ENCORE

SHE HAD RENTED A CAR, and now waited for him to emerge from behind the gate. The road out of the Zone presented a clear choice: turn left and head deeper into the country or turn right in the direction of Moscow. The day was dry and clear. It hadn’t rained in over a week, and the trees and grass were in rough shape. So was Kolia. He had developed the same allergic reaction to the prison uniform as he’d had in the camp, and his thighs and forearms were covered in large red patches. He couldn’t stop scratching.

In Rostov, she bought him some ointment and a sandwich, which he carefully took apart to savour the tastes of the sliced meat, lettuce, tomato, and even the butter on the bread. He scratched himself and burst out laughing. Masha scolded him for wiping his greasy fingers on the upholstery. Kolia ate a piece of chocolate. He fell asleep as the sky darkened into night. They arrived in Moscow the next day.

The city had changed. Chic boutiques had sprouted up everywhere. Masha drew a modest income from her new teaching job, and she took charge of the shopping. She knew all the latest brands and could navigate the aisles full of pricey and frivolous merchandise to find the essentials — if they weren’t out of stock. To Kolia, these stores were suffocating. He was already set in his ways. He knew the products he liked, the things a man needed to live well.

The tiny kitchen was almost entirely taken up by the table. Kolia slept in the living room, which wasn’t much bigger. Masha slept in the one bedroom. With the sale of the dacha, Kolia was finally able to relax. He was fifty-six, with a partial denture and an odd-looking face that he had come to tolerate. He had done time in the camps and the Zone, he had worked in the sewers of Moscow and in its circus. He’d rarely had the luxury of choice and now he was tired.