DIOGEN KNOCKED ON Nikolai’s window. The snow had settled and Diogen’s shoes made a squeaking noise, which he was not happy about—he did not want to attract attention to the fact that he was lurking outside Nikolai’s house. Inside the window hung a crooked yellow light bulb, like a decrepit moon. Nikolai peered from behind the curtain, nodded; Diogen heard the lock come undone on the door.
“Come in, brother,” said Nikolai.
It was morning. A coffee pot stood on the table. Nikolai put another cup next to his, poured in the thick coffee. His beautiful daughter walked through the kitchen, saying good morning to Diogen, and Diogen nodded to her. He was feeling jumpy.
Nikolai noticed Diogen’s nerves and said, “Don’t worry, no one knows. It’s all wrapped in a blanket.” He lowered his voice. “It’s a good shotgun, a .30 caliber deer rifle. I’ve used it a few times. Don’t try to get your target from a great distance, it won’t do. But anything relatively close, is fine.”
Diogen’s breathing was shallow. From the day Ivan went back to the army, from the day he disappeared, really, Diogen had entered a state of frenzied fever, some kind of nightmare that was without relief, a kind of countdown to hell, is how it felt. He did not do his exercises, did not go to his hiding spot, did not do much except for sit around or walk around. It had been a week. He could not, did not want to, for the first few days, think of anything else, lest the memory of Ivan and that night together should fade away, but as the days went by, the memory of their night together was starting to disintegrate, furthermore because Diogen had also stopped sleeping, and all he could do was try to keep that memory alive, but the harder he tried, the less he could maintain a grip on any of it. He even had moments when he wasn’t sure if it had actually even happened at all. He wrote it all down in a notebook, read it over and over, again and again. He had also written Ivan a letter, which he was planning to hand to him personally. He knew where Ivan was stationed, and he wanted to see him, he wanted to see him desperately. He had tried to contact him by telephone, but the soldier who answered the phone said that Ivan was not allowed to come to the phone.
Diogen finished the coffee and asked for the shotgun. Nikolai handed it to Diogen with both hands, as if he were handing him a newborn child. The stiffness of the rifle sent a shiver down Diogen’s spine. He gave Nikolai the cash.
“Thanks, brother. I hope it serves you. I don’t want to know what it’s for,” Nikolai said and laughed heartily. “You should get some sleep, brother, you don’t look well.”
Diogen nodded. “I’ve not been sleeping well. A lot on my mind.”
He walked out the door. Nikolai’s hunting dogs sat out in the yard. They rose as Diogen came out, looked toward him and their noses moved, detecting the smells that wafted out from the house. Diogen went up to them, patted their damp fur. The dogs shivered.
“Don’t they get cold out here?”
“They’re tough bastards, don’t you worry.”
It was snowing again. It’s like in a fairy tale, Diogen thought, innocent and light, descending from the creamy heavens. He watched a beautiful flake land on the sleeve of his coat, its many strands tiny and perfect. Ah, so much beauty in this cruel world. He put the shotgun in the back of the car, glancing around. The road, and everything around him, was blank with whiteness. Ruben was leaving the next morning, and Diogen did not intend to say goodbye; he was planning to get up before dawn to drive up to the flatlands in the North. To the barracks. To Ivan.