Waiting for Yuri to return made the dacha feel like a prison to Vanya. The house that had been brimming with energy so recently, before the eclipse, was now empty. Vanya started wandering around upstairs and found dust covers over chairs and beds and furniture. Candles were gone from candelabras. Most closets were empty. There weren’t even footsteps in the dust accumulating on the floors. Making it all worse was the terrible silence. Since all the trees in the front and side of the house had been cleared to make room for Clay’s equipment, there wasn’t even a leaf rattling or a bird chirping.
Could Vanya find Miri and Baba on his own, if Yuri didn’t come back? What about Clay? What would he do with the photographs? And Dima, how could Vanya have been fooled by the sailor? For that betrayal, Vanya felt shame. And sadness. He’d been so certain Dima had become a friend. Was he really so wrong? One night, Vanya thought he was well enough to go downstairs and check. It took him nearly an hour, a rest on every tread, but he made it. He found the first floor to be just as deserted as the second. An enormous white sheet covered the table and chairs in the dining room. Vanya made his way into the sitting room. He was surprised to find Clay’s texts were all still there on the bookshelves above the shrouded desk. The American ran and left everything, Vanya realized. With a rare burst of energy, thinking about Dima, he tore at them, toppled the tomes onto the floor and clawed at the back wall. There was the cutout, the smuggler’s hole the sailor had described. Plaster dust crumbled around Vanya’s fingertips and easily slipped to the side.
His notebook. It was just where Dima told him he’d left it. Along with a letter. The paper was still crisp. The handwriting wasn’t elegant but it was clear.
Vanya,
I gave Clay a fake notebook when he ran. You’ve found your original, as promised—safe and sound. If you need money, sell Clay’s equipment. There are other things to say, but not here.
Your devoted friend,
Dmitry