and bent over in a violent fit of coughing.
Whiskas straddled a chair. For a while he watched the girl sip her tea. Eventually his eyes moved toward Aspirin. Aspirin still couldn’t talk—the cookie stuck in his throat.
No one tried to help him.
“What was that again?” Whiskas said, eyes steady on the girl’s face.
“I am his daughter.” The girl sat up proudly. “He and my mom—they broke up. I wasn’t born yet. Ask him—he remembers Luba from Pervomaysk, he must remember her . . .”
“What Luba?” Aspirin coughed out, finally regaining the gift of speech. “What do you mean, Pervomaysk?”
“Luba Kalchenko. You vacationed together in Crimea.”
“Crimea? Victor, this is a nightmare, she’s lying, it’s all lies . . .”
Whiskas’s professionally steely eyes grew colder.
“Alexey Igorevich.” The girl’s voice sounded thin and pitiful. “I don’t need anything from you. We are going to make it. Mom has disability benefits, because of that hazardous industry job she had, and she has diabetes. And Grandma has her pension . . . I don’t need any money! I just wanted to come and see . . .”
“Victor, she’s lying,” Aspirin said, laughing nervously. “It’s simply ludicrous. A real circus, that’s what this is.”
But it was clear his friend wasn’t buying the girl’s words anyway. Whiskas’s wide face twisted in disgust.
“Anyone can come and claim whatever they want,” he informed the girl through gritted teeth. “Maybe you are my daughter. Or the pope’s.”
Tears rolled down the girl’s face. She reached for her back pocket, pulled out a small black-and-white photo, and slapped it down on the table like a trump card. Whiskas and Aspirin bent over the photo in unison. At one time glossy, but now frayed and faded, the snapshot showed a couple embracing. The woman’s face was clearly seen in the image; she was a brunette of about twenty, not quite beautiful, but pleasant-looking. The man’s face was blurry—he must have turned his head when the camera clicked. The sea frothed in the background.
“That’s him,” the girl said, licking a huge tear from the corner of her mouth.
“It’s completely impossible to tell who that is!” Aspirin yelled. “Plus,” he said a tad less aggressively, “people hug each other all the time. That’s not proof.”
Whiskas studied the photo. His steely eyes bore no expression whatsoever.
“What do you want from me?” Aspirin took a step back to the window. “Money? How much can I give you to make you leave?”
“I don’t want any money,” the girl said firmly.
“Alexey,” Whiskas rose. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
“What—”
“Now.”
Aspirin followed him into the hallway, confused when it seemed like they were just about to make headway with the girl.
“What the hell?” Whiskas inquired.
“What do you mean, ‘What the hell?’ She’s lying,” Aspirin whispered. “I swear. There was no Luba from Pervomaysk. I’m not sure I even know where that is, let alone gone there.”
“As if you would remember them all,” Whiskas murmured. “How did she get into your apartment?”
“I told you—I brought her in.”
“Well, if you brought her in, you can take her out,” Whiskas said, turning to leave. “Your family problems are your own responsibility. See you.”
Before Aspirin could even protest, the door was shutting behind him.
“What the hell,” he said.
In the kitchen the silver bell rang—the note A, as the girl pointed out.
Aspirin shuffled into the living room and stretched out on the sofa.
How had he managed to get himself into this idiotic situation?
His mother always said that one’s personality defines one’s fate. All it takes is to show a sign of weakness once; all sorts of disasters flow into that crack. All his life Aspirin would avoid old women begging on the street; he simply excluded them from his line of vision. Perfectly undisturbed, Aspirin would eat his lunch in full view of a hungry runaway. So why now? How could this happen to him after decades of casual disregard? How did he manage to bring someone else’s child into his home, his fortress, which no strangers were ever allowed to enter?
And what did he do when his friend took the word of this random little girl over his?
He had asked Victor for help, but—somehow—it had made things worse. Because Victor didn’t believe him, and now he was stuck with this child. Somebody else’s child. Insolent. Ill-mannered. Hungry. Dirty. Well, clean at this point, but that was temporary.
Aspirin lay for a few minutes, then got up. A boil must be lacerated while it’s fresh, as unpleasant as it might be—he knew that much. The