problem must be solved without delay. And he, Alexey Igorevich Grimalsky, was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
Especially when there was no one else he could ask for help.
He went back to the kitchen. The girl sat on the same chair, cuddling her teddy bear and staring out of the window. Aspirin took a closer look and realized that the blurry young man in the photo had nothing in common with Aspirin himself—whatever familiar features brought out by Whiskas’s probing eyes had been nothing but an illusion, a hypnosis perhaps, or—who knows—it was quite possible that the confident voice of that little witch brought out a false sense of guilt in Aspirin.
“It’s not that bad, you know,” the girl said, still staring out of the window.
“Let’s go,” Aspirin said, taking her elbow. He felt her thin arm, so warm, so smooth, tense slightly under his fingers.
“I am staying here.” She turned her head, but remained seated. “There is a law. If you spend the first night under someone’s roof, that’s where you stay. We are connected now. And neither you nor I can break that connection.”
What nonsense. “We’ll see about that.” He pulled her by the arm, about to jerk her up and drag her into the hallway. And then he let go because a deep, throaty snarl filled the kitchen. Aspirin’s fingers slackened before he remembered where he’d heard that sound before.
“Quiet, sh-hhhh.” The girl hugged the toy closer to her chest, caressing its fur. “Do not be afraid, Mishutka. It’s going to be all right.”
Aspirin backed away, convinced the girl was mad—and that he was going quite mad himself. He watched them for a few minutes, then picked up the bottle of brandy from the shelf and an unfinished cup of tea from the table, and retired to the living room.
A clap of thunder woke him up.
In his dream he heard snarling, piercing shrieks of people being torn in half, saw shadows dancing on a dirty wall covered with graffiti . . .
He woke up and knew it was nothing but a thunderstorm. Outside the air was gray and rain battered the glass; the curtain stayed still—someone had thoughtfully shut the window. A lamp glowed softly.
Aspirin lay on the sofa, heavy and doughy, like a dying jellyfish. A tray was placed on the coffee table. Aspirin smelled food and sat up.
Steam rose from a thick chicken cutlet. Three fat slices of tomato stared back at him. A large mug was filled with coffee.
“Eat,” a disembodied voice said from the darkness. “You skipped breakfast.”
“What time is it?” Aspirin asked hoarsely.
“Almost five.”
“How long was I asleep for?”
There was no answer. Aspirin sat up, wincing. An empty bottle of brandy leaned timidly against the side of the sofa.
He picked up the knife and fork. The chicken cutlet was tender, with just the right amount of salt and pepper, crispy on the outside and perfectly lovely.
“I see you’re a fully baked housewife,” he said chewing with gusto. “Can you sew? How about knitting? How old are you?”
His questions were met with silence. The girl sat on the floor, legs crossed, Mishutka pressed against her chest.
“And what is your name, by the way?” He thought about something else. “And where did you get the chicken? I know I didn’t have any in the refrigerator.”
“You didn’t have any vegetables either,” the girl said. “Or potatoes. I bought it. At the market near the subway.”
“Right,” Aspirin said and reached for the coffee. “Did you also stop to pick up a roofie, by any chance?”
“Stop to pick up a roofie,” the girl repeated, as if fully appreciating the scope of his joke. “Why would I bother? You slept all day without any help. Is that your way of avoiding problems?”
Aspirin swallowed the insult along with a huge gulp of coffee. It must be noted that Aspirin’s favorite beverage was beyond all compliments—Aspirin definitely couldn’t make coffee as excellent as this.
Lightning flashed, followed by a bark of thunder, and spooked automobiles howled in different voices. Aspirin put the mug back on the tray.
“And what else have you been doing?”
“I read. I found all sorts of magazines here.”
Aspirin looked down and saw two issues of Macho and three issues of Lolly-Lady, pages spread widely and most indecently. Had she really been looking at those pictures?
“Doctor Aspirin—that’s your byline, isn’t it?” the girl asked solemnly.
Aspirin groaned—this was much worse than he thought. He switched positions and fluffed the pillow under his head.
“I figured it out,” the girl said