the noise echoing inside the big garage. We take off toward a big garage door, slowly opening.
I fight the urge to duck as we go under it, and Kostya points a remote back over his shoulder.
Royals , I think. They use garage door openers just like we do!
Then the bike’s engine cuts out.
“Shit,” I say into my helmet’s intercom. “Did it break already?”
“I told you, this thing is indestructible,” Kostya’s voice says back. “The engine is too loud.”
We coast through the palace grounds, past hedges and trees and old stone buildings until we’re at the service entrance. Unlike the front gate, this is a simple iron affair, and it opens as we approach, then closes behind us.
Once we’re outside the palace grounds, the bike roars to life again, and I tighten my arms around Kostya as we pick up speed. Soon, we’re flashing past the dark windows of shops and restaurants, the warm summer breeze blowing my hair back.
Then we’re past the Old Town, riding inland from the sea, and I can see the shadow quarter — or the gray district, whatever, I like my way better — looming in front of us.
There’s no way to describe it except to say it’s Soviet as hell, pure communist-bloc brutalist architecture. The buildings are huge, uniformly gray cubes. Some are perched on concrete legs, some have rows of windows looking out at the night glassy-eyed, but there’s no mistaking any of it.
I’m not surprised that tour guides won’t take tourists here. Besides apparently being dangerous, it’s ugly .
Kostya drives us down a street that dips below, and suddenly we’re next to a channel full of water. There’s no guardrail or anything between us and the canal, and I turn my head so I don’t have to look at it. The buildings here all have loading docks right on this street, at the level of the canal. Each had a streetlight at one time, but most of them are smashed or burned out now.
He lets off the gas and the motorcycle starts slowing. I haven’t seen another person since we entered the gray district, and it’s making me feel uneasy. Finally Kostya brakes, then puts his feet down and walks the bike into a dark, narrow alley between two huge industrial buildings.
When he cuts the engine, there’s near-total silence. Not even the concrete-lined canal behind us makes noise.
“This is where the bars are?” I ask into my intercom.
“Illegal bars have a way of being quiet,” he says.
Slowly, I release Kostya, find the foot rest, get off the bike, and get my helmet off, shaking out my hair and running my fingers through it, wishing I had a hairbrush. Kostya gets his off and runs his hand through his hair once.
“Why’d we park in an alley?” I ask, my voice low, glancing into the pitch blackness beyond us.
“How would it look to have a hundred cars parked outside an abandoned building?” he asks.
Good point.
“Like there was something going on inside,” I say, glancing again at the dark.
“This way,” he says, and puts one hand on my lower back, leading me out of the alley. Between the motorcycle ride, Kostya’s hand on me, and the bad part of town that’s way too quiet, my whole body is on high alert, tense like a tightrope.
Something crunches under my foot, and I look down. It’s a syringe, needle sticking out, and I thank my lucky stars that I wore closed-toe shoes. Not that I haven’t been plenty of places with syringes on the ground.
Kostya’s hand lingers on my back as we walk along the canal on the dark, ugly cement path between the loading docks and the black water. I keep my back straight and walk my best don’t-fuck-with-me walk, but I know full well that if something happens, it’s not going to be me kicking anyone’s ass.
We walk past a few buildings, and then Kostya walks up to one. He reaches up, knocks on a high window, then crosses to a door on the opposite end of the wall and waits.
I look up at him.
“Secret code?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says. “Every
I fight the urge to duck as we go under it, and Kostya points a remote back over his shoulder.
Royals , I think. They use garage door openers just like we do!
Then the bike’s engine cuts out.
“Shit,” I say into my helmet’s intercom. “Did it break already?”
“I told you, this thing is indestructible,” Kostya’s voice says back. “The engine is too loud.”
We coast through the palace grounds, past hedges and trees and old stone buildings until we’re at the service entrance. Unlike the front gate, this is a simple iron affair, and it opens as we approach, then closes behind us.
Once we’re outside the palace grounds, the bike roars to life again, and I tighten my arms around Kostya as we pick up speed. Soon, we’re flashing past the dark windows of shops and restaurants, the warm summer breeze blowing my hair back.
Then we’re past the Old Town, riding inland from the sea, and I can see the shadow quarter — or the gray district, whatever, I like my way better — looming in front of us.
There’s no way to describe it except to say it’s Soviet as hell, pure communist-bloc brutalist architecture. The buildings are huge, uniformly gray cubes. Some are perched on concrete legs, some have rows of windows looking out at the night glassy-eyed, but there’s no mistaking any of it.
I’m not surprised that tour guides won’t take tourists here. Besides apparently being dangerous, it’s ugly .
Kostya drives us down a street that dips below, and suddenly we’re next to a channel full of water. There’s no guardrail or anything between us and the canal, and I turn my head so I don’t have to look at it. The buildings here all have loading docks right on this street, at the level of the canal. Each had a streetlight at one time, but most of them are smashed or burned out now.
He lets off the gas and the motorcycle starts slowing. I haven’t seen another person since we entered the gray district, and it’s making me feel uneasy. Finally Kostya brakes, then puts his feet down and walks the bike into a dark, narrow alley between two huge industrial buildings.
When he cuts the engine, there’s near-total silence. Not even the concrete-lined canal behind us makes noise.
“This is where the bars are?” I ask into my intercom.
“Illegal bars have a way of being quiet,” he says.
Slowly, I release Kostya, find the foot rest, get off the bike, and get my helmet off, shaking out my hair and running my fingers through it, wishing I had a hairbrush. Kostya gets his off and runs his hand through his hair once.
“Why’d we park in an alley?” I ask, my voice low, glancing into the pitch blackness beyond us.
“How would it look to have a hundred cars parked outside an abandoned building?” he asks.
Good point.
“Like there was something going on inside,” I say, glancing again at the dark.
“This way,” he says, and puts one hand on my lower back, leading me out of the alley. Between the motorcycle ride, Kostya’s hand on me, and the bad part of town that’s way too quiet, my whole body is on high alert, tense like a tightrope.
Something crunches under my foot, and I look down. It’s a syringe, needle sticking out, and I thank my lucky stars that I wore closed-toe shoes. Not that I haven’t been plenty of places with syringes on the ground.
Kostya’s hand lingers on my back as we walk along the canal on the dark, ugly cement path between the loading docks and the black water. I keep my back straight and walk my best don’t-fuck-with-me walk, but I know full well that if something happens, it’s not going to be me kicking anyone’s ass.
We walk past a few buildings, and then Kostya walks up to one. He reaches up, knocks on a high window, then crosses to a door on the opposite end of the wall and waits.
I look up at him.
“Secret code?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says. “Every
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