Svetlana stumbled through the nocturnal ghetto streets, clutching the parcel to her. She placed one foot in front of the other with carefully thoughtless deliberation. Letting them find their own way. Not thinking, yet knowing where they were headed. Where there were no streetlights the narrow, winding lanes were sunk in pitch darkness. A car passed, slowed, then moved on. She hugged the bag tighter. Clasping it to her chest, feeling its papery warmth. She imagined Daumantas bent over the typewriter, illumined by a single reading lamp, the click of her heels echoing the rhythm of his fingertips.
On the brow of the hill was the train station, busy with evening traffic. Taxis and trolley buses. Men in groups. Svetlana stood on the corner. She shivered. The wind was cool and she wore only the sequinned dress. She could have turned then and made her way back to Stepono. But Misha would be there, silent, helpful, smeared with the dust of his labour.
She walked down to a small bar on Kauno Street. She paused again outside the door. The windows had steamed up. She could hear the music, the jangle of laughter. Just calling in, she said to herself. Nothing more, she encouraged herself. Nothing more. Her hand shook as she pushed open the door.
The bar was busy. Young girls glittered under the red lights’ glare. At the bar was the face she recognised. The face she knew she would see there. She walked across confidently, allowing the bag to drop from in front of her. Letting the red lights catch the sequins across her breasts and cascade off, dazzling. Steeled to the glances, territorial and predatory. She caught his elbow.
‘Mindaugas.’
The man turned, hearing his name. For a split second he paused, then grinned. ‘Svyeta!’ And gave her a kiss. The gold rings shone on his fleshy fingers. The cuffs of a dark shirt protruded from the sleeves of his jacket far enough to display his jewelled cufflinks. His face was thicker, rounder than it had been last time she saw him. His hair a little thinner. She saw his eyes appraising her. Noticing the yellow shadow beneath her eye. The thin, meandering creases, pushing down towards her cheeks. The roots of her hair. Seeing too her body, as she eased herself onto a stool, still shapely. He pushed a glass in her direction and poured a drink.
‘Nice dress,’ he said. She nodded and smiled.
He clicked her glass with his own and raised it. She raised hers and drank.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ Mindaugas said. He patted her thigh with one of his fleshy hands. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes,’ Svetlana said. ‘It’s been a while.’ ‘Are you… ?’ Mindaugas asked.
She shook her head quickly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I just dropped by to say hello.’
‘Fine, good,’ Mindaugas said. He smiled again. ‘Good.’
She sat with him, watching the girls, skirts riding high up their thighs, taking a break. These girls were professionals, with tough smiles and bright make-up. Their laughter pierced the rhythmic thump of the dance music.
‘Look,’ she said, nudging Mindaugas’ elbow as a young girl pushed into the bar. ‘She can’t even be sixteen.’
‘Ruta?’ Mindaugas said, sipping his vodka. ‘Thirteen, or so.’
Svetlana shook her head. ‘Not one of yours?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t you go worrying about that one, she’d cut your throat if you looked at her the wrong way. Feisty little bitch. She’s been on the game since she was ten.’
‘Whose girl is she?’
‘Viktor’s.’
‘Bastard.’
‘There’s worse. Some American moved in a couple of months ago. Thinks he can do what he wants. I’m telling you, things are going to get a bit rough soon.’
Svetlana watched the girl as she strode over to the bar, high heels clicking on the tiles. She ordered a drink and remained standing, on her own, not glancing around. Her face was tightly professional. A working girl. Hiding her fear in aggression.
Feeling her heart contract, Svetlana looked away. The memories bubbled up. Thirteen. Preferring loneliness to the sharp bitterness of life at home, she had escaped from her mother. Emotions curdled in their apartment, where loss hung as heavily on the air as had the aromatic smoke of her father’s cigarettes. She had a sudden vision of men approaching her, an open window and fear in the pit of her stomach.
Mindaugas finished his vodka. He wiped his lips, carefully, on a neat, white handkerchief. ‘Ivan’s back, I hear.’
‘You heard?’
‘Kasimov hired him on some job.’
Svetlana shrugged. She picked up the bag from the counter. ‘I have to be going.’
‘Good seeing you, Svyeta.’ Mindaugas smiled. He held her arm as she slipped down off the stool.
‘If you should need… There is work.’ Svetlana shook her head. She forced a smile.
The night was cool. She leant back against the wall and it washed over her. Pounding, rolling waves, drowning her.
She gasped for breath. Her sob was choked off by nausea. She bent over and vomited.
When she reached Stepono, the building was in darkness. The thin light of a candle flickered in a neighbour’s dirty window. Her washing flapped, glimmering ghostly white. She gathered it into her arms and buried her face into the fresh clean shirts, savouring the smell for a moment.
The air in the room was fetid. Nikolai was asleep in his clothes in the corner. She bent over him and kissed the stubble on his fragile skull. Finding a thin sheet she pulled it over him. She sat on the edge of the bed, laying the bag beside her.