Wales.”
“Oh, give me the stupid case.” Viktor yawned. “I can’t let some fat man of your advanced years blunder around in there all night. This is a young man’s job.”
“Don’t light up in there,” Starlitz counseled, handing over the case and the tire tool. “The Greeks keep moving their sniper posts, and the UN has infrared cameras.”
With a wry smile Viktor searched various pockets, and obediently handed over one, two, three, four, and five ragged packs of smuggled Turkish cigarettes.
“One last thing,” Starlitz told him. “Don’t open the case. Just bury it good and deep.”
Viktor left, his Nike track shoes crunching through the brittle weeds.
Starlitz sat inside the darkened taxi. He clicked the ignition and turned on the car radio. With a little effort he found a powerful offshore pop station. The Turks were still very big on Turkish-language heavy metal. Heavy metal rock held on like a barnacle in the planet’s various backwaters. Metal had an inherently polyglot character. Any language screamed with the amps at eleven became a universal language.
Two hours crept by. It grew colder. A light fog crept across the briar-strewn landscape. Then footsteps approached. Starlitz flicked on the headlights, casting a stumbling Viktor into the glare. Stenciled out of darkness, Viktor stood there, dazed and shivering.
Starlitz went to join him. Viktor’s baggy pants were wire snagged and dew soaked. He still clutched the dirt-smeared tire tool.
Viktor was coated head to foot with a substance like light greasy smut, a kind of radiant floral garbage.
Starlitz put one hand on Viktor’s damp shoulder. Beneath his grip Viktor’s flesh made an ashen, crunching sound.
“You had to open the case,” Starlitz said kindly.
“Of course,” Viktor muttered. His pale Slavic eyes looked quite blind.
“Get in the car,” said Starlitz. He led Viktor forward.
At Viktor’s uncanny presence the taxi groaned inmechanical protest. Its shocks popped audibly. The paint blistered. A stick of chrome trim snapped loose.
Starlitz got in.
“Give me a drink,” groaned Viktor.
“That won’t help you, kid. Not in these conditions.”
“I’ve seen death before,” said Viktor hollowly. “But
never
death like
that
.”
“There’s death, and there’s death,” Starlitz told him. “When you bury a century, a whole lot has to go down with it. Spirit of the times, brother.”
“Yes,” Viktor said weakly. “My artist friends in Petersburg always say that. ‘Even spirits die.’ That’s what they say … my friends, the Necro-Realists.”
“Spirits die
first.
” Starlitz started the engine, laboriously turned the taxi in the narrow, rutted lane, and flicked on the radio again. Their situation called for something nice and loud. Something mawkish. Something mundane, that would restore them to the default position of human banality, circa 1999. Celine Dion singing the theme from
Titanic
. Perfect.
“You wanna to stay off the booze and the dope for a couple days,” Starlitz advised. “Just be normal, okay? Order room service, and watch bad TV in a cheap hotel.”
“Will that help me?” Viktor croaked.
“Absolutely. Just ride it out, man. We’ll be leaving this island soon. Once we’re out of here, none of this will matter. Because it’s over now. We buried it. It’s off the agenda. Not on the record. It’s yesterday.”
Viktor’s teeth were chattering. With a visible effort he got his jitters under control. As they passed the pale lights of Lapta, something like a human color was returning to the resilient flesh of the young Russian. “I can’t let my uncle see me like this,” he said. “There would be questions.”
“Not a problem. I’ll check you into a hotel in Lefkosa. I gotta do an errand in that town, anyway.”
Viktor leaned his shaggy head against the window glass and stared into the night. “Is it always like this? So horrible?”
Starlitz turned around over the
“Oh, give me the stupid case.” Viktor yawned. “I can’t let some fat man of your advanced years blunder around in there all night. This is a young man’s job.”
“Don’t light up in there,” Starlitz counseled, handing over the case and the tire tool. “The Greeks keep moving their sniper posts, and the UN has infrared cameras.”
With a wry smile Viktor searched various pockets, and obediently handed over one, two, three, four, and five ragged packs of smuggled Turkish cigarettes.
“One last thing,” Starlitz told him. “Don’t open the case. Just bury it good and deep.”
Viktor left, his Nike track shoes crunching through the brittle weeds.
Starlitz sat inside the darkened taxi. He clicked the ignition and turned on the car radio. With a little effort he found a powerful offshore pop station. The Turks were still very big on Turkish-language heavy metal. Heavy metal rock held on like a barnacle in the planet’s various backwaters. Metal had an inherently polyglot character. Any language screamed with the amps at eleven became a universal language.
Two hours crept by. It grew colder. A light fog crept across the briar-strewn landscape. Then footsteps approached. Starlitz flicked on the headlights, casting a stumbling Viktor into the glare. Stenciled out of darkness, Viktor stood there, dazed and shivering.
Starlitz went to join him. Viktor’s baggy pants were wire snagged and dew soaked. He still clutched the dirt-smeared tire tool.
Viktor was coated head to foot with a substance like light greasy smut, a kind of radiant floral garbage.
Starlitz put one hand on Viktor’s damp shoulder. Beneath his grip Viktor’s flesh made an ashen, crunching sound.
“You had to open the case,” Starlitz said kindly.
“Of course,” Viktor muttered. His pale Slavic eyes looked quite blind.
“Get in the car,” said Starlitz. He led Viktor forward.
At Viktor’s uncanny presence the taxi groaned inmechanical protest. Its shocks popped audibly. The paint blistered. A stick of chrome trim snapped loose.
Starlitz got in.
“Give me a drink,” groaned Viktor.
“That won’t help you, kid. Not in these conditions.”
“I’ve seen death before,” said Viktor hollowly. “But
never
death like
that
.”
“There’s death, and there’s death,” Starlitz told him. “When you bury a century, a whole lot has to go down with it. Spirit of the times, brother.”
“Yes,” Viktor said weakly. “My artist friends in Petersburg always say that. ‘Even spirits die.’ That’s what they say … my friends, the Necro-Realists.”
“Spirits die
first.
” Starlitz started the engine, laboriously turned the taxi in the narrow, rutted lane, and flicked on the radio again. Their situation called for something nice and loud. Something mawkish. Something mundane, that would restore them to the default position of human banality, circa 1999. Celine Dion singing the theme from
Titanic
. Perfect.
“You wanna to stay off the booze and the dope for a couple days,” Starlitz advised. “Just be normal, okay? Order room service, and watch bad TV in a cheap hotel.”
“Will that help me?” Viktor croaked.
“Absolutely. Just ride it out, man. We’ll be leaving this island soon. Once we’re out of here, none of this will matter. Because it’s over now. We buried it. It’s off the agenda. Not on the record. It’s yesterday.”
Viktor’s teeth were chattering. With a visible effort he got his jitters under control. As they passed the pale lights of Lapta, something like a human color was returning to the resilient flesh of the young Russian. “I can’t let my uncle see me like this,” he said. “There would be questions.”
“Not a problem. I’ll check you into a hotel in Lefkosa. I gotta do an errand in that town, anyway.”
Viktor leaned his shaggy head against the window glass and stared into the night. “Is it always like this? So horrible?”
Starlitz turned around over the
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