Donetsk, occupied Ukraine
Tolevi had Fodor drop him off several blocks from the address he’d been given. The old man was dubious; it was not a good part of town, even before the war, and aside from that it was a frequent target of the government’s mortaring. But Tolevi insisted, and in the end the old man reluctantly let him go.
“I’ll see you before I leave Donetsk,” Tolevi assured him. “And we will solve the world’s problems.”
“That will take more wine than I own,” said Fodor sadly. “Take care, young man. Take care.”
The streets were dark, lit only by the dim light cast from nearby windows. There wasn’t much of that: more than half of the buildings Tolevi passed were gone.
Tolevi walked to the south first, away from the address, always on guard against being followed. The air felt damp and cold; a storm must be coming on, he thought. With so many buildings gone, he had to guess at the block segment where the butcher shop would be. He came around two blocks east, walking with a quick, businesslike pace toward his destination.
He was very conscious of the fact that he had no weapon to defend himself with. Ukraine was not known for crime; if anything, before the war Donetsk was far safer than Boston, itself a relatively safe city. But war and deprivation made people desperate.
I can take care of myself.
The butcher’s shop was dark. The storefront, which had probably been plate glass not too long ago, was covered in plywood, but the door at the side was glass and intact. Tolevi knocked on it, pushing his head to the glass and trying to see if there was any light inside. But the place appeared empty.
He stepped back to look at the apartments above. No light came from any of the windows. The sky was overcast, and without light from anywhere nearby, it was difficult to see, but to Tolevi it looked as if the right corner of the top floor appeared jagged, torn off by some prehistoric monster—or, more likely, a mortar shell from government lines.
He knocked again, this time much louder. Still nothing.
All right, then. I’ll come back in the day.
Tolevi cupped his hands over his face and peered inside, trying to see if the place was simply abandoned. But he saw only shadows, and even these weren’t more than indiscriminate clouds.
He stepped back, reluctant to leave. Finally he turned in the direction Fodor had taken bringing him here.
Tolevi was a long way from the hotel, but there was no alternative to walking. He turned his collar up against the cold and hunched forward, hands in pockets.
“You! Stop!” shouted a voice in Ukrainian behind him.
Tolevi kept walking.
“I said stop!” repeated the voice. It was deep, masculine, at least middle-aged, maybe older.
No. Stopping is never a good idea, Tolevi thought. Stop and be killed, or robbed at least. Walk and at worst they think you crazy, and who messes with a crazy man in a war zone?
He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, hoping it looked like he had a gun.
“I said halt!” This time the man behind him used English.
Surprised, Tolevi stopped. The man flipped on a flashlight, casting a long oval ahead that silhouetted Tolevi on the street.
“Turn around or I shoot,” said the man.
Tolevi turned. Three men were standing a few meters away. The one in the middle had a Kalashnikov.
“Show your hands,” said the man, still in English.
“What are you saying?” asked Tolevi in Ukrainian, though of course he understood. “I speak Ukrainian and Russian. Take your pick.”
“Hands up,” repeated the man in Ukrainian.
The man on his right walked up to Tolevi. He was a few inches shorter, and much thinner. Pointing at Tolevi’s sides, he indicated he was going to frisk him; Tolevi widened his stance and submitted.
“What were you doing at the shop?” asked the man with the rifle when the search was over. He played the flashlight’s beam across Tolevi’s face.
“Looking for meat.”
“At this hour?”
“I was looking to make some stew,” said Tolevi.
Still holding the rifle, his inquisitor handed the flashlight to the man on his left, then took out a cell phone. He looked at the face of the phone for a moment.
Give me the answer, thought Tolevi. Ask me who is it for.
But instead, the man asked again why he would go to a butcher shop in the middle of the night.
“I heard sometimes it is open,” answered Tolevi. “If you want meat.”
“You don’t look familiar.”
“I’m a visitor. Trying to find food for a friend.”
“You will come with us,” said the man. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Tolevi.
“You will come with us.” He pointed the gun at Tolevi’s face. “Now.”