causing you some distress, we owe you that much . . .”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I am leaving,” Aspirin said wearily, going back to his room. “You can have the apartment. You can do whatever you want.”
On Thursday he submitted his documents to the embassy. He was told to come back for his visa on Monday.
He had lunch at a café. He felt more comfortable in open, crowded, public spaces. His cell phone made him nervous; Aspirin now jumped at every call, which made him angry, but he couldn’t help it.
Zhenya called and tried to ask him on a date, but Aspirin gently discouraged her. His mother called—she now called daily, ignoring the outrageous international rates. As if some relief could be found in the series of tense questions: “How are you? What are you doing? What’s going on with you?”
Aspirin ended up turning off his phone.
Do I even have time to get away to England, or were they going to get me before I escape?
And if I do get away, what will I do in London? My savings will not last long. And as strong as my English is, it isn’t going to translate into radio work.
What would Whiskas do? What about his “serious people”? With me gone, would that allow them to pay serious attention to Alyona without my interference?
And then would Mishutka step in . . .
In frustration, Aspirin pushed away an overflowing ashtray. The waitress pretended not to see it; she continued fluttering amidst the tables, imitating busy service, clearly avoiding his bruised and scowling face.
Could Mishutka be killed? I managed to shoot him once. It cost Mishutka a clump of stuffing. What if I used an automatic weapon instead? That would lead to a stuffing explosion. Could Alyona fix that?
It also led to another thought:
What would happen to Alyona if Mishutka was killed?
For God’s sake, now I’m thinking of Mishutka as something actually alive . . .
He called the waitress over, paid the bill, and walked out the door into a thin October rain. He shivered, pulled on his hood, and opened the umbrella.
A black car pulled over to the curb. Aspirin recoiled, but it was only a businessman who climbed out of the car and ran into the office building. This sucks, Aspirin thought. If I jump from every passing shadow . . .
This is no way to live.
It was already getting dark at four in the afternoon. Aspirin had been awake since early morning; he should have been heading home, but he was scared. What if someone rang the doorbell and showed him a badge? Sveta the concierge would be asked to come up as a witness, a plastic bag with unknown powder would be dug up from a sofa cushion, his gun would be found on the shelf, and it would be announced that the gun was used only a month ago. An appropriate body with a hole caused by this very gun would be found quickly and efficiently. And then Aspirin (who from his infancy had his own room and from his youth his own apartment), a spoiled, privileged Aspirin, would find himself in prison for years.
Could they kill Mishutka? Even though the bear was a monster, Aspirin’s amateur shots caused some damage. Aspirin wondered how many of his three shots had found their mark.
He turned on his phone and called home. For a long time no one picked up. Just as he was about to hang up, a voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Aspirin said, hiding a sigh of relief. “What are you up to?”
“Practicing.”
“Has anyone called or stopped by?”
A pause. Aspirin felt a chill.
“No.”
“If anyone rings the doorbell, don’t open it. Don’t make a sound, pretend no one is home. I have my keys.”
“That’s fine.” She hung up.
If he had surprised Alyona, she hadn’t let on.
He unlocked the door soundlessly. Well, almost soundlessly, the lock did click, but softly.
Alyona was playing the piano. Aspirin sneaked into the living room without taking his shoes off, leaving a wet trail.
Alyona perched on the edge of the bench. Her left hand hovered over the small octave, her fingers forcing a heavy, powerful, unkind mechanism to revolve (or at least that was how Aspirin perceived it), and her right hand wanted to survive and fought for the right to live. A melody fought through the hum of invisible cogwheels, sliding along the slick walls of a well. For a moment Aspirin thought he recognized Grieg’s Concerto in A Minor, but it was only