they reached an intersection, he held her hand. He wasn’t sure why—she was perfectly independent—doing the shopping, going to school, taking the subway on a regular basis—and could probably walk across town all by herself. But he just felt the need to have physical contact with her at that moment.
“That dog is alive,” Aspirin said. “The pit bull. Abel. Or maybe it was a different dog . . .”
“Maybe it was,” Alyona said. “Why do you bring it up?”
Aspirin sighed. “You really think I am not a very nice person?”
She squeezed his fingers. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I care what my daughter thinks of me.”
She laughed, cheerfully, and without a trace of sarcasm.
“Alyona,” he forced the words to come out. “How did you get to that corner under the archway? Who brought you there?”
“I don’t remember.” She was no longer laughing. “I came over, and found myself in the alley, under the streetlight, with Mishutka. People passed me by, none were looking at me, they were all dead. I stood there, for about an hour, and just couldn’t move—I thought I would get some sort of a sign, a hint, or that my brother would feel me and come get me right away. But nothing happened. And then I realized he came for me, and I decided to hide in the dark. And found a hiding place. That’s what happened.”
Aspirin thought how much better it would have been if she were an angel. It would have been so much better if everything she said always turned out to be the truth. On the other hand . . . if she was simply a crazy little psychic, a runaway resident of an institution for children with intellectual deficiencies . . . if she—whether by accident or forced by someone else’s will—ran away from her previous life and came here, to live with her father . . .
With her father.
Aspirin stumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Alyona asked.
He held her hand tighter.
November
“And now let us put our heads together. How can we help this child?”
Aspirin sat in a spacious, well-furnished room, strikingly different from the shabby offices of his local clinic. And yet, this elegant place had something to do with medicine, according to Whiskas.
“At this point we’re trying to locate her mother. To be honest, that woman is not exactly a poster parent, but a mother is a mother, don’t you agree?”
Aspirin nodded like a bobblehead. The man he was speaking to nodded back, adjusting the white lab coat he wore over a gray business suit.
“The search may take a while, since the girl’s relatives are currently overseas. Of course, as a father, you feel responsible—it is your daughter, your parental duty, et cetera. But children with this sort of disability require supervision by a specialist, twenty-four seven.”
“She doesn’t have any disabilities,” Aspirin said grimly.
The man in the white coat narrowed his eyes: “Is that a fact? Are you sure?”
Aspirin looked away.
“That’s what I mean.” The man sighed a little. “This is a very complex child, a very difficult case.”
“But she wants to live with me. And she isn’t causing any problems!”
“Again: are you sure? That aside, we do try to take the children’s wishes into consideration. However, an eleven-year-old girl with a psychological disorder cannot decide her own fate, don’t you agree?”
The man waited for an answer. Under his expectant gaze, Aspirin felt a sudden bout of despondence.
“What am I supposed to do?” he blurted out.
The man nodded with satisfaction: “Alexey Igorevich . . .”
Aspirin immediately thought of Alyona’s barefoot mentor with his eyes resembling drill bits. He too called Aspirin by his full name.
“Alexey Igorevich, please make an appointment for a home visit.”
“A home visit?”
“Yes. A doctor will come to your place, say, between nine and twelve to examine Alyona.”
“She is perfectly healthy.”
“Is she? Two months ago she had bronchitis, and just recently she suffered a head trauma. See, Alexey Igorevich—your attitude toward her health leaves a lot to be desired.”
Aspirin had nothing to say to that.
That night it snowed for the first time this year.
Aspirin had been at his laptop, working on the story for Lolly-Lady. Many years of working for glossy magazines meant that he did not need to think much about what he was writing; it was as if a fully functioning robot inside him produced other people’s confessions by request. On this occasion, he was writing the story of a forty-year-old woman who lost her husband to a younger woman; the deserted wife did not plunge into despair, but