12.

Ulyana woke with the feeling that she’d dreamed something wonderful, something magical; she tried to catch the feeling by the tail, and when she did, she realized: it hadn’t been a dream! This new superpower of hers had appeared yesterday, and today it hadn’t gone anywhere; it was still with her. A big thank-you to Uncle Maksim for helping her prove the theorem. Yesterday she’d watched him running around with his ass on fire, and believed in her own strength. Realized her plan could work.

She’d sketched out a draft with the help of ChatGPT, then copied it into her phone’s notes, and then rewritten it by hand so she wouldn’t have to hand him her phone during the conversation. And now Ulyana had a sheet of graph paper folded in half, like the ones they used for school tests, and on it was her composition:

“To the Directorate of the FSB of Russia for Moscow.

Statement.

I, Ulyana Konstantinovna Tsareva, passport number such-and-such, issued by such-and-such on such-and-such date, registered at such-and-such address, wish to report facts of corruption and extortion that I have uncovered at Branch No. 3 of the A. A. Vishnevsky 3rd Central Military Clinical Hospital of the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation, located at: 1 Marshal Biryuzov Street, Odintsovo, Moscow Region.

I hereby declare that the hospital administration, specifically Deputy Chief Physician Artur Ivanovich Kovalev, presumably with the knowledge and participation of Chief Physician Alexey Alexeyevich Timofeyev, is extorting a bribe from me in the amount of 1,000,000 (one million) rubles to register a marriage between me and my fiancé, a participant in the Special Military Operation, who was seriously wounded while carrying out a combat mission and is currently receiving treatment at the above-mentioned Branch No. 3 of the Vishnevsky Central Military Clinical Hospital, Alexander Vitalyevich Lazarenko. Although, as the fiancée of a participant in the Special Military Operation, I am entitled under Article 27 of Federal Law No. 143-FZ “On Acts of Civil Status” to register the marriage on the day I apply, when I made such a request to A. A. Timofeyev, he refused, citing the workload of the registry office and the hospital staff, and later demanded a bribe in exchange for permission and assistance with registering the marriage.

While our fighters, among them my fiancé A. V. Lazarenko, risk their lives and shed blood to achieve the goals of the Special Military Operation, as our president V. V. Putin ordered, people like A. I. Kovalev and A. A. Timofeyev have latched on and are sucking our blood, extorting money from the families of participants in the Special Military Operation. I am pregnant by A. V. Lazarenko and have every right to be registered as his lawful wife so I can raise his child, but A. I. Kovalev is denying me that right. This is outrageous lawlessness at a Ministry of Defense hospital and a flagrant case of corruption.

I request an immediate investigation into A. I. Kovalev and A. A. Timofeyev and that they be punished to the full extent of the law. Attached to this statement are recordings of conversations with the aforementioned individuals and my uterine ultrasound.

Respectfully, U. Tsareva”

She hadn’t managed it by hand on the first try; she’d barely written anything since school, and her fingers were out of practice. She started, messed it up, crumpled the paper, started over. Then she warmed up her hand and did better; in the final version she only made a couple of mistakes in the letters, but that was all right—she traced over them more heavily.

It still looked serious, impressive. Ulyana reread it, and whenever she noticed the letters “FSB” in the heading, a little shiver ran through her body.

Until now Ulyana had never frightened anyone; she didn’t know how. Yesterday she’d learned. And honestly, it felt fucking incredible. Like now she could get anything she wanted in life. It was almost like happiness. Or like three shots of tequila, one after another.

Now Ulyana didn’t give a shit about those Moscow people. She didn’t even say hello to them that morning. Let them scurry about; let them scurry. Let them hate on her; let them hate.

Ulyana ran to the metro, barely touching the pavement.

And she looked at all the passengers on the metro like she owned the place. Many of them, even the men, met her gaze and then curled back into themselves like snails whose feelers had been flicked. Before, Ulyana had often dreamed of becoming invisible; now the others could pretend to be invisible for a change.

Nothing scared her now—not the thought that Sasha’s mother was somewhere on her way over, not the thought that Artur Ivanovich wouldn’t believe her. She could handle anything now; she had the strength for anything. It was such a rush, like a witch on a broomstick.

Ding! Kristinka messaged her: “Guess what.”

Ulyana was so bursting with energy that she called Kris right away. She wanted to share all of it, wanted to plug Kristinka into the electricity too. She started a video call. Kris wasn’t wearing makeup yet, a little puffy from sleep—or from crying. She sat in her kitchen in an oversized men’s T-shirt.

“Heyyyy!”

“How are you?” Kristinka smiled at her.

“I’m great.”

“Oh! Great? How’s Sasha?” Kris asked.

“It’ll all be fine,” Ulyana said confidently. “They operated on him.”

Because she could share her power with him, too. Make the doctors cure him.

“Well, that’s great. And me, I, um… I found out something.”

“What is it?”

“Anatoly Sergeyevich really did close the salon and put it up for sale. He’s going bankrupt. With all the crap in it, all the equipment.”

“No way!”

“That’s how it is. It’s fucked, basically.”

“Well. That’s what he gets for firing us all.”

“Pretty much.”

“Remember how he yelled at us back then?”

“How could I forget? And no severance pay, either.”

“So karma got him, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“And, um… How much is he selling it for?”

“Three seven hundred, I think. Three million. A hell of a lot.”

“Yeah, a hell of a lot, obviously… But it was a decent business.”

“Used to be,” Kris reminded her, giggling.

Ulyana suddenly imagined herself coming back from Moscow a winner, a different person, and buying the massage salon she used to work at. Not to sit there staring at the chemical-blue ocean all day, but to own the place. Now that would be a twist. What a twist that would be!

“How about you, though?” she asked Kristinka. “What about your guy?”

“Let him burn in hell,” she tried to smile.

“Amen,” Ulyana smiled back. “Is that his T-shirt?”

“Whose else?”

“You’re my little bunny.”

“And you’re mine.”

“What about work?”

“Well… We’re looking.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll fuck them all up yet. Fuck them and leave them high and dry,” Ulyana promised her, then kissed the screen goodbye.

She put her phone down and looked out the window. The bus was stuck in traffic. They were sitting at the interchange with the MKAD. A million cars stood in one direction, and another million in the other. The broken air conditioner sucked exhaust fumes from the street into the cabin. The sweet smoke made her nauseous.

She could look Anatoly Sergeyevich right in the face and say: I’m buying your salon—and he’d be fit to be tied, guaranteed. And Ulyana could still become one of their own in their impregnable Moscow—easy! And as for Vologda, if she went back there, even more so. It was obvious: she could ride all of Vologda’s ass like a queen.

Her head had hurt even in her sleep, and when she opened her eyes, it still hurt. But Tatyana got up exactly when her alarm went off, at five-thirty in the morning; she didn’t let herself go back to sleep. That was that.

She wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around her flabby upper arm and pumped blood into it with the rubber bulb. Vitalya, all rumpled, sat with his stethoscope—they were taking it the old-fashioned way—and peered through his spit-speckled glasses at the dial like a learned macaque. They got 170 over 110. Tatyana didn’t like that and made him take it again. They did, and got the same thing.

“It’s high, Tanya,” Vitalya looked at her plaintively over his monkey glasses. “Careful, you might have another spell.”

“I’m going anyway,” she answered firmly. “Or she’ll leave us out on the street.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll go with you,” he decided. “You’re not going by yourself on my watch.”

“That’s the last thing we need. We need money for everything,” Tatyana objected. “What about the kids?”

“They’ll manage on their own.”

Tatyana looked at Vitalya, at the pale hair wreathing his bald spot, his watery eyes, his sparse teeth yellowed by cigarettes and tea, his brows knitted in earnestness, and suddenly felt grateful to him. The feeling was unfamiliar, forgotten. It was scary to go like this all by herself, into the unknown. Vitalya would be about as much help as milk from a goat, but at least she wouldn’t be alone.

“Fine by me,” she said grumpily. “Get ready, then.”

Anyway, Svetka hadn’t gotten her any tickets the other day. She had to do everything herself. Vitalya didn’t know how to book them by phone, so they went to the station together to buy them at the ticket windows. They ended up getting there way too early. Well, they sat down in a café, and Vitalya got himself a beer.

“So, how did the operation go, then?” he asked. “No news?”

“I can’t get through. They don’t answer in intensive care.” Tatyana pulled his bottle toward her and took a big gulp herself: bitter, cold. “Well, we’ll be there soon, and they’ll tell us.”

“Tanya… Maybe you shouldn’t have that… with alcohol. Water would be better.”

“I know.”

Fat flies crawled across the table, drinking the beer pooled in little puddles, too. You shooed them away, and a second later they landed again. Tatyana flicked out her hand and caught one right in midair. Caught it and crushed it. She tossed it aside and wiped her palm on her sundress. It twitched on the floor for a while, buzzed, then got tired and died. The other flies learned nothing from it.

The train pulled in, and she and Vitalya hurried to their carriage. They climbed aboard and sat down. Vitalya started looking out the window; he found that interesting. Tatyana picked up her phone again. She opened her chat with Ulyanka. The girl hadn’t deigned to write anything else. It had all been left hanging at “bitch.”

And she is a bitch, Tatyana told herself firmly. Did you raise him, then? Did you nurse him at your breast? Did you nurse him through rubella, paint his chicken-pox blisters with green antiseptic, deal with his endless bouts of bronchitis all through kindergarten? Did you put mustard plasters on him? Did you sit and get him ready for school, teach him Mikhalkov’s “Uncle Styopa” by heart in second grade? You didn’t, did you! When he broke bones jumping off garages, you dragged that idiot around to hospitals to make sure they healed right. You fought with him, got into it with him when he couldn’t pass his school exams in eighth grade. You clawed him away from the thugs in the neighborhood when he started hanging around with them and smoking dope. And when the cops held him for three days and beat him until there wasn’t a spot on him that wasn’t bruised, who bailed him out? Certainly not you! No, you probably just swooped in when everything was ready-made, like a vulture. Lured the boy in with that pussy of yours—big deal, as if that’s anything special—and he wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice in that department, so of course he was glad. No way. We raised him, we brought him up, we fed him, we put sense into his head. We’re the ones who get to decide. To you he’s a catch, someone you grabbed so you wouldn’t be left on the shelf, but to us he’s our own flesh and blood, our Sasha, our hope and support. And we sent him off, yes, to serve, because we couldn’t manage anymore; otherwise we’d have just spent what little time we had left in that shack. Live out our days on a pension, or what? You hunch your back over your whole life, and you never get any gratitude. And what, with her blood pressure and her attacks, is Tatyana supposed to do—dig potatoes so she won’t starve in her old age? Is that how it’s supposed to be? Back in Soviet times, they didn’t abandon people, they didn’t ask you for money for doctors, they didn’t charge so much for medicine, and you could live at least halfway decently on a pension. But what are old people supposed to do now? At least they remember the military, they’re grateful to them. Look, Putin’s always talking about them, saying they’re defenders, and he backs it up with money, too. That’s how it should be. That’s what the state is for. We live in it, after all; we raise our boys for it, bring up heroes for it, so they’ll serve the country, protect its borders, defend us here. Sasha went, too. He went for us, not for that slut, but so we could have a peaceful old age, for his mother and father. At least he did what he was supposed to. What would he have done as a civilian? Gotten himself hooked on drugs, probably, and that’s it. And she wouldn’t be rushing to marry him if it weren’t for all that money; she wouldn’t even have gotten pregnant, we know the type. No way! You know what? Go to hell!”

Vitalya looked away from the window. He looked at Tatyana. Hesitated.

“Remember, Tanya, when Sasha fell off the garages?”

“He didn’t fall. He jumped.”

“Well, jumped.”

“And?”

“They were playing war, you know. With the boys from that building. He had that white toy gun with suction cups.”

“As if I don’t remember. And who took him to the hospital?”

Vitalya scratched his stubble and thought back.

“You took him to the hospital. But I brought him home from the street. He was hopping on one leg, holding on to me, you know, whimpering. I even told him, ‘Don’t cry. Be a man.’ Then I remembered—where’s your gun, Sanya? And he goes, ‘Lost it.’ ‘Let’s go look for it?’ ‘I’m not going.’ ‘What do you mean, you’re not going? That gun cost money!’ ‘I’m not going, Dad. It’s a stupid game.’ That’s how it was.”

The carriage had heated up in the sun, and the window wouldn’t open—a modern train, with air conditioning, except the air conditioner wasn’t working either. They were riding like they were in a death wagon. The old carriages were better. The conductor came in to check the tickets again. Tatyana complained to her about the heat. The woman just shrugged and offered them mineral water. They ordered some to wash down their pills.

“I do remember that white toy gun,” Tatyana panted, fanning herself with the menu from the dining car. “Then he went and found it. That gun was lying around at Dankin Vinogradov’s house.”

But when they announced the stop “Hospital,” all Ulyana’s bravado suddenly drained away. And suddenly her plan seemed idiotic, and she had no backup plan. That morning she’d written to Artur Ivanovich that she’d gathered everything, that some good people had been found; she’d asked for an appointment, and he’d made time for her and reassured her that Sasha was alive. But she’d come with no money, carrying only a sheet of graph paper. What if he didn’t believe her? Or said, Go ahead, send your statement wherever you like; let them deal with it. And then what? How long would they take to investigate? They must have an incredible flood of cases right now… Terrorists, Ukrainian saboteurs, all those foreign agents; they don’t have time for everyone. By the time Ulyana’s turn came around… And now she’d fall out with Artur Ivanovich, and the chief physician too; how would she sort it all out afterward?

Her legs began to buckle, like the legs of a stuffed toy; it was hard to walk on them, and she wanted to lean against the wall and sit there. And she still had to climb the stairs to Artur Ivanovich’s office. But she had to go there; there was nowhere else to go. It was either this or go back to Vologda with a bare dick and in pieces. So she trudged along on her stuffed-toy legs.

Ulyana waited to be called, started sweating, and as she waited, as she looked at the other women’s exhausted faces, all her last scraps of bravado drained away with the sweat. She felt nauseous. She’d hoped she might get lucky, that her pregnancy would get through all this without any of that.

“Tsareva!”

Ulyana shook herself. This was it! She couldn’t let him see that she was having doubts—not for a second. If she didn’t believe again herself that she could grind him into powder, then Artur Ivanovich definitely wouldn’t believe her. This was exactly the kind of thing he was the chief physician’s deputy for—the human side of things. He was supposed to understand.

She squared her broad shoulders. Remembered how Uncle Maksim had been twisted into knots yesterday, how Aunt Marina had fawned, thought about Anatoly Sergeyevich and Vologda, and charged herself up again. She went in without even knocking.

“Good afternoon,” Artur Ivanovich greeted her with a warm, familiar smile. “As it happens, I was just asking about your Lazarenko.”

“How is he?”

“Well, they don’t recommend waking him just yet. It was a major operation. So it all fits together. You’re doing the right thing. You can be sure of that.”

“I see.”

“Well, good.”

He went to the door again and checked the lock again. Maybe it was some kind of ritual. He sat down opposite her.

“Did you manage it?”

“I did. A million, right?”

“That’s right. It’s in the bag, yes? Just leave the little bag under the desk, that’s all. And then, you know, come back here around two or three. The registry office staff will come by, and we’ll register you. Not the same day, of course, but given how busy we are… Agreed?”

Artur Ivanovich was all warmth now, soft and gentle. He should have been a pediatrician, not working in a military hospital.

“Mine isn’t in a bag,” Ulyana said. “Here it is.”

She took a folded sheet of paper out of her purse and handed it to him. Artur Ivanovich frowned and hesitated, but took the paper. He unfolded it. And as soon as he saw the letterhead, his face went numb and smoothed out, as if from Botox. All the little rays around his eyes went dark.

“What nonsense,” he said when he’d finished reading.

And he coughed—it seemed something had caught in his throat; he had to. Ulyana noticed and felt a little better.

“I’ve recorded everything on my phone. All the conversations. With you and with Alexey Alexeyevich.”

Then he took her letter and tore it in half, then in half again, then again. He tore it up and tossed it into the wastebasket. He smiled at Ulyana. But that smile was all over the place.

“I just wrote it out like that to make it easier for you to read. They’ve got it on their website now—you can submit it right on the FSB website. There’s a special little window where you paste in the text, and you can attach files directly,” she explained.

“And what makes you think,” Artur Ivanovich said in that same sweet, kindly tone, only hoarse again, “that you have better connections in the FSB than we do? Who do you think they’ll listen to? What do you think?”

Ulyana shrugged. She didn’t look away; she drilled Artur Ivanovich with her eyes. She felt all the sludge he’d stirred up rising from the bottom of her again—just like Uncle Maksim had yesterday and the day before. A cruel excitement was waking up in her.

“Here’s what I know,” she sang. “You may have all the connections you like, but the state is on my side here. I’m in the right. My fiancé is dying, and you’re shaking me down for money. He went to war. No two ways about it.”

“No two ways about it? You think so?” Artur Ivanovich shook his head. “You have a pretty poor grasp of the whole situation, dear.”

“Well, I’ll go, then. I’ll send it.” Ulyana stood up. “I don’t have the money anyway, so I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“You do. Believe me, you have something to lose.”

He’d said that differently now, not kindly. Ulyana guessed what he meant and waved her phone in front of Artur Ivanovich.

“By the way, this conversation’s being recorded too.”

She started working the door lock. Her ears were pounding; bitter saliva filled her mouth—she was about to throw up. The key kept slipping from her hands. Time had stopped.

“Wait,” he ordered.

“What?” Ulyana turned around.

“I need to consult with someone. Maybe we can find a way. As an exception,” he said slowly, as if continuing to think at the same time. “Why don’t you… take a walk around the grounds for now. Don’t leave. We’ll see if we can still work something out.”

And just like that his voice warmed up again; once more he wanted to help Ulyana. The little ray-like wrinkles around his eyes smiled again.

“Just don’t go anywhere, all right? Ulyana Konstantinovna. Otherwise we’ll have to hunt all over for you later!”

It was literally as if there were a coffin standing in the middle of the living room, with a well-dressed corpse lying in it, and you couldn’t joke or talk loudly in its presence. That was the atmosphere in the apartment that morning.

Before venturing out to the bathroom, Maksim listened: who was up already, who was in the hall, who was in the kitchen? He didn’t want to run into anyone—not Ulyana, not Marina, not Kirill. Kirill especially, after that awkward slap Maksim had landed on him. He was horribly ashamed, all the more because he’d never allowed himself to do anything to his son except symbolic little spanks when he was very young. And Kirill’s face kept appearing before him, frightened and hurt, when he’d smacked him across it. Some kind of blackout had come over him.

He and Marina hadn’t spoken since then; they’d spent the whole night beside each other in silence. By morning, it had begun to seem they would never learn how to talk to each other again. And yet Maksim couldn’t make himself take the first step. Instead, he locked himself in the bathroom again and dragged out the time, waiting for them to finish chewing everything over in the kitchen, while he pored over Mediazona and Meduza. Read and read and read until he couldn’t stomach another word.

“Easy for all of you to sit there and talk shit,” he said aloud, and flung his phone onto the bath mat.

Someone knocked on the door with theatrical anguish. Maksim was almost glad; at least it gave him a way to break off this stupid game of silent treatment.

“Can a man take a shit in peace?!” he shouted.

“You’re not the only one who lives here, you know,” Marina answered coldly from the other side of the door.

Well, there. The ice had broken. He could come out now.

But he still couldn’t bring himself to look at Kirill, and Kirill didn’t want to meet his father’s eyes either. He seemed hunched over today; all his good posture had somehow vanished. Maksim noticed, and suddenly felt like crying: it was as if, when he was a boy, he’d worked and worked to build a magnificent, enormous sandcastle, then turned awkwardly and knocked down its tallest, most elegant tower himself.

He sighed.

“Kirill,” Maksim said. “I want to apologize to you.”

“Okay,” Kirill replied, furiously scrolling through Instagram reels.

“Let’s… Let me give you a ride, huh? Where are you going? We can go together.”

“You have to go to work. Don’t bother.”

“I’ll be late. I’m the school principal, after all.”

“What?”

“It’s a joke.”

“It’s out of your way. The metro’s easier for me.”

“It’s not out of my way.”

Kirill was quiet for a moment, smacked his lips. Drew air in through his nostrils. But he still didn’t look at his father.

“Okay, then.”

They got in the car, backed out, and drove along Leninsky Prospekt, through the hurricane-battered city. Orange-clad municipal workers swarmed over fallen trees, hacking them into pieces, scrubbing away the dirt with shampoo, hurrying so that by lunchtime, at the very latest, everything in Moscow would be perfect again.

Kirill said nothing. Party clips flickered on his phone; curvy young women in swimsuits writhed provocatively. Now and then he paused to listen silently to subtitled stand-up compilations, but didn’t laugh.

“Well, you could also maybe… Ease up a little on all this endless partying of yours, honestly,” Maksim said awkwardly.

“And what, does it bother someone or something?” Kirill didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “You, maybe? Fine, I’ll move out.”

“That’s not what this is about!”

“Then what is it about?”

“We’re worried about you, you know… Your mother and I.”

“And what could happen to me, I wonder?” Kirill stared at him.

“I just don’t understand this obsession with clubs, bars… Maybe you can explain it to me? You’re absolutely fixated.”

Kirill smirked and buried his face in his phone again.

“It’s just life, Dad. My life. Can I live it?”

“Don’t you think about how irritating it is to certain people? The ones over there… at the war.”

“Do I have to think about them now, too? Offending the feelings of SVO participants? Are you serious?”

“No, I…” Maksim didn’t know how to get the words out.

“What, are you talking about Ulyana?” Kirill guessed.

Maksim gave an uncertain nod and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“What’s she even going to do?”

“Anything, Kirill. She’s not in her right mind, understand? Her situation is such that… How do I put this… She’s literally come unhinged. So why, why did you tell her about your draft notice?”

Kirill finally looked away from his phone. Someone was still mugging at him on the little screen.

“What, did she terrorize you or something?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?” Kirill smiled. “What else has changed?”

“Maybe I just want to understand—what’s so damn great about it over there? What? And don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Kirill turned to him and looked at him like he was a stranger.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Sit at home and shake with fear? Dad! Don’t you understand that’s exactly what they want? They want us either to fight, or to heil, or to sit at home, scared shitless and getting ready. They want us not to live, for fuck’s sake! And living is all we can do!”

Maksim took his right hand off the wheel, reached over to Kirill and touched his wrist—but Kirill pulled away.

There are these Chinese cockroach traps: a little box smeared with something sweet. The roaches crawl inside, get stuck, and are poisoned there. Handy trap. Once it’s full, you throw it out. Ulyana had one in the basement, in the massage parlor; she’d bought it. And now, looks like she’s crawled into one herself. “Don’t go anywhere,” Ulyana Konstantinovna had said. “The main thing is, don’t crawl off somewhere, or we’ll have to go looking for you later. Who do you think has better connections in the FSB?”

So Ulyana sat and waited to see how it would end, right in the hospital courtyard, on an empty bench beneath a sprawling fir. There was nowhere to run from them anyway, and if they decided to crush her, they’d find her and crush her wherever she went. No, the opposite: she had to stay right in plain sight, get under their skin, show them Ulyana wasn’t scared, that she was crazy. Let them be the ones to think twice!

Everything would be fine.

She just had to believe in herself. Look, the moment Ulyana started believing in herself, the world began to take shape according to her wishes, like warm plasticine, just as reality transurfing said. She only had to manifest that everything would work out for her. That Artur Ivanovich would crack and give way, that they’d get married today, that Sasha would be discharged soon, that they’d have enough money for a one-room apartment in Odintsovo, that somehow they’d settle in here, and call her mother over, and the army would give him prosthetic legs, and they’d start living a more or less normal human life. Sasha would be surprised, of course, when he woke up to find that he and Ulyana were already officially married, but he’d agreed to it himself, so there was no real trickery involved. He’d even be happy, Sasha would; he’d been so pleased when he saw the ultrasound, saw his own heir on it.

It was hard to manifest anything without pictures, so Ulyana cheated a little to make it easier. She opened CIAN and poked around, looking for apartments in her price range. She found one—a studio in a new development, not in Odintsovo proper but a little farther out. The whole neighborhood was new, the playgrounds were out of this world. There was no renovation, though, just bare concrete, but the view was of a green belt. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to picture Sasha in a wheelchair by the window—and it just wouldn’t work; Sasha wouldn’t materialize. So she swiped to another apartment. This one was old and beat-up, obviously left behind by alcoholics, but the floor space was much more respectable, with a view of the courtyard; Khrushchev-era blocks stuck up around it, so this one was Khrushchev-era too, well, never mind. At least it had a separate bedroom, and another little room, sort of a living room. That meant Sasha could, say, stay in the bedroom, while Ulyana could use the living room if she had to; at least they’d have somewhere to get away from each other, which made it a bit easier after all. In a one-room apartment she’d have nowhere to go but the kitchen, and in a studio there’d be nowhere at all, however trendy the name. She tried to manifest their family life in this Khrushchev-era apartment, but Sasha still wouldn’t appear—just some kind of bundle wrapped in sheets on the bed, like in a horror movie. Ulyana opened her eyes quickly, afraid it might come true. All right, then, here was an apartment not far from the hospital itself, a one-room place, but ready to move into this very minute, right after discharge, and on a high floor. And outside the window—look, you could see the hospital itself: there was the prefabricated concrete fence topped with barbed wire, the checkpoints, and the main building. There was a loggia; she could wheel Sasha out there to get some air while she was with the baby… But Sasha stubbornly refused to appear for her; he didn’t want this apartment, he wouldn’t fit on the loggia. Ulyana felt a hollow tug beneath her ribs. Before, looking at apartments had been like chewing sweet gum: her stomach might be empty, but at least she had the taste. Now something had gone wrong; her imagination was out of order, and the empty sweetness was making her nauseous. Probably morning sickness after all.

She jumped up and ran around the courtyard as if trying to break free of the poisoned treacle, but her little feet sank in, tangled, stuck together. What were they waiting for? Tatyana must already be on her way, rattling along in a train, and would soon be at Yaroslavsky Station—or maybe she’d arrived already, maybe she was on a bus by now, or even in a taxi, coming here to snatch everything away from Ulyana at the last minute, to make it all worthless. No, no, she couldn’t think about that, or she’d manifest that too. Tatyana wouldn’t get the chance to do anything; everything would go right now, everything would be just as Ulyana needed it to be.

She said aloud, “Let everything go my way,” squeezed her eyes shut as tight as she could, and began humming softly, the way she used to as a child when she made a wish. She hummed like that for a minute or so, and then her phone started ringing. She jumped.

It was her mother.

“Ulyash…”

“This isn’t a good time, Ma. I’m waiting for a call.”

“How are you doing there, sweetheart?” Her voice was so gentle—almost too gentle.

“So-so. Sasha’s not doing great.”

“Oh dear. Listen… Aunt Marina called me. She says you had a fight with her.”

“We haven’t had a fight, Ma. They decided to lecture Uncle Maksim and me about life.”

“She says you were threatening to file a report against them… because of Kirill. You didn’t say that, sunshine, did you?”

Ulyana fell silent. Her first thought was to tell her mother it had been a joke. Just to calm her down, because her mother’s voice wasn’t stern, but pleading, pitiful. Then she thought about it: this was them—her aunt and uncle—trying to pressure her through her mother, through her sisterly affection for Aunt Marina, through their childhood friendship; trying to creep into Ulyana’s heart in her mother’s coaxing voice, make her feel sorry for them and ashamed, soften her up and crush her. Her mother hadn’t even managed to say anything like that, and Ulyana had already heard it all. Heard the main thing: they were scared, her aunt and uncle had taken her seriously, and now they were asking for negotiations through her mother. They’d swallowed the little hook, and it was chafing their insides. They wanted to go back to the past, when they had neither fear nor doubts. When they’d been more important and more powerful. Smartasses.

Yeah, fuck that.

Why let them off the hook? Let them stew. It felt good, watching them scurry around in a panic. It felt good knowing they were tiptoeing through their own grand apartment. And for trying to use her mother to sneak in, those bitches deserved an even harsher punishment.

“Well, I did say it.”

“Oh, Ulyash, come on! They’re family! How can you do this? You’re living with them, after all…”

“That’s how,” Ulyana cut her off. “I said it, Ma. I did. And do you know what it’s called, what she’s doing to you? It’s called manipulation. Because do you know what we really are to them? Stupid. We’re hicks. We’re shit. As long as they can pity us, they’re more or less nice to us. But the second we rise just a little—then it’s all, fuck you. You, please, stay friends. Sisters and all that. I don’t feel like it anymore.”

“Ulyash, sunshine…”

“Fuck that.”

“I’m asking you as your mother… As your mother…”

“See? See that?! Crafty, conniving bitches!”

“Ulyash…”

“No! Not Ulyash! Do you even understand what I’m dealing with here?! Are you with them or with me?! Don’t you even want to ask what’s happening with Sasha, with the wedding?”

“I’m with you, with you… How is he?”

“Shitty!”

She hung up on her mother. It felt strange. It had been a tantrum that came not from the heart but from the mind, one she’d conjured up inside herself like demons. But it was useful to her now; it had pumped some air back into Ulyana, who’d been deflating. And her mother… Where was she going to go? If it came to it, she’d definitely choose Ulyana over the Moscow relatives.

She slipped her phone into her purse like a gun into its holster. She paced around the courtyard in feigned outrage. Then it rang again. This time it was Artur Ivanovich!

She fumbled it out of her purse and accidentally dropped it on the asphalt. It landed flat; Ulyana was afraid the screen would shatter, but she picked it up and it was intact. Thank God, a good sign.

“Ulyana Konstantinovna? We discussed your situation with the management,” he said. His voice was no longer syrupy, just flat and businesslike.

“I’m listening.”

“Here’s what we’ve decided. We can’t commit a breach of our duties, as you’re asking us to. We’re obviously not prepared to register you and Lazarenko while he’s unconscious, and the registry office staff would never agree to it either.”

Her heart immediately sped up, like she’d launched into a hundred-meter sprint from a standing start.

“But why, when you could have, didn’t you…” She exhaled, inhaled. “Fine, then I’ll do what we discussed, Artur Ivanovich.”

“Let me finish first, all right? As I’ve already explained, we won’t break the law to satisfy your… your request. Lazarenko is currently under sedation, on midazolam and fentanyl, given his spinal surgery, to reduce the strain on his central nervous system. We can administer antidotes to both drugs, and he’ll come round for a while. Then you can marry him in accordance with the law. Would that work for you?”

“Yes! Of course, yes… Thank you, Artur Ivanovich!”

“Then send me a scan of your passport, and I’ll forward it to the registry office staff so they can prepare the documents… But I should warn you about two things. First, these drugs have a powerful analgesic effect, so when Lazarenko comes round, he’ll be in pain. Second, we’ll be bringing him out of sedation earlier than is recommended for proper postoperative recovery. That’s bad for his blood pressure, among other things. We’d refuse you in ordinary circumstances, Ulyana Konstantinovna, but this is an unusual situation… As we know. So… In short, this will be under your personal responsibility.”

Ulyana wiped her forehead. The oppressive heat was coming back. Yesterday’s downpour hadn’t helped Moscow breathe again.

“Can I call you back in five minutes and let you know?”

“Five minutes, all right. The registry office staff have an opening for now. After that, you’ll have only yourself to blame. We’ve done what we could.”

He hung up. The clock was ticking.

She could just slip through the checkpoint, hop on a bus, get to the nearest metro station, take it to Komsomolskaya, emerge from underground at the Square of Three Stations, buy a ticket at the railway ticket office for the next train, and disappear from their Moscow forever, as if none of this had ever happened to her. Artur Ivanovich had offered her a solution: take it or leave it; they wouldn’t hold it against her.

Ulyana fidgeted with her phone, mindlessly tapping various icons. Then she did this: she called Tatyana Nikolayevna. The phone rang and rang, and then she finally answered.

“Why are you calling me, you little bitch?”

“How are you getting here, Tatyana-Nikolayevna? Are you on your way?”

“It’s none of your business whether I’m coming or not!”

Ulyana was quiet, listening. It was almost as if she could hear the train wheels clacking.

“Ulyanka!”

“Yes, Tatyana-Nikolayevna?”

“Don’t you dare, understand? Do you have a conscience or not?”

“He’s unconscious right now, Tatyana-Nikolayevna,” Ulyana said calmly. “They don’t register marriages when someone’s unconscious.”

“You’d better not trick him, I swear,” she said, panting. “I’ll curse you. You mark my words.”

“All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” Ulyana promised.

That had been a nice conversation. She hadn’t even felt like yelling at her. The weak ones are the ones who pant and squeal. Our Tanya is crying loudly, she’s dropped her little ball in the river. Go ahead, curse me, Tanyush. You’re right here in the palm of my hand. Bitch.

Her hands started vibrating again, electricity running through them. Her legs instantly turned springy. Ulyana remembered why she was here and what she had to do. All that remained was to ask her mother’s advice, check in with her.

She called, but her mother didn’t answer. Was she offended? Who was supposed to be offended here?!

All right, then. It didn’t matter anymore.

It was all decided anyway.