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 shot me a cheerful look: «Salut, Romka!» and headed for the Sharp television, pulling a camera and cables out of his bag on the way.
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 to life, showing the Moskva River embankment beyond the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge. After a brief pan, it settled on a ridiculous little figure. In a couple of seconds, the zoom devoured the distance and showed my own 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 had to happen, for me to go back with an easy conscience to the place where I’d sealed the pact in blood? Was the miracle of last night the price of a life? No! There had to be something else. A different star had to light my way, not only the shine of her gray eyes. The one thing I understood was that my lectern hadn’t 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 – 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.
