A Constellation of Vital Phenomena - By Anthony Marra Page 0,74

she said. “Finally, finally, finally,” Sonja cried. “I’ve been calling you for days, weeks, all afternoon.”

CHAPTER

13

“I DON’T KNOW,” Akhmed said softly. He watched her with such compassion it seemed he had forgotten the gun against his back. “I didn’t ask,” he said.

“You didn’t ask? How could you not ask? How could you not ask her name?”

“Hundreds of refugees stayed at Dokka’s house. I stopped asking their names.”

“Where was she going? Didn’t she say? She must have said something. Some hint or reference or mention. She must have said something. She must have. How could you not ask? How could you?”

“I didn’t think I’d be asked to remember.”

Her entire reflection fit in his widened eyes. Had Natasha’s reflection once fit in his pupils? Drawn by light? Disappeared by a blink? “What did she look like?” she asked.

Akhmed could have filled a dozen lungs with that sigh. “Dark-haired and malnourished,” he said.

The description would fit half the world. “Her eyes, what color?”

“Brown.”

“But brown with shards of green and emerald? More hazel than brown?”

“Maybe. I can’t remember.”

“And her face?”

“She reminded me of Zakharov’s portrait of the niece of Nicolas I.”

“Nicolas I? What are you talking about? I need to know what happened. Where is she?” She felt nauseous. She had to know but he would not tell her. What had happened to her sister? When she died, this one need, so near to eternal it could be her soul, would survive her. “I need to know, I need to know,” she repeated. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“As beautiful as the Nicolas’s niece, yes,” Akhmed said. “She was probably headed to the refugee camps. They all were. Probably Ingushetia. Maybe the Sputnik or the Karabulak camp?”

He spoke, it seemed, as if he had been speaking to her for years, as if she was expected to follow the arcs of his cadence, landing on the period before he reached it. She was afraid to look down. “She was wearing traditional maternity clothes,” he was saying. “And a green headdress.”

“Where is she?”

Her hands tightened on his shoulders. She didn’t remember putting them there. The loose handcuffs of his fingers raised them and held them and slowly placed them by her sides. She would remember this; with a gun to his back he was gentle. “I don’t know,” he said.

Far away Alu’s brother nodded and the guard stepped back. “Our friend may be a terrible doctor,” Alu’s brother said, “but I don’t think he’s informing.”

They walked to the supply crates shoulder-to-shoulder to avoid seeing each other. Akhmed helped her load the cardboard boxes into the truck and later she would remember him mopping his forehead with a gray handkerchief, asking if she needed help with a box of surgical saw blades, his poise as unsettling as any ruin she had seen that day.

As children Sonja and Natasha played hide-and-seek in the dust-thick catacombs of the apartment cellar. Light streamed through the high windows in long diagonals. On the floor each semicircle was a pool of lava, and light-caught dust motes were the remains of children who had stumbled into those incandescent rays. Natasha would drape a filthy curtain over Sonja and Sonja would count to fifty and the beat between each number would shrink as she neared that moment when she shouted “Fifty!” and sprang from the curtain and into that otherworldly place. Natasha was slender enough to hide behind a broomstick, but Sonja always found her. She always did.

“Who is she?” Akhmed asked as the warehouse shrank in the rearview. Ten minutes earlier she had told him they would stop at a phone bank and had said nothing else until she was behind the wheel and facing the mud-streaked windshield.

“My sister,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Nothing could have made her feel worse.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” she said to the gravel.

“Why does he help you?”

“Just after the first war I fixed up his brother Alu.”

“And he still supplies the hospital?”

She nodded.

“He must cherish his brother.”

She smiled. Poor, berated Alu, whose name was beaten more than a donkey’s ass. Six months after they first met she had learned his brother’s name was Ruslan, but she would always think of him as Alu’s brother. She knew he had amassed a small fortune smuggling arms, heroin, and luxury goods for warlords, and had used that small fortune to rebuild his ancestral village after the first war. She knew his pet turtle was still alive, still named Alu, and housed now in the largest terrarium in the northern