Martin Smith - Three Stations

She followed his eye. "My son, Roman."

"He dances too?"

"He did until he injured himself. Last week Roman called to say that he and his friend Sergei were going on a trip. Yesterday, Sergei called to say that Roman had gone on alone."

This was more than Arkady had bargained for. He had not come as a messenger to tell this woman that her son was dead. Dead and burned under another name, yet.

"Where to?"

"I don't know. I try not to get in Roman's way. He suffers from depression but the doctors say I should let him hit bottom. What does that mean, 'hit bottom'?"

Roman Spiridon had certainly done that. Hit bottom and continued to the center of the earth. Not even as himself, but under another man's name.

Arkady remembered Madame Borodina's voice, as dry as kindling.

"Burn him."

Although the church condemned cremation, the state provided the option. Rolled him into a furnace with flames hot enough to melt gold, pulverized his ashes and bones and delivered them in a screw-top canister to the hands of Borodina. Where to then? There was a choice of parks-Siloviki, Gorky or Ismailova-where ashes could be dumped. Or lobbed into a trash bin or poured like flour into the river.

"Sergei who?"

"Borodin."

"Sergei Borodin called instead of your son? To reassure you, but not tell you where they were going?"

"Sergei said he had to come back to pick up his book."

"What book would that be?"

"There on the desk. I'm waiting for him to pick it up."

On a Louis XIV desk was a well-worn paperback entitled The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky, which sounded pretty innocent to Arkady. He flipped through the pages to see whether anything fell out.

"Do you mind if I borrow this?"

"Sergei is coming for it."

"Then he can come to me."

She didn't have the willpower to refuse him. Her attention gravitated to the opium layout, a lacquered tray inlaid with silver dragons and mother-of-pearl. A resinous "pill" nested in the bowl of a slender ivory pipe.

"Sometimes God's gifts were given to the wrong person."

"If Borodin is such a great dancer, why is he swinging on a wire at the Club Nijinsky instead of dancing with the Bolshoi?"

Spiridona asked, "How do I put this? Dancing is an intimate affair. The women don't like the way Sergei handled them."

"Too soft? Too hard?"

"Like chickens in a butcher shop."

Maya imagined herself on a golden escalator that reached up to the clouds. Her baby was just a few steps ahead. For some reason Maya could not close the distance or see what awaited them but she was sure it would be better than what they left behind.

"How old are you, my dear? In Pakistan, you would already be married and have a baby on your hip. Your breasts are full. That is exciting to a man, but leave the nursing and mess to someone else. No, let me undress you. It is my pleasure. I will fold everything neatly. My God, you are more beautiful every moment. Our mutual friend Yegor was not overstating the case. Do you like this place? It's an office of another friend, very important man. Pakistani, but the sofa is very comfortable, don't you think? Nice paintings if you could see them. Everything totally modern. Champagne on ice. Minibar. Would you like a drink? Up to you. Since it's Sunday we have all night and the entire building. The shaved head is curiously erotic, as if you had revealed everything to me. As you can see, I cannot hide the fact that I am not in the best of shape. When I came here as a student thirty years ago, I was thin as a reed. This is what Russian cooking does. My wife, bless her, is a wretched cook. I call her my wife although we're not really married. I don't know what Russians have against spices. Also I don't exercise nearly enough. A man my size should exercise. It's incumbent on him or he'll go to fat as I have. But I have to spend all day and night in the kiosk or my workers will rob me blind. Look at this. I haven't been this hard in ten years. Do you mind being kissed? I'll turn the lights down and you can pretend that you are having sex with the handsomest man in the world. If you touch me I'll explode. Really, really. Oh no, oh no, oh no. See? That comes from being deprived. But I've more to spare. I will run to the men's room and be immediately back. Give me one minute. It will be even better. Less urgent."

He whistled "Whistle While You Work" while he padded down the hall in bare feet. Everyone in the city was whistling the same tune; it was in the air. In the men's room he wiped himself, pinched the fat around his waist, shined a smile at the mirror to check his teeth. He didn't mind the interruption. In fact, the longer the better. His penis hung loose but not defeated, he thought.

The office lights were still low when he returned and he moved cautiously between tables and chairs to preserve his shins and whispered her name, almost cooing. When the lights suddenly went up, he found himself in the company of two men in coveralls, work boots and surgical gloves. Except for the gloves, the visitors looked like a pair of auto mechanics. A grocery bag stood on the coffee table and for a second he thought he might have strayed into the wrong office, but there was the comfortable sofa with the girl's imprint still on it. His clothes lay on the desk by a scarf of Maya's, but she was gone.

"Excuse me."

"Don't get dressed."

"Sit down."

The other man inserted a chair in back of Ali's knees. It was sit or fall.

Ali remained calm. This was an extortion racket and these two were the heavies. They seemed cast from the same rough mold, the difference being a dent here or there. With their flat voices and deep-set eyes, they played their roles convincingly.

"You've caught me fair and square. There is no need for further dramatics. How much are you asking?"

One man showed Ali a poster with Maya's face.

"Is this the girl?"

"Yes. See, whatever you want to know I will freely tell you." Ali believed it was important to establish a positive atmosphere while not exhibiting too much curiosity. He had been robbed in the kiosk half a dozen times and he had learned that panic was everyone's enemy. These two seemed professional, which was reassuring. Description-wise, both had nondescript hair, thin lips, no smile and the kind of beard that looked like a blue mask. Rather than ask them their names, he labeled the slightly larger man "Mr. Big" and the slightly thinner man "Mr. Little."

So it was Mr. Little who asked, "Where is she?"

"I have no idea. Does it matter? She's done her bit."

Mr. Big picked up the scarf and lifted it to his nose.

Ali nodded. "Yes, a delicious smell. She's a little siren. She was here only a minute ago, but now she's gone. That's God's truth."

He expected them to ask where to. Instead, they poked around the office and checked out the contents of the minibar. Felt the warm sofa.

Ali said, "I expected to see her when I returned from the men's, not you gentlemen."

"How about the baby?" Mr. Little moved behind Ali.

Ali had to twist in his chair. "She never mentioned a baby."

"How were her tits?"

"I observed that they were full like a nursing mother's. But she never mentioned a baby."

"Arms back."

"I am feeling somewhat exposed. Do you mind if I get dressed first?"

"Not yet."

"This is really not necessary."

Ali allowed himself to be handcuffed around the back of the chair. He was still ready to deal.

"She was here a minute ago, but you have no idea where she's headed?"

"With Yegor, obviously. May I get dressed now? This is no way to negotiate."

"Who's negotiating?"

The silence that followed was unnerving.

"This is not extortion?"

"Do we look like extortionists?"

No, Ali thought. He wished they did.