases, coin purses, plastic baggies, scented handkerchiefs and whatever other arcane objects female bags of such size contained. He was surprised at how calm everyone appeared-no one seemed to have gotten hysterical or distraught, like the woman before him. Her movements seemed sluggish, as if she just awakened up from deep sleep (he supposed she did), or if she deliberately avoided any thought that would make her panic. He also thought that a crowd of people had to be reassuring, even if she didn't remember how she got here. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some of the former birds take off down the path leading to the exit, and he sighed with relief. They would get home and find some way to explain the dreams and the missing time.
She finally fished out a small black and white picture mounted on cardboard and covered with a clear polyethylene sheet, taped at the edges. The girl in the picture appeared utterly unremarkable, but Fyodor nodded and made an appreciative noise. Cute kid, he said. Listen, maybe you should head home, to tell her you're all right? She must be worried sick."
The woman looked around her, perplexed. It's winter?"
"No, he said. Still October. Just a really fucked up one."
He heard Galina's voice calling out, Masha, Masha!"
"Excuse me, he said to the woman. Let me see what's going on there."
She nodded, already looking after the people heading down the path. Don't worry about me. The subway must be open already, so I better go. Beat the rush hour. She smiled. Thanks for stopping to talk to me."
"My pleasure, he said, and turned to see Galina, panicked now, running from one cluster of people to the next. She looked anxiously into women's faces, grabbed sleeves. Yakov followed behind her.
Fyodor caught up to them. What's going on?"
Galina mopped her sleeve at her tear-filled eyes. Masha she whispered, all fire gone out of her. My sister. She isn't here."
19: Masha
The silent park came alive with the chirping of birds as the sun's first rays filtered through the naked black tree branches that stood against the watercolor-pale sky. Galina listened to the sounds absentmindedly-these were small ordinary birds, tits and nuthatches and wrens. She heard the cawing of crows off in the distance, but no Masha. She snuggled into the snow, finally exhausted, and hugged her knees to her chest. Everything had been useless. The transformation of birds back, hundreds that went home to their families-just now, before her very eyes-did not matter. Masha was not here, and everything was pointless. She couldn't fathom returning home, and she thought with indifference that she could freeze to death, die here in the snow, and it would be as fitting an end as any.
Yakov sat down next to her. Her heart fluttered for a moment when she saw a bird in his hand, and slowed down just as quickly-the bird was an ordinary crow, who cawed at Yakov demandingly.
"Imagine that, he said by the way of explanation. This crow was the only real one in the whole bunch-my Carl."
"Your pet, she remembered.
He didn't argue. I'm so sorry, he said. Elena said they would search underground once more."
"What's the use? she said. The charm is gone, and Alkonost has no more feathers to give."
"Koschey Yakov started.
"Can't do anything without the feathers, she concluded, determined to wallow in her misery with as much abandon as she could muster in this low-spirited moment. And how do you know she wasn't on this side, somewhere?"
Yakov remained silent, his fingers caressing the crow's shining black head absentmindedly. I'm sorry, he said. I know how it feels-but really, you shouldn't sit in the snow, you'll freeze."
"That'd be just fine, Galina said darkly, but couldn't help but feel ridiculous and small, and her eyes grew hot again with unbidden tears.
"Come on, Yakov said and nudged her to get up. It's warmer in the cabin."
Galina sighed and followed him inside.
Elena smiled at her, but stopped once she noticed Galina's face. Elena gave her a quick warm hug. I so wish I had some tea here, she said.
Galina nodded. Tea would be nice."
Oksana, Yakov, Fyodor and Koschey stared at them, and Elena wrapped her arm around Galina's shoulders and turned her to face the window, their backs to the others. Don't pay attention to them, she whispered. They mean well, but they don't know what to say. Frankly, neither do I."
"Where's Zemun? Galina said. And Timur-Bey?"
Elena waved her hand. Underground. You can come back with me, if you want. It's not so bad there, and you can forget things you want to forget. If it's especially bad, you can always give it to the boatman."
"I know, Galina said. Yakov met him; he didn't seem too happy."
Elena shrugged. It's funny how it goes. But the boatman, he can help you, really. And it is-quiet. It'll be quieter still with Likho and Zlyden gone. We can drink tea and talk all day."
Galina nodded. It sounds nice. Better than the alternative, she thought. She remembered the story of Sirin, of the power of her voice to lull people into quiet contentment that was worse than death-at least, so the stories went, but they never explained why it was so bad. The heroes were meant to struggle and persevere, to fight, to not give in. But after the fight was done and one still lost, why not let the contentment take over? There was nothing for her on the surface.