August 19, 1998
Wednesday
11:00 a.m.

Stepping into the apartment, I ran into her; she breathed out:

– Thought you’d disappeared.

– Hello, – I held out my palm with the gift. – Here. For you.

She lowered her eyes, smiled:

– For me?

– Don’t like it?

She smiled and, without taking the ring, walked into the room. There she sat in an armchair, glanced at me:

– I thought you had nothing. What a luxurious gift. Thank you.

– It’s nothing. I wouldn’t spare anything for you.

She raised an eyebrow, half-questioning, half-mocking. I confirmed:

– Whatever was, is, or will be – it’s nothing. Yesterday I understood that my life has had everything in it. The only thing missing was you.

There was a bang as the door slammed shut, and Jürgen barged into the apartment, strangely resembling...

Who did this stocky German remind me of?

It couldn’t be!

Zhorik!

Jürgen-Zhorik slapped me with a cheerful look: «Salut, Romka!» and headed for the «Sharp» television, pulling a camera and cables out of his bag as he went.

Zhorik had shown up in person. But how?

– Don’t rack your brain, – she stood up, came over, and ran a soft palm over my forehead. – I work as a reporter for ARD, Jürgen’s my cameraman. We’re about to go finish yesterday’s piece. Are you ready?

– Yes.

– Excellent. Jürgen, show him what we’re going to be filming.

Jürgen hooked the camera up to the television; the screen flared and showed the Moskva River embankment beyond the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge... then settled on a ridiculous little figure to one side. In a couple of seconds the zoom devoured the distance and showed my face.

It couldn’t be! I stared at the screen and saw my own face, white, crumpled with pain. I was raising a hand, waving at the cameraman, turning around, straightening my hunched shoulders, and walking away. But... what was this? The camera cut to a red BMW pulling up alongside me. An automatic-weapon barrel jutted out the window, spitting muzzle flashes. A body crumpled onto the sidewalk.

Unable to tear myself away from the screen, I forced out a question:

– What is this?

– A five-star piece, – Jürgen reported. – We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

– Was that me?

– Who else would it be?

I shifted my gaze from the television to her and saw nothing through the tears welling up.

– Oh, the little ring’s come back, – Zhorik’s maddeningly familiar voice pulled me out of my half-faint. I wiped my eyes and saw, now unmistakably not Jürgen but Zhorik, snatching up the ring and rubbing it against his sleeve.

Catching my eye, Zhorka burst out laughing:

– Ha-ha, Romka, the little ring’s come back!

What was happening? I stood there like a post, blinking.

– Paying off debts, Roma. – Zhorik walked up to me and handed me the scrap of paper with my bloody handprint on it. – You got everything out of life – well, almost everything. You said the phrase, «my life has had everything in it,» in front of a witness. Just as agreed, no cheating. Anyway – life’s shit. Time to head back.

– Head back how?

– Just showed you. Gone blind? We’re leaving in half an hour.

– Wait, leaving how?

How?

How could I have said my life held everything, when nothing had happened these past five years? Damn it! I’d never made it to Buguruslan, or to Bugulma. Those two towns – a hundred kilometers apart – had been my idée fixe. For five years I’d wanted to go there and look at the trap-laid plan that led straight to success!

I’d lived a little, that was a fact. For what, though?

What has to happen for me to return calmly to the place where I sealed the contract with blood? Is the miracle of the past night the price of a life? No! There must be something more. Another star must light my way, not only the shine of her gray eyes. The one thing I understood was that my lectern had not been left empty.

– Well, student, ready? – Zhorik interrupted my half-mundane, half-religious musings.

– Is another way possible?

– Sure, easy, – he smirked. – You could dive headfirst into the river, like you were about to yesterday. But it’s better to knock back three liters of Jameson and wash it down with pills. There’s a little recipe. I remember a case once... Though, you wouldn’t find it interesting.

She – the dream turned real, now a reporter – brought me back down to earth:

– The method on offer is the fastest and the best.

– Can I refuse?

– You can, but why would you? – Zhora popped up at my side. – Can’t argue with a no. Don’t want to fulfill the terms of the agreement – live however you want. But there won’t be any more luck. Life will turn bleak, no light at the end of it. How long will it last? Doesn’t matter. A day will feel like a year, a year like a day. Saw Vadim this morning? He refused to go. You can end up homeless too.

I shifted my gaze to her, then to Zhorik, and back. Zhorik rattled on:

– What are you acting like a kid for? Nine out of ten of our clients flat-out refuse, just like Vadik. Don’t know nothing, don’t want nothing, go to hell. You can tell us to go to hell too. Clause number one hundred forty-six. A client’s formal refusal is punishable by forfeiture of blah blah blah... Did you read it?

– Didn’t read it. Let’s go.