It keeps raining. The ice gets thicker. The Russians build a ramp in the street with plywood and a few old tires. They freeze it with the garden hose. Pavel and Solzhenitsyn roll old steel garbage cans out of the garage while Vaslav sits on the step, scribbling in his notebook. They tie on their skates and take turns skating down the street and over the ramp, over as many cans as they can. Pavel clears two, arms windmilling. Solly gets over three. Pavel catches his toe on the way over a fourth, goes heels over head onto his face. My eye! he shouts, lying on the ice. They both get down on their hands and knees to look for Pavel’s glass eye. He keeps one hand over his face, like he’s embarrassed by the hole.

Hey, Vaslav, I say, you ever been to Uzbekistan?

Vaslav taps his pencil on the side of his face. Makes this hollow knocking sound. Uzbekistan? Where the hell is that?

The Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, Vaslav. It’s in Russia.

I’m from Petersburg, he says.

No, you’re from Leningrad, says Solzhenitsyn.

And now that I’m not there, I don’t have to call it that.

You never went to that big Uzbek desert? I asked.

When I was a kid, we went to the Ukraine, says Vaslav. For a field trip. They showed us an aluminum smelter. We all had to wear badges. Solly, he shouts, you know all about geography apparently. You ever heard of Uzbekistan? Solly doesn’t say anything.

Hey, Vaslav, I say, you’ve lived on this street for a long time. Longer than anybody.

I have not, says Vaslav. Kreshick down there on the corner, he’s lived here since before there was electricity in town. Look at that hedge of his. I’m not some old derelict.

You know that shop, I ask, across from the post office, with the windows papered over?

The windows aren’t papered over anymore, Vaslav says. The Lévesque junk shop. Antique shop, he called it.

The what?

They sold, you know, china plates and old bed frames. Candlesticks. He had rocking chairs. You know, junk. It’s got a basement, they say. Full to bursting.

Pavel sits up, grins. Brushes his eye off on his coat lapel, breathes on it. Stretches out his face and pops it back in. Vaslav writes something down in his notebook, then crosses it out. Full to bursting, he says.

When the wind gets too cold, we all go inside. Mullen’s dad shows up with Mullen and a case of beer and the four grown–ups clank their bottles together around the table. We sit around the table and listen to the wind scrape along the ice. The frozen windows tug on their hinges. All over the house, patches of duct tape along the edges of the windows keep out the rain. Plastic bags stick out of cracks. Striped Hudson’s Bay blankets hang in doorways.

Mullen’s dad and Solzhenitsyn talk about politics, with a lot of big words I don’t get, something about Russia. Vaslav writes in his notebook. Pages and pages. Chews his pencil. Solzhenitsyn brings out some chicken soup. Mullen and I slurp our soup and mostly they ignore us and talk about politics. We slurp pretty loud to see if they’ll get edgy but sometimes they just don’t care what we do.

Solzhenitsyn gets up and goes into the kitchen. They all watch him. Vaslav leans out over the table and whispers, Twenty bucks on the girl from the junior high school, that new art teacher.

What, all flaky–like?

Saw him help her out with her groceries the other day. Had the bottom go out of one of her bags, see. Cans and cartons all over the place.

I don’t know, says Mullen’s dad, it doesn’t seem likely. I thought he was all for the pharmacist’s wife.

Sure, goes without saying. But this art teacher …

Solzhenitsyn comes out of the kitchen with a bubbling pie plate. Oven mitts. Everyone shuts up and looks all innocent-like. Solly sets down the pie. The brown crust steams and bubbles, red juice runs out of cracks and hisses overtop of the crust.

What on earth is that?

It’s a tomato-soup pie, says Solzhenitsyn. Everybody looks blank at him.

You know, tomato-soup pie. Cabbage, potatoes. Like I used to make when we lived above the taxidermist. He cuts into the crust. The pie bubbles like a vinegar volcano in science class.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard of tomato-soup pie, says Vaslav.

We made tomato soup pie in Petersburg, when Brezhnev was in charge. Couldn’t get anything fresh, just canned cabbage and tomato soup.

We lived in Edmonton when Brezhnev was in charge, says Pavel. You mean Andropov.

No, Andropov came later. I mean Brezhnev. You know, in the sixties. Pointy ears, jowls. I was in high school.

You mean Andropov, says Pavel. Andropov was first, then Brezhnev. We were in that place on Jasper Avenue. I never saw any tomato-soup pie.

They both look at Vaslav. He holds up his hands.

Don’t ask me. I’m a conscientious objector.

The house rumbles. We all stop talking and look around. Solzhenitsyn stands back up, pulls off the oven mitts. Cocks his head.

The sink? asks Vaslav. Solzhenitsyn shakes his head. Mullen reaches out his fork for the pie and Solzhenitsyn holds his finger up to his lips.

A groan, like wood stretching, and a long rattle. Metallic and hollow. Solzhenitsyn walks over to the radiator. Squats down and puts his ear close to the heavy coiled pipes. It’s that goddamn hot-water tank, says Vaslav. Solly turns the valve on the side of the radiator, just so. He stands up and goes into the kitchen. We all stay quiet, listen, watch the steam from the pie. He comes out of the kitchen with a ball-peen hammer. Goes into Vaslav’s room. We hear a ping ping ping of soft hammering on iron.

There’s a longer, slower groan, more of a sigh, which tapers off into a thin hiss out of the radiator. The hiss fades into a low hum. Solly comes back out, sets the hammer down on the window sill. Sits back down and starts to cut more wedges of the pie.

A house is under pressure, he says. Water, steam, gas, air, shit. More delicate than you think.

We hold out our plates and he dishes out hot red pie. Mullen reaches out across the table for the water jug and winces. His dad puts down his fork.

Let’s see.

It’s fine, Dad, come on, says Mullen. Blows on his pie.

Did the bandage come off?

Can I have the water, please? asks Mullen. His dad reaches over and pulls his sweater down over his shoulder. The tape has pulled off the top of his arm. Hot, puckered pink skin underneath. Mullen’s dad pulls the white bandage back over and pushes down the gummy tape.

How’d that happen? asks Pavel.

My son has the good sense of a washtub. Took it into his tiny head to find horizontal fireworks and stand in front of them.

Schblaow, says Mullen. Holds his hands up, fingers spread. It was blue. Bluest thing I ever saw. Right close-like. He squirms away from his dad’s hands, pulls his sweater back up. We all blow on our hot red pie.