were going to attack me.” She abruptly sat down on the low wall that ran along the edge of the park. The woman clicked her tongue.
“The park’s full of drug addicts, drunks, who knows what. Probably after money. Did they hurt you?”
Elena shook her head.
“Well, don’t you go through there again, even in the daytime.” The woman was clutching her shopping bag as though Elena might try to snatch it away. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.”
Still shaken, Elena nodded and the woman walked on. But she was right. It must have been some crazy person, driven by the mad impulse to climb a tree. Now that she thought back, the face had appeared female. Perhaps it had been one of the poor souls from the asylum, released because their families could no longer afford treatment. That seemed the likeliest explanation.
It was raining in earnest now, and Elena’s hair was plastered to her face. She bolted across the road, dodging the traffic, and into the area in front of the market. The place was lined with stalls selling all manner of things: flat dried fish from the Kyrgyz lakes, batteries, radios, a stuffed eagle. Trying to keep beneath the awnings, Elena hastened toward the main market building and through the door.
She found herself in the vegetable section, in front of stalls covered with herbs, peppers, eggplant, apples. She was instantly assailed by cries from the vendors: “What do you want,
dyevushka
? Sultanas? Oranges?”
Gold teeth flashed. Elena wondered how many of these women had university degrees. She would have bet that at least half were educated to the graduate level. Smiling, she shook her head and made her way through the vegetable section, past buckets of milk and piles of butter, toward the meat market. Beyond that were stalls selling clothes. She would just take a quick look. Perhaps by then the rain would have stopped.
To the left, high in the roof of the market, there was a sudden quick movement. Elena stared, but there was nothing there. It must have been a trick of the rainy light, filtering through the plastic covering of the ceiling. She was in the meat section now. A row of
kielbasy
sausages hung redly on hooks, surrounded by slabs of mutton. Turning the corner of a stall, Elena came face-to-face with the flayed head of a horse: the ears still pricked, the dark eyes startled against the exposed whites. The woman behind the stall gestured to it.
“Fresh today. You want some?”
Elena shook her head and crossed to the end of the row. She squinted into the dim vault above her head. She could see nothing but shadows. The scene in the park had unnerved her, making her edgy.
Get a grip on
yourself,
she thought.
Stop jumping at things that aren’t
there.
She went through the doors at the end of the market, to the crowded garment section. Elena looked at the merchandise, but there was little of interest: cheap Chinese goods from over the border, a few things from Russia. She was more interested in the pattern books, which promised a middle way between the shoddy imported garments and the expensive Western-style clothes that were sold in big stores like TSUM. Canadian cities, Elena had read, had more than one big store. It would be nice to have more choices.
Leaving the clothes behind, she went out into the passage that led to the street. The steps were slick with rain, but there was a brightness beyond the glass doors that suggested the storm had passed.
Elena stepped forward. Sharp fingers clamped tightly over her mouth and a hissing presence dragged her backward. She was drowning, going down into the rain, a river closing over her head, blood-red water banishing the distant stars.
Five
ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY
The young priest had put ointment on the cut and bandaged it. Now Ilya sat, sipping tea and watching the rain pour down through the pines beyond the cathedral. The priest had excused himself, saying that he had services to perform. Ilya tried to remember what
“The park’s full of drug addicts, drunks, who knows what. Probably after money. Did they hurt you?”
Elena shook her head.
“Well, don’t you go through there again, even in the daytime.” The woman was clutching her shopping bag as though Elena might try to snatch it away. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.”
Still shaken, Elena nodded and the woman walked on. But she was right. It must have been some crazy person, driven by the mad impulse to climb a tree. Now that she thought back, the face had appeared female. Perhaps it had been one of the poor souls from the asylum, released because their families could no longer afford treatment. That seemed the likeliest explanation.
It was raining in earnest now, and Elena’s hair was plastered to her face. She bolted across the road, dodging the traffic, and into the area in front of the market. The place was lined with stalls selling all manner of things: flat dried fish from the Kyrgyz lakes, batteries, radios, a stuffed eagle. Trying to keep beneath the awnings, Elena hastened toward the main market building and through the door.
She found herself in the vegetable section, in front of stalls covered with herbs, peppers, eggplant, apples. She was instantly assailed by cries from the vendors: “What do you want,
dyevushka
? Sultanas? Oranges?”
Gold teeth flashed. Elena wondered how many of these women had university degrees. She would have bet that at least half were educated to the graduate level. Smiling, she shook her head and made her way through the vegetable section, past buckets of milk and piles of butter, toward the meat market. Beyond that were stalls selling clothes. She would just take a quick look. Perhaps by then the rain would have stopped.
To the left, high in the roof of the market, there was a sudden quick movement. Elena stared, but there was nothing there. It must have been a trick of the rainy light, filtering through the plastic covering of the ceiling. She was in the meat section now. A row of
kielbasy
sausages hung redly on hooks, surrounded by slabs of mutton. Turning the corner of a stall, Elena came face-to-face with the flayed head of a horse: the ears still pricked, the dark eyes startled against the exposed whites. The woman behind the stall gestured to it.
“Fresh today. You want some?”
Elena shook her head and crossed to the end of the row. She squinted into the dim vault above her head. She could see nothing but shadows. The scene in the park had unnerved her, making her edgy.
Get a grip on
yourself,
she thought.
Stop jumping at things that aren’t
there.
She went through the doors at the end of the market, to the crowded garment section. Elena looked at the merchandise, but there was little of interest: cheap Chinese goods from over the border, a few things from Russia. She was more interested in the pattern books, which promised a middle way between the shoddy imported garments and the expensive Western-style clothes that were sold in big stores like TSUM. Canadian cities, Elena had read, had more than one big store. It would be nice to have more choices.
Leaving the clothes behind, she went out into the passage that led to the street. The steps were slick with rain, but there was a brightness beyond the glass doors that suggested the storm had passed.
Elena stepped forward. Sharp fingers clamped tightly over her mouth and a hissing presence dragged her backward. She was drowning, going down into the rain, a river closing over her head, blood-red water banishing the distant stars.
Five
ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY
The young priest had put ointment on the cut and bandaged it. Now Ilya sat, sipping tea and watching the rain pour down through the pines beyond the cathedral. The priest had excused himself, saying that he had services to perform. Ilya tried to remember what
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