of those boys Aspirin had tried to intimidate behind the garage.
Aspirin tensed up, ready to run after them and grab the boy, but for some reason he didn’t run. Maybe because of a strange expression on the boy’s face: an expression of fear. The boy looked confused and scared—mostly scared—and with each step his wide face with its potato-shaped nose grew paler and paler, and his mouth opened wider, as if the boy wanted to scream.
But he didn’t scream. He opened his mouth wider yet, like a fish, and continued following Alyona, step by step. Alyona went down the street toward the intersection. Aspirin followed the strange little procession. He didn’t know what to expect, but had a terrible premonition.
The passersby looked at Alyona with curiosity. Some looked back, others smiled. Aspirin weaved in and out of the crowd, keeping Alyona in his sight.
She reached the intersection when the green light started blinking. She crossed the street, and Aspirin could have sworn all the drivers watched her with fascination. The light turned red for pedestrians, green for the cars, and a roaring stream of vehicles gushed into the intersection. The boy stopped at the edge of the sidewalk.
Alyona stopped and lowered the violin. She watched the boy across the busy street. Aspirin couldn’t see the boy’s face, but he had a clear view of Alyona’s.
She was smiling.
With a sweeping concert gesture, she brought the violin to her shoulder, the bow suddenly appearing in her hand from out of nowhere, like a magician’s wand.
Aspirin threw himself forward and bellowed over the din of the street: “Don’t you dare!”
“What if he was run over by a car and killed? Fine. I assume you consider murder a fair and just punishment for a terrible person. But what about that man, the driver, who would run the boy over—what about him? What had he done to you?”
Alyona carefully wiped the violin with a dry cloth.
“Alexey, what does this have to do with me? What murder?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What did you see? That I was playing, and the boy was following me?”
“Show me your violin,” Aspirin demanded.
“Why? It’s not like you’d be able to tell which strings are normal, and which—”
“Aha! Then you did use his strings?”
“Only two,” Alyona admitted. “G and A.”
“G and A,” Aspirin muttered. He got up, went into the hallway, and unlocked the front door.
“Go.”
“Where?” Alyona asked.
“To the intersection. To the square. Anywhere you want. Play your song, find your brother, and get the hell out of here—I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Alyona made herself more comfortable on the sofa.
“I can’t. I am not ready yet.”
“You are ready,” Aspirin barked. “I saw what you can do! You led him, like on a string, like a rat—I saw it!”
“You don’t understand what you are saying.” Alyona’s face darkened. “And I don’t want to hear you say ‘rat’ ever again, it just sounds creepy.”
“You are not leaving?”
“I am not leaving.” Alyona crossed her legs. “I certainly have a lot to thank you for, Alexey. But you should watch your step.”
The fourth-floor window glowed, a pale green light. Aspirin sat in his car, smoking and watching the dark silhouette occasionally appearing on the green background.
Like a movie theater. Like a shadow play. Like a dimly lit aquarium. On the fifth floor, his own apartment was brightly lit and Carmina Burana thundered through the open window.
Aspirin forced himself to come out of the car. He walked in the door and pressed the button. Sveta narrowed her eyes and said slyly: “Alexey, did you hear that Irina from the fourth floor is selling her place? And she said it was urgent. The agent stopped by today, with prospective buyers. Do you know how high the prices are these days? Even if there is urgency—”
“What?” Aspirin frowned. “Which floor? Irina?”
“Irina, yes—I just said that! She got the apartment from her parents, they got a good deal—two one-bedroom apartments instead of one with two bedrooms, and they made some money out of it. The parents are dead now, and Irina’s brother owns the second apartment. And now Irina says she wants to make some money too. She doesn’t make much. In the old days, an engineer’s salary—”
“Engineers never made a lot of money,” Aspirin said, staring dully into the opened elevator doors. “There is even a song about it.”
The elevator offered a slight reprieve, but eventually its doors closed and the button for the fourth floor went off again. Aspirin pressed it again