We knew where we were going, once. And then they decided to abolish the country.”
“Well, I think it will be wonderful in the West,” Gulnara said. She hesitated. “Do you think you’ll get married again?”
Elena nearly said,
Why do you think I’m going?
But it was not altogether true and she did not want to sound desperate.
“I doubt it, Gulnara. I’m on the shelf already. At least I’ve
been
married, I suppose—better that than a
starukha.
”
“Oh, Elena. No one would ever think you were an old maid. And you’re only thirty-five. That’s young over there. Not like here.”
“It’s all right for you, Gulnara. You’re in the best possible position—divorced, with a child.”
“You could have kids, Elena.”
“Gulnara, you know I—”
“They might be able to do something. They have clinics for that sort of thing in the West.” She fell silent for a moment, then went on, “Anyway, there’s more chance to meet people, they say. My friend signed up with a dating agency—she’s writing to a French guy already, and an American. They like Russian women over there. Not so pushy. And an American man would be a better catch than someone here. Or a German, like your sister has. They’re all rich. And they wouldn’t expect you to do all the housework. My friend says she knows an American man who
cooks.
Imagine that.”
“Well, not with a Russian—easier to teach a bear to thread a needle. But Uzbek men cook. They’re supposed to be good in bed, as well.”
“Elena!”
“Well, that’s what they say.”
“But you wouldn’t want to marry a Moslem, would you?” Gulnara, herself Islamic, said doubtfully. “Kazakh men are hopeless.”
“Russians aren’t much better.”
“And Westerners don’t drink so much. They treat women with respect over there.”
Elena sighed. “I like Russian men, though. They can’t
all
be alcoholics. My English isn’t great, though of course I’d try to improve it. I want to come home and have a conversation in my own language, not just sit and simper and flutter my eyelashes.”
“You could make him learn Russian.”
“I suppose so. I’d rather stay here. I’ve never really wanted to go and live abroad. But I’m not going to clean floors for the rest of my life, either.”
They walked on in silence. By the time they reached the park gates, Lenin was long since lost among the trees, and Elena was wondering how much it would cost to sign on with an international dating agency.
Eight
ST. PETERSBURG, 21ST CENTURY
The dream of Samarkand, of Manas, faded. Ilya raised himself on his elbows, groaning, and realized with a jolt of shock that the stranger he had seen by the river was sitting by the side of his bed.
He fumbled for the sword, but the man said with a curl of the lip, “Leave it.” He twitched the heavy overcoat aside, to show Ilya the gun resting in a shoulder holster. “Anyway, you’re in no condition for a fight.”
Ilya stared at him. The man’s face was as round as the moon; his eyes, embedded in the folds of flesh, were black and liquid. Immediately, Ilya thought:
He is
a volkh, a sorcerer.
He did not know where the thought had come from.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” Ilya asked. His voice was still furred with cigarettes and vodka. To his dismay, it sounded querulous and old.
The
volkh
did not bother to reply. Instead, he said conversationally, “My name is Kovalin. I saw you yesterday afternoon. I watched you puking blood into the snow. I saw your savior, too.” His gaze flickered down to Ilya’s dirty shirt. “She did a good job. You look well enough, for a man who’s been knifed. But you were stupid, all the same. That’s no way to die.”
“Any way is a good way,” Ilya murmured, and began to cough.
“You don’t sound very healthy,” Kovalin mocked. “Perhaps you should take a holiday. Somewhere quiet. Why should you want to die?”
“Don’t we all want what we can’t have?” Ilya said
“Well, I think it will be wonderful in the West,” Gulnara said. She hesitated. “Do you think you’ll get married again?”
Elena nearly said,
Why do you think I’m going?
But it was not altogether true and she did not want to sound desperate.
“I doubt it, Gulnara. I’m on the shelf already. At least I’ve
been
married, I suppose—better that than a
starukha.
”
“Oh, Elena. No one would ever think you were an old maid. And you’re only thirty-five. That’s young over there. Not like here.”
“It’s all right for you, Gulnara. You’re in the best possible position—divorced, with a child.”
“You could have kids, Elena.”
“Gulnara, you know I—”
“They might be able to do something. They have clinics for that sort of thing in the West.” She fell silent for a moment, then went on, “Anyway, there’s more chance to meet people, they say. My friend signed up with a dating agency—she’s writing to a French guy already, and an American. They like Russian women over there. Not so pushy. And an American man would be a better catch than someone here. Or a German, like your sister has. They’re all rich. And they wouldn’t expect you to do all the housework. My friend says she knows an American man who
cooks.
Imagine that.”
“Well, not with a Russian—easier to teach a bear to thread a needle. But Uzbek men cook. They’re supposed to be good in bed, as well.”
“Elena!”
“Well, that’s what they say.”
“But you wouldn’t want to marry a Moslem, would you?” Gulnara, herself Islamic, said doubtfully. “Kazakh men are hopeless.”
“Russians aren’t much better.”
“And Westerners don’t drink so much. They treat women with respect over there.”
Elena sighed. “I like Russian men, though. They can’t
all
be alcoholics. My English isn’t great, though of course I’d try to improve it. I want to come home and have a conversation in my own language, not just sit and simper and flutter my eyelashes.”
“You could make him learn Russian.”
“I suppose so. I’d rather stay here. I’ve never really wanted to go and live abroad. But I’m not going to clean floors for the rest of my life, either.”
They walked on in silence. By the time they reached the park gates, Lenin was long since lost among the trees, and Elena was wondering how much it would cost to sign on with an international dating agency.
Eight
ST. PETERSBURG, 21ST CENTURY
The dream of Samarkand, of Manas, faded. Ilya raised himself on his elbows, groaning, and realized with a jolt of shock that the stranger he had seen by the river was sitting by the side of his bed.
He fumbled for the sword, but the man said with a curl of the lip, “Leave it.” He twitched the heavy overcoat aside, to show Ilya the gun resting in a shoulder holster. “Anyway, you’re in no condition for a fight.”
Ilya stared at him. The man’s face was as round as the moon; his eyes, embedded in the folds of flesh, were black and liquid. Immediately, Ilya thought:
He is
a volkh, a sorcerer.
He did not know where the thought had come from.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” Ilya asked. His voice was still furred with cigarettes and vodka. To his dismay, it sounded querulous and old.
The
volkh
did not bother to reply. Instead, he said conversationally, “My name is Kovalin. I saw you yesterday afternoon. I watched you puking blood into the snow. I saw your savior, too.” His gaze flickered down to Ilya’s dirty shirt. “She did a good job. You look well enough, for a man who’s been knifed. But you were stupid, all the same. That’s no way to die.”
“Any way is a good way,” Ilya murmured, and began to cough.
“You don’t sound very healthy,” Kovalin mocked. “Perhaps you should take a holiday. Somewhere quiet. Why should you want to die?”
“Don’t we all want what we can’t have?” Ilya said
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