Purge by Sofi Oksanen Page A

she could hear was the rush of her own blood, the radio, the ticking of the clock, and the creak of the floor as she crept toward the kitchen door. Would Pasha and Lavrenti be sitting there calmly, drinking tea? Would they be waiting for her? Wouldn’t it be just like them to let her wake up peacefully and come into the kitchen, suspecting nothing? Wouldn’t that be the most diabolical plan, and thus the most desirable, in their minds? They would be leaning against a corner of the table, smug, smoking a cigarette and thumbing through the paper. And they would smile when Zara came into the kitchen. They would have forced Aliide to keep quiet and sit between them, the old woman’s watery eyes wide with terror. Actually, it was hard to imagine such an expression on Aliide’s face.

    Zara pushed against the tightly closed door. It complained loudly as it opened. The kitchen was empty. There was no trace of Pasha and Lavrenti. On the table were Aliide’s recipe book, an open newspaper, and a few krooni in bills. The pigs’ ears were boiling under a cloud of steam. The floor was wet in front of the washbasin. The basin was empty, as was the bathtub, and the slop buckets were full to the brim. Aliide was nowhere to be seen. The outer door swung open and Zara stood staring at it. Was it them?

    Aliide stepped inside.

    “Good morning, Zara. I guess you needed some sleep.” She set a bucket of water on the floor.

    “What’s this? What have you done to your hair?” Zara sat down at the table and rubbed her head. Scratchy stubble, a breeze on her neck.

    The scissors were lying next to the sugar bowl. She grabbed them and started to cut her nails. Ragged halfmoons specked with red dropped onto the oilcloth.

    “We certainly could have thought of a way to dye your hair. Rhubarb would have turned it red.”

    “It doesn’t matter.”

    “Just leave those fingernails be. I have a file here somewhere. We can take care of them properly.”

    “No.”

    “Zara, your husband doesn’t know to look here. Why would he? You could be anywhere. Have some coffee and calm down. I ground up some real coffee beans this morning.”

    She filled Zara’s cup from the percolator and went to lift the pigs’ ears out of the pot with a slotted spoon, glancing at Zara now and then as she wielded the scissors. When she finished her manicure, Zara started to stir the sugar spoon through the large, yellowish crystals. Her fingertips felt naked and clean. The damp whisper of the sugar mixed soothingly with the hum of the refrigerator. Should she try to look as calm as possible? Or should she tell Aliide what kind of a man Pasha really was? Which would make Aliide most likely to help? Or should she try to forget about Pasha for a while and concentrate on Aliide? She should at least try to think clearly.

    “They always find you.”

    “They?”

    “My husband, I mean.”

    “This probably isn’t the first time you’ve run away.”

    Zara’s spoon came to a stop in the sugar.

    “You don’t have to answer.”

    Aliide brought a bowl of pigs’ ears to the table.

    “I must say that you’re in pretty bad shape to be a decoy.”

    “A what?”

    “Don’t play dumb, young lady. A decoy. The pretty young thing who’s sent to find out if there’s anything of value on the premises. Usually they make them lie down in the middle of the road, pretending to be injured, so that cars will stop and then—whoops!—there goes the car. Actually, you should have waited to come until after my daughter has been here.”

    Aliide stopped talking and started to fill up their plates, still glancing at Zara nonchalantly now and then. She was obviously waiting for Zara to say something. Was there a snare hidden in what Aliide had said? Zara mulled over the words, but there didn’t seem to be anything unusual in them. So she asked an easy question.

    “Why is that?”

    Aliide didn’t answer right away. Apparently she had expected Zara to say