“What about the morphine?”
“I nearly forgot.” He pulled a black nylon duffel bag from the front seat, set it on the bumper, and unzipped it. A plastic-wrapped brick of white powder lay at the bottom. “Morphine is too expensive,” he said, handing it to her.
“What is it?”
“Heroin.”
The word alone weighed ten kilograms. This powder had been boiled and squirted between Natasha’s toes twice a day for eight months. My god. And for the first time in how many days, she breathed the relief of knowing Natasha was safe at home, barricaded behind a water-glass moat, safe from the fangs of dragons. “Is it unadulterated?”
“Not enough sugar in there to sweeten a cup of tea.”
“I asked for morphine.”
“And even had you done me the favor of lobotomizing Alu while he was under your care, I wouldn’t get you morphine. Heroin is much cheaper.”
“I want something else, then.”
“So do I. There are only a few departments open in your hospital, yes? If you rent me some unused space, we can continue this arrangement.”
“For what?”
“My wares.”
“No guns, drugs, or people.”
“Of course not,” he said. “I keep them at home. No, mainly national treasures looted from city museums that can be sold abroad.”
“Fine. I want an ice machine. The hospital has been without one for several months. A bearded man at the bazaar is selling a nice one from the Intourist Hotel. Feel free to be rough with him. And where are the books I asked for?”
“You’ve chosen the wrong profession,” he said, enjoying her stubbornness. “You’re a natural swindler. You’d run me out of business. I’ve had difficulty finding them, but they should come in shortly. A third cousin in the West is asking for them from Amazon.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t any idea. This kid can make your books appear from the ether. He’ll run me out of business, too.” He shook his head. “The whole world is conspiring to run me out of business.”
“And another thing.”
“Now you’re really beginning to annoy me. If you keep it up, I’ll have to bring my brother with me next time.”
“I want new clothes.”
And he laughed and laughed and laughed.
Two weeks later Sonja returned from the hospital wearing a maroon cashmere sweater, tan leather boots, and a pair of one-size-too-tight jeans displaying curves that the chemistry professor would have found a whole hive nesting on, had his eyes still worked. The weight of the psychology textbooks strained the rucksack straps against her shoulders. Her left hand, wrapped around a glass of ice, was numb.
In the hall she stopped at Laina’s door, wanting to leave the ice for her neighbor. The murmur of voices inside stopped her. She crouched to the keyhole. Were Laina’s hallucinations speaking back to her?
“There were twelve chariots in the sky today? That’s two more than yesterday.” Natasha’s voice basked beneath a sun that never shone when she addressed Sonja. It was good to hear Natasha care, even if it wasn’t for her.
“Twelve,” Laina said. “I think they’re up to something.”
“Like what?”
“Who knows? Trying to steal the Moon to sell at the bazaar. Protecting the skies from Federal planes. Maybe trying to figure out how to get their horses down from the clouds.”
Natasha’s voice softened. “In the winter of the war, before I went to Italy, when the bombing was at its worst, I was afraid the apartment block would be hit. So I lived in City Park. I remember the City Park Prophet once said everything that isn’t darkness or death is a vision. I remember he said we are all God’s hallucinations.”
“I remember once, on my birthday, when I was a child, I came into the kitchen and saw a huge wooden box on the table,” Laina said. “I was so happy. I couldn’t imagine what wonderful present lay inside such a big wooden box.”
“What was it?”
“A casket. My aunt was inside.”
Sonja bit her knuckle. When they were children they had pretended to have a third sister, a black-haired girl named Lidiya. Like Alu, the ghost sister was never around, and in her absence they had teased, chided, scorned, blamed, and hated Lidiya so they could love each other more simply.
“I’m afraid to leave the apartment,” Natasha was saying. “I’m afraid of the city. There’s just so much open air now. I’m afraid of nearly everyone. I don’t know why. Everyone scares me but you. Even Sonja can be scary. Sometimes, if I let myself think about Italy, my body shuts down. It’s like I’m not in charge anymore, my brain turns off, and I have to lock myself in my room and barricade myself with furniture. I feel so stupid. I’m such an idiot.”
“Do you see the chariots?”
“No, not yet. I see a wallet, though.”
“A wallet?”
“Yes, there was this man, and when he was dressing his wallet fell out of his trousers and he had a picture of his children in one of those plastic credit card flaps. That was the day when I gave up.”
“It’s good to talk about these things. It will keep the chariots and wallets of the world honest. They will know we see them, and are not afraid to sound like madwomen.”
“Yes, I like talking with you.”
“We’re staying alive.”
Sonja stood and walked to the flat, afraid of what she might hear next. At the kitchen table she examined the glass of ice. Each cube was rounded by room temperature, dissolving in its own remains, and belatedly she understood that this was how a loved one disappeared. Despite the shock of walking into an empty flat, the absence isn’t immediate, more a fade from the present tense you shared, a melting into the past, not an erasure but a conversion in form, from presence to memory, from solid to liquid, and the person you once touched now runs over your skin, now in sheets down your back, and you may bathe, may sink, may drown in the memory, but your fingers cannot hold it. She raised the glass to her lips. The water was clean.
CHAPTER 8
FIVE HOURS AFTER his first successful amputation, Akhmed’s hands stopped shaking. The frost-caked road glared up at him, the more menacing since he’d seen, up close, what it could do. He had sawed straight through that poor man’s leg. He hadn’t been able to grip the saw until Sonja’s fingers had wrapped around his. Until hers had pushed his hand forward. The man he had imagined himself to be had died the moment she set the blade against the bone and pushed his hand forward. He was one more instrument for her manipulation. Her face had hardened with a marble-like resolve unmoved by both his and the other man’s suffering. As if she hadn’t known that leg belonged to someone. As if she hadn’t known the hand she held did as well. Pushing the blade forward, she had observed him as if he were the patient. And he had been. As the saw teeth caught on the bone, she had performed a second surgery, one less bloody but no less brutal, excising from his heart the impulse to run, to cower, to let the man bleed to death rather than face the horror of saving him. The amputation had left both patients lighter.
Watching for the slightest rise in the road, he still felt more like that young man than he did that doctor. He was nothing like Sonja. She was the strangest Russian he’d ever met, a riddle wrapped inside a mystery inside a set of unattractive but very white scrubs. What parts had she discarded for the sake of her sanity? What had she cut from herself? Had he stared into her pupils he would have emerged, bewildered and blinking, on the far side of the earth. Was he awed by her? Absolutely. Did he respect her? Unequivocally. Want to be anything like her? No, never, not at all. If he never again saw the beige corridors of Hospital No. 6 he would call himself lucky. But he had to go back in the morning; he had an agreement. A woman so casually capable of cutting off a leg was capable of throwing out an orphan girl.