The mayor took the stage as the anthem was played. He announced Fyodor Fetisov, and a half-dozen enormous bodyguards surrounded the stage. Two more flanked the man himself, so Ilya could only see a sliver of him. He was shorter than Ilya had expected, but with a meaty neck that was incredibly tan, as though he’d been somewhere tropical just hours before. He was known for his terseness—brevity, was how people put it when they were being diplomatic or were afraid of being overheard—and he dispensed with thank-yous altogether and in a quiet monotone announced that the refinery would soon be expanded to accommodate supply from a new pipeline.
There were cheers from the crowd, and one boo that required the attention of one of the bodyguards.
“And I’m pleased,” he said, sounding far from pleased, “to announce that this marks the inaugural year of an exchange between Gazneft and EnerCo. This year’s Gazneft Academian is Ilya Alexandrovich Morozov.”
The crowd cheered again—with less enthusiasm than they had for the refinery expansion, but still it was paralyzing. What if someone knew that he hadn’t taken the boards? What if Maria Mikhailovna decided that this was the moment for a crisis of conscience? Why did he even need to go up there at all? His name had been announced. That was enough, wasn’t it? But Fetisov extended an arm into the empty space to his right, and the ballerina nudged Ilya’s elbow, and Ilya managed somehow to climb a small set of stairs and cross the stage. Fyodor Fetisov gripped his hand. A camera clicked wildly, the flash spasming. And as Fetisov dropped his hand, Ilya felt the sharp edge of something against his palm. A thick, gold ring, studded with an enormous diamond. Ilya looked at Fetisov’s shoes. They were pointy, slick, expensive.
“Congratulations,” Fyodor Fetisov said.
Ilya nodded. Fetisov’s lips thinned. Ilya was supposed to thank him, but he couldn’t muster it. He was back in the elevator, all the buttons glowing. He was running for the service door, and Vladimir was staggering out of the elevator, his face bloodied, and Ilya wondered if Vladimir was in the crowd somewhere, if he could see Fetisov and had recognized him also.
In the end, Fetisov left the stage before Ilya. He trooped off with his bodyguards, and the mayor ushered Ilya back to the holding pen and said, “You’re Berlozhniki’s best and brightest?” as the ballerina tiptoed out to the first tiny, teasing notes of The Firebird.
It was close to midnight when they walked home, but dancers were still twirling on the stage, their skirts a red blur. The road out to the kommunalkas was filled with people too belligerent to let cars pass, so the cars joined in the procession, horns honking, the windows rolled down, the music from their radios mixing with the music from the square.
Ilya was the first up the eight flights, and so he saw Vladimir first. He was sitting with his spine curled against the door and his head on his knees.
“Vlad,” Ilya said, and he could hear it echo down the stairs behind him, could hear his mother reframe Vladimir’s name as a question. Vladimir didn’t move. There were fast steps on the stairs behind Ilya. Then Babushka said, “What is it?” and Ilya’s mother was pushing past him, saying Vladimir’s name again and again, and still Vladimir didn’t move until she was kneeling in front of him, lifting his head up in her hands.
“You locked me out,” he said. Then he retched, and nothing came out but a bit of frothy spit. He tried to stand and couldn’t, and even in the dimness of the hallway Ilya could see that something was wrong with one of his legs and that he was covered in blood.
“Oh God,” Timofey said from behind Ilya.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Ilya said. He could hardly breathe, and the words rose up his throat like stones.
“No,” his mother said.
“He’s sick, Mamulya,” Ilya said, his voice sounding high and afraid, though he had meant to be firm.
“They’ll arrest him,” she said.
She wrapped her arms around Vladimir and pulled him up, and Babushka opened the door behind them. Vladimir closed his eyes. His skin looked like marble. Ilya could hear the sound of Babushka turning on the stove in the apartment, and all he could think was that she was cooking blini for Vladimir the way she had cooked it for them when they were little and something had happened to make them sad. His mother dragged Vladimir inside, into the light, and the blood, which had looked like shadow in the darkness of the hall, turned bright red.
“Get more hot water,” Babushka said to Timofey. Timofey nodded, but Babushka had to say, “Now,” before Timofey ran for the kitchen.
“Shut the door, Ilya,” his mother said. “I need you to hold his head up and talk to him. Try to get him awake.”
Ilya sat and pulled Vladimir’s head into his lap. Vladimir’s skin felt like marble too, and somehow this was a comfort to Ilya because the cold was a familiar threat. He’s just cold, he thought. He just stayed out too long in the cold. He rubbed at Vladimir’s cheeks. He said his name over and over, as his mother pulled off Vladimir’s jacket. At the stove, Babushka had both teakettles whistling. She poured them into the enormous roast pan that was reserved for the New Year’s feast and filled them again from the jug of water on the counter. Ilya’s mother unbuttoned Vladimir’s shirt. He was even thinner than he’d been in the Tower, with deep shadows between his ribs. There were scabs at the crook of his arm, marching along the veins all the way to his hands, and their mother must have noticed them, but she just said, “Thank God,” when she saw his chest, the skin intact, the heart fluttering under it.
“Ilya,” she said, “wake him up. And if he vomits again, turn his head. Make sure he doesn’t choke on it.”
Ilya pinched Vladimir’s cheeks and red bloomed on his skin, then faded in an instant. “Wake up!” he yelled. “Wake up, wake up!” He slapped Vladimir, felt his own cheeks burn in apology, but Vladimir’s head just lolled to the side, and his lips parted and let out a gasp of bitter breath.
Timofey was back with two kettles of steaming water, and Babushka pointed to the roast pan and said, “More,” and he poured the water into the pan and ran for more.
Their mother had Vladimir’s shoes off. His socks were filthy, crusted brown with blood. His mother rolled them off, and Ilya could see that the pockets of skin between his toes were oozing. When his mother pulled at Vladimir’s jeans, Vladimir’s eyes flashed open, and for a second, Ilya thought, He’s OK. He’s awake, and he’s OK. But then Vladimir screamed, his body jackknifing, his head smashing into Ilya’s chin. He twisted onto his side and vomited again, and again nothing came out.
Ilya’s mother let out a sound that was something like a sob, though she wasn’t crying. She put her hands on her knees and bowed her head, and he thought that she might give in and call for an ambulance, but after a moment she lifted her head and said, “I need scissors,” and Babushka brought them from her sewing kit.
“OK,” his mother said. “Vova, can you hear me? I’ll be gentle, but we have to get your pants off. We have to get you clean. OK?”
The pain had woken Vladimir, and his eyes were narrowed on a spot on the carpet just past his nose. His face was slick with sweat, and Ilya could see that he did not have it in him to respond, let alone fight her. She began to cut, very slowly, very gently, along the seam of his pants. On one leg, the fabric fell away, but on the other, it stuck to the skin and so she cut even more slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Timofey brought water again, and now the roast pan was full and steaming, and his mother had cut Vladimir’s pants all the way up through the waistband.
“Ilya,” she said, “you need to really hold him now.”
Ilya put his arms around Vladimir’s head, so that his fingers laced under his chin, and Babushka pushed a spoon between his teeth.