Kostya could only nod.
Vira understood something in Kostya’s eyes. —Of course, we are prepared for Misha, too. We presume he’s dead.
Pyotr almost barked it. —We don’t know that.
Vira stroked his husband’s arm. —Blood pressure, dear. Kostya, you’re very pale. You should sit down.
Pyotr took a deep breath, counted to ten, and greeted the next mourner.
Moving away from the Minenkovs, Kostya did not genuflect to the huge ikon of a big-eyed Christ. Nor did he kneel or make any other gesture. The old ways had gone, the Revolution’s cleansing now twenty years old. Priests starved in the camps and died at the poligons. Despite the funeral taking place in a church, the old ways meant nothing, so he must ignore the massive Christ, even as the ikon not only commanded the entire space but created a new one, a space infinite and at the same time intimate, only for Kostya. Commanding this warp of physics and time, Christ’s eyes emptied of pigment and paint, sockets dark and deep, becoming the limestone catacombs beneath Odessa. Children hid there.
Kostya cried out. No one noticed.
Christ’s eyes filled again with ancient colour, ancient mystery, asking, as Gavriil’s eyes had asked, Who are you?
The Moscow clerk’s abuse: Tell me your surname. Tell me your surname.
Nadia’s disbelief: Your name is really Nikto?
Arkady’s rebuke: At least sit up straight. You slouch like some sneaky bezprizornik.
Baba Yaga’s taunt: Welcome home, bezprizornik. Welcome home.
Christ’s eyes demanded response.
Arkady caught Kostya as he fell and made it look like nothing more than a stumble.
Leaning into Arkady’s strength, Kostya noticed Boris and Yury studying them. He felt this should mean something: a warning, perhaps, a signal. —Arkady Dmitrievich, it’s Zmei Gorynich.
— What?
— When Dobrynya Nikitich fights Zmei Gorynich, his feet get stuck in spilled blood. He’s trapped.
Arkady pressed his lips to Kostya’s forehead, seeking fever. —You’re tired, Tatar. I’ll drive you home.
— All the way to Odessa?
Scowling, Arkady grasped Kostya by his forearm again, navigated a path around the knots of people, and hauled him out of the church.
Outside, in the bright sunlight, safe from all the eyes, Kostya took a deep breath, then another. He obeyed Arkady’s instructions to get in the car.
— Arkady Dmitrievich, they changed the forms again for Garage Number One. Did you sign this out with the correct form?
— My paperwork is fine.
They drove.
Kostya thought he caught sight of Andrei. —How often do women bleed their courses?
— What? I missed your street. I’ve got to loop back. Every month, you know that. It stops when they get pregnant. It’s the most vile thing about them: bleed for a week and live. Worse than bitches in heat. At least when a bitch bleeds, it signals something.
A month is four weeks and a few days. —Signals what?
— Signals she’s in heat…Kostya, no.
Arkady forgot the clutch and stalled the car. It juddered and died.
— It’s fine, Arkady Dmitrievich, it’s fine. She bleeds now. It’s fine.
Arkady felt his limp hands slip from the steering wheel. —She has killed you. That whore has killed you, and I hate her for it, but when I’m arrested, I’ll say nothing about her. For you. I promise that.
— They’ll beat it out you. They’ll fucking beat it out of you, because it’s what we do.
— Wouldn’t the Odessa herring merchant laugh now?
Kostya snorted. —The first time I held a Nagant, you told me it’s not murder when it’s the law.
— Go and rest.
— Arkady Dmitrievich, please. Let Scherba take a look at you, yes?
— I have fifty-odd mourners on their way to my house, expecting food and drink. Not the time. Wait. Did…
Kostya watched Arkady’s hands tighten into fists.
— Kostya, did Dima say anything?
Kostya sighed, wiped his face with the back of his hand. —He was a good man.
— But did he say anything?
— He called me Misha. Then he died.
The little dings and cracks in the car’s windshield filled Kostya’s vision: Nurasyl Abdulin and the sacred weight of an auto’s glass. I came all this way to work and become a good citizen. Why am I still hungry?
A tremor took Arkady, starting in his hands and climbing upwards until it seemed to escape out of the top of his head. Then, taking a deep breath, he seemed his old self. —This will end soon. Call me this evening, once you wake up.
— If you’re under investigation, others will listen on the line.
— I don’t care. Just call me, so that I know you’re still here.
As he climbed out of the car, Kostya noticed various people watching him through windows.
Or perhaps, lost in their own worries, they stared at nothing.
Arkady drove off.
In the lobby, a new watchwoman stood by her rocking chair, her face stiff, not quite allowing herself to relax yet after a terrible fright.
The uniform, Kostya told himself, the car. —Good afternoon, Grandmother. I live on the sixth floor, flat number seven, Nikto, Konstantin Arkadievich. Do you wish to see my identification?
Avoiding his eyes, she shook her head. —I believe you are what you say you are, Comrade Nikto.
— Nadia?
Temerity stood still, arms raised in graceful defense. Ignoring Kostya, she finished the move.
— What is that?
She smiled. —Just a stretch.
The vodka bottle made a sharp clink against a glass. —I know sombo when I see it.
— The correct term is jiu-jutsu.
Looking to the ceiling, Kostya sighed. Then he sounded friendly, warm. —Come sit with me.
She joined him at the little table, accepted a drink.
His voice stayed warm as he lit two cigarettes. —Did you feel a kick? Here, take it. Hey? Answer me, Nadia.
Her brown eyes glittered. —Why?
— What do you mean, why?
— I mean, why in hell should I answer you?
— Because I deserve to know.
— Oh, do you?
— Yes. I deserve to know, before a bullet crashes through my brain, if—
— It was far too early to feel a kick.
After a moment, he sneered and ground out his cigarette. —Efim?
— Well, it wasn’t Elena Petrovna, now, was it?
— Nadia, please.
She kept her voice steady. —Should I be happy? Should I recite some Shakespeare? Should I make this easy for you?
— I only—
— You did this to me!
— Nadia, you came to me!
— You! The man who’s kept me in his flat to please himself!
— To keep you safe!
She ducked, shielding her face with her arms, and Kostya saw he’d raised his arm, ready to backhand her.
He chose to reach for the cigarettes.
Temerity heard the scrape of the match, then opened her eyes and lowered her arms. —Kostya, just get me somewhere near the embassy. I’ll run.
Drawing hard on his cigarette, he shoved himself away from the table.
— Run with me. I’ll vouch for you, tell them you’ve been kind. I can get you out of here. Kostya, please.
He wrenched open the door and strode into the corridor.
— Please!
She expected him to slam and lock the door behind him.