Light-Headed E-Book

Olga Slavnikova

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Light-Headed is a zany, anarchic black comedy which satirises life in contemporary Russia. At its heart is the question what is important in life and what sacrifices an individual should be expected to make for the good of others. Maxim T. Yermakov was born with an empty space in his head above his brain. As a child this led to him being four kilos less than the normal weight until his mother force-fed him. Always aware of feeling light-headed Maxim was good at school, acquiring information not from books but out of the air. He left the provinces for Moscow where he worked as a brand manager for a chocolate manufacturer. He was contemplating buying his first flat when one day two sinister individuals turned up at the factory to see him. His light head was causing all sorts of problems, it was an alpha object which created natural disasters, terrorist outrages and buildings to collapse. Maxim T. Yermakov's existence threatened the well-being of the state and its citizens. He should do the decent thing and commit suicide. Maxim T. Yermakov refused and began his unequal struggle with the organs of the state. This book will appeal to readers of literary fantasy and the bizarre and anyone interested in contemporary Russia.

Leseprobe

The Author

Olga Slavnikova was born in 1957 in the Urals. She now lives in Moscow where she works as a journalist and as the director of the Debut Prize which champions the work of new authors.

In 2006 she won The Russian Booker Prize for 2017.

Light-Headed was shortlisted for the 2011 Big Book and 2012 Russian Booker awards and won the Book of the Year Award 2011 at the Moscow International Book Fair.

The Translator

One of the founders of the Russian magazine Glas, Andrew Bromfield is one of the most important translators of Russian Literature in the English-speaking world. His many translations include Light-Headed by Olga Slavnikova.

Contents

Title

The Author

The Translator

Light-Headed

Copyright

Light-Headed

Maxim T. Yermakov, the happy owner of a three-year-old Toyota and brand manager for several appalling varieties of milk chocolate, drove up to his chocolate office with his customary feeling of having no head on his shoulders. Meanwhile, the head was smoking and it could see the wet car park, with the inflatable snowman standing in a black January puddle. But even so – it wasn’t there.

When he was a child Maxim T. Yermakov used to ask his parents a stupid question: How do people know that they think with their heads? His father, whose head was flanked by a pair of ears large enough to suggest it had the secret ability to fly, tried to explain about the two hemispheres of the brain: his mum anxiously touched her child’s warm forehead, seeking for an illness in that space where thoughts drifted about like cosmonauts in zero-gravity. The concentration of the human sense of identity in the head, above the arms, legs and everything else, was the greatest human mystery of all to the young Maxim T. Yermakov. He disliked games that required agility and active movement because he was afraid of the strange void through which the wind blew freely between the neck of his tee-shirt and his denim cap; afraid that a branch might accidentally poke into that void, or a bronze beetle might fly into it.

The nurse at his kindergarten, who survived in his memory only as a pair of icy hands and a tiny mother-of-pearl mouth, used to put the group on the weighing scales every month and then inform his parents that their boy, although he appeared to be well developed, was lagging about four kilos behind the normal weight for his age. His mum, who didn’t understand what was going on, stuffed little Maxim T. Yermakov with cloudy oils from the pharmacy and high-calorie casseroles. As a result, the sluggish, force-fed Maxim T. Yermakov grew into a chubby youth with large pink cheeks and a second chin with the delicate texture of cream: anyone who looked at him realised instantly that only the very finest produce had gone into the construction of that body. After the young man’s weight reached a hundred kilograms, the missing four were not so obvious. But even so, the heavy bearer of a light head remained constantly aware of the lack of weight on his shoulders.

Despite his lightheadedness, which at first he did not realise was a strictly personal trait, peculiar to him alone, Mikhail T. Yermakov’s grades in school and college were all As and Bs. But even so, he still didn’t understand what his teachers meant when they told him to “get something into his head”. The information that he was given – on everything from Pushkin’s poetry to product rebranding techniques – immediately escaped from his virtual cranium to become a free element of the world around him – which, properly speaking, was what it already was in any case. The world presented itself to him as a flexible information environment, and the knowledge, released into freedom, returned to him fully structured, bearing, like an industrious bee, nutritious nectar that it had gathered in parts unknown. It sometimes seemed to Mikhail T. Yermakov that he could acquire information without any books or the internet, quite literally out of the air.

These personal peculiarities, however, were not enough to make Maxim T. Yermakov into either a genius or a master of life. While still a student, he found himself a job, just like everyone else did, and ended up in a commercial structure that promoted a range of transnational food products. For a brief initial spell he handled an instant coffee that supposedly possessed a ravishing aroma, which wafted through the air in the form of bluish-grey silk ribbons, but since that time the life of Maxim T. Yermakov had been focused entirely on chocolate. Chocolate bricks, chocolate bars, cream-filled chocolate, half a dozen different kinds of chocolate sweets, white chocolate, honeycomb chocolate – all of it positively demanding enjoyment from the consumer in the same way as war demands feats of heroism. For in real space, the product consisted of a sweet, bitty clay with the addition of soap, a mixture that was produced in a factory somewhere near Ryazan.

The jokes linking Maxim T. Yermakov’s figure with the object of his creative endeavours were groundless: Maxim T. Yermakov did not eat his own chocolate. However, his entire appearance as a flourishing fat man made him an entirely apposite representative of the product, with the ruddy bloom of his cheeks extending right up to his eyes and the sugary bristles on his head producing free-flowing rainbow effects in response to the movements of his thoughts and skin. As already stated above, the delectation presumptively deriving from this chocolate was entirely incorporeal in nature. Maxim T. Yermakov knew a lot about the incorporeal. By combining images in the correct proportions, he created the visual representation of a flavour that did not actually exist in reality. Sales increased. Even the executive director, V.V. Krapinov, commonly known as Crap, a superannuated monster overgrown right up to his eyes with grey stubble that the efforts of stylists had transformed into something akin to a coil of barbed wire, was reluctantly obliged to admit that whatchamacallim, the young chocolate guy, had a good head on his shoulders.

Youth is ambitious. It took time for Maxim T. Yermakov to accept his common fate. He was a member of the international army of millions of corporate clerks, a single droplet who fused with the masses in the hours of struggle to negotiate the traffic jams of Moscow, which resembled an agglomeration of flies on strips of sticky paper. Meanwhile, in his light head, with its apparent lack of all physical boundaries, a clear truth gradually took shape – things were not looking black, on the contrary, they were looking up. Because, in these modern times, the human rights defended by serious international organisations had been superseded by the Rights of the Common Individual. Maxim T. Yermakov condensed down the essential meaning of numerous messages, apparently originating from a wide range of different sources, to the concept that the Russian dilemma posed by Dostoyevsky, “Shall I let the world go to hell or skip my tea?” had nowadays been resolved in favour of the tea. To choose tea was to choose freedom, which is what our hero did, focusing his efforts on acquiring several square metres of floor space within Moscow’s Garden Ring Road. Twice he was almost suckered out of serious money, but that only lent a final polish to his character. Maxim T. Yermakov was now entirely prepared for his freedom, which distinguished him favourably from millions of his compatriots who, according to numerous media channels, were entirely unprepared for freedom and were, in fact, totally unfit for anything.

However, he found himself completely unprepared for the sequence of strange and surprising events that began at the moment when the alarm system of his Toyota switched on with a liquid glug and his mobile phone simultaneously swelled up to twice its size and started squirming about in his pocket.

“Max! Why are you so late?” said a mini-micro voice in the phone. The voice belonged to Little Lucy, his immediate boss’s secretary. “Vadim Vadimich wants to see you urgently! We’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

“Okay, I’m on my way, I’ll just drop my coat off in the office,” Maxim T. Yermakov muttered, increasing the speed of his stride through the listless winter rain that was mottling his fine cashmere.

“No, no, no! Straight to the seventh floor!” little Lucy squeaked and Maxim T. Yermakov immediately switched her off when he heard a second signal forcing its way through the first one and literally erupting out of his phone.

“Maxim Terentievich? Vadim Vadimovich wants you to come to his office immediately.” This time it was Big Lida, Crap’s own secretary, speaking in a distinctly husky voice, as if her temperature was rising by leaps and bounds.

Maxim T. Yermakov started feeling alarmed. But the sense of alarm was actually pleasant: he had the brief, brazen thought that the outcome of all this ballyhoo would probably be an opportunity to earn money, since everybody needed him so urgently. As he trotted across the soundless synthetic carpeting of the seventh floor, he had visions of those elegant little toy building bricks of life – ten-thousand-dollar wads in bank wrappers. In the outer office Big Lida sprang up, rising to her full towering height as he came in and gaped at him as if she had never seen him before. Pale-faced, with new silicone lips that resembled two pieces of mild-cured Atlantic salmon, she dragged Yermakov’s damp coat off his shoulders and shoved him into the office before he had time to catch his breath.

There were two visitors sitting opposite the boss of the entire enterprise, who seemed poised rather uncertainly on his imposing chair. They were reflected in the glass desk top like dark islands, with the absolutely pristine, empty ashtray gleaming between them like a thick circle on water.

“Ah, well, at last! Twenty minutes late!” Crap exclaimed in the voice of a jovial school headmaster, which was quite unlike him. “Here you are. Our young colleague,” he said, turning to his visitors and baring a clutch of bluish crowns in a grin.

“Good morning,” Maxim T. Yermakov said to them, and thought to himself: “Fifty grand, at least.”

“May I go now?” Crap enquired, half-rising to his feet.

“Yes, dismissed,” said one of the two visitors, but Maxim T. Yermakov couldn’t tell which.

Crap, who had obviously been waiting with desperate anxiety for the moment when he could bolt from his own office, acted entirely out of character, scurrying over to the doors and giving Maxim T. Yermakov a farewell flash from his dull, metallic old-man’s eyes. Only then did the visitors turn towards the person they had come to see. Their faces were entirely bloodless, with prominent foreheads. The individual sitting on the left had totally blurred features, with a tuft of dry hair on the very top of his head; the second or – to judge from the invisible currents running between the two of them – the first and more important individual, resembled a human foetus that had not been born, but developed and matured in some other, more obscure fashion. The thin skin of the inordinately large, bald head seemed semi-transparent, but it was impossible to make out anything inside it, and hideous flames blazed in the wreaths of purple wrinkles below the hairless arches of the brows.

“What an ugly pair of freaks,” thought Maxim T. Yermakov, making himself comfortable in a chair.

“Good morning, Maxim Terentievich,” said Foetus, with his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere above Maxim T. Yermakov’s shoulder. “As you have probably already realised, we are here as representatives of the state.”

In synchronised motion the two opened their ID cards – not the usual format, but large and square, similar in shape to the chocolate slabs of his closest competitor. Glowing in bright gold inside them was the predatory emblem of the state, with solid gold letters stamped into the paper: “Russian Federation. Special State Committee for Social Forecasting”. Despite the strange appearance of the documents presented to him, Maxim T. Yermakov realised immediately that the IDs were genuine and these were very, very serious guys. Far more serious than all the VIPs he had ever seen before, all lumped together. The joyful anticipation of money suddenly switched temperature from warm to icy cold. “A million. A million dollars,” Maxim T. Yermakov thought quite distinctly, twining his fingers together more tightly on his stomach.

“The actual title of our department is rather different,” Foetus remarked casually, lowering his ID into some crevice in his blank, featureless clothing, which seemed not to have a single button on it. “And now, permit me to enquire, Maxim Terentievich: is your head in good order?”

Something like a small tornado took shape in Maxim T. Yermakov’s absent head, drawing the ceiling lamp down into itself. Maxim T. Yermakov thought: “I have a pain between the ears, as the Red Indians – I think it was – used to say”. Out loud he said:

“Well, actually, it’s my head. And whatever might happen to it is my own personal business.”

The state committee freaks exchanged glances. “Like something straight out of 1937,” thought Maxim T. Yermakov, amused at the thought that in this old game he knew everything in advance, and he knew in advance that he was right.

“All right, then we’ll tell you,” Foetus said imperturbably, crossing his legs to display a lacquered shoe as simple as a plain galosh. “Your head happens to cause a certain slight, just a tiny, little disturbance in the gravitational field. That is the feature by which we located you.”

“Do smoke if you like,” Blur put in, nudging the virginal ashtray in Maxim T. Yermakov’s direction. “We know you smoke Parliament. It’s not really allowed in here, but you can smoke with us.”

Feeling annoyed, Maxim T. Yermakov took out a pack of Parliament, which had instantly come to seem trashy and tasteless. He really was feeling a quite savage desire to smoke. As usual, the cigarette smoke filled up his head, rounding it out and materialising it, streaming about inside it with a pleasant sensation.

“And why are you interested in me?” Maxim T. Yermakov asked cautiously, trying to figure out the smartest way to haggle with these two, who had opened the bidding with their artless state security gambits.

“I shall not attempt to conceal the fact that we are extremely interested in you,” Foetus declared, puckering up his face. “In a nutshell, our department deals with relationships of cause and effect. I won’t go into the theory and the know-how involved, especially since I have no right to do so. I can only inform you that these relationships are entirely material structures, one could even call them living organisms. And our research indicates, for instance, that the human sacrifices in pagan cults were not mere superstitions, but rational actions. Every so often, cause and effect relationships enter a vegetative phrase. And then the individuals whom we call ‘Alpha Objects’ appear. And, strange as it may seem, the future course of many, very many events depends on them. You, Maxim Terentievich, are precisely such an Object, if you will pardon us for saying so.”

While Foetus spouted this raving gibberish, Maxim T. Yermakov gaped, as if he were hypnotised, at Foetus’s loosely assembled fingers, tapping out some kind of faltering scales on the desk: they looked as if they were made of ice, and the gold wedding band on the crooked ring finger glinted in the sombre light of day as if it was iron. Naturally, Maxim T. Yermakov did not believe what he had heard but, above and beyond the words, he could feel the character of the space around him changing. “I wonder which presidential candidate is going to be my chocolate now?” he thought, and his heart started bobbing up and down, like a small object set in motion by the impetus of heavy footsteps.

“So you want to offer me a job?” he said out loud, assuming an air of indifference.

The state committee representatives exchanged another quick glance from under their domed foreheads, as if they had instantly dealt each other cards.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Foetus said in a dreary voice. “You have to commit suicide by shooting yourself in the head.”

Maxim T. Yermakov smiled politely. A shudder ran down through him and back up again, as if someone was using him like a tinwhistle to play a shrill melody. He screwed his cigarette into the ashtray so hard that it squeaked, emitting a stream of unused smoke straight into the face of Blur, who narrowed his slim nostrils squeamishly.

“And if I refuse, you will eliminate me yourselves?” said Maxim T. Yermakov, not even hearing himself speak.

“No. Unfortunately not,” Blur answered this time, speaking in the same tone as Foetus, but in a different voice. “It must be your will and your hand. If we perform the deed ourselves, we will not merely fail to achieve the required result, but will also deprive ourselves of a quite indispensable opportunity.”

Phew. The thick snow that had started falling outside the window suddenly seemed to Maxim T. Yermakov more blindingly white and festive than any snow he had ever seen in his entire life. It was falling at an angle, sometimes accelerating to a dense, stippled blur, sometimes hanging in the air and swaying back and forth, together with the pale office towers, which looked like wet, shaggy towels. Still feeling stunned, and soaked in joy as if he had been doused with a tub of cold water, Maxim T. Yermakov asked:

“And what reasons do you think I have for shooting myself?”

“You have very important reasons, Maxim Terentievich,” Foetus replied with a disdainful smile. “If you are not sacrificed – pardon me for calling a spade a spade – the relationships of cause and effect will develop in a highly undesirable direction. You can already see the beginning: tsunamis, climate change. It would be hard to list all the consequences. But in the very near future, they will affect very many people directly. Out of the full range of possibilities, only the most negative will be realised. Take Ludmila Viktorovna Chebotaryova, your boss’s secretary. Her little son is ill, a congenital heart defect. He will die. In Moscow and St. Petersburg, shopping centres and amusement halls will collapse and the dead will be counted in thousands. There will be a major accident on an oil pipeline. A new war will break out in the Caucasus. We can expect a major terrorist attack in some large regional centre in Siberia. Then a global economic crisis will develop…”

“Hang on, hang on!” cried Maxim T. Yermakov, interrupting the state security man’s tedious recitation of disasters. “Terrorist attacks, accidents – these are all part of your job, aren’t they? You’ve given me an interesting overview of why you need my, shall we say, sacrifice. Now explain to me what I need it for. Only in a way that makes sense to me.”

“Name your own terms,” Foetus said icily, wrapping himself tighter in the loose, shaggy item that covered him all the way down to his galoshes.

At this point Maxim T. Yermakov suddenly felt like laughing again. Once again he had the distinct feeling that he had wandered into some film about the year 1937, only with a big initial signing-on bonus, unlike all those ardent revolutionaries who cried out at the end: “I am innocent before the People and the Party!” “Well, if they want me, it’s going to cost them,” he thought, his earlier certainty confirmed, then he clicked his lighter in front of the cigarette wobbling about in his mouth and declared:

“Ten million dollars, gentlemen.”

“We accept,” Blur said quickly in a humdrum voice. “Ten million. Will you be writing a will?”

“What will? What for?” Maxim T. Yermakov asked in surprise. “I can give you my bank details, but cash is better.”

“Unfortunately, Maxim Terentievich, that’s not the way it works,” Blur said with a smile: if you looked closer, what he resembled most of all at that moment was a collective-farm accountant. “You see, we cannot deceive you. The connections that we deal with are in a very delicate state at the moment, we must not damage them. Every cause must have its effect and so, as soon as you shoot yourself, your heirs will receive the money. But you can scam us. Take your millions, and then refuse to shoot yourself. Or ask for an advance, blow it all, smash up a couple of Mercs and decide you want more. You’d have the entire state working for you. We can’t allow that to happen, so it’s better not to start. I tell you in all seriousness: you personally will not receive a kopeck. So give instructions for your nearest and dearest to get the money.”

And so saying, he pushed a blank piece of paper towards Maxim T. Yermakov, with a cheap ballpoint pen lying across it that had been chewed like toffee. Maxim T. Yermakov stared blankly at the white surface. He tried to imagine his parents if they suddenly became rich. When was the last time they called him? On New Year’s Eve? His father did nothing but act cheerful and boast, breed rabbits with fat backsides at the dacha and go to Communist Party meetings with a half-bottle of vodka in his pocket. His mother gave music lessons and in the evening she played “for herself” on the old piano, as if she was doing the laundry, heaving her shoulders and shoulder blades like a washerwoman, hammering out tangled gibberish on the keys as if they were a washboard. They’d get a life and move to Moscow. But if not his parents, then who? Well, not Marinka, that was for sure. What kind of nearest or dearest was she? All she had were her long, long legs and her extravagant ambitions. Maxim T. Yermakov’s future wasn’t bright enough for her. The other women? Absurd. All they left behind in the morning was a stuffy little hollow in his pillow and a little mousehole gnawed in his budget. A sudden feeling of revulsion for all the people who made up his presumptively humane and comfortable world set Maxim T. Yermakov shuddering inwardly. They weren’t people, just empty holes. And now the stroke of luck that this morning had unexpectedly dangled in front of him was down the tubes too. They just wanted to screw him for free, in the name of the state and the people. When the devil bought your soul, at least he let you live for a while – but not these guys.

“No. No deal,” he snapped, pushing back the pen and paper which, it turned out, he had already covered with bold lacy squiggles. “Please, catch the terrorists and build the hypermarkets properly, so they don’t fall down. But I’m leaving, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“But what about the higher considerations?” asked Blur, suddenly raising his voice. “It’s not entirely unpaid and anonymous. We have good script writers. They’ll work up a legend for you, you’ll become a national hero. Would you like us to put up monuments to you in Moscow and your home town?”

“No, that I don’t want! Who do you think I am, Alexander Matrosov?” Maxim T. Yermakov shouted furiously, exulting in the knowledge that in the front office they could hear him yelling at these state security bogeymen, who had frightened everyone half to death. “Higher considerations! You can stuff that totalitarian eyewash up your backside! You’re not using me as raw material for your propaganda! Like some kind of Gastello! If they’d paid the soldiers in that war properly, they wouldn’t have let the Germans get right up to Moscow!”

“An interesting idea,” Foetus laughed, and the semi-transparent bubble of his head turned slightly pink. “Well then, Maxim Terentievich, this isn’t the last talk we’ll have, you realise that. Here, take my card. It has my numbers, call me if anything comes up.”

He held out the rectangle of cardboard to Maxim T. Yermakov in his finger and thumb, like a pair of pincers. It had the same double-headed eagle glowing on it as the rowanberry-red page of his ID. “Sergei Yevgenievich Kravtsov, Senior Expert” was stamped above two seven-digit telephone numbers, in which the first three digits were 111. While Maxim T. Yermakov sceptically twirled the little card in his fingers, Foetus squinted sideways at Blur’s formless outer garment. Blur understood, nodded, stuck his hand into a deep, crumpled fold and pulled out a heavy item, which proved to be a large revolver with a fluted grip. Maxim T. Yermakov shuddered. Grinning with half of his wrinkled mouth, which had sagged open like a pocket, Blur launched the pistol across the desktop towards the Alpha Object, who gazed, mesmerised, at the weapon’s slow revolutions, like the final turns of a roulette wheel.

“That’s a Makarov PMM. A twelve cartridge clip. Loaded, reliable, easy to use,” said Foetus, introducing the baleful apparition that had left Maxim T. Yermakov covered in fine beads of sweat. “Take it and keep it with you. It will come in handy, believe me.”

The pistol was clearly not new: bare metal showed through on the fluting of the handle, like on an old black rasp, and the trigger in the lop-sided guard looked greasy from the squeezing of countless fingers. “Why, the lousy cheapskates, they even cut corners on this,” Maxim T. Yermakov thought in amazement as he picked the weighty souvenir up off the desk. “But okay, at least it’s a little clump of wool from the sheep’s clothing these big, bad wolves are wearing. It’s quite a toy, interesting.”

“I don’t promise to call. All the best, gentlemen,” he told them out loud.

And with his jacket pocket weighed down by the heavy PMM stuffed into it, he set off towards the door at a waddling jog. Maxim T. Yermakov felt the souvenir smacking hard against his thigh and his soul seething with bitter fury.

“Maxim Terentievich! One moment!” called Foetus, stopping him right at the door.

“Well?” he asked, half-turning.

“You have not asked the question that all Initiated Objects ask,” Foetus said imperturbably, swaying his foot.

“What question?”

“Was the man known as Jesus of Nazareth an Alpha Object?”

“Well?” Maxim T. Yermakov repeated irritably, trying to work out what would happen if he simply shot these two state security men who had taken up residence in Crap’s office as if it was their own home.

“He was not. He was an instance of a phenomenon that lies beyond the comprehension of our present-day science,” Foetus declared dispassionately, darkening to total impenetrability against the background of streaming snow, leaving behind only the intense purple shimmer of his intently gazing eyes, like the lenses of powerful binoculars.

The day passed somehow or other. Maxim T. Yermakov frittered away the time, sometimes calming down, and then lapsing into bitter fury against the morning’s visitors. He had no ideas for the new “valentines” – brittle little chocolate hearts in violent pink wrappers. And in general, Maxim T. Yermakov suddenly had the feeling that his chocolate, which always congratulated the population of the country on every possible kind of public holiday, was somehow fusty and putrid, like a General Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU. Whatever office he visited, he was followed by furtive glances from beneath lowering brows and all the hands extended to be shaken seemed to have turned from men’s into women’s. He found himself casting sideways glances at Little Lucy, whom he had hardly even noticed before, always picturing her as a vague blob with something glittery on her mealy, ashen-grey little neck. He didn’t notice anything special now, either – slivered hair, miserably thin eyebrows, spectacles. For some reason, he’d always thought of Little Lucy as not much over twenty years old but, to look at, she was actually thirty-something.

“Maxie, why are you so down in the dumps? They say you had a visit from the militia today?” Little Lucy asked in a quiet voice when Maxim T. Yermakov wandered into his boss’s front office yet again for some unknown reason. “Maybe I should make you some strong coffee?”

“Maybe I should give her some money?” Maxim T. Yermakov thought drearily. But money was tight.

The estate agent Gosha-Cherdak called at half-past three. His voice sounded thick, as if it had been smothered with sauce.

“Max, it’s like this, we have a problem,” he said with gravitas. “The seller’s upping the price by thirty grand. Remember, first I knocked them down by five, but now a new buyer’s turned up, some sort of Armenian with big bucks. They’ve just gone to take a look at the apartment, and I’m going after them. You’d better get stuck in too. Think how much you can raise. Between you and me, the apartment’s worth it.”

“But we put down a deposit!” Maxim T. Yermakov protested, aghast. “No fucking way! What are they fucking about at? We already agreed!”

“Life is hard, Max, do you understand me?” Gosha-Cherdak admonished him solemnly. “Putting down a deposit is one thing, buying an apartment is something different altogether. Real estate is like a big fish, it can slip off the hook a dozen times. So get your wheels on down to Gogol Boulevard and along the way call everyone you can, beg and borrow. Okay, get on it!” – and he disappeared, like a coin into a slot.

Maxim T. Yermakov went hurtling down the stairs, muttering incandescent obscenities as he repeatedly failed to slip his hand into the sleeve of the coat trailing behind him like a crippled wing. People shied away from him, clutching their paper cups of coffee and files close to their bodies. In the car park the inflatable plastic snowman was tumbling about in the wind like a soft-boiled egg. Snowflakes swirled furiously, windscreen wipers swept aside streams of murky water, and brown puddles quivered under wheels, fed copiously by the wet mass of snow.

The apartment on Gogol Boulevard, which was tiny, although it was on two levels, was being sold as if it was solid gold. Maxim T. Yermakov had already wrung himself totally dry and he had been counting on the new annual chocolate budget, out of which he intended to filch a fair-sized chunk. He had no idea who to call, and he ferreted aimlessly through the memory of his mobile phone as he drove slowly through the snowy glop. The domes of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour drifted past on the left, as pale as electric light bulbs burning during the day. As he turned into the courtyard where he had intended henceforth to park his Toyota in exalted proximity with other, more expensive, high-pedigree motors, Maxim T. Yermakov almost believed that the Armenian buyer with the big bucks would actually turn out to be a phantom.

His hopes were shattered ten minutes later. Hovering in the centre of the apartment which Maxim T. Yermakov had already divided up into such neat style zones in his dreams, was the owner of the property, a bulky old woman with carats of gold glinting dully in her stretched ear lobes and a face that looked like a flabby peach covered with grey fuzz. The old woman’s estate agent, a red-haired businesswoman in a tight-fitting crimson suit, was working the new client with a vengeance, detailing the merits of the living space and emphasising the limited number of similar opportunities on the Moscow market. The client was nodding patiently; his big head, like an irregular boulder, didn’t even turn in Maxim T. Yermakov’s direction as Maxim stumbled into the studio. Gosha-Cherdak was nowhere to be seen. “The bastard’s late, he’s dumped me with this lot,” Maxim T. Yermakov thought spitefully and immediately, in the half-light by the stairs that led up to the bedroom, he spotted the individual for whom the apartment was evidently being acquired – this apartment of which, in his dreams, he had already made every square centimetre his own. About eighteen years old. More likely the Armenian daddy’s daughter than his girlfriend: little white collar, boring black skirt, like the slip cover of a man’s umbrella. Sumptuous curls with no gloss to them – fuzzy, pinned back with a crude piece of glass; huge great moist eyes, exactly like a sheep’s. It took at least a minute for Maxim T. Yermakov to realise just how lovely the Armenian girl was. The thought that the apartment would belong to her, and she would never belong to this unsuccessful competitor, whom her rich father was about to grind into the dust, made him want to smash something. “So okay, she’ll soon get fat and grow a moustache,” Maxim T. Yermakov thought vengefully, feeling a little tornado dancing on his shoulders in the place where a head ought to be.

“Right, the gang’s all here!” Having finally reached the place, Gosha-Cherdak shook himself in the doorway, with water streaming off his leather jacket as if he had just got out of the shower. “Sorry, bro, the traffic and on top of that, the snow,” he said, holding out a cold, wet hand to Maxim T. Yermakov – the thumb alone was the size of a chicken leg.

“How the fuck could you creep here so slowly that it took three hours? The traffic, he says. And here I am hanging about like a spare prick at a wedding,” hissed Maxim T. Yermakov. “Come on, talk to them, or I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“All right, all right, relax,” Cherdak said soothingly, directing a watery smile at the opposition’s estate agent.

“Ah, and here are the other buyers!” she announced in a touristguide voice, as if Yermakov and Cherdak were part of the flat’s furniture and fittings. “Gosha, are you still in the bidding, or is it already out of your range? I phoned you about the new price. Careful now, everything will go up again in a month.”

The Armenian didn’t say anything, merely turning his entire short torso to glance at the competition; his eyes, set in heavy folds of brownish skin, looked like old mushrooms.

“Ninochka, sweetie, of course we’re still up for it, of course we are!” Cherdak warbled, oozing syrup. “I’ll just have a quick word with my client! Five minutes!”

So saying, he grabbed Maxim T. Yermakov by his thick forearm and dragged him towards the window, stepping on his shoes in the process

“Right then, how much dough have you come up with?” he asked vehemently, looming over Maxim T. Yermakov with streaky rainbows on his poorly cleaned glasses. “I checked out all the databases before I came: prices are absolutely unreal everywhere. So it makes sense to step up, and sharpish. Come on, the train’s leaving, and we’re trying to jump on the last carriage!”

“I haven’t come up with anything! That’s it, end of the line, we’re screwed,” wheezed Maxim T. Yermakov, squinting at the redheaded estate agent’s surprisingly fat back, which looked as if it was quilted. “You pressure them on our agreements. Ask if they think they can treat us like total patsies.”

“What are talking about, bro? Are you the great Chocolate Kid or some pansy just out of nursery school? What agreements? Can you see anybody here who owes you anything? Well, that’s down the tubes, then. Moscow’s just chockablock with money, but he’s too bloody squeamish. Come on, get that mobile out! Start calling people! Well!”

Wrinkling up his mealy forehead so that it looked like heavily peppered semolina pudding, he drove Maxim T. Yermakov back against the wall with small prods and pokes, then carried on pummelling him quietly until he forced a mobile phone out of the whisked heap.

“Okay, then step back a bit,” said Maxim T. Yermakov, puffing and panting.

Cherdak growled, released his grip and moved away a couple of steps. Maxim T. Yermakov suddenly felt a new, almost unbearably intense sensation licking at his heart, like a flame. This old woman, the owner of the studio apartment, who had just lowered herself heavily onto the only stool in the place, spattered with paint from the renovation work – what did she want with so much money? It was obvious she’d never had any: that string of amber beads on her wrinkled neck, those dull earrings, those murky, rust-coloured little eyes, with the fine streaks of albumen – her life was practically over already. But for some reason he, Maxim T. Yermakov, had to fire someone else’s pistol into his own insubstantial head, like firing a dense little bullet into a sumptuous, trembling New Year tree, jingling with decorations. Fuck it, where was that business card… Maxim T. Yermakov carried on squirming, amazed at how deep his own pockets were, until eventually he pulled out the rectangle of cardboard with the eagle on it. Sergei Yevgenievich Kravtsov… right then… His fingers seemed to stick to the keys of the phone, as if they were made of iron and there was a bitter frost; fine rivulets of sweat trickled down his back.

The number that began with three ones answered immediately, mysteriously not ringing even once, and Foetus’s voice sounded as close as if the state security man was actually located inside the handset.

“Maxim Terentievich, good day today. Well, you see, you’ve called already.”

“Ah… E-er… Sergei Yevgenievich, good day to you too,” Maxim T. Yermakov declared vivaciously, glancing at the card. “Something’s come up… I urgently need thirty…” – he squinted at Cherdak, who was shaking outstretched fingers at him – at least six or seven of them – “…no, sorry, sixty thousand. Dollars, naturally.”

“We know, Maxim Terentievich,” Foetus responded in a benevolent tone of voice.

“Well then?”

“Well, Maxim Terentievich, we already discussed that with you, didn’t we?” the state security man said paternalistically, and Maxim T. Yermakov thought he heard a note of derision insinuating itself into his ear together with the words. “Our position hasn’t changed in the meantime.”

At this point Maxim T. Yermakov could physically feel the blood tinting his nebulous brain, like dirty water flowing through it. He hunched over, concealing the conversation with his cupped hand, and hissed furiously;

“So that proposal you made my day with this morning, is all free and for gratis? Save mankind, you said. But what’s in it for me? Absolutely nothing! Oh no, gentlemen, screw you! Give me the money, and I’ll give your proposal some thought. If you don’t, you can go to hell and further.”

“We won’t give you it,” Foetus informed him sadly. “And you’re wrong to say it’s all for gratis. It’s just that the only thing on your mind is loot. Think it over properly, communicate with your inner self; what would you like to leave behind you? There really is a lot that we can do and we’re prepared to go to great expense, very great expense. Believe me, it’s not often that anyone gets this kind of chance to change something in the world. It’s just that you need to have wishes that extend beyond the bounds of your own body and your own physical life. Do you really not have even one?”

“Ah, go jump in a lake!” Maxim T. Yermakov roared, and immediately felt everyone’s eyes on him. The redheaded business-woman turned away rapidly, the glinting edge of her smile scraping across Maxim T. Yermakov’s heart like a match across the rough side of a matchbox. At the back of the room, by the stairs, a tender oval glowed gently, and that glow made the white collar seem as crude as plaster of Paris.

To recover his breath after this humiliation, Maxim T. Yermakov turned away towards the window. The falling snow was like a net being dragged through the air. The evening light was thickening and the yard was spread with white twilight, like a sheet. A spotty dog the size of a cow was wandering across the hoary grass. Someone in a short, dark coat with snowy shoulder straps was striding up and down the length of the narrow pavement, performing an about turn to the left at the point where the trampled trail of his footmarks ended. There, now he had stopped and raised a mobile phone to his ear, lighting up his hollow cheek with a blue glow. Immediately a second man with his hair trimmed short like plush got out of a parked minibus and the two of them spoke briefly, tilting their foreheads as they took a step backwards to look up at Maxim T. Yermakov. He recoiled. The two inclined faces reminded him of white buttons on a keyboard with unfamiliar signs on them. Maxim T. Yermakov immediately guessed the number from which the call had been made to the mobile that had lit up the stranger’s face, and which government department owned the old minibus coated in mud that seemed to have grown on it like moss. The writing on the side of the minibus said: “Green Garden. Moscow’s finest garden furniture,” – but those two individuals with the epaulette-square shoulders were definitely not furniture delivery men.

That was the first time that Maxim T. Yermakov saw the men whose presence he sensed constantly from then on. For the most part they drove around in minibuses (“The Village Milkman. Good Health and Good Humour!” “Kitchen World. The Market Leaders.” “The World of Leather. Style for all the family.”) Sometimes they drove ageing imported cars, or even old first-model Zhigulis with a thick coat of rust showing through a crude paint job – but they all darted along the road with a fine turn of speed. These vehicles were all as filthy as pots and pans with baked-on dirt. The moment his Toyota left the car park, they appeared in his rear-view mirror – he could always pick them out in the general flow of traffic by the intense way they shuddered – even standing in traffic jams they looked as if they were about to come to the boil.

The agents of the Department of Social Forecasting always worked in pairs and they were all about the same age, all dressed in grey, Soviet-style coats or airy padded anoraks, buttoned shut all the way up to their formidable chins, as solid as sledgehammers. From a distance their faces were all like buttons from the same keyboard, some of which seemed to display letters and others numbers. In the stairwell of Maxim T. Yermakov’s building, an empty pickledtomato can appeared on a windowsill from which the door of his flat could be surveyed and gradually filled up with fragrant cigarette butts. Maxim T. Yermakov could literally sense the surveillance on his skin: prickly sand trickled down his back between his shoulder blades, and he himself felt like an edifice of sand, damp on the inside, crumbly on the outside, gradually being eroded by a chilly breeze. In order to escape, at least briefly, from the relentless minibuses, he started going down into the metro for the first time in many years. But it was pointless: the moment he stepped onto the escalator, a burly figure sprang up behind him, setting a massive ham of a hand in a black, wrinkled glove on the moving handrail and, just two or three people ahead of him, he spotted the back of the other partner’s head, looking like a fat hedgehog.

The flat on Gogol Boulevard was sold in a flash. Gosha-Cherdak was bitter, but he carried on hustling, taking Maxim T. Yermakov to view other possibilities every evening. There was no point in even trying to grab anything in the centre: prices had shot up across the board, and sellers were running ahead of the market, trying to sell their property at the March price in January. Just at the moment nothing was happening; the market had stopped dead and the very air seemed to have followed suit – after the short-lived snowfall it had returned to that bleary, turbid state typical of confused dreams. There was no season outside: if snow tried to fall, it dissolved into the dampness like washing powder, the ground sucked in the foam and, deceived by a temperature above freezing, put out feeble, pale-green blades of grass. The low, even pall of cloud didn’t let through any sun; the naked trees were obscure black shadows; the winter was like a burnt-out electric bulb.

Gosha-Cherdak, rapidly running out of enthusiasm, dragged Maxim T. Yermakov off to an area near the Kozhukhovskaya metro station, to concrete-panel apartment blocks with windows overlooking the rat’s maze of a derelict market; to grey-brick five-storey buildings somewhere out beyond Voikovskaya metro station, where a rotten two-room apartment was being sold for a king’s ransom, complete with blistered floors and warm water that felt greasy to the touch flowing out of rheumatic pipes. Prestige was no longer an issue, the money available simply had to be invested in square metres of floor space – but everything slipped away, moving out of reach in literally just a few days. As the unreal rise in the city’s price continued, the city itself became spectral; the rise, taking in even residential areas where nothing at all was being sold, was reflected in the unconvincingly rarefied substance of the buildings, in the strange, shimmering glint of their windows. The bright scrolling-text advertisement of the bank where Maxim T. Yermakov’s money was withering away met his eyes on almost every high rooftop, reminding him of a school chemistry experiment in which the combination of a crimson liquid and a green one always resulted in a pop and a puff of smoke.

Ten million. Ten million dollars, fuck it! And with a bit of haggling, even more. And it seemed as if all he had to do was reach out his hand. Maxim T. Yermakov had not the slightest doubt that he was worth all that money. He could sense that he was only separated off from the opportunity to buy any flat, in fact any property at all in Moscow or Europe, by a strange, taut, semi-transparent membrane. He had never given any thought to the nature of this barrier before – except perhaps in his childhood, at the age of about six, when he suddenly realised that he would inevitably die and his parents would die too. The object lesson on the subject had been grumpy old Grandad Valera, whose way of walking with a stick used to make all of his heavy bones obvious – he had laid down in a long box lined with cloth and suddenly stopped smelling of tobacco. Maxim T. Yermakov was haunted by the vision all summer, and after the event certain phenomena – the clamorous chirruping in seaside thickets at night, green rain in the countryside, the squeaking of children’s swings, the rigid flight of a lean, dry dragonfly – aroused a quiet melancholy in Maxim T. Yermakov. But afterwards, in September, it had all come to a sudden end, as if the school bell had cut it short.

Now, however, it had come back again and the nights had turned hostile. Unable to sleep, wallowing like a seal in sheets that were damp with sweat, Maxim T. Yermakov struggled to come up with ways to get his money and stay alive. Unrestrained by any brainpan, his thought performed elaborate acrobatic somersaults, inventing a docile double, willing to do anything he wanted, or imagining a phony shot fired on some not-too-high bridge, with a body tumbling down into the oil-slicked water, down into the safe, murky refuge where a trusty aqualung, concealed in advance, lay waiting.

It was all too unreal, it all required preparation, including physical training – but Maxim T. Yermakov had never been a sportsman and he was especially afraid of diving, knowing that under water his virtual head was transformed into a cold dome of air, as fickle as mercury, constantly trying to divide into several parts. He needed helpers, loyal people, as an absolute minimum he needed goodquality false documents in someone else’s name. To feel secure, he ought to toughen up his pampered body that bounced about when he ran and discharged pink steam into his head when he bent down to his shoes. But he couldn’t buy an exercise machine or other equipment in secret. Vigilant social forecasters always dogged Maxim T. Yermakov’s footsteps to the supermarket, jostling at their charge’s rump with the trolley into which they tossed all the same items as Maxim T. Yermakov had amassed for his own entirely innocent needs; if there was only one specimen of any particular item left, after a brief struggle for the box or the bottle, the victor was always the imperturbable social forecaster with the cast-iron body under his coat. After trundling their trolley out into the car park, the special committee agents tipped their duplicates of Maxim T. Yermakov’s shopping list into a black plastic rubbish bag, tied it in a knot and dumped the bulging bag into the boot of their car – evidently for further analysis, to determine whether meat ravioli and shampoo could be used to produce plastic explosive. Every move that Maxim T. Yermakov made was scrutinised. Suspecting that any spot on the wallpaper or any bead in the skimpy Chinese chandelier might be a concealed camera, he examined his rented flat more thoroughly than he had in all the previous four years: to the observers he must have looked like a spider creeping around the corners, secreting its sticky thread.

Maxim T. Yermakov had only one advantage over the social forecasters: he had time, and they did not. The Europa megamarket came crashing down. Two hundred and twenty-six people killed – so there you go. Maxim T. Yermakov ostentatiously drove over to take a look. The glass corpse of the megamarket looked like a theorem that had committed suicide for lack of any proof: triangular elements of the carcass still jutted up here and there through the chaotic jumble, supporting expanses of glass that reflected crooked, slanting slabs of grey cloud cover, as if the sky itself had been cloven asunder above the disaster area; the decks of the structure were suspended precariously above the gaping black pits of the shopping levels. Men in orange vests with frowning faces were walking around everywhere; beside the barrier of metal mesh wet with tears, withered carnations lay on the asphalt like fresh spots of paint.

After standing there for a decent interval, marvelling at the dummies in business suits that had survived, looming up out of the chaos of concrete and glass, Maxim T. Yermakov climbed back into his car. On the way home he was swamped by a mixed wave of merriment and horror. The world was becoming as pliable as plasticine. Maxim T. Yermakov could not have articulated clearly the nature of his newly acquired power. But the feeling of power was so unmistakable that the Toyota literally tore through the traffic, escorted by a modest little van that wagged like a dog. They’d pay up, they had no option. They had already done Maxim T. Yermakov a great favour by allowing the Alpha Object to probe the thin barrier between this world and the next and stop feeling afraid. Despite the rather feeble materiality of his own head, Maxim T. Yermakov did not believe in the realms of heaven or hell, which were no more than vaporous emanations of human thought. He acknowledged only things that were concrete and real. For him “the next world” was now to be found in the prestigious flats in Moscow’s old, neatly restored mansions of the nobility – that was where he would go as soon as he could get his hands on his money, those appetising little bricks of dollars that he could see so clearly through the cold membrane that had now moved up so very close. To be on the safe side, now that the negative forecasts had started coming true, Maxim T. Yermakov decided for the meantime not to visit any large shops, but buy his groceries close to home in a cosy little basement, where he was always greeted by the good-natured security guard with the fat backside and the elderly check-out lady with the yellow fringe and the abundant rivulet of gold trickling down into the narrow defile between her mottled breasts. “But there’s not going to be a shot, gentlemen, oh no!” Maxim T. Yermakov crooned to some jolly little tune as he pressed the magnetic tab against the lock of his building’s iron door with its blisters of water and paint.

There was a surprise in store for him in his flat. Sitting there in the only armchair, in the only room, wearing a tracksuit with worn, shaggy stripes, was Sergei Yevgenievich Kravtsov in person; his thin-skinned head seemed to be swollen like some animal’s stomach, tightly stuffed with food. Standing behind the boss, with their hands clasped over their reproductive sectors, were several geometrical figures, four in number. Standing in front of Foetus on the small, crooked coffee table that leaned so badly that one of its legs seemed to be a crutch, was a glass of golden French cognac, taken from the bar without permission.

“Well, did you admire the sight?” the Senior Expert asked his charge instead of greeting him.

“How are your relations of cause and effect coming along, boss?” Maxim T. Yermakov replied acidly, taking off his coat. “Are they all multiplying autonomously? How are they feeling? Not ailing, I hope?”

“They are ailing,” Foetus confirmed, giving Maxim T. Yermakov a glance like a swivelling of decrepit ball joints under his naked brow arches. “You’ve seen everything for yourself, you’re only just back from the site. An unnecessary question. I haven’t seen such an impudent villain as you in a long time.”

Maxim T. Yermakov bowed politely. There was nowhere for him to sit in his own room, apart from on the open bed, where Marinka’s panties lay like a crushed blue butterfly among the chaos of the bedclothes. Maxim T. Yermakov sighed and plonked himself down.

“And how about illegal entry into a private residence?” he enquired, sliding a mocking glance over the faces of the bodyguards, on which the harsh wrinkles were like tribal war paint. “Or I’m sorry, do you have a warrant? Perhaps I have broken some law? Killed someone? Or have you already tipped snow into my washing powder and now you’re waiting for the witnesses?”

“Drop it, Maxim Terentievich,” Foetus said, wincing. “Your door wasn’t locked and we just walked in, as old acquaintances. We’re sitting here, guarding your property. And we only came in order to ask you a single question: Which number is larger – two hundred and twenty-six, or one?”

“One, of course, if that one happens to be me. What did you expect?” Maxim T. Yermakov responded skittishly. “Can you give me another life? Can you give one to the people who were killed in the Europa? Instead of putting tails on me, ferreting through the groceries I buy and smoking in my stairwell, you’d do better to try tracking down the terrorists! Yes, I went and I saw it. I’m not to blame, you are! And I don’t need your exercises in arithmetic. You’re not doing your job properly, gentlemen!”

“Well, you really are an impudent villain,” Foetus repeated thoughtfully, warming his host’s cognac in his bloodless knuckles, which were coated on the back with translucent hairs, like hoarfrost. “Yes, the state’s tasks are mostly arithmetical in nature. We have a simple sequence of natural numbers: a hundred and forty million inhabitants in the country. And from this arithmetical point of view, one is precisely two hundred and twenty-six times less than two hundred and twenty-six. What surprises me is something else. You, Maxim Terentievich, act as if you’re not afraid of us at all. But you should be. Everyone has a sensitive spot where they can be grabbed. And if we set our minds to it…”

“You can’t touch me!” Maxim T. Yermakov informed them happily. “I’m as round and smooth as a billiard ball, all inside myself, there’s not even anywhere to pinch me. Shall I be honest with you? I don’t need anybody but myself. That is, I used to love mum and dad once upon a time, but now – well, I’d feel sad for a week or so, if anything happened. Maybe I’d get drunk. Even if feelings do come up, I’m not afraid. There are some nice women, of course, but not nice enough to shoot myself for. I would be afraid of you, of course, if you could use force to pressure me, but you can’t act arbitrarily, outside the law, thanks to those relations of cause and effect! So we have an ideal situation here; if a citizen doesn’t break any laws, there are no questions he can be asked. By the way, if I take that pistol of yours and start firing at people in the street, what will happen?”

“Well, then we’ll arrest you, acting entirely within the law,” Foetus said with relish, and from the buttery softening of his stony stare, it was clear that such a turn of events would be most welcome to the committee that he represented. “Yes, then we’ll arrest you and initiate a perfectly legal process of investigation and trial. But we’ll arrange it in forms that will soon have you asking us to let you have the pistol in the cell for a moment.”

When he heard his uninvited guest say that, Maxim T. Yermakov suddenly felt himself go limp. He wanted to get into his bed immediately, just as he was, in the business suit of wool cloth that prickled the tender folds behind his knees, and call in sick. Pull the impervious blanket up over his insubstantial head and pretend that bogeymen didn’t exist.

“Why, you’re a coward, Maxim Terentievich,” said Foetus, pressing his advantage, and he immediately seemed to be hovering over his victim, although he hadn’t moved a millimetre from his chair. “Your very flesh is cowardly, every cell trembles and weeps if you are merely shown a knife. Remember that time when you lost badly at cards as a student? Those tough guys, Skewbald and Cossack, put pressure on you. To pay back the debt, you stole two and a half thousand dollars from a student in your year, Vladimir Kolesnikov. But he turned out to be a vicious thug too, and although he might not have had a knife, he had huge fists. Remember how you used to hide from him in the women’s rooms in the hostel? The way you sat it out in the wardrobes among the skirts and the sandals?”

“They certainly get great training, all right. Appearing right there in front of you, moving through space without even stirring a finger. That’s some trick. I wonder how they do it,” Maxim T. Yermakov thought feverishly, trying to use his thoughts to exorcise the shudders running from his heels all the way up to his blurred head. But it was too late. Vladimir came back to life, as if he had escaped from the cell block of memory – Vovan, Big Vovan, with the stubbly, unshaven face that looked like a dirty sponge, with the wild woolly growth on his chest that jutted out like straw, forcing apart all the blue and pink shirts he had bought at the village general store. Vovan had ended up in jail later, after getting involved in a bad fight outside a dingy beer parlour beside a metro station – that was what had saved Maxim T. Yermakov from physical mutilation and a nervous breakdown. Vovan, by the way, had also been a player in that exceptionally slippery game of poker, but with peasant cunning he had thrown in his hand and escaped with only a miniscule loss. What Maxim T. Yermakov should have done, instead of getting carried away with taking more cards, was pay attention to the strange way the dealer caressed the pack, and the way cards literally grew between Skewbald’s fingers, like the webs on a frog’s feet. What the hell, was he supposed to take a knife for two and a half grand? There really was a knife, by the way – a vicious flick knife with a composite handle made in a prison camp. Those two, Skewbald and Cossack, had stroked Maxim T. Yermakov all over with it, spreading steely mirror-bright terror over him like butter over a sandwich. Maxim T. Yermakov had acted rationally: he scanned the surrounding space and discovered the only accessible sum of money large enough to pay off his debt in Vovan’s rustic peasant jacket, sewn into the inside pocket with dirty white thread. Big Vovan shouldn’t have boasted before the game about how he had earned money on a building site and now he was going to screw the lot of them; it was a simple matter to feel out the rich crunch of money in his trashy, eau de cologne-soaked wardrobe.