around a monument. Each of them was looking in a different direction.
“Shall we?” Alexey guided Anna toward the group. As he’d expected, they were selling books, which were spread out on the monument’s pedestal. While Anna merely glanced at the covers of the books, Alexey rummaged around in them with obvious pleasure. For the most part, they were works of tsarist literature, their ornate leather bindings inscribed with golden letters, along with books by ostracized authors.
“Well, what do you know …” Alexey said, brandishing a small, well-thumbed volume: Freedom Comes Naked. Grinning with pleasure, he opened the book and showed Anna a photograph of a considerably younger Viktor Ipalyevich. “These people act as though they think your father’s some kind of forbidden, esoteric figure.” He handed the book to her. “Here, it’s a gift.”
She accepted, letting him have the pleasure. He complained about the price to the vendor but was unable to reduce it by so much as a kopeck. When he reached for his wallet, he discovered that he’d forgotten it and waved to Anton, who was hovering about unobtrusively.
“I don’t much like taking you to such a place,” Alexey said. “But believe me, Annushka, this is the only way we could see each other.”
A furious hissing interrupted him, and he leaped aside in fright. Anna laughed; a gander was flapping around the Deputy Minister. The fowl, attached by one leg, was yanked back in midflight and landed on its belly. It screamed and stuck out its pointy tongue. Suddenly, as though some magic had transported them to another world, Anna found herself surrounded by hundreds of animals. Just ahead of them was the cat section: predominantly newborn kittens curled up in cardboard boxes.
A boy noticed Bulyagkov’s searching look and sprang over to him. “These are all house-trained,” he declared, opening the sales dialogue. He lifted up a cat’s tail with one finger and proudly pointed out that the animal was a first-class tomcat. Bulyagkov waved him off. “Black cats with white checks are rare,” the boy said, determined to hold on to his potential customer.
“I don’t need a cat.” Alexey declined the invitation to pet the animal and pointed over to the market’s main alley. “There,” he said to Anna.
First they had to walk past hundreds of dogs. A litter of Ovcharka puppies was crawling around the sawdust-covered bottom of a crate; only their drooping ears bore any resemblance to the full-grown sheep guardian. Black terriers barked. Smiling, Bulyagkov indicated a basket with Tsvetnaya Bolonkas, which were on offer in four different colors. Their owners extolled the value of their wares: “The tsar’s lapdog,” they said.
The air was filled with puling and whimpering, and the vendors’ stands were surrounded by Muscovite women on the point of yielding to temptation. Every cardboard box belonged to a cute little girl who swore she’d let her darling puppies go only if they found a good new home. In the next section, ornamental fish stared out of plastic bags, and a mountain of squirming worms awaited the next fishhook. In the end, when Anna and Alexey were simply surrounded by howls, whimpers, and the frantic beating of wings, he explained to her the reason for this visit to the market.
“Isn’t that more like a gift for a child?” Anna asked.
“Medea wants a living creature in the house.” Alexey stood in the midst of innumerable cages and looked around. “As I said, I know I’m not being very gracious, taking you along with me to buy a birthday present for my wife. She wants someone to be glad when she comes home. Since that someone’s obviously not me …” He was drawn to the bright, colorful parrots. “Medea’s afraid of dogs, rabbits shit everywhere, and so I was thinking about a bird, maybe one like this.” He waved a finger at a red bird with a black beak, which bent down from its perch and snapped at him.
“And who’s going to take care of it, then? Animals need attention.” An affectionately mocking look from Bulyagkov spurred Anna to defend her point of view. “If you’re never home and neither is Medea, that’s animal abuse.”
“Then I’ll get a pair.” He took a few steps to where the songbirds were. Green, yellow, and white, many with raised crests, they sat in their cages.
“I’ve heard those are illness-prone.”
“So why are they singing in the cold?” Bulyagkov inquired about the price of a pair of young woodcocks, but in the end he opted for two nondescript canaries