“Are you going to work today? Stay, just a little while. I’ll play you something.” She disappeared inside and a stately, peaceful melody began, part of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, Largo . As she played, I leaned against the wall, feeling the music tunnel through its bones into mine. I wish I could have listened to that song forever.
But I couldn’t. No one can.
One of the chess players smacked the table. “This is it, Vladimir Bolshakov. Your center broke here.” He took a large bite of a pirozhki , the crust and stuffing dribbling all over as he spoke, “That move just now, right here—everything fell apart.”
In my dream, I had laughed as I slit Boris’ throat, and so had he, our bloody smiles stuffed with delight.
“I disagree. My mistake was this move here.”
They began playing the game backwards, just as two children raced past their table, ringing around another skeletal tree. I used to believe trees were replanted upside-down during winter and their branches were roots digging into the sky. If they climbed high enough, I’d fantasized, I could go up and save the princess in Novospassky Monastery.
“Another game?”
“You always want to play again when you lose.”
“That’s life, no? That’s life.”
“You and your nonsense.”
The pieces reset. A veiny hand plucked a knight, circled it in the air like a hand bell before smacking it down. What role do you play, Andrei Yaklova? I’m not a prince, I know that. A knight? A rook? A pawn? Who says I have to be a chess piece?
I felt my nails against my palm, the hardened skin, willing them to be tougher.
1.60
The next morning, I went to the warehouse early. Everything looked the same, but it was a new beginning. The first thing Anton did when he came in was to make a big show of looking at his watch, as if shocked I was early. Then, he studied the plaster below my jaw. “Shaving accident? I can see one, two, three strands of hair still.”
“We have to make it work,” I said.
Anton scratched his ear. “What do we have to get to work?”
“Everything,” I said firmly. “Luka’s job.”
“Oh, that.” He sounded disinterested. “Someone’s determined today.”
We spent the morning weaving the key logger and the blog website together. When Luka arrived, he wrote the bait email with the help of an online translation program. After it was done, he read it aloud. It was a fawning email to O’Brien’s wife, one which invited her to visit our blog.
“She’ll fall for it,” Anton said when Luka finished. “It’ll work.”
“What do you think, Andrei?” Luka’s voice was taut like a plumb line weighed by guilt.
“There’s nothing to think,” Anton said, “Bird watchers like serendipity. She’ll go for it. My key logger is perfect. It’s art. It’ll work.” Click any link on the website, any picture, and the key logger would install, lurking like a silent betrayal. He flicked through the pictures on the blog I created. “I hate birds,” he said. “They shit everywhere.”
“You hate everything,” Luka said, “so shut up. I’m talking to Andrei.”
“True.” Anton’s voice became icy. “Some things I hate more than others.”
As they spoke, I pictured the woman wandering in a forest, lured by birdsong and whisked into a net. Would her husband blame her if he finds out? Would he love her still? Grow up, Andrei, I told myself. You can’t afford to care for strangers. Luka depends on you now. His wife is at stake. He needs you.
“Well, Andrei?” Luka asked. A touch of impatience in his voice. A hint of a plea in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good, good.” Luka closed his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he clicked a button.
Send.
And we waited.
1.65
The bus is full of school children today. The teacher had led them onboard two stops after me, the group heading for an excursion. I’m on the way to meet Luka and Anton to discuss what to do. It’s
But I couldn’t. No one can.
One of the chess players smacked the table. “This is it, Vladimir Bolshakov. Your center broke here.” He took a large bite of a pirozhki , the crust and stuffing dribbling all over as he spoke, “That move just now, right here—everything fell apart.”
In my dream, I had laughed as I slit Boris’ throat, and so had he, our bloody smiles stuffed with delight.
“I disagree. My mistake was this move here.”
They began playing the game backwards, just as two children raced past their table, ringing around another skeletal tree. I used to believe trees were replanted upside-down during winter and their branches were roots digging into the sky. If they climbed high enough, I’d fantasized, I could go up and save the princess in Novospassky Monastery.
“Another game?”
“You always want to play again when you lose.”
“That’s life, no? That’s life.”
“You and your nonsense.”
The pieces reset. A veiny hand plucked a knight, circled it in the air like a hand bell before smacking it down. What role do you play, Andrei Yaklova? I’m not a prince, I know that. A knight? A rook? A pawn? Who says I have to be a chess piece?
I felt my nails against my palm, the hardened skin, willing them to be tougher.
1.60
The next morning, I went to the warehouse early. Everything looked the same, but it was a new beginning. The first thing Anton did when he came in was to make a big show of looking at his watch, as if shocked I was early. Then, he studied the plaster below my jaw. “Shaving accident? I can see one, two, three strands of hair still.”
“We have to make it work,” I said.
Anton scratched his ear. “What do we have to get to work?”
“Everything,” I said firmly. “Luka’s job.”
“Oh, that.” He sounded disinterested. “Someone’s determined today.”
We spent the morning weaving the key logger and the blog website together. When Luka arrived, he wrote the bait email with the help of an online translation program. After it was done, he read it aloud. It was a fawning email to O’Brien’s wife, one which invited her to visit our blog.
“She’ll fall for it,” Anton said when Luka finished. “It’ll work.”
“What do you think, Andrei?” Luka’s voice was taut like a plumb line weighed by guilt.
“There’s nothing to think,” Anton said, “Bird watchers like serendipity. She’ll go for it. My key logger is perfect. It’s art. It’ll work.” Click any link on the website, any picture, and the key logger would install, lurking like a silent betrayal. He flicked through the pictures on the blog I created. “I hate birds,” he said. “They shit everywhere.”
“You hate everything,” Luka said, “so shut up. I’m talking to Andrei.”
“True.” Anton’s voice became icy. “Some things I hate more than others.”
As they spoke, I pictured the woman wandering in a forest, lured by birdsong and whisked into a net. Would her husband blame her if he finds out? Would he love her still? Grow up, Andrei, I told myself. You can’t afford to care for strangers. Luka depends on you now. His wife is at stake. He needs you.
“Well, Andrei?” Luka asked. A touch of impatience in his voice. A hint of a plea in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good, good.” Luka closed his eyes for a second, as if praying. Then he clicked a button.
Send.
And we waited.
1.65
The bus is full of school children today. The teacher had led them onboard two stops after me, the group heading for an excursion. I’m on the way to meet Luka and Anton to discuss what to do. It’s
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