14.

They barely let Tatyana and Vitaly through the checkpoint. They couldn’t find Sasha in the hospital records, and she had to make a scene. They called somewhere, checked something, then waved them through. Fine, go on, since you’re his mother.

At the admissions desk they pulled up his file and said the patient was in intensive care. Tatyana crossed the courtyard toward the ward and spotted Ulyanka right in the middle of it.

She was sitting alone on a bench, a thin folder on her knees, a cigarette pinched between her fingers, staring across the path at the trash bin opposite. People hurried all around her, but Ulyanka was frozen, like a photograph. As Tatyana walked over, she didn’t take a single drag; the thin cigarette burned down for nothing. Her eyes were plastic, doll-like, stupid. Tatyana stood over her, hands on her hips.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?!”

Ulyana looked at her lazily, without the slightest interest.

“You made it?”

“Listen here. Those marriage papers of yours are all a sham, that’s what. You’ve got the boy under your thumb. And look at him, pumped full of drugs… I’m going straight in there now and filing for divorce.”

Ulyana shrugged.

“You’re all saying the same thing.”

“Sasha shed blood, he was at the front, he defended his country, so that some skank like you, you parasite, could latch on to him? He fought for us, for his family…”

“I’m his family,” Ulyana said, slow and dazed. “Me and the baby. Why are you waving the Motherland at me? He shed blood for us. For his own future. But none of that matters now. You can’t undo a damn thing. It was all done in front of witnesses, in front of doctors. He was fully conscious, and we both agreed. And I won’t give you a divorce.”

Ulyanka had become someone else entirely. Impenetrable. She looked right through Tatyana, still staring at that trash bin. The cigarette butt burned out and fell from her fingers. Tatyana was at a loss: her trusty compass, the one that always showed her whom she could boss around and whom she had to fawn over, had gone haywire, spinning. But she still bared her teeth.

“If you won’t do this the nice way, it’ll be done my way. I’ll go to him, to Sasha. He won’t disobey his mother to her face. Just watch—you’ll end up with nothing.”

“They won’t let you see him. Go on, I’m heading home,” Ulyana said, getting up. “Bye, Uncle Vitalik.”

“Bye, Ulyan.”

“Wait!” Tatyana’s guts told her not to let her go anywhere.

Was she really going to divorce them now? If this one dug in her heels, would it have to go through court? And she was pregnant too—whose side would the court take? And it seemed Ulyanka had figured something out about women’s power, something special, while she’d been hanging around Moscow with them. She’d managed to twist Sasha around so thoroughly that he wouldn’t think twice about talking back to his mother. She’d lost her fear.

“What now?”

Tatyana sat down on the bench; she couldn’t stay on her feet any longer. She softened her voice.

“Why are we fighting, you and me, Ulyan? What are we fighting over? There’ll be enough for you, and enough for us, too.”

“Enough of what?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t understand! Honestly!”

“I don’t understand, Tatyana Nikolayevna. Explain it to me.”

How had she underestimated Ulyanka so badly? As if shouting would get her nowhere now, or tears, or threats. And Tatyana felt something else, too: Ulyanka was only just coming into her prime, while she and Vitalik had already bloomed and were now withering. She’d be better off making a deal with her, amicably.

It was a shame about the brick cottage, where she could have put all her charges up in separate rooms; a shame about the whole life she’d dreamed up. She’d sketched it out in a rush, but it had turned out sweet. So beautiful Tatyana would never even have dared imagine it, if not for the SMO. And she’d gone and got her hopes up for nothing.

“What is it you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you cook all this up, getting married and all? What are you trying to get out of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, did you find yourself an apartment or what?” Tatyana guessed.

“Or what.”

“Well, how much do you need for an apartment? How much, three million? Four?”

Ulyana shrugged. Tatyana hurried on. She’d already worked all the figures out beforehand; the train ride had given her just enough time to recalculate everything properly.

“Now, think about it. The presidential payment for his injury—that’ll be three million. Right? Right. There’s another million for disability; we’ve got Group One, they’ll definitely give it to us. Four. Then the insurance payout—I checked, that’s another two million, military insurance. And there’ll be a lump-sum discharge payment, too. Almost another three and a half million.”

Ulyana covered her mouth with her hand, as if yawning.

“Four, plus two, plus three and a half—that’s nine already. Enough for an apartment for you, and enough for us, too. You’re entitled to a third of the whole lot, that’s three million. And your father and I get six, right, Vitaly? That’s all.”

“And how are you dividing it up like that, Tatyana Nikolayevna?”

“How? Like this.”

“Isn’t Sasha supposed to decide for himself who gets his money? He’s the one who fought.”

Ulyana said it all somehow indifferently and lazily, as if there were no argument, nothing to argue about. As if it weren’t a life being decided, just a school math problem.

“Ulyanka… I’m talking to you like an adult here. And what do I get from you? Vitalya! Where’s our Valocordin?”

“I don’t understand why I get a third,” she said, shaking her head.

“You’re one, we’re two—that’s how it works under every law, it’s written everywhere. We’ve got two more kids to support until they get on their feet, but never mind that, fine…”

“There are two of us, too,” Ulyana said. “Me and the baby. It should be split in half. Two of you and two of us.”

“But the baby isn’t here yet! We have to count the people who’ll be there on the day the money’s paid out!”

The baby isn’t here yet, and maybe there won’t be one at all. You smoke like a chimney, you eat raw fish, and you probably hit the bottle, too. How are you supposed to raise a baby?

“You don’t want a grandchild?” Ulyana said slowly, sounding exactly like she was stoned.

“Me?”

Tatyana hesitated. She’d never been good at lying to someone’s face; that wasn’t how she got things done. Ulyanka had put the question to her the way she herself tried not to put it to herself. And a gallery of images flashed through her head, blurred by a short exposure: the cottage and a comfortable life, or somebody else’s grandchild; six million or four; just paying off the mortgage and finishing the renovations, or having a little more life for herself, too. But it wasn’t just her child, it was Sasha’s, too—and would he have any more? Well, he wouldn’t, but Svetka would, Svetka wouldn’t waste any time with that, and this other idiot was still growing up, and she’d never get another chance like this. Poor Sasha, but she felt sorry for herself, too; besides, this was for his sake as well. That slut would squeeze the money out of him and then vanish, never to be seen again, but a mother wouldn’t abandon her own son. She’d have her own little room, and someone to look after her, if only she had the means. She tossed the scraps of thought into a pot and cooked it all up in ten seconds. There, soup’s ready.

“Well, it’s just…”

“I see,” Ulyana swallowed, as if something had stuck in her throat. “The numbers don’t add up, do they? So, Tatyana Nikolayevna. It’s nice, of course, that you’ve already worked it all out for yourself. But you’re going to have to… recalculate.”

She swayed, tried to cover her mouth again, then stepped onto the lawn and doubled over. Some green, foul stuff came out of her; it smelled sour. Her body convulsed, she groaned, trying to catch her breath, and another wave hit her right away.

Vitaly panicked and rushed over, wanting to give Ulyanka some water from his bottle, but she just couldn’t stop.

“Maybe we should get a doctor? You poisoned yourself, or something?”

“No, don’t… I don’t need a doctor. It’s just… morning sickness.”

At last she took the bottle from him and rinsed her mouth. She straightened up, and she was all green herself.

“Why would I have to recalculate?” Tatyana asked warily.

“The sums come out differently. Sasha’s dead.”

There was nothing else to do after they took Sasha away but call intensive care and ask how he was. Now she was his lawful wife, so they answered her. And now they had told her he was dead. A hemorrhage, intracranial, and sepsis, too, something like that. She asked them to repeat it. They said the same thing.

She’d smoked a whole pack by the time Tatyana Nikolayevna found her. She didn’t know where to go. It was too early to go to the morgue. She didn’t want to go home. So she had nowhere to go. She sat in the courtyard, watching the soldiers who were still alive. They walked around, smoked, talked, laughed. Someone sat there crying; his mother had come to visit.

She felt terribly sick. Inside her—somewhere between her stomach and her throat—some unknown fucking thing had taken hold, rolling from side to side, winding up her nerves, growing bigger, squeezing both her airways and her esophagus: she couldn’t swallow anything, couldn’t puke it out. A flood of salty-bitter saliva was already rising in her mouth—she thought she’d finally be able to get some relief, but it didn’t want to come out. It wanted to keep eating Ulyana from the inside.

You couldn’t even hold out.

Hold out till after the wedding.

And then there was this huge emptiness. She’d done everything she’d planned to do, but she’d forgotten why she’d done it. The wind stirred the leaves; the trees seemed alive. The world made a sound: apparently, before this she’d only been able to hear the muttering in her own head, but now all these hospital sounds had come through. Miserable sounds.

Tatyana arrived, like a dream. She started pushing her own line, and at first Ulyana couldn’t even figure out why she was going on about all this. Then she realized—the woman didn’t know yet. And at first she didn’t tell her, just out of spite, because Tatyana was so ridiculous. But it didn’t turn out to be much fun. When Tatyana started explaining her math on her fingers, Ulyana suddenly saw herself in a mirror. A warped one, though not warped at all. The same square meters, the same rubles. She felt sorry for herself, understood herself perfectly well, and it still hadn’t seemed like a disgrace to work out these elementary-school problems. It had even been fun, planning out the future. But when Tatyana Nikolayevna laid it all out in front of her with her narrow little lips, her greasy little stumps, her swollen little eyes, it all turned into a pile of shit. She realized the apartment wasn’t a dream at all, just a concrete box, like a tomb. The numbers and Tatyana’s restless fluttering made her head spin, and at last Ulyana threw up—bitterly, for a long time, everything she’d eaten in Moscow over the past three days.

And when she’d finished throwing up, when she’d had some of Vitaly’s warm water from his little plastic bottle, she felt that she hadn’t thrown anything up at all. It had all stayed inside. And grown a little, even.

She told Tatyana what had happened to Sasha.

Tatyana started wailing and lamenting, then dashed off somewhere, Vitaly pale behind her, and they both disappeared to hell knows where. Ulyana wiped her mouth and limped toward the exit. She didn’t have the strength to go look at Sasha today. Besides, she could see him in front of her all the time anyway. On the gurney in the ward, sweating all over, trying so hard to tell her something.

She got back to Moscow. It was too early to go to Aunt Marina’s—what, sit around watching TV? Ulyana went for a walk. She wandered along Leninsky Prospekt, not really going anywhere, just killing time. Big stone buildings stood all around, their windows curtained so strangers wouldn’t stare in; cars went by on the avenue in ten lanes, and at every intersection a whole cosmos opened up: more stone ravines, more iron rivers, more statues, and crowds upon crowds of people. Banners hung overhead: “Moscow. The Best City on Earth.” And a little heart, like a smiley face. The people were lazy, drowsy with the heat, and surely each of them had a tattoo like the one on the banner beneath their linen shirt or fashionable sundress. They were all locals, all of them adored their Moscow to the point of grinding their teeth.

And Ulyana crawled through Moscow like a louse.

Nothing helped—not the Moskva River, a hundred times wider and more grand than their little river back home in Vologda; not a piece of the Kremlin, as if cut from a greeting card; not handsome men in sleek, futuristic cars. Everything here was beautiful—yes, beautiful, but frigid; rich, sure—everything cast in gold, everything polished to a shine, shitting money and sweating money, but far too smug, too pleased with its own fucking self, and it didn’t notice Ulyana at all. Moscow was busy: staring at its own reflection in the river, unable to look away.

There was no way she’d ever belong here; there was no point trying. She couldn’t become one of them, attach herself to them, turn into this—none of it. An outsider was an outsider. You could peer at their parade from behind the barriers and cops, then get the hell back to wherever you’d crawled out of. So what was the point of walking these streets back and forth, if they couldn’t take you anywhere?

If you want to drink the rich blood of Moscow, go ahead and drink—but bite carefully into its gleaming skin. Make sure it doesn’t start itching, or it’ll have you under its thumb in no time. Had your fill? Now crawl away and digest it.

You couldn’t hold out.

Or maybe you just didn’t want to? You didn’t hesitate for long, that’s for sure. Because you didn’t want an invalid? Well, tell yourself that; admit it to yourself. Who’s going to hear? What are you, ashamed of yourself? Don’t give me that—just say it how it is. You’re keeping quiet.

She saw an ice-cream cart. A pretty, cheerful cart, like something out of an old Soviet movie. The line was short, about five people. She asked herself, do I want some? I don’t know.

They didn’t have packaged plombir here; everything was trendy. The saleswoman, in an apron and cap, scooped little balls from a palette of ice cream with a round scoop, arranging the colorful balls in waffle cones into almost entire snowmen.

It was Ulyana’s turn. The flavors were mango, pistachio, stracciatella, lemon, chocolate, cocoa, watermelon, vanilla, strawberry—everything you could imagine. She thought she might try pistachio and rose petal, then frowned. The stracciatella—white with black streaks—seemed to be moving. Ulyana looked closer, and it was flies crawling over it. They moved from the black to the brown, from the brown to the red. People didn’t notice; they bought it. The ice-cream seller shooed the flies away, but lazily, just for show.

Ulyana felt it coming up again.

She didn’t buy anything; she walked away.

Then she drifted around the neighborhood like that for who knows how long: sometimes sitting down, sometimes leaning against something, then walking on. Aunt Marina tried to get through to her several times, but Ulyana had absolutely no desire to talk to her. She couldn’t even bring herself to open her messages. Her mother called back, too, but Ulyana texted that she was busy. You should’ve come around sooner, Mom. It’s too late now. The subscriber is no longer a subscriber.

And it was only when Tatyana Nikolayevna called that Ulyana, for some reason, decided to answer. Now there was something binding her to Tatyana Nikolayevna. She had to hear her out.

“So you left, did you?!”

Sasha’s death had drained Ulyana dry. Tatyana Nikolayevna, on the other hand, seemed to have been pumped full of something. She was already shouting, right from the start.

“I left.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go by the morgue and see him?”

“See him? What’s there to see?”

“I talked to the doctor.”

“So?”

“May you rot in hell, that’s what!” Tatyana Nikolayevna shouted.

“Are you done?” Ulyana replied.

Ulyana didn’t hang up; she let Tatyana curse her. She didn’t argue. Go ahead, yell, yell all you want. I’ll listen. It was like cutting her own hands with a dull razor to let the excess out of swollen veins. The dirty blade caused an infection; rotten blood coursed through her vessels, scraping and inflaming Ulyana’s insides. It thickened, clotted, and wouldn’t seep out.

Ulyana already knew all this about herself, what Sasha’s mother had told her. She was tired of listening. She hadn’t cried there either, Ulyana thought; she’d only been pretending.

“Why are you lamenting? You didn’t lament when you sent him off to the army, but now all of a sudden you’re lamenting, are you?”

It was evening by the time she finally got back to the house. She went in, and they were already waiting for her. The table was set; they were all sitting there solemnly, like pioneers lined up in front of Lukashenko at assembly.

“Are you going to eat?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

She really couldn’t stomach anything. She collapsed onto the bed, sweaty, face down in the pillow. Filth pulsed inside her; her eyes were dry. She lay there without moving. Nothing let up. Aunt Marina knocked at the door. Ulyana hadn’t given her permission to come in, but she came in anyway.

“Ulyanchik… Maksim and I talked it over… You didn’t read my messages, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Well. First of all, we realized we both got really carried away yesterday. We said all sorts of things to each other… It was a mistake. And we wanted to say that, for our part, we weren’t entirely in the right.”

Pure as an angel.

Ulyana rolled over, pushed herself up, and stood. Aunt Marina was alone; Uncle Maksim wasn’t there to take part in the apologies.

“Okay, and?”

“And second, we got the money out for you. Yesterday we didn’t have that much cash on hand, but today we withdrew it, the whole amount you need. Please take it.”

“I needed it yesterday, Aunt Marina, but I don’t need it today,” Ulyana told her. “Why didn’t you and Uncle Maksim give it to me yesterday?”

“Well… It was unexpected, and… I’m asking you, take it.” Aunt Marina pulled out of nowhere a paper gift bag, the kind they sell in supermarkets, with gold ribbons and all that tacky stuff, and held it out to Ulyana.

“We’ve already registered the marriage anyway,” Ulyana told her.

“You have?” Aunt Marina said, taken aback.

“We have. There are still good people in the world.”

“Congratulations! Truly…” Aunt Marina smiled at her. “Well, then, for the wedding… For you and Sasha’s wedding… You’ll celebrate, won’t you?”

What were you supposed to do here, what good people? They’d backed her into a corner and wanted to play benefactor. Warriors of light, for fuck’s sake.

“And where’s Uncle Maksim? Isn’t he congratulating me?” Ulyana asked.

“He is, yes, he is too. Maksim! Maksim, come over here, please… Here, this is from both of us.”

Uncle Maksim came over from the kitchen, nodded at Ulyana glumly, looking somewhere around her mouth.

“Oh, come on, I’m joking. There won’t be a wedding.”

“Why?”

“Because Sasha’s dead.”

“What?!” Aunt Marina exclaimed in horror; Uncle Maksim went ashen.

— Just imagine.

They exchanged glances. And she’d hooked them both and was reeling them in like bream on a spinning rod. Neither of them gave a shit about Sasha, the clowns. Ulyana knew what this conversation was really about. It certainly wasn’t Sasha. Moscow aunt and uncle.

— Oh, God, Ulyanochka… We… Please accept our… our condolences…

— Yes. Yes.

— Merci-ski. So you can keep your cash, your little bundles of bills.

But Aunt Marina stood there with her stupid souvenir bag, unable to understand why Ulyana didn’t want to take it. And Ulyana waited for it to sink in, for it to seep through her.

— I’m begging you, Ulyana… Please, take it. Why are you being like this? You still have a baby to raise… It definitely won’t go to waste. If not for one thing, then another. You could wait forever for our government to come through…

They weren’t worried about her. They wanted to lull her with their little gift rubles, buy her off. But she couldn’t be bought off anymore. This wasn’t about buying or selling now, and they just couldn’t get their heads around it, those sweet little Muscovites. What she needed now was something else.

What should she ask for?

And then, all of a sudden, it came to her from nowhere—or rather, from everything she’d lived through. It flared up at once, and she wanted to hurl it at them right then and there. Not just to beat the shit out of them, but to tear off all that snow-white finery that hurt her eyes, strip them naked as she herself stood naked before them, then skin them alive so she could see what they were made of: just flesh, like Ulyana, like everyone else. As long as they stood there dressed to the nines, so neat and clean, she felt out of place beside them, disgusted with herself.

— You know what? I could take it.

Uncle Maksim’s face turned pink, and Aunt Marina began breathing again. She started holding the bag out to her once more, though Ulyana’s arms still hung at her sides. But Ulyana didn’t need a little bag of bills. She needed proof that all people were the same, and that she wasn’t the only piece of shit. Ulyana wanted to hear their spines crack as she jumped on them.

— I want to put up a monument for Sasha. At his grave. To say he was a hero. A hero of the Special Military Operation. That’s what I’d take money from you for. Will you give me money for the monument? It’ll be from me—and from you, I guess.

They squirmed and wilted. Uncle Maksim even snorted at Aunt Marina. Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to contribute to the wedding either, but she’d made him.

— Well? Will you give it?

— Ulyanochka… We understand…

— What do you understand, “Ulyanochka”? What the hell do you understand? I’m asking you—will you give me money for the monument? I can’t put it up without you. You’ll help. Well? So people remember his deeds. No?

— You’ve had a terrible day…

— Can you answer my question, Aunt Marina? You don’t want to? And you, Uncle Maksim? You don’t want to? Because he’s what? A murderer? What was it you said?

— I didn’t say that… Sasha was a victim… A victim of this war… And we feel so sorry for him, terribly sorry, truly… We never said he was a murderer… Did we say that, Maksim?

— Baa… Meee…

You’re dressed in nothing but pretty things, but your flesh is rotten. Maggots are already crawling all over inside you, while your light-colored trousers are pressed to razor creases.

— They feel terribly sorry for him. Well, there you go. You lie as easily as you breathe, — Ulyana sneered. — And I don’t want you to feel sorry for him. I’m proud of him, for one. Get it? He went there for his parents, for me, for our future. He went there so the khokhols wouldn’t come onto our land, so you could keep eating your fucking fish and washing it down with wine. But you don’t want to understand that.

— Ulyana…

— So, yes or no?

They all fidgeted.

— Well, then there’s nothing to talk about. If you don’t want to, suit yourselves. So, uh, gehen Sie bitte.

They shuffled around and left, taking their little bag with them.

They hid in their bedroom; Maksim closed the door and listened—was Ulyana standing on the other side?

— She’s doing this on purpose!

— So what? What do we do now?

— She wants to drag us into all this, don’t you understand?

— Maksim. Maksim. Calm down. Let’s… let’s stay calm. Let’s at least keep in mind that her fiancé died today. That she’s having a breakdown.

— She’s calm as a snake! I’m the one having a breakdown! Me!

— Just keep it in mind, okay? I mean something else.

Marina caught hold of his hands so he would stop flailing them around. She caught them and held on. Firmly. He felt awkward.

— I’m begging you. We’ve already done it all anyway. We’ve already agreed, we’ve already withdrawn the money, we’ve already given it to her. It’s done, Maksim. Do you understand?

— You withdrew it.

— It doesn’t matter who withdrew it. We’re giving her that money. You and I decided to give her that money, and we know why we’re doing it. We’re doing it to protect our son. That’s all. And why she’s accepting the money, what she wants to hear—that’s her business. Do you agree with me?

Maksim pulled his wrists free: this wasn’t some panic attack, everything was under control. Marina spoke to him coaxingly, as if charming a cobra, and it would have been so tempting to agree with her—if only he could.

— I don’t want to lie. Why should I have to lie? And please, I’m begging you, no trite talk about lying to save someone.

— You don’t have to lie. They’re just asking you to agree that she can put whatever she wants on his grave. She’ll put up a monument, fine. Some ridiculous million-ruble monument will stand there.

— And she’ll write that it’s from us!

— I’m begging you, Maksim. What’s she going to write? She’s just saying that to rile you up. Because of all your lecturing.

— Lecturing?! So now it’s my fault too? You—you brought her here! None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t…

— Wait… Is that what’s bothering you? What she’ll write? That someone might find out? Oh, come on. No one will ever find out, Maksim. Who would she tell?

— I’ll know about it. I will, Marina! I’ll know she forced me to do it. Forced me to say it! To do it!

— Listen to me. It’s exactly the other way around.

— How so?

— Like this. If Kirill gets sent to the war, sent to the front, that’s a disaster. And God forbid something happens to him. But even if he comes back without a scratch… It’ll still be a disaster, just a different one. Forever. That’s what this is about. This!

— I understand that… Do you think I don’t understand anything at all?..

— Exactly. And she’s offering you a chance to simply buy your way out. All you have to do is dance for her. Well? Go on and dance, for God’s sake. Is it so hard?

— I won’t! She can go fuck herself with her dancing! I’m not going to humiliate myself! For whom—for her?!

— It won’t change anything about you, Maksim. Well? I mean, I didn’t put it right. Let’s just go give her the money, say it’s for the monument, and tomorrow she’ll leave for her Vologda. And this whole thing will be over. We’ll forget about it.

— I can’t… I don’t want to, Marina… Please… I don’t want to be part of this…

Marina drew away from him. She sighed. Looked at him… Hopelessly, and with pity. Some kind of hurtful pity.

— Poor you, poor thing. What a poor man you are. Fine. If you don’t want to, don’t take part, Maksik. If you don’t want to, don’t. I’ll give it to her myself and say whatever needs saying. It’s easier for me, anyway. I’ve already got one foot in it.

She shook her head wearily, picked up that damn bag again, pressed the door handle down gently, and went out into the hall.

— Ulyanochka… Ulyana? We’ve thought it over. Of course. Let’s do it. For the monument.

— Oh, really? — asked Ulyana, distant from herself.

At first a warm wave washed over Maksim: gratitude toward Marina. She’d taken it all on herself. Then a hot wave: shame. He hesitated some more, then slunk out into the hall too.

— Here. And of course Sasha’s memory should be honored properly… You could even put up a granite one here; this should be enough…

Maksim, frowning, forced himself to take a step toward Ulyana. Then another, and another.

— Then let Uncle Maksim say all that to me. I know what to expect from you, — Ulyana said, enunciating each word.

He was almost there already, and he couldn’t exactly turn back, couldn’t run away. He simply froze in place, his jaw locked.

— Well? — Ulyana nodded at him. — I’m listening.

Maksim clenched and unclenched his fists. Swallowed back his snot. A bird thrashed in his head like it was in a cage, wanting to fly away.

— Please… — He shook his heavy head. — Don’t…

Ulyana’s mouth twisted. Maybe into a smile, maybe… Something else. Maksim couldn’t look her in the eye.

— All right, Uncle Maksim, — Ulyana said to him. — Fuck it. You can live. Hand over your cash.

— There, see? Here! — Marina hurriedly shoved the bag into her hands before she could change her mind. — It’s all here. As much as you need. It’ll cover everything.

They went to bed without waiting for Kirill. Each lay on their own side, a border between them. They were silent. About twenty minutes later Marina whispered:

— Are you asleep?

— No.

— I asked her afterward, when you’d left… Ulyana, you didn’t file a report on us, did you? — She sighed.

— What did she say? — Maksim turned toward Marina.

— She said, “Well, what do you think?” I told her, “Well, I think you didn’t, Ulyanochka, of course you didn’t, you’re a good girl, we’re family… We were just talking to your mother…”

— And then?

— She shrugged.

They lay there a while longer in the half-dark, just silhouettes. They’d opened the windows to breathe, but fluorescent Moscow smog poured in through them. Sports cars raced along Leninsky, engines roaring—or maybe they were Ukrainian drones flying overhead. Somewhere in the courtyard, someone was either laughing or crying.

— Do you hear that? — Marina sat up. — What is it?

— What?

— In our bathroom. The water’s running, and…

Someone was moaning in there in Ulyana’s voice. They opened the door and listened…

— She’s throwing up in there, — Marina said anxiously.

Maksim had no idea what to do. But Marina pressed herself against the door and asked softly:

— Ulyana? Are you sick? Do you need help?

— Fuck off! — Ulyana shouted back at them, her voice muffled. — All of you, fuck off and leave me alone!